"The Cherub is still out there."
"Let me rephrase: Who did not live?"
"Wentworth. Mister Bart. Gitano and Jasper."
"Those two homos Wentworth uses for bagmen?" Doc Auto chuckled. "Strictly second-string. I had to yank a couple of bullets out of Gitano's pasty white ass once. He had hemorrhoids the size of your fist. Uh–no offense."
"It was self-defense, cut and dried, Doc."
"Of course it was. Hold still. This is going to hurt a little bit."
"A little bit?"
Doc Auto nodded. "A little bit like being drawn on the rack."
"Oh."
Doc re-socketed Mikey's shoulder with what, to Mikey, seemed the maximum load limit for simple agony. The Doc was fast, yet skilled, having done his basic course work as a meatball medic more than two decades past, in a field tent several klicks south of the infamous Firebase Gloria. That was a whole epic story in itself.
"Take some of these pills. Call me in the morning if you're still alive."
Eventually, the sun rose. Mikey lived. He got his cigarette reward for being a good patient. And when he at last limped forth to regret the new day, his arm in a sling, dressings dotting his body like wet snowflakes, his pocket full of illegal prescriptions, he turned his attention to the mechanics of murdering the man known throughout the underworld as the Cherub.
Because, within the next twenty-four hours, the Cherub would surely try to murder Mikey.
From curbside, Mikey could see a pair of liveried doormen twitching their heads left-to-right, scanning the street for potential hostiles. He guessed these men did not take home bellboy wages. A ragbag dude pushing a shopping cart-load of scavengings crossed the street to avoid intersecting their space.
Turf that even bums and loonies steered around was enemy territory for sure. Mikey's skin tried to reverse.
He needed an excuse to stay half a minute further away from his own funeral, so he loitered. He adjusted the sling beneath his overcoat, causing his throbbing arm to protest. He gulped another Percocet. He wanted to hustle his balls, but they had already scared far up into the cavity of his pelvis, for safety's sake. He wanted to touch the pistol stuffed into his waistband, to feel brave and reassured. The gun only felt cold.
Mikey had just completed his reconnoiter, strolling past with a multitude of furtive sidelong glances. He knew that backing up the two door sentries were a lobby valet, a uniformed guard watch-dogging a bank of TV monitors, several ambient maintenance-folk, and a wizened elevator operator straight out of a Forties musical. Turned upside-down and shaken out, this motley assemblage would no doubt liberate enough falling sidearms to start a revolution. . .safeties off all around.
Mikey had procured his own piece–a Colt Model 1908 .380 ACP from Doc Auto. The Doc had not loaned Mikey the weapon, but rented it, making Mikey sign a Xeroxed form and leave a deposit and everything, probably because Mikey's odds on returning the Doc's property truly reeked.
If you can't return the gun because you're dead, and you are taking the gun to see the Cherub, therefore . . . Premise, conclusion. Mikey ignored the winged ones abuzz in his head. The bees did not understand that the Cherub would be doubly suspicious of Mikey's visit if Mikey, who had no sane motivation to come calling, did so anyway without packing a weapon. The goon squad in the downstairs lobby would be especially squirrelly about any visitor who did not have at least one gun.
Complications.
Doe Auto was inflexible about his own rules, so Mikey had paid and signed for the gun. Now he was standing around weighing odds on whether the Doc actually would get the gun back.
Last night's circus had left Mikey with a pronounced limp, and his long-term aches had nested, aggravated by the cold. Doc Auto's pharmacological cornucopia had helped calm the pain, but the few drugs that could lease Mikey some courage would make him reckless and unstable.
Way up there. Mikey craned to look. Up there, at the very top of the building, was the Cherub, in his lair.
Mikey disliked heights. He would rather stay on the street than hurry to become part of it; what if the Cherub decided to hurl him off one of those wrought iron penthouse balconies up there?
He forced his feet to move him. He crossed the street. Identified himself. Was relieved of the rented Colt. Patted down, then scanned with a hand-held metal detector by the phony janitor.
"So you're that guy. You're him?" The grandfatherly elevator operator checked Mikey out, beaming. "Yeah. You're him. You're more than a day late."
