Ghosts of Manhattan

by George Mann

  Donovan looked from one body to the other, and shuddered. The reporters were right to be asking. This was clearly the Roman's handiwork. It was the third murder in as many weeks, and each victim had been a man of standing: a councilor, a surgeon, and now a senator. Each of them had also been found with identical Roman coins resting on their eyelids, a calling card, of sorts, from the mob boss responsible for their deaths. Donovan had had the coins analyzed, assuming them to be recent copies that he could somehow trace through the city's dealers, but had been startled to discover they were actual Roman coins, dating from the reign of Vespasian. They looked as fresh and new as if they had been pressed the day before, not nearly two thousand years in the past. He didn't know what to make of that, either.

  The Roman had seemingly come from nowhere, but had quickly risen to become one of the most powerful mob bosses in the city. His network of heavies, informants, and petty criminals was unparalleled, and he managed to inspire an unflinching dedication in his men. Donovan suspected it was a reign of terror, but so far he hadn't managed to get close enough to find out.

  No one had ever seen the Roman. That was the most bizarre factor in the whole matter. It was supposed he was Italian-thus the moniker-but the truth of the matter was that the police had been unable to establish any information regarding who he really was, or even where he could be found. Whoever he was, the only certainty was that he had somehow managed to bring the city to its knees. And it was Donovan's job to find a means to stop him.

  He took another draw on his cigarette and then stubbed it out on the doorframe, ignoring the appalled look this inspired from his sergeant. As if in response, he nonchalantly handed the butt to Mullins, who accepted it with a surprised expression, and then, seeing no obvious place to discard it, slipped it into the pocket of his overcoat without a word.

  Donovan crossed to the bed, screwing his face up in disgust. Landsworth was a mess. He couldn't let the papers get hold of the details, of that much he was certain. He might not be able to put right what the Roman had done, but he could prevent him gaining any satisfaction from it. He turned to Mullins. "Do you think he was already here, with the good-time girl, before the Roman's men ... interrupted things?"

  Mullins shook his head. "No. I think he was killed elsewhere and brought here later. The girl was killed here, though. There're signs of a struggle." He indicated for Donovan to follow him across the hotel suite. "Watch you don't step on the bloodstains, sir."

  Donovan swallowed. The girl had been viciously brutalized. He couldn't be sure, but she must only have been nineteen, twenty years old.

  Mullins lowered his voice, as if trying to mask his horror. "What a waste of life."

  Donovan didn't know whether he meant the fact that she'd been murdered, or the fact that such a young girl had been forced into whoring herself to unscrupulous politicians and gangsters. Either way, the sergeant was right.

  Donovan glanced around. An overturned table, a smashed lamp, a rug all ruffled up at one end. Yes, there'd been a struggle here. She'd been a spirited girl. "She probably thought she had a good paying gig here, at this hotel, before all this." He shook his head and glanced at the uniformed officer who was still lurking in the doorway. "Cover her up," he said, with a resigned gesture. He wondered what they'd made her do before they killed her. It didn't bear thinking about.

  "Is there anything here, Mullins, that might give us any clues? Anything different about this one? Different from the others?"

  Mullins shook his head but remained silent. Just like Landsworth's corpse, splayed out on the bed, unable to tell Donovan what the hell he should say to the Commissioner when he got back to the station. Unable, too, to bring him any closer to understanding who the Roman was, or how on earth he was going to set about bringing him to justice for his crimes.

  he man looked out, surveying the scene across the city. Electric lights glowed like pinpricks in the darkness, causing apartment blocks to take on the appearance of jewel-encrusted towers. Police dirigibles drifted lazily overhead, their searchlights punctuating the gloaming with long, brilliant columns of white. Above them, a full moon hung low over the city like the smoldering tip of a cigarette, shrouded in wispy clouds.

