Four Ghosts

by James Ward Fiction

  Nip’s house was half way down Bardner Street, partially hidden by clumps of unkempt bushes and patches of weed. Arder drifted up to the porch and gently floated through the door. Locks, chains, deadbolts and alarms didn’t phase spectors. It was one of the perks of being a redeemer. She remembered an old saying her aunt once told her as a child. ‘The Lord doesn’t take anything away from you without giving you something in place of it.’

  She scanned the room. It was cave black and reeked of rotting food and something chemical. She heard rustling sounds, something between the walls. There was a hissing sound coming from the back of the house, like the sound of a bus tire with a slow leak.

  “You again? What’s with you?”

  Nip. Arder turned to face him in the darkness.

  Nip talked through a cloud of pot smoke, bong in one hand, lighter in the other. “Fuck’re you doin here?”

  Arder let an icy grin open up on her ashen face. “You know very well what I want.”

  Nip took another hit and placed the bong on the table in front of him. “I got no idea what yer talkin’ about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “I think yer nuts.”

  Arder moved through the darkness like a cloud, causing a frigid draft to fill the room. “Let’s have a little talk, me and you.”

  Nip’s teeth began to chatter. He felt the skin on his arms and neck begin to ripple. He broke out in a vicious sweat that immediately froze to his face.”

  “I . . . I go . . . I got nothin’ against talkin’.”

  “I thought not.”

  Nip reached for the bong.

  “Put that stuff on hold a minute, would you?” Arder pointed a finger at the bong and gave it a wiggle. A thick layer of frost formed around the pipe. It cracked and shattered in Nip’s hand, filling his fingers with shards of glass and spattering his face with bong water.

  “Shit.”

  Arder drifted in front of him. “I’ll make this quick. You cooperate and you can go back to your little wonderland and fry what’s left of your brain. Deal?”

  Nip picked a bloody glass splinter out of his thumb. “I don’t make deals without details.”

  Arder crossed her arms and paced in front of Nip. “I’m asking you nicely, stay away from Devlin Stone.”

  “Why? He your boy toy or somethin’?”

  “Amazing. You’re a real side-splitter, yet you chose to stand on the street dealing garbage instead of pursuing a lucrative career in stand-up comedy.”

  “Hey, don’t hate me for bein’ a hustler, it’s just how I roll.”

  “Just roll away from Stone and find someone else’s life to ruin.”

  Nip picked at another shard of glass and sucked his bloody thumb. “You say ruin like it’s a bad thing.”

  “Don’t go near him, or call him, or associate with him in any way. He’s mine and that’s all you need to know.”

  “Hey, Stone’s a free spirit, he can do what he wants.”

  Arder floated in front of Nip. Her eyes turned amber and narrowed to slits. “No one is truly a free spirit. Not ever.”

  Nip wiped his bloody hand on his pants. “This whole thing’s startin’ to creep me out—you floating around the room like a bean burrito fart, telling me Stone is yours like you bought him on eBay or some shit and demanding who I should and shouldn’t hang with—I ain’t equipped to deal with your drama. Why don’t you just breeze on out of here, mind your own business and let me get back to mine?”

  “Do you intend to honor my request?”

  Nip suddenly stood and shook his arms out like a prize fighter prepping for a ten-round heavyweight bout. “I don’t think so. Matter of fact, you just keep floatin’ in front of me like a butterfly and I’ll sting yer ass.”

  “Funny,” said Arder. “I thought that’s what you’d say. It’s what they all say.”

  Nip wobbled his head, letting his neck joints crack. “Well, hell, then you shouldn’t be surprised.”

  Arder hissed. “No, but you should.”

  There was a rush of blazing hot air before Nip felt talons and teeth connecting with his arms and legs. A ragged chunk of flesh was ripped from his chest, another from his back. There was a loud screech somewhere behind him, then to his right, then to his left. He felt warm blood leaking down his forehead and into his eye sockets. Through the holes torn into his chest, he watched his heart slowly stop beating. He never laid a glove on her.

  16

  Stone’s neck was throbbing. Mr. ‘V’ had nearly choked him out, maybe killed him. Now the old man was crumpled behind his desk, hands gripping his chest, face the color of ripe plums. Stone couldn’t be sure, but it looked like he’d gotten so charged up he’d had a massive heart attack.

