Monster City

by Kevin Wright

  * * * *

  The Camden Street housing projects were a veritable fortress set atop a steep hill. Huge red brick monstrosities, notable only for their lack of aesthetic design, plywood shutters occluding all the ground floor windows and most above, sat in a football-shaped loop with perhaps ten-foot alleys in between each. Huge dumpsters were set between each building, making entry difficult, except between buildings nine and ten. A steel gate locked with thick chains and padlocks and topped off with razor wire blocked off any access to the vast courtyard within. Vehicles could not enter.

  A man could, though.

  Ka-chung! That was the first thing Peter heard as he made his way up the hill and towards the passageway through the red brick titans, the slide of the nines being loaded. Two dark forms lazed upon a set of concrete steps.

  Both watched as Peter made his way to them. One took a deep hit off a joint and held it. The other had a cell phone to his ear and spoke in a hushed tone.

  “Check out this mother-fucker,” one said, stepping into the light. “You better have one hell of a story. Johnny-man, you believe this?”

  Johnny held up one finger as he whispered into the cell phone; then he looked up. “Chill, Marty.”

  “Boss, want me to ace him?” Marty scratched his chin with his gun.

  Peter stood his ground, his hands fidgeting, hidden.

  “Hands.” Marty took a step forward and raised his pistol sidewise. “Hands, bitch.”

  “Relax,” Peter said as he withdrew them.

  Marty opened the gate and stepped through.

  “Now what the fuck you want?”

  “To talk to your boss,” Peter said.

  Marty stepped forward, grabbed Peter by the shoulder, and shoved him face-first against the wall. Rough brick chafed against his cheek as Marty pressed a gun to his temple. He could hear the blood pumping in Marty’s veins, thump, thump, thump, and beneath the stench of marijuana, he could smell it.

  “No one talks to the boss.”

  “I got something he wants,” Peter said.

  “Who says he’s here?”

  “I just want to talk to the boss,” Peter said, “whoever he is.”

  “I’m the boss right now, bitch” Marty said, “so you talk to me.”

  “I’m pretty sure the boss doesn’t pull fucking guard duty on weekday afternoons,” Peter said.

  “Oh, mother, you done it now.” Marty grabbed Peter and whipped him around face to face. He shoved the barrel of his gun into Peter’s mouth. “Now what you got to say? Huh? What’s that? I can’t hear you.”

  The steel barrel grated against Peter’s teeth, and he involuntarily bit down on it, his teeth scoring the metal.

  “Chill, Marty,” Johnny said, pulling Marty back slowly, the gun scraping from Peter’s mouth. Johnny held the cell phone to Peter, “The boss. You got thirty seconds.”

  “To whom am I speaking?” asked the boss.

  “Peter Reynolds.”

  “Ah, the good doctor. And what does he want?”

  “It’s what you want,” Peter said, “and what I have.”

  “Explain,” the boss asked.

  “It’s an item you want, everybody wants,” Peter said. “I got it, by chance, Monday night.”

  “Monday night, hmmm?” the boss said. “May I assume its last owner died by the sword that same evening?”

  “Right in front of me.” Peter’s eyes flickered back and forth from Johnny to Marty.

  “Put Johnny back on,” the boss said.

  “He wants to talk to you again,” Peter said.

  Johnny put the phone to his ear. “You sure? Naw, looks like a daisy,” he said, “but he could be carrying. No? You sure? Okay.” He clicked the phone shut. “Hands where I can see. Now, after you, doctor.”

  * * * *

  Journal of Occult Histories 1969-70 April 4, 1969

  …and Eights are puppets.

  While it is taken as gospel by the masses that they run the heroin trade within the city, this is untrue. Above and beyond the powers of the gangs hang various shadowy figures beyond my ability to see. Billy Rubin is one barely visible to me.

  He, or they, has revolutionized the heroin trade, increasing distribution and lowering prices to the point where heroin is literally cheaper and easier to obtain than cigarettes or alcohol within the limits of this city. He has done this without diluting his product. Junkies fester in the streets, pouncing on each other and civilians for…

  * * * *

  A cool wave of relief flooded Peter’s body and soul as he ducked under the low doorway and into shadow. He stopped sweating almost immediately. He removed his sunglasses.