  He'd heard it said that New York was a city that never slept, but his own experience told him that wasn't entirely true; Manhattan spent its days in a state of bleary-eyed lethargy, only truly coming alive after nightfall. That was the city that most people didn't see, the city full of urgency and emotion and life, the city he had grown to know and to need, and that-more than ever-needed someone like him in return. The police operated with one hand tied constantly behind their backs. They could never do what was necessary, bound as they were by law and convention. Yet the city was falling to crime and corruption, the government and politicians giving way to an endless series of crime lords. It was a war, and it called for brutal measures. The wound needed to be cauterized before the festering grew worse.

  The man the newspapers were calling "the Ghost" shifted slightly, reaching inside his long coat to produce a packet of cigarettes. He popped the lid and extracted one of the thin white sticks. With his gloved fingers he pulled the tab on the end of it and watched it flare, briefly under-lighting his face, before bringing the cigarette to his lips and taking a long, deep draw. The nicotine flooded his lungs, giving him a light-headed rush. He left the cigarette drooping from his bottom lip as he once again surveyed the city streets below.

  From his vantage point atop the roof terrace on Fifth Avenueabove his city apartment-the Ghost watched the comings and goings of the people down below. Coal-powered cars hissed along the road, whilst lonely pedestrians drifted along the sidewalks, solitary specters in the wan light thrown down from the surrounding buildings. If it hadn't been for-

  He stopped, suddenly, snapping his head to the right. He'd caught a sound, carried to him on the stiff breeze that rumpled the tails of his long coat. The sound of a man calling out in pain, from somewhere far below. Leaving his position at the front of the building, he rushed over to the other side of the terrace. He scanned the streets below. Nothing.

  Reaching up, the Ghost felt under the brim of his hat until his fingers located the rim of his goggles. He tugged them down over his eyes, turning the lenses slowly away from the bridge of his nose. Everything took on a red sheen. Targeting circles floated, disembodied, before his vision. He cranked the lenses once again, tiny cogs whirring inside the device, and the view suddenly magnified, becoming sharp and bright. He could see the sidewalk five stories below as if he were only a few feet away.

  The sound came to him again, a stifled cry. The Ghost tracked along the sidewalk toward where he thought it had originated. There, by the mouth of an alleyway, was a large armored car, thick iron plates cladding its sides to form a tank-like vehicle, the windshield just a slit in the otherwise impenetrable metal sheeting. The engine was running, and the exhaust chimney was belching oily black smoke as it burned coal at a furious rate. Behind this, in the alleyway itself, he sensed movement. He decided to investigate.

  The Ghost flicked a switch on the side of his goggles and the lenses snapped back into place, returning his vision to normal. He glanced along the edge of the building, looking for the quickest route down to street level. Just a few feet away, a steel fire-escape ladder was fixed to the outside of the building. Shrugging to loosen his shoulders, the Ghost pulled himself up onto the stone lip of the building, ran sure-footed but carefully along the top of it, and dropped easily onto the metal platform below. His heavy boots rang out into the quiet night. Then, gripping the railings with his gloved fists, he used his weight to slide down from platform to platform, hitting the sidewalk a matter of moments later.

  The alleyway was only a hundred or so yards away. At street level, the sound of the car engine was a constant background growl. He'd use that to his advantage, muffling his footsteps as he crept closer to the mouth of the alleyway. He liked having the element of surprise on his side; it usually meant
he avoided getting shot.

  The Ghost drew opposite the parked vehicle, trying to ascertain whether there was anybody inside. He guessed the driver would be waiting behind the wheel, keeping the engine running, ready for the others to make their getaway when they were done.

  Whatever was going down, he knew it involved the mob. Only the Roman's men could afford an armored car like the one across the street from him, and only the Roman's men would ever have a use for it. The thought rankled him. Dealing with the Roman's lackeys was like dealing with the symptoms of an infection. Sooner or later, he'd need to root out the cause of the infection itself. For now, though, it sounded like someone needed his help.

  The Ghost crossed silently toward the car, as graceful as a cat sneaking up on a bird. Careful to avoid any of the viewing slots that had been cut into the armor plating, he peered over the roof of the vehicle at the scene unfolding on the other side.

