Uncertain Allies

by Mark Del Franco

  Carmine slid into my booth, a mixture of scents wafting off his clothes, smoke and sex and liquor, the stale funk of a night of partying. With Carmine, it was always a party. He owned the bar and several others, provided party services for a steep price and coveted discretion. He smiled in the darkened booth, tiny sharp teeth flashing against his deep red complexion. “Connor, my friend, it pleases me to see you drink, but not with that look on your face.”

  “I’ve had a bad run the past couple of days.”

  He chuckled. “I might have heard about that. I’m beginning to think I might need to learn a trick or two from you about how to end an evening.”

  I sipped my beer. “Avoid armored tanks.”

  “Yes, I imagine they are a bitch to park,” he said.

  A thin elf, skin blue and stippled black, delivered a flute of champagne to Carmine. He checked my drink, then glanced up with a smile. Changes in essence around him radiated soothing calm with a touch of desire. “Anything more?” he asked.

  “I’m good,” I said.

  Carmine watched him with the assessing gaze of a marketer looking through the eyes of a consumer. “He’s very good, don’t you think? Subtle work. He has this lovely trick of making people feel like they had no plan to come in and end up in the back room.”

  I took a long swig of my beer. “Sure. Not wanting to take responsibility for your actions is not all that surprising. Blame it on someone else. No recriminations.”

  Carmine tapped the champagne flute along his teeth. “Imagine—some people hate themselves for enjoying themselves.”

  I grunted. “I could use a little of that kind of hate.”

  Carmine draped himself across the booth, leaning on the edge of the table and propping his foot up on the seat. “Connor, Connor, Connor. Self-pity doesn’t become you. I thought you had gotten past that.”

  I slumped back, rested the beer on my hip. “I’m responsible for a lot of dead, Carmine. I’m not happy about it.”

  “The Wheel of the World turns as It will, Connor. I have the scars to prove it,” he said.

  Carmine had the right to say it. Some of those scars he wore were because of me. Mistaken identities will do that to a person. I dropped my head back. “But I’m sick of hearing that stuff, Carmine. I’m sick of people doing shit and shrugging it off as fate or the Wheel or bad luck. I did shit. I’m trying to make up for it. I want to. Instead, all that happens is people biting my ass for reasons that have nothing to do with me.”

  At first, I thought a trick of the light darkened the booth, but then I realized the darkness clustered around Carmine. He sipped long on his champagne, his tiny sharp teeth a slash of white in shadow as a feral yellow glinted in his eye. “Do you know what I do, Connor? Truly know? Do you know the price for the services I provide? I hold a mirror up to people’s desires and give them what they think they want. I give people what they want and make them pay for it. But the price isn’t coin, Connor. That’s the surface, the lie, if you will, that we hide behind to salve our consciences. What lies beneath is the soul of the matter, everyone’s soul. The Wheel of the World turns, but people make It turn. and the Wheel responds by turning as It will without regard to our petty desires or hopes and dreams. It turns the way It will, sometimes random, sometimes true, and that is the fate we all must face. It turns, Connor, and gives us the chance to keep It turning for good or ill. We always have a choice. Taking responsibility is one choice, but it isn’t the only one. Not taking responsibility turns the Wheel, too. Either way, no one gets away with anything because there are always changes and results, ramifications and consequences.”

  His voice became one with the shadow around him. “You’re not angry about the Wheel. You’re not angry about people not taking responsibility. You’re not even angry about the things you’ve done. You’re angry about time, Connor. Time reveals answers and not always when we want them or if we want them. That’s the Wheel, too. Time will come and go in time enough for what you need. Patience rewards, but action satisfies. Choose between them carefully because they, too, will cause more time still. Choose your time.”

  The shadows dissipated. As Carmine stopped speaking, the music in the club became louder, and the conversational voices around us rose in volume. I inhaled as if I had remembered to breathe. Carmine stared at me now with a pleasant smile, the horned ridge of his eyebrows lifting in thought or a challenge to deny his words.

