The Four-Night Run

by William Lashner

  So that was it: turn to the law, whose enforcers he had opposed for the entirety of his career; or turn to the lawless, whom he had defended but whom now he feared. How in the world, Scrbacek wondered, had his life come to hinge on such an unpalatable choice?

  He smelled something unpleasant, acrid, like a mélange of freshly piled garbage, lightly scented with warm piss. He opened one eye. Staring at him from a chair beside his bed, a chessboard with the pieces arrayed in her shaking hands, was the old woman with the wisp of beard, the one called Blixen.

  “Our game,” she croaked.

  “I’m not sure I feel quite up to it,” said Scrbacek, groggy with codeine.

  The old woman put the board on the side of his bed, white pieces facing him. It was a small leather-tooled chess set with pewter pieces. Two of the black pawns had been replaced by pennies; the role of a white bishop was being played by a pebble.

  “Oh, you’re up for it, all right,” said the old woman. “Make your move. Pawn to king four is the old standby. Pawn to king four. Or to queen four, if you’re the adventurous sort.”

  “I really don’t—”

  “Make your move,” said the old woman. “Make it. Hurry.” And then her eyes locked into Scrbacek’s, and her voice softened so he could barely hear it above the television. “It could be worth your life. Make your move.”

  Scrbacek sat up in the bed, the blanket falling from his bare chest, and stared at the woman for a moment before looking around. There was no one else in the room except the girl with the gun atop the bureau. Her face was in shadow, and she sat with a stillness that gave not the slightest indication she was alive.

  “The Nightingale can be trusted,” said the old woman. “Make your move.”

  “All right,” said Scrbacek, and he pushed his pawn to queen four.

  “Excellent,” cackled the old woman. “We’re off on the hunt now. Hear the hounds? And already you’re in more danger than you know.”

  “I made one move,” complained Scrbacek.

  “One’s enough,” said the old woman before pushing her queen’s pawn to meet Scrbacek’s. “Too much.” And then, in a lower voice, she said, “Who sent you?”

  “No one sent me,” said Scrbacek. “I’m just trying to stay alive.”

  “Thar she blows,” said the old woman, pointing at Scrbacek’s naked chest. “Squirrel said that you had it. It’s a sign, a message from the moon.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “It’s an extra nipple,” barked the old woman. “A third tit.”

  “I’ve had it all my life.” Scrbacek covered his chest with the blanket as he pushed his king’s pawn up two spaces.

  “Oh, the King’s Gambit,” howled Blixen. “Should Blixen wipe the pawn off the face of the board or let it be? What says the moon? Can the pawn be trusted? You tell me.”

  “Let it be,” said Scrbacek.

  The old woman stared at him as her hand hovered above the pawn, whose only move was to capture his pawn, and then her hand shifted her king’s knight, moving it to threaten the pawn, but keeping it alive for the moment.

  “Regina is afraid of you,” said the old woman softly. “She thinks you’ve come to destroy us all. Is it true?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You’d be dead already if it wasn’t for Donatino’s say-so. Regina listens to Donatino. But not to Blixen. To Regina, Blixen’s a cantankerous loon. She thinks insanity runs in the family.” She extracted her flask, flicked it open, poured a slug down her throat, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “And she may be right. Still, Blixen knows things. The beagle can help, Blixen tells her. He can be our knight, jumping from place to place, but Regina won’t listen. She sees a threat and wants to eliminate it.”

  “Why? I don’t understand.”

  “You’re Caleb Breest’s lawyer. You come into Crapstown looking for our Donatino. Our Ares. You’re here just one day, and already the place is on fire. A friend was killed this morning, as honest a criminal as you could ever hope to find. Killed, and his entire storehouse of filched merchandise destroyed. Your name was shouted by the attackers.” The old woman raised her voice and said, “Make your move.”

  Scrbacek moved the pebble, his king’s bishop, to protect his pawn. “How could I be connected to a fence? Was he a client?”

  “Freddie Margolis.”

  “I don’t know him.”

