Shade City

by Domino Finn

  "You were sly when you threw me off your trail. You just needed a little more time to bind with Soren and you got it. But you made a mistake." Alexander listened to my words intently. My smile was difficult to contain. "Did you think introducing me to your enemy was a smart move, Ambrose?" The man still did not register recognition. It looked as though I had finally outmaneuvered him. "We're taking this train into Hollywood. Visiting the headquarters of Red Hat Events. Your good friend Marquis is waiting for you there."

  A look of absolute horror consumed the face of Alexander McAllister, and the face of Alexander Ambrose behind it. I had him. And he knew it.

  "He wanted me to bring him Soren," I explained. "I was never going to do that. The innocent deserve a chance. But you?"

  "You would cooperate with a demon to bring justice to a sinner? You can't do this!"

  "I can," I said coldly. "You completed your service to him. You paid him off and hoped he'd forget about you. But then you embezzled the riches back through your gangster buddies over the course of Fingal's fifteen-year prison sentence."

  "Bah! The man promised me eternal life. What he wanted was eternal servitude. I gave him that life. I sacrificed my future by handing over all of my assets. He still would have taken more."

  I scoffed. "Do you hear yourself? You've stolen everything from the McAllisters yet you object to what Marquis did? Even a robber doesn't like getting robbed."

  "I improve the lives of these men. They are weak without me. I collect their riches. I build their legacies. Not Marquis. He is a leech. I was supposed to live for him, but I couldn't do that." My expression was stone against his words. He became frustrated. "I am a self-made man. I have provided for myself and lost it all three times over. You talk about morality. Then see me for what I am. A man who was dragged down by the politics of the Southern Pacific Railroad. A man who looked for a way out for his daughter. A man who was tricked into servitude in the afterlife. No, Mr. Butcher. I won't submit to your outlook. I won't be trodden on. I will not be a slave any longer."

  I laughed as a wash of underground air blew over me. It had a chill to it that made this place feel hollow. When the train approached, you could feel it before you heard it.

  Ambrose continued pleading. "You assume moral superiority yet turn to a shade worse than I. How does helping him aid the greater good? You are just giving him another soldier to march for him in the coming years."

  "Don't you see the irony?" I asked with scorn. "You talk of servitude—don't you see that you were always free?" The man gaped at me hesitantly. In the distance, the grating of the train against the metal tracks grew louder. I could see a faint light building in the tunnel. "You had a life, Ambrose. You lived it. You found success with the railroad. You had a wonderful daughter. For whatever reason, you decided to end it all."

  "Begin it," he corrected, but the confidence in his voice was gone.

  "You're dead, Alexander. You no longer belong here. You're supposed to move on to whatever's next. But you cling to this life. To this servitude. Can't you see that Marquis can only enforce his will on you if you are in his world? If you opened your eyes, if you made peace with your circumstances, you could leave all this behind. The McAllisters, Soren, Red Hat—they would all be of no more consequence to you. You're enslaving yourself."

  The man stared with indignation for several moments. He did not want to accept the elegance of the solution. Alexander Ambrose was not like most people. He was callous to the point of indifference. He cared for himself. Others, even his own daughter, were either tools or burdens. It was clear he was a psychopath, with no thought for the pain his actions had wrought.

  It didn't matter. Fear could make a man appear repentant. That was why we were here. That was why Marquis would be left to deal with him.

  "You're not saving anyone," spoke Ambrose, finally. "Even Marquis is powerless here. Alexander McAllister is a dying man. Soren will inherit his riches no matter your actions."

  I shook my head slowly. I was done with his lies. "You forget that I spoke to the hospital staff, Ambrose. Your lawyer. You're not terminal."

  The man's eyes glazed over and he set his jaw. "Oh yes, Mr. Butcher, I am."

  Alexander McAllister thrashed his hands hastily against the wheels of his chair. He jolted backwards. I lunged ahead to stop him, but it was too late. The chair flew off the platform and into the path of the oncoming train. In a flash, the cavernous space was filled with a rocket of metal blazing by, trying desperately to stop.

  * * *

  I got out of there promptly. I glided along 5th Street. Blended in with the crowd. Took a right down Spring and a left on 6th. Anything to make sure I wasn't seen or followed. I wondered about the cameras in the station. Were there any? Was I complicit in what had happened? Would running make me look guilty? I decided any possible video evidence could only exonerate me. I didn't push the man.

  The handcuffs were a problem. It wouldn't look like a straightforward suicide to the police. Perhaps I should call 911. I could explain that I was worried that he was suicidal. That the handcuffs were supposed to be for his protection.

  Instead, I crossed Main Street near the old center of Downtown. A small crowd congregated around a split in the sidewalk. Steps led down just below street level and exposed a couple of hidden storefronts. I found myself heading to one of these, into a bar called the Association. Now was as good a time to drink as any. Better, even.

  Opening the large door with the lion's head knocker, I was greeted with music and a darkness that added to the underground feeling. But the bar inside was inviting. Warm. The red carpet and leather chairs, the chic crowd, dressed nicely but not overly so—it was a good scene. A good place to blend in.