  I stared back, letting what he said sink in. “Yeah, that’s not making me feel better.”

  He laughed in a staccato of high barks. “You say that as if that was my intention.” He pulled a small granite block from his pocket and placed it on the table. “Touch it,” he said.

  I rubbed my finger across the top of the cube. A short flash of essence danced up my arm and slipped into my face. Blood rushed to my head, a warm flush that spread throughout my body. My heart beat in my ears, a soft, thick pulse that reminded me of a soothing drumbeat. My skin tingled as the rush faded. We called them blushies when I was a kid. I chuckled. “I haven’t played with those in years.”

  Carmine tilted his head to the side. “Then you’ve missed some interesting modifications. No headaches, for one. Timed release. Intensity controls. They’ve come a long way.”

  The idea was tempting and no more unusual in the fey world than drinking. “Thanks, Carmine. I think I’ll see where the night takes me.”

  Carmine slid out of the booth as pink essence flashed in the air. Joe wobbled above the table, oversize sunglasses pressed against the bridge of his nose. “It’s dark as the bottom of a keg in here,” he said.

  I glanced at Carmine, but spoke to Joe. “The glasses, Joe. Funny you showing up here.”

  He settled to the table, removing the glasses and staring at them as if he’d never seen them before. He tossed them over his shoulder into the next booth and cocked his head at Carmine. “Dare I think that’s a bar behind you, Master Red?”

  “Your powers of observation astound as always, Master Pink.” Carmine placed a plastic red card on the table next to my elbow. He nodded at the stone cube. “We have a wide selection of those. Consider yourself my guest for the rest of the evening, Connor. The rooms in the back are at your disposal.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Carmine,” I said.

  He bowed. “Of course not, but sometimes I do things I think are necessary at the time.” He nodded to Joe. “Master Pink.”

  Joe tapped his head and bowed. “Master Red.”

  Carmine strolled away as the waiter reappeared. He placed a small chair on the table for Joe, two mugs of Guinness in flit glasses beside it, and a full pint in front of me. Joe picked up a mug and draped himself on the chair, dangling his feet over one of its arms. He raised his mug. “To the good red man!”

  “To Carmine,” I said, and tapped.

  Joe hummed as he surveyed the bar. “Busy in here.”

  “Carmine called you, didn’t he?”

  He looked at me with half-closed eyes. “I would have been here soon or later, making the rounds. You think you’re the only morose guy bitter at the world that I know? I have a schedule, you know.”

  Joe knew my ancestors, stood beside them on battlefields and watched people die over the right to lands that didn’t even exist anymore. It was hard to feel like my issues were important around him. Not that he didn’t care what I was going through, but he had a way of reminding me that I wasn’t alone and that anything that was happening now had happened before and will again. It was the Wheel of the World. I chuckled as I drained my glass and pulled the new pint closer.

  “How’d you make out with the elf?” I asked.

  He downed his glass and picked up the second. “Very strange. I lost him. One moment he was there, the next gone. Never saw an elf do that.”

  “Did he ghost?” I asked. The fey, especially ones with strong body essence, had the ability to move at extreme speeds.

  Joe feigned an insulted glare. “Do you really think someone g
hosting can get away from me?”

  I shrugged. “Just asking.”

  “Nope. He turned a corner and vanished. Not a trace of essence left behind. It was like he fell in a hole.”

  I grunted as I drank my beer. “I wish I could fall in a hole.”

  Joe grinned. “I feel a bender coming on.”

  “That, my friend, sounds like a perfect idea. I don’t want to think about tomorrow.”

  He downed his second mug and sighed. “See, now, in the same situation, I can’t wait to see what happens.”

  Amused, I crumpled a bar napkin and tossed it at him. He tilted his head and used his toe to nudge at the card Carmine had left. “Are you going to use that? I’ve heard rumors about some interesting new entertainments.”