  “Freddie ‘the Freak’ Margolis, friend of the forgotten. Give us your hubcaps, your car batteries, give us your stolen stereo speakers yearning to be free. He was one of the first of the circle. Now he’s dead. And the beagle’s in the middle of everything.” Pawn took pawn.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Blixen took your gambit,” the old woman cackled. “What’s to understand? The moon is blue tonight, did you know that? Attack with your bishop—I dare you. Attack with your bishop and you are as good as dead.”

  Scrbacek moved his bishop to relative safety beside his pawn. “You said I’m in the middle of everything. What is everything?”

  “Keep your eye on the game,” said the old woman loudly. She waved her hand over the board and continued in a soft voice. “There is a battle for control of the center. Black sees the center as a source of power, something to be controlled, bled, sucked dry like a marrowbone. White sees the center as a drag on its power, something to be obliterated as it moves to take other positions of strength.”

  The old woman developed her queenside knight to threaten Scrbacek’s remaining center pawn. Scrbacek stared at the board and then moved his king’s bishop pawn up one space. The old woman took the pawn, and Scrbacek took Blixen’s pawn in turn with his queen.

  “I still don’t understand,” said Scrbacek, softly.

  Blixen shook her head sadly, moved her knight forward to attack Scrbacek’s kingside position. “Blixen was born here. It was a place then. Blixen had a daughter here. ‘Where are you from?’ they would ask, and when Blixen told them, they’d ooh and aah. Now it is nothing except our home. And still, somehow, we’re caught in the middle of their game. That is why we listened when Malloy came to us.”

  “Peter Malloy, the labor leader who was killed? Regina mentioned a Malloy, too. Is that the one?”

  “He came. Organizing. Organizing Crapstown. What a thing to imagine. He called all the groups together, to the underworld, across the River Styx, the river of hate. The moon is blue. Make your move.”

  Scrbacek stared at the woman, at her wet eyes, at her wisp of beard, tried to make sense of what she was saying, and failed. He turned back to the board and moved his bishop forward one space, threatening the old woman’s knight.

  “In the underworld they formed the Inner Circle. A circle of hope and vengeance. Regina is our Sentinel, Donatino our Ares. And now into their house comes Caleb Breest’s lawyer. With destruction behind him. You cannot stay here, not a minute more than you must. They will kill you if you don’t leave before the moon has passed.”

  The old woman moved her queen’s bishop to further protect the knight.

  “Why are you telling me this?” said Scrbacek.

  “Because nothing is more dangerous than a beagle with his back to the wall. Are you dangerous, beagle?”

  “No,” said Scrbacek. “I’m not.”

  “Make your move.”

  “I’m not dangerous. I just want to stay alive.”

  “Make your move.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Make your move.”

  Scrbacek looked at the board. He thought to develop his knight to protect his bishop, but as he reached for the piece, the old woman let out a groan.

  He took his hand away and studied the board anew, trying to see why the move was a mistake. He kept looking, examined his queen’s position on the right side, and suddenly he saw it, clear and sweet as a knife in the heart. He wasn’t much of a chess player, and he hadn’t maneuvered his pieces into such a position, but still there it was. He looked into the o
ld woman’s eyes.

  “Are you a dangerous man, J.D. Scrbacek, beagle-at-law with his back to the wall?”

  Scrbacek moved his queen up the board, took the king’s bishop’s pawn, and said, “Checkmate.”

  “Oh my Lord,” shouted out the old woman. “You beat Blixen. On a trick, a dirty trick.” She laughed loudly, laughed like a maniac. “You are dangerous after all.”

  “It was there. I didn’t know—”

  The old woman suddenly grabbed at Scrbacek’s extra nipple, her filthy, ragged fingernails digging sharply into his flesh. In a low voice she said, “Leave tonight. Save Blixen’s home. Save Crapstown.”

  The old woman let go of his chest, took the top off her chessboard, dumped the pieces inside, and covered it again before hobbling out of the room, muttering to herself. Blixen was crocked, that was clear enough to Scrbacek, but her warning rang too true to ignore. How could he ever again doubt that there was someone who wanted him dead? He didn’t yet have a place to run to, but he knew for sure he had to run. He swung his legs off the bed, wrapped his body as best he could in the sheet that had been covering him, and took a step forward to find a way out, before swooning backward onto the bed.