  Stone’s own heart was kicking out a thrash-metal beat that made his head swim. What the hell had just happened? He’d always assumed his little scam was rock solid. Although he always worked under the radar, he wondered if anyone else besides Mr. ‘V’ had caught on. His mind began to race. He must have slipped up somewhere.

  Mr. ‘V’ was a legendary tight ass. Maybe he had security cameras hidden somewhere. If not, someone else had been watching him and that someone was a snitch. A rat, that was it, the old man probably had somebody squealing every time an employee took an extra ten minutes for lunch, or fudged a time sheet, or scored a couple lousy painkillers. He paced in front of Mr. ‘V’s body, weighing his options.

  Maybe Stone’s secret scam had died with Mr. ‘V’. There was no way to be sure. One thing was certain, he’d have to be more careful from here on out. And if there was a rat, he’d chop that fucker’s tail off, starting at the neck. Chop it up and move on.

  There was also the ‘Nip Factor.’ He didn’t want his partner in crime going Kamikaze on his ass. A murder investigation would throw the Nipmeister into the stratosphere. Things could go from zero to messy real fast. He decided what Nip didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Hell, nothing could hurt Nip, anyway. The bastard was practically immortal.

  Stone checked for a pulse again—in the wrist, in the neck—nothing. He rummaged through Mr. ‘V’s desk drawers hoping to find a mirror so he could do the old ‘nose fogging the glass routine.’ It was pointless. The old man was still warm as toast, but his heart had left the concert early. Ladies and gentlemen, Fredrico Verigini has left the building.

  Stone checked the clock. 7:45. Official opening shifts started at 8:00. He didn’t have much time. Nobody’d seen them go into Mr. ‘V’s office. No one else was at work yet. Whoever found him would assume he’d just keeled over. Hey, shit happens. Stone buffed the top of the oak desk. The grime on the rag he used told him the desk hadn’t seen a decent cleaning in years. Ditto the file cabinets, chairs and door. He finished quickly by wiping down the door knob, the door jam, the glass, anything he thought he’d touched. Then, he put the filthy rag in Mr. ‘V’s hand. Maybe whoever found him would assume he’d had a burst of energy and decided to tidy up his office, blowing out an aorta in the process. Maybe he’d luck out. Maybe everything was fine. Maybe he was fucked.

  It was 7:55 when he’d finished up. Now he just needed to beat it to the parking lot, pile into his delivery van and act like it was a normal Devlin Stone day. Except for an aching neck, busted nose and a boss who’d dropped dead, it was.

  17

  Arder stared at Nip’s remains scattered on the filthy floor. His constant thrashing and squirming had made an awful mess. For a son-of-a-worm dope dealer, he sure had a lot of blood pumping around in that malignant little body. She scuffed at a scrap of flesh with the toe of her loafers, maybe a thumb or a bit of heel.

  At an early age Arder learned that life can be more like manure than the garden on which it is spread. As a redeemer she sometimes had to use despicable tactics as a stop-gap measure. Evil begets evil, unless it is confronted and snuffed out. She felt no pity, zero remorse. Nip was a wasteoid. His behavior was a drain on society, a gangrenous limb on an otherwise healthy body.

  She loo
ked around Nip’s crib, surveying the damage. It looked like a flesh bomb had gone off. Slashes from her talons had opened up gaping holes in the ratty sofa. The stuffing was scattered on the cushions and floor like polyester entrails. A rusted spring jutted out of the seat where Nip’s ass used to be. Blood was spattered on the ceiling. A one-legged chair remained stuck in the rotted drywall. Shards of a glass ashtray were embedded in Nip’s forehead. She’d hated ruining his Iron Maiden T-shirt, but the scummy little snipe had refused to take it off.

  Pills and capsules were scattered everywhere, like a freak pharmaceutical hail storm had hit the room, fresh on the heels of an F-6 tornado. She dipped her fingers into a pile of white powder and watched it run through her ghostly hand. She wondered what wicked and magical thrill all this garbage could bring. Was it more exciting than being a redeemer? She doubted it.