. . . and short by nearly a hundred large. Unspoken, yet forever present, that addendum–the cartoon safe of Mikey's life, waiting to plummet and squish him just for existing.
"So you want to go up." It was not a question.
Mikey nodded. So did the elevator operator.
"So, like, I heard stuff about you." The old man pawed around inside the depths of his embroidered coat, which featured epaulets. He fished up a worn silver cigarette case. "So, normally I don't do this, but listen."
"I could use a smoke about now," said Mikey.
"So, it ain't smokes is in here, my friend."
Within the case Mikey could see an assortment of gel-caps, half-black, no control imprints or numbers, filled with a grayish, granular powder.
"So, them there is what we in our trade call as terminators. Just in case you lose your nerve, don't want to deal with . . . you know."
Mikey cracked a mannequin smile and automatically pocketed the capsule out of politeness. Kill himself? Why do the Cherub's job for him? "Why for me?" he asked.
He shrugged. "So . . . you just sort of look like a nice fellow. Probably don't deserve to die. Don't mean you won't."
Floor numbers lit, extinguished.
So, why did you bother to stroll right into the waiting arms of calamity in the first place? Nobody had asked Mikey that one yet.
Why. Question mark.
During the previous evening's scoop shovel shootout, Mikey had experienced something he felt rarely, if ever before in his life–a sense of victory. The dreaded Wentworth and her scary gang of thugs had turned out not to know every damned thing, after all. Mikey had turned their upper hands, one by one. And in spite of all his personal injury and pain–or perhaps due to it–he had traversed some lake of baptismal fire. He was still high on yesterday's clear win, so high, in fact, that he might have ingested every mood-enhancer in Doc Auto's Encyclopedia 'O Drugs already, for all the metabolic stress he was putting himself through.
Mikey had come to see the Cherub under his own power because the Cherub was unfinished business, dammit all. Last night, he hadn't had a chance. Tonight his prospects were similarly shitty . . . so his odds were even.
Ding. The doors parted and all the spit evaporated from Mikey's mouth.
"So, good luck," said the old guy, like an omen.
Past two flat-headed robo-guards there was the Cherub, who was impossible not to see. But the first person Mikey noticed upon entry into the sanctum sanctorum was the guy with a light bulb for a head.
Vast and colorless, the Cherub had not suffered genuine daylight for longer than it took to hustle his big Moby bulk from the back of his limo to the lobby of the building he had owned for two decades. The Cherub's right arm and war counselor, Cobbler, had in another life been possessed of a goofy Italian name with so many syllables that no one, not even the Cherub, could pronounce it properly. Thus, Cobbler.
Cobbler had recently lost his mind, sort of. His advice and intuition remained as lucid as white neon, but this was the first time Mikey had seen him since he had begun wearing a lamp on his head. More properly, it was one of those milky streetlamp globes generally found in miniature above bathroom sinks. Cobbler had been party to some unspecified mystic revelation regarding light, and the value of being surrounded by it at all times. Since the Cherub preferred illumination only by proxy, Cobbler had devised this method for liberating himself from the earthly distractions of what he termed "visual noise." With the white collar
of the globe neatly sized to his neck, Cobbler could see naught but clarity and the power of purest light, all around, a full three-sixty. Later he added a couple of fins to the upper contour to make his movements more aerodynamic.
It was easy for Mikey to ignore the weirdness factor. One met all sorts on the gridiron of drug politics and crime money. . .although it was a bit of tickle for Mikey to observe the way the Cherub's musclepersons studiously paid no attention to the big light bulb that dispensed corporate think-work. From the neck down, Cobbler was positively natty, vaguely British in tailoring and comport, the Windsor knot in his tie, perfection to envy. A study of stress in silk and symmetry. A flawless triangular knot.
Plus light bulb.
Mikey couldn't help it. He snorted.
"That man has a light bulb on his head," he said, demonstrating the professional tact that had doomed him from the cradle.
"At-hum," said the Cherub. He uttered this more than any other Cherub utterance. It was a clearing of the throat, an opportunity to change topics, a critique, a damnation, an indictment of folly. Right now, it was a window signaling Mikey to press onward. Translation: Overlook Cobbler's moonstone head if you ever want to smoke again, yes?