  He sat for a moment, trying to shake the dizzy fatigue out of his head, when he saw a thin, handsome man in jeans come into the room, carrying a pile of folded clothes with Scrbacek’s two boots on top. Scrbacek felt a wave of inexplicable relief fall upon him. Maybe it was something in the man’s smile.

  “Hello, Donnie,” said Scrbacek.

  “How you feeling there, Mr. Scrbacek?” said Donnie Guillen.

  “Better, actually. That little man, what was his name? Squirrel?”

  “Yeah, Squirrel knows his stuff.” Donnie placed the pile of clothes on the bed and patted it. “Time to get dressed. You need any help?”

  “I don’t think so. The Tylenol has already kicked in.”

  “Good. But you have to hurry. I brought a visitor.”

  “Who?”

  Just then, Scrbacek was hit with an overpowering scent of jasmine, followed by the vision of a woman sweeping magisterially into the room. Tall and dark, big-boned and graceful, she was dressed in a flowing purple gown, with a bright purple scarf covering her hair and jangling dollops of hammered silver hanging from her ears.

  She stopped and looked around at the peeling wallpaper, the holes in the wall, the boarded-up window, the girl on the bureau with a gun. “This is dreadful,” she said, her accent as thick as her perfume. “How you expect me to work in such place? It is not fit for juk. No, Donnie darling, I won’t stay here one minute more. I go home.”

  “Please,” said Donnie. “We need you desperately.”

  “It is impossible. I must go. You come my shop and I do what I can, but here, no.”

  “He’ll pay you another hundred,” said Donnie.

  “What care I about such details?” She blew dismissively out her mouth and then turned to stare at the man covered by a sheet on the bed. “Cash?”

  “Of course,” said Donnie.

  “This moosh, he has the money?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “You know,” she said, “for no one else would I do such a thing, but you, Donnie, are such a kushti darling. So okay. I do it. Just for you.”

  “Thank you,” said Donnie.

  She turned to Scrbacek. “I hope you are grateful of your friend. He came all the way my shop to bring me here because your trouble. If the cards they tell me you are not a grateful moosh, I will be very disappointed.”

  “Who are you?” said Scrbacek, still clutching the sheet to his body.

  “Mr. Scrbacek,” said Donnie, “I’d like you to meet the Contessa Romany.”

  “Charmed,” said the lady.

  “The Contessa Romany,” said Donnie, “is going to tell you how to save your life.”

  14

  DONNIE GUILLEN

  After the Contessa swept back out of the room, Scrbacek glanced up at the girl sitting on the bureau with the gun. “Does she have to be here while I dress?”

  “Reggie insists,” said Donnie with a shrug.

  “And if Reggie insists, then I guess there’s no—”

  “That’s right,” said Donnie with a smile.

  “Okay, then,” said Scrbacek as he searched the pile of clothes for his boxers. He slipped them on under the sheets before getting out of bed and starting with his pants. He tried to keep his swollen, purpled arm as still as possible. Even so, and even with the drugs, the pain at first was hard to bear, but the more he moved the arm, the less the pain restricted his movements.

  “All these people,” said Scrbacek, gingerly pulling on his jeans. “The old woman with the beard, Squirrel, the Lady Baltimore, Regina, that girl up there on the bureau.”

  Donnie looked up at her and smiled. “The Nightingale.”

  “Yes. Who are they?”

  “Friends. We kind of live together here. Some of us, anyway. Squirrel has a rough operating room in a house on Garfield, and Elisha has a place in the Marina District, but they all help me with my work.”

  “What exactly is your work?”

  “Same as before. I’ve always been good with my hands. I build stuff for people, fix stuff. Work on my projects.”

  “Projects?”

  “Hurry up and dress, and I’ll show you.”

  “No more guns, I hope. You’re staying out of trouble, right?”

  “I live in Crapstown, Mr. Scrbacek. There’s only trouble here.”

  “So I’ve found.” Pause. “Thank you, Donnie. For taking me in and finding me that doctor, or whatever the hell he is. I probably would have died there on your stoop if you hadn’t answered the door.”

  Donnie looked at the floor and kicked at the splintering wood. “I don’t think I’d have done too well in prison, Mr. Scrbacek. Some of the people there, man, they deserve to be there, they’re, like, dangerous. You did a good thing keeping me out.”