  I ordered a Flor de Caña and coke, no fruit. The distinctive spiced rum paired well with cola and was one of the many reasons I liked this bar. I took my drink and stepped up to the seating level, weaving around the ottomans and patrons until I found an open corner under a tilted mirror along the wall. It wasn't empty here—I had to squeeze in between two guys—but I fit in. I tried to relax as I listened to the blend of indie music and dance beats.

  When the waitress came by, I ordered another. I was finished with my first by the time she brought it. By then, I still hadn't managed to settle down. I kept wondering if Alexander McAllister was dead because of me. I had believed what I said about him having a chance for a normal life. If I hadn't trapped Ambrose in his body, if I hadn't made that play, then maybe he would have recovered.

  I pulled out my phone and pocket watch. With the chain dangling from my hands and the phone in my palm, I pretended I was having a conversation. Nobody could hear me anyway; the music clouded most of my words. But, to the people next to me, I looked normal.

  "What the fuck? He killed McAllister."

  With the handcuffs in place, it was the only way he could free himself. At least we know that iron works.

  "That doesn't make me feel better."

  It's okay. We didn't see that coming.

  "I should have, though. He did the same thing with Sal, didn't he? People are just pawns to him. When I outplay him, he gleefully wipes the piece off the board and moves to another. How am I supposed to save Soren like that?" I sucked at my highball in my left hand. "Shit. He must really be terrified of Marquis."

  I'm afraid to imagine what that means.

  "It means I'm fucked from both ends."

  That's not true. We know to look for Soren.

  "Ambrose told me that Soren would be hard to find. Bedros is probably keeping him prisoner at a hidden location somewhere."

  Bedros doesn't need to hold Soren. My father has already taken him. If the bond was already established, and with McAllister dead, my father should have full control now. Permanent.

  I swigged some more rum. "So not only do I need to find him, I need to expel him. Except that isn't so easy. I felt him. His second shadow. Like Marquis, he's different."

  Different, how? A shade is a shade.r />
  "That's not true. You told me yourself that the Dead Side has disparate effects on spirits. There are no rules. Some people can do things. Some fall into separate categories. It's like the shades that infect their hosts and make them sick. The ones in the hospitals. I've tried exsufflating them before. It doesn't work. There are all kinds of haunts out there, and we've only been dealing with a small subset of them."

  So what are you saying?

  "There's no way the sage will work on Ambrose. Even if he's unconscious. He can hop around too freely. His bond is too strong. I need another way to stop him."

  We stopped talking as a popular song came on and people started singing the chorus. Some girls farther down the booth seat were laughing and one of them almost fell. It was funny. Such a small thing, a meaningless fumble, but it was great. I needed the distraction.

  That's why you think you need Marquis. You don't think you can confront my father on your own.

  I grumbled when she vocalized it. It was an admission of weakness. But what did I care anymore? "Something like that. And it was working. Marquis remained cordial as long as I could be useful to him. But I failed to deliver."

  You need to smooth things over with him. He knows where you live.

  I knew that already. I knew I needed to tell him something. I knew I was screwed. Everything used to be so much simpler when I was anonymous. I sighed and lowered my phone so I could see the screen. "Soren's no longer interested in Red Hat," I texted.

  It took a minute for him to get back to me. It felt like twenty. "Our arrangement does not allow for such developments."

  I shook my head and drank some more and waved at the waitress for another. There was no point texting back. I didn't bother. Marquis wasn't the type of man who accepted dismissal. I slammed my empty glass on the cocktail table hard enough to skip some ice out of it and waited for my next.

  A pair of guys sitting on my right cleared out, leaving a gaggle of girls at my side. They slid along the seat to fill out the empty space. The leftmost one bumped into me and must have seen my depressed face. "Oh my God. I'm sorry. Are you okay?"

  "No worries," I quickly responded. I tried to lighten my thoughts and look as if I wasn't hiding from an attempted murder arrest. The girl next to me was short. Mexican. Cute, with long hair. A bit on the thick side, but she had a well-shaped body which she accentuated by wearing a tight blouse that pushed her cleavage up. It was practically in my face. I must have stared too long. "I'm okay now," I said, trying to play it off.

  She looked at me with a single eyebrow raised. "Get a good look?"

  "Not really," I answered. "Your clothes are in the way."

  She smirked almost indecipherably. She didn't know what to make of me yet.

  I decided to press my luck. "You shove me again, though. See what happens."

  "Oh is that right? Maybe you don't know who I am." She puffed her chest out like she wanted to start a scrap. She was being playful but it was damn sexy. "I grew up in the hood."

  "Oh yeah? What hood is that—the OC?"

  She blinked at me in total shock. "Irvine," she said. "How'd you know?"

  I laughed audibly despite my best efforts and put a hand to my forehead. "What the hell are you doing all the way in Downtown LA?" I shook my head. "It's almost not even worth it."

  She immediately frowned. "What's not worth it?"

  I hadn't meant to make the comment out loud. Or not so loud, anyway.