When the Cherub made the at-hum noise, the bulldogs flanking the entryway reached in a blur for their weaponry. Mikey did not see this motion, which took place ten feet behind him. His hackles pricked; the skin on his back sure knew what was going on. SOP for paranoid gofers. Suddenly, soberly, Mikey could comprehend how Cobbler could perceive things he was unable to see.
The Cherub was applauding. Slowly, mockingly.
"Bravo, Scoop. Quite competent, for a change. I didn't know you had it in you."
"Had it in me?" The mind bees enumerated choices. A bullet? A blade? Some convict bruiser's reedy little dong?
"Wentworth, Scoop. I speak of last night's business with Wentworth. The late Ms Wentworth."
"It's after midnight," intoned Cobbler. "Technically, two nights ago." His voice was metallic and hollow, like a broadcast from a flying saucer in a 50s sci-fi flick.
"The late." Mikey repeated, lying to himself that he was holding back, seeking a strategic conversational advantage.
"From what I glean regarding your relationship with her, or lack of relationship, I estimate you have risked coming here because you feel you have something to barter, yes?"
"He's come to bend knee and beg to have his life spared," clarified Cobbler.
Mikey shrugged noncommittally, making sure the Cherub could see it. He was learning. He was also fighting to quell the urge to scratch the phantom itch madly burrowing into the center of his back, where he imagined the first bullet would hit . . . if he slipped up.
"Permit me to recap. Please feel free to interrupt if I misrepresent the truth. At-hum."
The mind bees kept the death itch going full bore.
"You owed the late Ms Wentworth a delivery. Two deliveries, both overdue. Concurrently, you also owe me a bit of mad money to cover certain gambling mistakes. Not quite six figures, but a substantial sum for someone like you, yes?"
Mikey gulped. Nodded. Awaited the first gunshot.
"In the real world, your failure to remunerate either Wentworth or myself far past your allotted deadline, plus grace periods and interest, would be sufficient grounds for, shall we say–"
"Retributive action," suggested Cobbler.
"At-hum. Do you agree, Scoop?"
"I agree I still owe you several big dinner tabs, if that's what all this fancy language means," said Mikey.
Cobbler made a gaseous fart noise of contempt.
"I also agree that Wentworth was the biggest pain in the ass going, as far as hampering your network, uh, sir, and I think that the fact I've come to you–"
Cobbler overrode. "He wants you not to kill him in exchange for his elimination of Wentworth."
The Cherub massaged the lipid folds of his pale walrus neck. "Is that why you've come, Scoop?'
Wentworth had also called Mikey "Scoop," with equal derision. For Scoop Shovel, meaning Mikey's mouth. The Cherub had just referred to him as Scoop four times in the last two minutes. The mind bees shook off their happy hour stupor long enough to help Mikey with elementary addition.
Wentworth and the Cherub were in cahoots all along, they chittered. They've been talking. About you.
The Cherub turned to Cobbler. "To free the face of the planet of Ms Wentworth, how much did we, at-hum, estimate?"
"To render her sub-potent, we budgeted fifty large, not counting the extra per diem for the sharpshooters. This gentleman owes you $75,000. There is a $25,000 discrepancy."
"At-hum. Do you have my money, Scoop?"
It was brain-boggling. The Cherub had been playing at making a pact with Wentworth, to get her into the crosshairs of his overpaid assassins, then Mikey had killed Wentworth for free . . . and now the Cherub wanted change.
Mikey's marrow froze. "Will you take a check?"
"That's very funny," the Cherub said humorlessly. He stroked the bridge of his nose. "Acey. Deucy."
No chance in hell, thought Mikey, that the Cherub was proposing a card game aimed at his debt. No, he had beckoned the goons at the door, who on verbal command took two giant steps forward with precision ballet synchronicity and cross drew two of the largest nickel-plated Auto Mags in the entire world. The simultaneous shuck-click of their actions going hot sounded like chrome knuckles, cracking.
It was time for Mikey to die, once again.
Two loud bangs chased each other; tight thunderclaps.
Mikey threw himself hard on deck, onto his face. His whole body tried to contract.