  “I was just doing my job.”

  Donnie shrugged. “Most court-appointed lawyers wouldn’t have cared like you cared, and that made all the difference. You pulled out all the stops for me. So when I saw you lying there looking half-dead on the front porch, I figured I owed you.” Donnie let out a laugh. “Man, you were a mess.”

  Scrbacek nodded. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

  “I know.”

  “I have to get out of here, get out of Crapstown, get out of the state.”

  Donnie turned to look behind him and then back at Scrbacek. “That’s probably a good idea. Especially the getting out of here part. Do you know where you’d go?”

  “No idea.” Scrbacek struggled as he slipped a white T-shirt over his lame arm and then a soft white long-sleeved shirt over that, buttoning the buttons carefully. He found he could use his left hand as long as he didn’t need any strength from his arm beyond bare movement. “Thanks for the clothes.”

  “Elisha cleaned what we could save, but the shirt, it was totaled.” Then in a hushed tone, like a conspirator, he said, “So what do you think?”

  “I think I’m in serious trouble,” said Scrbacek.

  “No. About her.”

  “Who?”

  “Elisha.”

  “Baltimore?”

  “Isn’t she wonderful?”

  “The Lady Baltimore?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know. I’ve never met anyone quite like her. She’s very spiritual.”

  “She’s a drug-addicted stripper, Donnie.”

  “Well, see, that’s what makes her so special. She’s employed, has outside interests . . .”

  “Donnie.”

  “She’s more than just her struggle, Mr. Scrbacek. You’re on the run now—you should know that as well as anyone.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “We found the money in your boot. I had to pay Squirrel, and I used some of it to buy the medicine, the new clothes, and to pay Elisha, because, well, that’s what I did with it. And then I h
ad to give some to the Contessa to get her to come. This is what’s left. Fifteen hundred or about.”

  “The Contessa must be expensive,” said Scrbacek as he put the wadded bills in his back pocket.

  “But she’s worth it.”

  “What exactly does she do?”

  “She reads the future.”

  “Ahh, now I recognize the name. She’s the fortune-teller on the boardwalk.”

  “You know her?”

  “I’ve passed her shop.”

  “She’s got a good sign, doesn’t she? ‘Contessa Romany: The Mistress of Tarot.’”

  “Send her home, Donnie.”

  “It wasn’t easy to get her to come. She doesn’t like it in Crapstown. I had to almost beg. Though the bills I gave her from your stash helped.”

  “Donnie, I don’t want any help from the Contessa. One of my fondest hopes is that I go through my life never having been helped by a contessa. Send her home.” He stopped dressing and looked at Donnie. “I have a lot of questions.”

  “I know you do.”

  “About the things that are happening. About Malloy. About something called the Inner Circle.”

  Donnie spun around and looked behind him and then back, letting out a soft “Shh.”

  “But most of all,” said Scrbacek as he put on his socks and slipped on his boots, “I need to find out who’s trying to kill me.”

  “That’s why the Contessa is here.”

  “Donnie, no.”

  “Come on,” he said. “She’s setting up downstairs. But I want to show you something first.”

  “I’m not paying a hundred more bucks to have my fortune told by some Gypsy fraud.”

  Just then, the Nightingale hopped down from the bureau, moving with the athletic grace of a gymnast. She was short and lithe, pretty in a boyish way, with short dark hair, and she carried an AK-47, the trigger pointing to the sky and the barrel leaning on her shoulder. Fastened to the barrel’s tip was some sort of tube, black and wider than the rest. She didn’t say a word. She just stared at Scrbacek for a moment and then tilted her head toward the exit.

  Scrbacek’s eyes widened before he grabbed his raincoat and followed Donnie out the door.

  Donnie led Scrbacek through a dark hallway, the noise of the ever-present television growing louder, and down a stairwell with a rickety handrail. The Nightingale trailed the two of them, the gun still perched on her shoulder. At the landing, they passed into a hallway to the right and came to a room at the back of the house. Donnie turned a switch, and two hanging industrial fixtures clicked and blinked and finally hummed to life, filling the room with a harsh light that forced Scrbacek to cover his eyes until they adjusted.