  The back of the house was void of any furniture. She checked the closets. Empty. The floors were heavy with decay and rot. Through the splintered holes she could see a dirt crawlspace underneath the house. It was littered with syringes, bits of steel wool, crumpled foil and tin cans. The place was a squat. Layers of wallpaper peeled away from the walls in thick, moldy layers. A headless doll baby was perched in a corner near the back door. Someone had given it a skull and crossbones tattoo with a black ink marker. It’s tiny toenails were painted flame red and there was a butcher knife wedged in its hands.

  Arder scoped out the rest of the house. Each room told the same story. There was no food in the fridge, no water in the toilet, no fuses in the breaker box and most importantly, no witnesses. She glided back to the front room. There were Nip bits everywhere. Malaki had said no violence was to be used to redeem Devlin Stone. He’d never mentioned some dirtbag named Nip. Arder had learned from experience, when the rules aren’t specifically spelled out, assume they don’t apply. She held her thumb and forefinger together and flicked them as if sparking a Zippo. The claw marks on the couch closed up, healing like a surgical incision. The front door creaked open and she floated out onto the porch. The door slammed shut, masking the carnage inside. And the cops? When they found Nip, if they found Nip, they’d assume it was just another drug deal gone sour. As for the neighbors, they couldn’t care less.

  18

  Stone was half way through his deliveries when he got the call on his company cell phone. It was Starla, Mr. ‘V’s girl Friday, the all-around great gal and office flunky. The old man heaped menial chores on her head as if they were hot coals. Stone and a couple of other drivers had a standing wager on how long it would take before Starla blew a head gasket and told Mr. ‘V’ to go piss up a rope. So far, she’d held out two months longer than their predicted date of implosion. Stone admired her stamina.

  Starla’s voice was weepy, a cross between Minnie Mouse and Patsy Cline. “He’s gone, Devlin. He’s really gone.”

  Stone played the idiot they all took him for. “What? Who’s gone?” He heard Starla suck snot and whimper. He laid it on thick. “Starla, what are you going on about? Are you o’kay?”

  “No, I’m not o’kay. Mr. Verigini is gone. I—oh my God, he, he’s gone.”

  Stone threw his voice into clueless mode. “Gone where?”

  “He . . . He’s . . . go . . . gone. He’s gone, Stone.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing to get bunged-up about, Star, he leaves all the time. Probably went to the bank or something.”

  There was a clattering noise, as if the phone had been dropped. Or thrown. “No, you idiot, not gone out, I mean gone gone.”

  “Huh?” Stone covered the phone to muffle his chuckle. “So is gone gone different that just plain ‘ol gone?”

  Starla’s voice was frantic now. “Don’t you get it, stupid? He’s dead!”

  Now Stone was ready to bust, clamping his hand tightly over the phone and cackling. When he’d composed himself, he lowered his voice to a shocked whisper. “Dead? That can’t be, I mean, I just saw him a couple days ago and he looked fine. If yer prankin’ me Star, I swear, I’ll get you for it.”

  There was some loud sniffling, another whimper and what sounded like someone blowing jell-o through a tuba. “Devlin, this is no prank. The man is dead and there’s nothing to joke about. Why won’t you believe me?”

  Stone decided to cut the crap, make sure he wasn’t being too flip. “Listen, Star, I’m sorry. I believe you, I really do. I wasn’t trying to be a shit, honest. Now, calm down and tell me what happened.”

  There was a long pause before Starla cleared her throat and spoke again. “It’s strange, you know? I mean, here one minute and gone the next. Mr. Verigini could be tough at times, but he didn’t deserve to go like that.”

  Now Stone was worried, wondering what like that meant. His mind reeled. Had he wiped everything in the office? Had he left something behind? Was there a hidden camera? Had they found him out? He couldn’t be sure. “What, Star? What didn’t he deserve?”

  “An early death. He wasn’t that old, at least not old enough to die like that.”

  There it was again, like that. Stone felt a monkey’s fist forming in his gut. Should he ask? Should he just ditch the van and run like hell? First he’d need to know exactly how much shit he was in. He took a deep cleansing breath and slowly let it out. “How’d he die, Star?”