  Meryl’s vacant stare flitted through my mind. She wouldn’t care if I lost myself in some mindless recreation. Depending on the situation, she’d toss me out the door to go play if I was not on her agenda for the night. I didn’t want to, though. Tonight, it would have felt like an indulgence and not in a good way. Beer was enough for what I needed right then. I pushed the card closer to Joe. “I’m not in the mood. Take notes for me.”

  He spun the card on the tip of his finger, cheating by using essence to keep it aloft. “Oh, I’m sure Carmine has video.”

  12

  I woke with a gasp as cold water poured on my face and spilled down my neck. I hunched forward in the darkened living room, a headache blooming at the sudden movement. My body shields flickered but receded as my sensing ability picked up the body signature beside my futon.

  “Ass,” I said.

  Murdock smirked down at me, a half-empty water glass poised in his hand to drip more water on me. “Rise and shine, grumpy.”

  I wiped the wetness from my face with my hands and winced when Murdock turned on the lights. Sunlight peeked through cracks in the plywood and plastic barrier that served as my replacement window. During the riots, Guild agents had smashed their way in to arrest me, and the landlord wasn’t in any rush to replace the glass.

  I swung my feet to the floor and made my way to the bathroom. My head felt like it followed on a tether about two feet behind. A flutter in my stomach tried to get my attention, threatening to become a rush of something trying to get out of my body. I stood in front of the john, steadying myself with one hand against the wall as I relieved myself. “You could have called,” I said.

  His voice echoed in from the living room. “I did. And I rang the buzzer, but you didn’t answer. Seemed like a good idea to check if you were on the run or dead.”

  I shuffled out of the bathroom and slipped on some black jeans from the floor. I was pretty sure they were the clean ones. “I guess I was in a deep sleep.”

  He eyed me with amusement as he washed the glass. “I guess technically that’s true.”

  I pulled a clean T-shirt out of the laundry basket. It was clean. I knew for sure. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He leaned against the counter, shaking his head. “Connor, I really don’t care you went on a beer binge. What I do care about is that you got dressed and still smell like ass. Go take a shower. I’ll wait.”

  The aroma of bar reek and beer sweat coming off me was not a pleasant combination. I hadn’t realized I wasn’t the only one who could smell it. “Wait for what?”

  “We got an ID on the pit victim,” he said.

  I pulled the T-shirt off again and shucked my pants to the floor. I lost my balance in the process and almost fell over. “And that concerns me because?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Because you need to do something other than drink and act like Eorla Kruge’s errand boy.”

  A thick silence hung between us as I debated whether to be insulted. Murdock’s eyebrows flicked upward, a telltale sign he was more than willing to go toe-to-toe with me on the subject. I checked the rumbling burn of anger in my chest. He was right, a little blunt, but right. I walked back in the bathroom. “Your shirt’s ugly.”

  “And for the love of God, brush your teeth,” he shot back.

  The hot shower soothed my muscle aches but didn’t get rid of my headache, or, at least, the headache I had in addition to my usual headache. It did help me shed the layer of odor. I came out of the bathroom, rubbing my hair with a towel. “How’d the ID happen?”

  He didn’t look up from the home-design magazine he was reading. I might live in a hovel, but I still appreciate a nice design sensibility I will never see again for myself. “Prints. A couple of minor arrests two decades ago,” he said.

  I pulled on a clean T-shirt, then a dark gray sweater. “Has Janey done the autopsy yet?”

  He dropped the magazine on the floor. It wasn’t rude. It landed on the stack of other magazines there. “Since we got an ID, she’s going to move it up,” he said.

  I grabbed my jacket and knit cap. “Ready.”

  Downstairs, we settled into Murdock’s car. “When I said ‘ready,’ I meant ready to go through the drive-thru at Dunkin’ Donuts. You knew that, right?”

  Murdock lifted a large foam cup from the console and handed it to me. “Took care of it on the way over.”

