An instant later a middle-aged man with a beer gut and a Celtics shirt bounded gracelessly down from the row behind Spector and glared down at him.
Spector blew the life out of him and put a leg up, making sure the man didn’t fall onto him, then pushed his body over backward. The corpse made a heavy noise as it hit, punctuated by a nasty thwack when his skull impacted the concrete.
In addition to the security forces near the floor, a large group of uniformed men were shoulder-cutting down the aisle toward the brawl in the stands. They were making headway at a slow but steady pace. Before long they’d be in Spector and his friend’s lap. Might be time to think of an exit strategy. It could mean a lot of corpses.
Spector turned back toward the court to see if that was a reasonable way of retreat. Nope. The angry Celtic contingent was smashing through the Knick partisans, fists flailing. Spector saw Larry Bird; if only the Celtic star would look his way, he could deal the Boston Greenies a fatal blow. Bird looked his way, just for an instant. Spector locked in and pushed, but lost contact as he was gathered up by a massive newt hand.
“Time to go, go, go. Yes indeed.”
The joker leaped to the upper deck. Spector hadn’t really seen the extent of his jumping power. It was impressive, and almost made him heave the contents of his stomach onto the fans underneath them. The joker vaulted upward again into the girders and catwalks that formed the upper skeleton of the Garden. Spector eyed a large hole in the roof, figuring that was where the joker had made a forced entrance. It was now their way out from the melee far below. Spector hissed as they exited the building into the biting Manhattan air. It was quite a view.
* * *
The sound of sirens had receded into the distance behind them. The joker carried Spector like before as they sped across the rooftops and across walls.
Spector’s massive companion was beginning to move in stops and starts. The speed must be wearing off. Not the case for Spector, who was brimming with pain and sharp as a tack. It was beyond uncomfortable, but in a powerful way. Not something he’d want to do again, most likely.
He wasn’t familiar with the rooftop views, but Spector could tell they’d been in Jokertown for a while by the smell.
“Almost there,” the joker said, shaking his head. “Time to head to the, uh, street. Don’t want to fall.”
“Good idea,” Spector said. It would be ironic if the joker saved him from a bone-shattering fall a couple of days ago only to drop him several stories now. Spector wasn’t into irony, unless there was a nice payday attached. He dropped off the joker’s back when they hit street level. His arms and shoulders were sore and aching from hanging on much of the way.
“Gotta get home,” the joker said.
Spector looked around. Jokertown in the dark wasn’t easy for him to navigate, but he had a fair sense of where he was. “I think it’s a few blocks that way, then hook a left and you’re there.”
“Right,” the joker said slowly. He turned and started walking down the cracked, litter-strewn sidewalk.
Spector shrugged. He figured the joker would make it back one way or another. For now, he was cold and hungry and needed a few more shots of liquor. Not much chance of catching a cab here, so he turned in the direction of the nearest subway stop. He hadn’t gone more than fifty feet when a van screamed out of a nearby alley. Before he could jump out of the way, Spector felt the side of the vehicle slam into him. The impact knocked him several yards back into the wall of a nearby tenement. He howled, all too familiar with how broken bones felt. This was just a couple of ribs, and they’d mend in a hurry, but he was going to make these fuckers pay if he could catch them.
He got up and staggered after the van. His hip hurt, too. Spector had all the pain in the world to share with the asshole driver. When it came to killing people, joker or nat, it didn’t make any difference to him. The van came to an abrupt halt, tires squealing. The doors slammed open and several people piled out. Spector’s suspicion that they were armed was confirmed seconds later when he heard rounds popping off. A bullet to his head could … well, he wasn’t sure exactly what it could do, but he didn’t want to find out.
He heard a scream and a body flew over his head and bounced hard off the sidewalk. Spector moved toward the person to get a closer look. A young man got shakily to his feet and pointed a gun in Spector’s direction. The man holding it was one of the pasty boys from Squisher’s. Nearby Spector saw broken glass and smoking cement.
Spector grabbed the man’s gun arm and pointed it away from him, then pulled him close. There was just enough illumination from a dirty streetlight for Spector to see his face clearly. He locked eyes and killed him in an instant. When the man’s head hit the sidewalk something popped off. Spector picked it up—headphones connected to a battery pack in the dead guy’s pocket. He put one headphone to his ear, letting the battery dangle. He heard a woman speaking.
“Get his eyes. Who had the acid? Get it in his eyes.”
“I think it was Jesse. He’s gone,” a voice replied.
Spector dropped the headphones. He’d heard enough. These bozos and Sue Maroo were looking for payback. He limped forward as fast as he could, gritting his teeth. They hadn’t counted on him when they decided to kill his joker friend, or whatever he was. That was their mistake.
There was no one behind the wheel of the van, so Spector walked around front. The punks must have run out of ammo, as they were attacking the joker with knives and clubs. Newt-joker was holding his own for the moment, but the numbers were against him. The massive joker staggered into a badly lit area. Spector shook his head. It would be nearly impossible to lock eyes unless the battle moved back into the light.