  A middle-aged man in a shopkeeper's apron was on the ground. He twitched unconsciously as two men in black suits carried on with their indiscriminate assault, kicking him viciously in the face, chest, and stomach. Their victim had long since lost the will to defend himself and now his arms and legs were splayed out on the damp flagstones as he silently accepted each blow. The two men in black suits were laughing with each other as they went about their business. It was clear to the Ghost almost immediately what was happening. He'd heard from others that the Roman had started a protection racket, and either this man had bravely refused to pay up, or else he couldn't afford to meet his payment.

  Whatever the case, he didn't deserve the kind of treatment he was receiving at the hands of the two goons.

  He stood back from the car, flexing his gloved fingers and stretching his neck muscles. He could feel the tension in his shoulders as he prepared himself for a fight. In and out. He didn't plan to linger. He'd take down the two stooges and then be gone with the unconscious shopkeeper before the driver had chance even to consider pulling a pistol.

  He glanced at the weapon that was folded away beneath his right arm. The long brass barrel gleamed in the moonlight. For a moment he considered shooting the two men from a distance, safe behind the cover of the car. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shook his head. He couldn't kill in cold blood. He had to let them shoot first. That was his code, the thing that separated him from them. If they shot first, they died. For now, his fists would have to do the talking.

  The Ghost glanced around him to make sure there was no one else nearby. Then, without further ado, he heaved himself up onto the roof of the car, his black trench coat billowing around him in a sudden gust. Almost simultaneously, the two mobsters turned to look at the interloper. Their kicking ceased.

  "Hey, Mickey, it's that freak who shot up the guys at the bank." This from the goon on the left. The man's hand went inside his coat, searching for a pistol. "Let's plug him."

  The other man, wide-eyed, looked less convinced by this course of action and remained standing, rooted to the spot, staring up at the imposing figure of the vigilante atop the armored car.

  "Mickey!" The stooge's pistol barked loudly as he roared at his companion, just as the Ghost dived forward, swinging his arm out to catch the gunman beneath the chin. The man went down, heavily, his weapon skittering away across the sidewalk. He groaned and rolled to the side, clutching at his throat. The Ghost didn't have time to worry about what the gunman was going to do next, however, as the report of the gun had somehow stirred the other man-Mickey-back to life. He swung at the Ghost, his fist glancing painfully off the vigilante's jaw as he turned quickly to face his new opponent. A lesser man would have gone down from such a blow, but the Ghost was ready for it and simply shook his head, steadying himself for the next attack.

  Mickey was clearly a boxer. The Ghost could tell from the way he handled himself, from his stance and the power and accuracy of his blows. But the Ghost had boxed during his army years and knew what was coming. A swift jab with the left, a hook with the right, and the mobster was reeling. The Ghost brought him down with a sweeping kick that took his legs out from under him, sending him crashing into the garbage bins heaped in the alleyway beside the store.

  The Ghost glanced back at the first goon, the gunman, but he was still on his knees, clutching at his throat and gasping for breath. The shopkeeper was still out cold, and blood was pooling around his head from a number of nasty-looking wounds. His nose was clearly broken, smeared halfway across his face, and a cursory glance suggested his cheekbone had been cracked, as his face was swollen and sagging. The Ghost knew that there would be internal injuries too; the man would be lucky to pull through after the beating the Roman's men had given him.

  From behind him, the Ghost heard the sound of the car door creaking open. The driver. He hadn't been quick enough. He swept round, bringing his arms up in defense but expecting the impact of a bullet at any second. But the sight that greeted him was not at all what he was expecting.

  If there was a driver, he was still seated in the front of the armored car, and his door remained closed. Rather, the two doors at the rear of the vehicle had sprung open, and two enormous figures had emerged. They were huge, both at least seven feet tall, and dressed in long overcoats and trilby hats. Their faces were lost in shadow. They walked with a shambling gait that did not look entirely natural.