  Two men in Celtic winter jackets met Peter and Johnny within the doorway of building number nine. Both handled shotguns nonchalantly and bade Peter to follow. One, taking a hit off a joint, took the lead, while his partner remained inside the doorway.

  Peter followed the man through the maze. Johnny walked behind.

  It was a labyrinth of brick and crumbling mortar and makeshift walls of nailed particle board and plywood; the sun poked through crusted brown windows and ragged holes punched through drywall and brick. Otherwise, it was dark.

  Trash littered the ground and the crunch of broken glass underfoot was constant. Peter lost his way amongst the many twists and turns, the stairwells down into shadow and the ladders up into light. The constant scream of babies fought against blaring music and televisions.

  Doors ajar revealed wasted bodies draped over couches, track marks running up and down arms, tourniquets twisted tight over biceps and thighs. Glazed eyes watched Peter from behind peepholes, and small children, underfed, unwashed, stood and stared at the strange visitor to their world.

  Finally, the man led them to a room with four windows boarded up and nothing within it except pipes running up the wall into blackness. The floor was a treacherous mix of beams and studs and rotting carpet.

  Peter’s two guides turned.

  Johnny raised his pistol as Peter went for his, and Johnny banged his once against a pipe, then three times. He paused then banged it four times, paused, then one last time.

  A clang reverberated through the room and down the dilapidated hallway, vibrating mortar and brick, and then slowly, it died. From above, a panel in the ceiling was pulled out and a rope ladder dropped, rolling down. It snapped to a stop inches from Peter’s face.

  “All you, man.” Johnny twitched his head up towards the ceiling. He grinned at the other guard, who just gazed at Peter, cold mirth in his eye. “Nice knowing you.”

  “It’s been special.” Peter grasped the rope ladder in his hands and peered down through the holes in the floor.

  He tugged on it; it felt sturdy.

  * * * *

  Journal of Occult Histories 1969-70 June 16, 1969

  …and the homeless are currently most at risk. With the reduction of the heroin trade, the junkies no longer deliver themselves to the ghouls’ doorsteps with their previous regularity. The ghouls must once more stalk the night. The public remains stubbornly unaware.

  The ghoul population is furious with these recent developments but must follow at the behest of the mayor in his very public battle against heroin, or risk exposing themselves. Kingston, always, is on their minds.

  It is nearing election time, and the mayor needs to gain support from somewhere. He is despised by most of the populace, and it is a sad joke how he maintains his station, term after term. No one dares run against him. Perhaps this barrister, almost fresh off the boat, Terrence Brudnoy, will fulfill his promise.

  * * * *

  “Welcome, Doctor.”

  “I’m not a doctor.”

  “Of course you’re not.”

  Within the bubbling froth of the hot tub sat the boss and six naked women, three to either side. He grinned, glancing to his left and then his right and then up at Peter. His long thick arms stretched out along either side of the hot tub, across the backs of the women. A thick cigar was in
his mouth and gave off the not unpleasant scent of pipe tobacco. He blew a smoke ring and watched it sail away.

  The women ignored Peter and jockeyed for position around the boss. All had tattoos on their necks, aces and eights.

  “Hello.” Peter squinted. The room was bright from the massive skylight overhead.

  Peter donned his sunglasses and glanced back through the door he’d just entered. The bodyguards he had passed stepped out and closed the door behind.

  It echoed loud.

  The décor of the room was what Peter would have expected within the palace of some Greek god. Long marble floors stretched and ended in huge windows that gazed out to all points of the compass. Tall columns rose to the ceiling. Zeus should live here. In one of the corners was what appeared to be first class gym equipment. In another was the largest television screen he had ever seen, surrounded by chairs and couches Peter would have paid to sit in just to see if they were as comfortable as they looked. What appeared to be a gourmet kitchen, flawlessly clean and sparkling, was off to another corner, and a man in a tall white hat made final touches to some sort of pastry. Zeus couldn’t afford to live here.

  “My name is Mister Sklar.” Mister Sklar stood up in the hot tub, extending a hand. “You may call me, Mister Sklar.”

  Peter stood strong where he was, digging his hand deep into his pocket.