  There was a long sigh on the phone and another sniffle. “They say it was a massive heart attack, that he probably never knew what hit him.

  Stone rubbed his sore knuckles.

  “Do you believe it?”

  Stone felt the pressure in his gut ease up. He couldn’t believe his luck, but he’d learned not to question fate.

  “Stone? Did you hear what I said? Are you still there?”

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, sure, it’s just, well, it’s a shock is what it is.” He rubbed his knuckles again. “Bad news always hits hard.”

  Stone heard talking in the background, someone besides Starla.

  “Well,” said Starla, “She just wanted me to let everyone know as soon as possible.”

  “She?”

  “Mr. Verigini’s sister. She’s here with me now. She’ll be taking over for a few days until things are settled.

  “I see.”

  “She would like to meet you, but she wants you to finish your deliveries first.”

  Stone thought for a minute. “Gee I’d love to, but it’ll be pretty late when I finish up. I’m sure she’s got more import things to tend to right now.”

  “Not at all. She’s willing to stay on as long as it takes. She’ll see you when you’re through for the day. You good with that?”

  “Yeah, sure, I mean, I guess so.”

  “Good. I’ll let her know. And Stone?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Please be careful. We don’t need any more accidents to deal with.”

  The phone clicked off.

  Stone bit his fingernails, milling it over. Mr. ‘V’ had found him out. That was bad. Mr. ‘V’ was gone. That was good. Mr. ‘V’ may have been the only one who knew about his sticky fingers. That was good. His sister was now in charge. That was an unknown. Mr. ‘V’ may have told Starla or called the cops before their little confrontation. That was bad. Stone decided he needed more. More info. More details. More time. And maybe, just maybe, one more solid score. Then, he could disappear like a ghost before anyone was the wiser. A ghost, that was it. He needed to become a ghost.

  19

  Stone finished deliveries early. Mr.’V’s sister was an unknown. He wanted to make a lasting first impression. He held back on skimming the pharma, too. Until he knew what he was dealing with he couldn’t take any more chances. He parked the van in his usual spot and did his best to paint on a convincing ‘sad face’. There were still a couple black-and-whites in the parking lot, their red and blue lights flashing, cops mulling around beside them with half-full cups of stale coffee from the Pump-n-Sip across the street. Stone scoped the rest of the lot—no crime scene tape, no K-9 or violent crime units—nothing worth busting a
sweat over. Just a pack of sad faces staring blankly at the meat wagon pulled up to the back door.

  The cops were wrapping it up, killing their coffees and tossing the empty cups into a nearby trash bin. Stone watched as they saddled-up and blasted out of the lot like they’d just been called to a Code 187. He waited a few minutes, then went inside VFFP through an open dock door. The warehouse packers and loaders were nowhere in sight. Everyone appeared to be in the back office. Stone could see their grieving profiles through the pebbled privacy windows, smothering each other with reassuring hugs and comforting words. Maybe he hadn’t been spotted through the frosted glass. Maybe he could just avoid the whole pathetic scene. Maybe he could just clock out and go home. He reached for the time clock.

  “Devlin? Wait up.”

  Shit.

  “Where ya going?”

  It was Starla. Stone slipped the timecard back in the rack and turned to face her. “Just checking out for the day.”

  Starla twirled a lock of her thick, black hair with her index finger. Stone was relieved. At least she wasn’t chewing on her hair like she usually did. Starla stretched a long strand over her lips. Stone watched it disappear in the corner of her mouth.

  Marvelous.

  “You weren’t leaving were you?”

  Stone watched her nip at her hair, eyes swollen and red, nose a bit runny. She’d probably been bawling all morning.

  “Vivian is waiting to see you.”

  “Vivian?”

  “Vivian Verigini. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.

  He hadn’t, just wished he could. “No I haven’t, but you never told me her name, till now.”

  Starla clapped a hand over her hair filled mouth. “Oh, God, I didn’t, did I? We’ll she’s been waiting for you.”

  “Sure thing”, said Stone, heading for Mr.’V’s office.

  “No! Not in there! Vivian didn’t feel comfortable . . . I mean . . . Well, we can’t very well have her setting up shop in there, now, can we?”