Something small glided noiselessly by his shoulder. One of the joker’s attackers wheeled and charged Spector, knife in hand. Spector dodged, but the knife caught him on the elbow. More pain. He was about to give it back in spades. He caught the punk’s eyes and put him down in a heap.
Another eye floated by, just out of his reach. Sue was pretty smart. Spector jumped as high as his meth-pumped body would go, extending his arms. His fingers closed on empty air a few inches short of the orb. It was like the damned thing was taunting him. More likely it was keeping him busy so the other creeps could take down the joker, who was now down on one knee.
Spector dodged around the back of the van, scrambled up on top of it, spotted the eye, and pushed off as hard as he could in its direction.
He felt something soft struggling in his palm as he hit the pavement. Spector opened his fingers up a bit, and was surprised and annoyed at what he found. The eye had a lid, and it was closed tightly. He stuck a dirty thumbnail under the lid and slid it upward, prying it slowly open.
Another one of the thugs turned from the joker and headed his way. The eye was fully open and Spector gazed into it, hoping this would work. He forced his death into the eye and it went still in his hand. There was a soft wheeze from somewhere nearby. The punk who’d been headed his way paused and turned his head with uncertainty. He tapped his ear.
“You are so fucked, buddy,” Spector said, catching the man’s eye. A moment later, one more corpse was now getting cold in the winter air. The other punks scattered.
The joker got back to his feet. His wounds looked superficial from what Spector could tell. “Saw what you did. Thanks.”
“The Knicks didn’t win tonight, but we did.” Spector motioned to the open van. “Climb in. I’ll drive you home.”
Unfortunately, his giant newt body didn’t fit inside, so the joker climbed on top, crumpling the roof over the back part of the van.
Spector jumped in behind the wheel and started the engine. The trip was only a few blocks, he’d been right about that, but the van groaned under the weight of the joker every foot of the way. One of the rear tires blew out and they had to make the final hundred yards riding the rim.
“Home again, home again,” Spector said, as the joker tumbled from the top of the damaged van.
Spector guided and talked the joker into his place. Big Newt collapsed heavily on the floor, his eyes already closed.
“Turn on the radio.”
Spector located the radio and flipped it on. A light behind the dial flickered to life. The music wasn’t anything Spector recognized. He set the door lock and headed out into the freezing New York night.
* * *
Spector was sitting in a booth at the Crystal Palace with a cup of coffee and a bottle of whiskey. The light from outside was soft. It was early still. The meth had kept him up all night. He had hoofed it to the nearest subway stop, making it there without further incident. Later, he’d picked up a large pepperoni pizza. That and half a bottle of Jack Black had gotten him through the night. When he left his place to come to the Crystal Palace Spector had had a good reason for doing it. Now he couldn’t remember what that was. He had the sports section of the Times open in front of him.
“Bird Considers Retirement After Near-Death Experience,” the headline read in bold type. Too bad he hadn’t killed the fucker, but at least Bird would think long and hard before putting on Celtic Green again.
Elmo, wearing mirrorshades again, walked up to his booth and coughed. “She wants to see you again.”
Spector couldn’t imagine why. He didn’t think he knew anything that Chrysalis didn’t. Still, the last time he visited with her he’d gotten some free whiskey, so why the hell not?
Chrysalis was seated in her chair when Spector entered her private room. As expected, she also wore mirrored glasses. “Mr. Spector,” she said, “how decent of you to join me.”
“Sure.”
“Quite a lot of excitement last night.” The muscles in her chest moved slightly as she took a deep breath.
Spector held up his sports section. “Yeah, I was just reading about it.”
“I wasn’t referring to the incident at the sports arena, Mr. Spector. Have you ever heard of Sue Maroo?”
He decided to play dumb. “Nope.”
“I see.”
Chrysalis was impossible to read. Spector had denied being involved and he was going to stick with that. “You mind if I get back to my newspaper and pick-me-up?”
She gestured toward the door with a bony finger.
“One thing,” Spector said, turning back. “My gut feeling is there’s a war coming. A big one. Blood in the streets kind of a deal. You might keep an ear to the ground.”
Chrysalis cocked her head slightly. “My ear is always to the ground, and a war sounds like a situation you might be able to—exploit.”
“A man’s gotta eat,” he said, heading back to his booth. “Happy Holidays,” he added in parting.
“Enjoy the Yuletide, Mr. Spector.”
Spector lingered in the Crystal Palace for an hour or so, nursing his coffee and drink, mulling over his brief adventure. He’d had fun, and it wasn’t just killing fun.
His mind drifted to wondering what it would have been like to be an international assassin. Probably a pain, having to learn languages and deal with customs. Jet lag, too. He was better off right here. There were millions of people in New York City, and plenty of them needed killing.
He got up from his booth and left the Crystal Palace. The bitter New York cold embraced him like a long-lost child who’d finally found his way home.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Begin Reading
Copyright
Copyright © 2019 by Walton Simons
Art copyright © 2019 by John Picacio
The City That Never Sleeps Page 4