  The Ghost stepped back, swinging his right arm in a circle so that the long barrel of his flechette gun ratcheted up into place along his forearm. His breath steamed before his face in the cold night air. The two men were slowly shambling toward him, menacingly, but so far their arms remained limp at their sides. They showed no sign of bearing any weapons.

  The Ghost wasn't about to let himself get pinned in the alleyway by these giants, especially as the two goons were stirring. The odds were suddenly not in his favor. He decided his best recourse was to take them by surprise: charge them and try to smash his way through to the street beyond. At least then he'd be out in the open and he'd have more chance of getting away if he needed to bolt. But then there was the shopkeeper ...

  He had to act. He'd fight the men, but he needed to change the odds. Steeling himself, he charged, aiming squarely for the space between the two giants, hoping to knock them aside as he rushed past. He'd then fling himself over the armored car and duck for cover while he worked out his next move.

  The Ghost dipped his head and presented his shoulders to the two men. Too late he saw them close ranks, and he was unable to stop his forward momentum. He crashed into the mobsters at full speed, still hopeful that his weight would carry him between them. But instead he rebounded painfully, his head and shoulders smarting as if he had charged into a solid wall. He fell to the ground, shaking his head groggily, his nostrils filled with the scent of damp earth.

  Regaining his senses just in time, he rolled to the left as a powerful fist came slamming down, narrowly missing his head. He hit the alley wall and sprang to his feet, using the brickwork to steady himself. Who were these men? He'd barely had time to ask himself the question when another fist came flying at him, and he had to duck to one side to avoid its crushing impact. It crashed into the wall where he'd been standing with enough force to shatter all of the bones in its owner's hand, but the man seemed hardly to notice, simply wheeling around in an ungainly fashion to take another swing at the vigilante. He didn't even grunt with the pain or the exertion.

  The Ghost kicked out, catching one of the giants in the midriff. The mobster didn't react, didn't even acknowledge the blow, whilst the Ghost came away with a sharp pain in his leg, as if his booted foot had just encountered solid iron. He could hear one of the goons laughing in the background somewhere. "Hey, Mickey, looks like the Roman was right about these things, eh?"

  Trapped against the wall, the two giants closing in on him, the Ghost decided that the only thing he could do was shoot his way out. He flicked his right wrist and the pneumatic trigger for the flechette gun slid into his palm. He squeezed, showering first one of the lumbering fi
gures, then the other, in a hail of tiny steel blades. He heard the flechettes strike home, embedding themselves in the giants' torsos with a rapid series of dull thuds. But again, his efforts appeared to have no effect on the men, and they continued their assault regardless. He had no idea what the things were, but it was becoming clear to him that they weren't human. There was no way a human being could have withstood a spray of steel blades like that and carried on walking.

  Unsure what else he could do, the Ghost tried to duck away again, but one of the giants' fists struck home, powering deep into his stomach. He doubled over, clutching at his belly, unable to stop himself from slumping to the ground. All of the wind had been driven out of his lungs by the impact of the blow. Gasping, he glanced up, realizing with horror that, beneath their hats, these giants-these monsters-had no faces.

  The creature loomed over him. The Ghost thrashed out in desperation, clawing at its throat. His fingers sank into something soft and pliable and he tore at it, gouging a handful of the stuff in an effort to stop the giant in its tracks. With dismay he realized the monster was entirely unaffected by the action. He glanced down at his hand. His fist was filled with soft moss and crumbling earth. He was filled with a sudden sense of creeping terror. The things were formed from clods of clay; golems in the shape of men, somehow animated to create deadly foot soldiers, and dressed in coats and hats for disguise.

  He raised his arm in defense as the golem reared up again, ready to strike another blow, and he saw that he'd exposed a strut of gleaming brass where its throat should have been, a metal skeleton buried deep beneath its earthy flesh.

  He knew then it was over. There was nothing he could do to stop these things. None of his weapons would work. He could see no way out. He waited for the killing blow, baubles of light dancing before his eyes as he tried to suck oxygen back into his lungs.