The twin bangs had not been gunfire. They had been the double doors of the Cherub's lair being kicked in. Mikey was still headed for the floor, working on lame excuses, when gunfire came for real. Lots of it.
The Cherub's mouth had been forming some officious protest when his head vaporized, raining crimson mush all over the bulletproof window behind him. Mikey flinched and got sprayed anyway.
The sound was the atomic chatter of MAC 10s on full auto, firing through fat suppressors. The room started to come apart as Mikey rolled toward the Cherub's desk. Through the steamy hell of cartridge fog he caught Cobbler's last moves as a living thing.
The mysterious glass globe exploded as Cobbler stopped a hailstorm of slugs and smashed down to the Persian rug, squirming. The expression on his pallid face reasonably qualified as disappointment. The guards, Acey and Deucy, were already three hundred fifty pounds of dead beef . . . less the weight of their pistols, dropped unfired.
Blowback from the blitzkrieg faded, leaving Mikey the survivor. Everyone else in the room was dead. . .
. . . until Roach made the most of his entrance, stepping grandly over the ventilated corpses. His pal Ratso brought up the rear. Their weapons were smoking, matte black, with taped double clips.
Roach. Ratso. Jesus H. Christ, esquire.
Mikey's sadistic guardian spirit had just swapped bishops for knights: Equal point value, same threat potential . . . but the new ones move crooked.
"Jeezo-crikey, Roach, peek at that! It's ole Scoop wif his butt up in the air!"
"Scoop Butt," Roach said.
Scoop this, Scoop that, jeezo-crikey. Had every single lowlife in New York City heard his imbecilic nickname? He would be known as Scoop until he died. . .which looked to be a minute or two from right here, right now.
"Nice Scoop Butt," said Ratso, who generally agreed with anything that fell out of Roach's mouth.
The entry wounds garnishing the Cherub's formidable mass were still exuding penetration mist and leaking blood. Cobbler's brains could now truly see the light.
"Scoop-O, what the fuck you doing hanging wif scumboys like this fat turd right here?" Roach had actually said dayfock and rye-cheer; the mind bees freely interpreted this output for Mikey, having grown bored of their spot body count. "Read Street News, bro. Don't you know Mister The Cherub is history, as in ancient? Grab
yourself an update, hoser. Me and Ratty is where you should be dipping your wick."
"We be happening," agreed Ratso.
Mikey rolled slowly over to get a look. Broken glass and frags from the Cherub's skull vault spilled away.
"Hello, Roach. Glad to see you can finally afford a cable station that gets reruns of Miami Vice."
"What da hell's he talking?" said Ratso.
Mikey's eyes tried to drink them in and gagged. There was too much to digest. They were still seeing the updrawn guns of the guards, fading.
Roach detested the Sixties, so his nom de guerre had nothing to do with pot farmers or free love. Nothing came free to Roach, and if it wasn't worth buying, it wasn't worth squat. Roach was so called due to his buggy body or his insectile, praying mantis jawline–Mikey could not recall which. He never removed his mirror shades even dead past midnight; he just did not. Whenever you spoke to Roach, you always saw yourself, reflected twice, distorted in convex.
Roach's wingman, Ratso, appeared to have been sculpted from shit, or really spotty clay, to be more polite about it. He had the kind of fruitcake complexion that could inspire you to wince and check your own face for zits the next time a mirror caught you. And if you happened to check in Roach's shades, which nine out often customers could not help doing, then you'd eat some hurt.
Togged to the nines in costly flash, Roach and Ratso looked like two ugly kids wearing their parents' clothes to a taping of The Arsenio Hall show. Just now, these selfsame ugly kids seemed the heirs apparent to a widespread drug empire belonging to anyone they could successfully murder.
"Great, you guys. Top drawer." Mikey was trying to generate enough saliva to inquire about potential employment opportunities. At least he didn't owe the Roach.
"Yo, it's pretty gas groove so far!" Roach cackled and slapped Ratso a high five. Then he shot up the room some more. "We gonna be the kings, we gonna be the man, get us some rooms with ice water!"
"Shit." Ratso, discovering he was out of ammo, reversed his clip and locked down.
"Only one small prob," said Roach. "You a witness, Scoop-O." He laughed, a genuinely unappetizing glottal hack.
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