  At once, two women at the far ends of the tub pulled loaded spearguns from under the bubbling water and held them steady on Peter’s frame.

  The four other women, and, indeed, Mister Sklar, gave no indication of a change in mood, though he did glance at his extended hand quizzically before retracting it. Mister Sklar simply grinned up at Peter. “You will please remove your hands from your coat, Mister Reynolds,” he said in his deep voice. “My bitches are very protective of me. It does not pay to make bitches nervous. With a few notable exceptions, of course.”

  Peter stared at the spearguns. I can take them. What—? Slowly, minutely, Peter removed his hand from his pocket and held both up. The gun was in his pocket; he could feel it pressing against his leg, the useless piece of…

  “So, you are the famous Peter Reynolds?” Mister Sklar said. “I know your father.” He grinned, sinking back in the water and back to his original position. It was an enviable position.

  “My father—”

  “You have made quite an impression on this town in the one week you have been with us. It takes much to do so. Not many succeed. And how do you like our fair city?” He laughed as though he had made an outrageous joke. Maybe he had.

  “Not so much,” Peter said. “Been a rough week.”

  Again, Mister Sklar laughed. “Rough you say? Rough? Marked by the leeches the night you come to town? By the police as well. Marked by my men? And you call that rough? You have a gift for understatement, Mister Reynolds! And despite the heat, you manage to save the life of his Lordship Brudnoy? Are you surprised I know? Don’t be. News travels quicker in this town than clap through the seminary. News worth knowing, anyways,” he laughed again, this time perhaps more sinister. “Well, Mister Reynolds, I cannot say I foresaw you coming. You are brave or ignorant, or both. Were you even aware of the price on your head? Quite a sum, indeed.”

  “How much?” Peter asked.

  “Well, if you add it all together,” Mister Sklar gazed up at the skylight, “the police ‘bounty,’ along with Lil’s proposition, which is now open to the public since the towel-head fucked it up, not to mention side bounties. Hmmm, I even put one out on you Peter, for breaking poor Carlo’s hand. More a show of support to my men than any real interest, you understand. A modest sum. Then, after the shootout, the mayor added some to the pot, which was increased by the police chief. Even the church has tried getting in on the action. They need some publicity that doesn’t involve their policies concerning the male youths of our nation,” he laughed, “but this isn’t exactly something they can get printed on the front page of the paper, now is it? Foolish.

  “How much? Oh, I don’t know. Enough capital to supply a family of heroin addicts a year or five. Enough to tempt every junky, leech, cowboy, crackpot, and cop in town to put on his dancing shoes and give you a twirl.” Mister Sklar took a pull off his cigar and blew out a cloud. “In the end, Peter, the offer on your head is worth much more than the trouble to hunt you down and kill you. Probably more than it would be worth to find any leech and spike him. Or so I had thought.

  “You’re a tough man to find, though, Mister Reynolds. Much tougher than I ever could have credited you with,” Mister Sklar said, “and here you stand before me, a hen in the fox house. A financially sound move, from my perspective, you understand, would be to skewer you, quarter you, and then mail a portion to all interested parties. Then collect. I could even collect from myself! What do you think?” He looked up. “No, don’t answer that, Mister Reynolds, I’m just having sport. So, which portion is it that they want, do you think? They all can’t have you. And really, why should they? What makes you so special to warrant such attention?”

  Peter shrugged.

  “Come, come, Mister Reynolds. You’re ignorant, not stupid. None of them really do care about you. Consider the statistics; there are more leeches in this town than in a Victorian operating room. The cops spike them when they find them, but they don’t go out of their way to do it. Who would? Martyrs, madmen, sociopaths? I’m no psychologist.” He raised his hands. “Bad for business. Cops can’t publicize it; neither can the church, so who wants to risk his neck doing it if they’re not getting credit? Most of the leeches prey primarily on the lowlifes of this city, anyways, and lowlifes don’t pay taxes, so fuck them. So why put such a hit out on a guy who’s not even a leech yet? Answer, of course … the item.”

  Peter nodded.

  “Well, Mister Reynolds, you certainly are naïve,” Mister Sklar said. “And I often find that naïve people are lucky. Could luck have carried you this far? Why come here? Now? Was it fate?”