  The cup was warm in my hand, so he wasn’t joking. It’s hard to tell the fresh junk in Murdock’s car from the stale. I took grateful sips. “Do you always stop for coffee when you think someone’s dead in his apartment?”

  We hopped on I-93 south to take the shortcut to Albany Street in the South End. “I said I was checking to see if you were dead. I suspected you were hungover. Likely outcomes first, you know.”

  “Is that what they taught you in that online detective course you took?” I asked.

  He chuckled. “Drink your coffee, Connor. You’re not awake enough to insult me effectively.”

  I settled back and did as I was told. Despite everything, the fact that Murdock still joked with me was an enormous relief, even if I was the butt of the jokes. I didn’t cause the pain in his life, but I had been a part of ripping them out in the open. It wasn’t my intention, but it weighed on me.

  He was a victim of the Guild as much as I was, more so, really. The Guild used me as a tool, even a weapon, when it suited them. I was the perfect instrument because I believed their lies, thought I was serving some greater good, and, yeah, reveled in the glory and honor thrown my way. Murdock, though, had never been part of their schemes. He was collateral damage.

  He recognized that for what it was and didn’t blame me for what happened. I didn’t think I’d ever known anyone like him. Joe had proved time and again that he would stand by me, but Joe was, well, Joe. He rolled with everything, didn’t dwell on the past or worry about the future. Briallen, as much as she supported me, made it clear there were greater issues that demanded the sacrifice of individuals. I took that as a hint that someday, if she ever had to make a choice, she would actually consider the options. For Murdock, there were no options. He stood by me, and I’d be damned if I didn’t stand by him at this point.

  I glanced at him. The bruising on his face from smashing into the wall was already healed to a faint red. “You’re awfully chipper for someone who had a fight with a wall yesterday.”

  He glanced over at me with a smile. “I won the fight. What’s not to feel good about?”

  I forced myself to ask the question I was dreading to hear the answer to. “How’s Kevin?”

  The smile stayed on Murdock’s face. “Good. Some notunexpected damage, but a few days in the hospital should take care of it.”

  I frowned at him. “Druids heal faster than baseline humans. Did you tell him about his druid signature?”

  “Yeah. You really don’t want to know what he said,” he said.

  I sipped my coffee. “What about the suspect?”

  We coasted off the exit for Albany Street. “He’s in worse shape. The hospital won’t let anyone talk to him for another day or so,” he said.

  I sipped my coffee. “I don’t pity that guy. Being to blame for injuries to fire and police officer
s is a tough rap to beat.”

  “You should know,” said Murdock.

  I gave in and chuckled. I was not going to win with him today.

  The Office of the Medical Examiner building had that bleak cast that made one wonder if it was built to be depressing. The bones of the building hinted at an older, dignified past, maybe not grand, but at least presentable. What existed these days was a pitted structure, graffiti painted over in mismatched shades of gray, windowpanes repaired with cardboard when they weren’t sooty, and a much-patched asphalt driveway that led around back to the receiving bays. Despite having a grungy, years-old car, Murdock didn’t risk a parking space on Albany Street, so he parked behind the building in someone’s reserved space.

  The bustle inside the OCME startled me. It had been so long since I had been in the lower level during normal business hours that I had forgotten how many people worked there. Murdock flashed his badge at the security booth. Once inside, no one paid us any attention.

  At the far end of the hallway, Janey Likesmith moved with a deliberate step as if she were concentrating on the act of walking. Dark circles under her eyes marred her smooth skin. “Nice to see some friendly faces,” she said.

  “If Connor’s a friendly face, it must be bad,” Murdock said.

  Janey shot him an uncertain smile.

  “It’s Whack Connor Day. Feel free to join in,” I said.

  “Ignore him. He thinks it’s Pity Connor Day,” Murdock said.

  Janey’s smile became more amused as she led us up the hall. She dropped it as we entered the autopsy room. A plaque on the wall read Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. “This is the place where the dead delight in helping the living.” I don’t know how delighted they were, but more often than not they did provide answers.