  “You said you knew my father.”

  “To bargain, of course!” Mr. Sklar slapped his hands together, splashing his women. “Of course! That makes sense, you know. But what makes you think I might know anything?”

  “I guessed.”

  “Hmmm, risky. I like that.” He blew more smoke. “Now, Mister Reynolds, tell me what it is you want.”

  “Pussywillow.”

  “Hmmmmmmmm, don’t we all,” Mister Sklar said, as though he were talking about the most chocolate pie.

  “She kidnapped my dad,” Peter said, “at least that’s what I’ve heard, all I’ve heard. I don’t know.”

  “Wait.” Mister Sklar held up a hand. “We are in the preliminary stages of bargaining. Never tip your hand, Mister Reynolds. Unwise. Now, you have come to bargain the item for the life of your father? How noble of you. But, why come to me, Mister Reynolds? I’m no leech.”

  “At the club, I had her pinned on the ground, Pussywillow,” Peter said. “She had a tattoo on her neck. An ace and an eight, just like these ladies. Just like my downstairs neighbor. Just like all of you.”

  “Good show, Doctor Holmes.” Mister Sklar wiped an eye. “Really, though, I envy you. It’s been years since I had that bitch writhe beneath me. Nothing like it. Absolutely nothing. Mmmmmm. Finest piece of … ahem.” He glanced left and right and grinned. The women shifted uneasily, trying their best not to look jealous, which was not very good. “And your sources are correct; it was Pussywillow who abducted your father, but please, proceed.”

  “Okay, after we fought,” Peter said, “I saw Carlo and her.”

  “Carlo, hmmm,” Mister Sklar said. “You’re sure it was him?”

  Peter nodded. “Yeah. Big, tattoos, black cast on his right hand. He attacked me in my apartment.”

  “Ha! That’s Carlo,” Mister Sklar laughed. “I know. I talked to him. Heard the story. Too bad my boy didn’t whack you that first night. Oh, excuse me, but it would have been easier on everyone. Hmmm, except you, I suppose … or maybe n
ot. How’s Therese doing?”

  “Who’s Therese?”

  “You’re fucking her, right?” Mister Sklar leaned forward and winked.

  “Therese? Uh, no.” Peter raised his hands. “No!”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m not fucking anybody,” Peter said, and then under his breath, “except maybe myself.”

  “You damn right.” Mister Sklar’s eyes narrowed.

  “Look, Mister Sklar,” Peter said, “Carlo was beating the shit out of her, and she runs upstairs and starts banging on my door. She’s all bruised up, so I let her in. Carlo comes up the stairs with a meat cleaver and attacks me. I whack him. She goes off with him again.”

  “So, you claim you’re not fucking her?” Mister Sklar said, voice dropping, humor evaporating. “Carlo told me you were.”

  “Well, I’m not. I’d remember. Trust me.”

  “Hmmm.” Mister Sklar frowned. He picked up a phone from behind him and said, “Vinks, yes. Send Carlo up; I want to speak with — oh, he’s already here? Quicker than clap in the seminary. Send him in. You too.”

  The door Peter had entered through opened, and in strolled Carlo across the long marble floor. A large man, presumably Vinks, sauntered behind. They stopped by the hot tub.

  Carlo’s eyes were on Peter the whole way, except when they glanced at the women in the hot tub, but they never lingered long. Hatred quivered like a hunted rodent within those eyes.

  “Bitches, would you all be so kind as to give us some privacy.” Mister Sklar only phrased it as a question.

  The women stood at once, dripping wet, and stepped from the tub. They gathered towels from the cool marble floor and scampered away.

  The men watched.

  “Hey, Tony! Take a break!” Mister Sklar called out to the pastry chef. Tony stopped his pastry decorating, bowed, and walked out a small door in the kitchen area.

  “Carlo,” Mister Sklar said, “a few questions.”

  “Yeah, Mister Sklar?” Carlo’s wide eyes flitted back and forth between Mister Sklar and Peter. Confusion, hesitation, he was a deer tied to tracks in front of a bullet train.

  “You seen Pussywillow lately?” Mister Sklar pulled the cigar nub from his mouth and squashed it out.