  Guys and girls from all the surrounding neighborhoods, even counties, push into the heart of Los Angeles on the weekends to party with everybody else. It has its good points. There are lots of bars and lounges with steady business and a diverse clientele.

  But it made for a shitty surprise, sometimes. What use was it flirting with a girl who lived over an hour away? I didn't even have my car with me. Nothing was going to happen tonight.

  "Nothing," I said, trying not to be a complete dick. "It's just, I live in the Valley and you live in Irvine. Are you going all the way back there tonight?"

  "Of course. We do it all the time."

  I winced. "Listen, you're cute but..."

  "It's not worth talking to me?"

  She stared at me a moment, probably expecting a witty reply on my part. I had nothing. She slapped an open hand against my shoulder just hard enough to show that she wasn't playing around anymore. "Asshole!"

  I hadn't gotten my next drink yet but I had worn out my welcome. The girl was whispering to her friends and I was starting to get some angry glares. On my way out, I gave some cash to the waitress and grabbed my last cocktail from her tray. I downed half of it before I realized it was a Jack and coke. It wasn't my drink. And I hated whiskey. I returned the unfinished highball and apologized, then retreated from the lounge.

  Hiding wasn't as fun as I'd thought it would be.

  Walking back on the streets of LA, I thought about the girl's cleavage once more and shook my head. If only she lived close-by. I could have used a safe place to crash for the night. But Irvine? She was crazy. The girl was wrong when she'd said that I meant it wasn't worth talking to her. Talking was fine. It was even fun if I was up to the game. No. I had learned my lesson about girls from the OC. It wasn't even worth fucking them.

  * * *

  For a long time the Metro in LA closed at midnight. I've never understood why that was. Los Angeles was built on the entertainment industry. It caters to a lot of single people with disposable income. That's a great recipe for drinking. Also DUIs. You would think it in a city's best interests to get its drinkers home safely.

  Back in Miami, the bars stay open all night, 4 a.m., 5 a.m.—alcohol is still served. I've always thought it strange that a mega-city like Los Angeles turns off the taps at two. With that in mind, closing the subway early was even more ridiculous. Surely it could've matched last call?

  Well, sometime over a year ago, someone had finally gotten some sense and extended the operating hours on Friday and Saturday night. Whoever that political figure was, I thanked them silently, because I would have missed my train if it wasn't for them.

  I walked out of my way to the 7th Street Station to avoid returning to Pershing Square. The train would have to roll through it, though. Because of the delays, the car was packed. I settled for standing near the doors and thought about what Ambrose had said. He was right. You can't stop the train, only delay it. Before the Pershing Square station, train traffic was being redirected to a single track, slowing our entrance. I realized it would have been faster if I had walked to the Metro station that was after the suicide.

  Through the soiled windows, all the passengers stared at the platform filled with emergency officials. Transportation workers, police, security guards, and paramedics all hustled around the scene like ants. All with a focused job to perform. All contributing to the greater whole. That's society for you, and whether insects or people, this shared vision of order is what makes it work. I looked away with disgust and wondered how many people would have faith in humanity if they knew about the dead that refused to let us be.

  Once we were through the terminal, we picked up the pace. Over time, the train emptied. The backup began to unclog itself and outward appearances returned to normal. Except for the gangbanger lurking around trying to cause trouble. He was a kid with a ragged skateboard who kept punching walls and seats for no reason. It was as if he wanted to unsettle the passengers. To pick a fight. He was pretty close to me and I was almost in the right mood to accommodate him.

  Instead, a black dude who had been sitting peacefully stood up and punched the kid. Just like that. Out of nowhere. I was surprised the boy didn't go down. Then they both started waving their arms and yelling and getting in each other's faces. Neither would back down. Some of the passengers pushed to the ends of the car and watched with fear. I wasn't as careful.

  The kid started to take a pounding. He was in over his head and he knew it. He used the skateboard to compensate, swinging it around in an arc. Before I grasped the danger,
it clipped me on the side of the head. I stumbled back against the train doors, at first attempting to get out of the way, and then realizing I was too late.

  My head was full of stars. I applied pressure to dull the bleary pain. Then I looked at the asshole who started this. I wasn't concerned with leaving it a fair fight anymore.

  After another wild swing, I lunged at the kid and socked the back of his head. Again. The black guy took the skateboard and backed away. To the other set of doors. I kept punching. Not noticing as the train stopped. The doors opened. Passengers left the car. Shuffling by me in a dizzying scurry. I looked to my feet and saw the kid lying on the floor. Unconscious. He hadn't even seen what hit him.

  The doors didn't close as they were supposed to. The train wasn't going anywhere. I glanced outside and saw a fat security guard approaching me in a stilted walk. The slightly hurried pace was only for appearances, but the older man couldn't muster much. All he saw was this kid on the floor and my hand in a fist.

  I faltered back a step.

  "What happened?" demanded the transit security guard. Somehow, he still sounded bored, like I was interrupting his coffee.

  I looked around for the black guy with the skateboard, but he was gone.

  "This banger was causing trouble." I waved my arm to some of the onlookers. "Ask them."

  Before he got the chance, a strange nausea overtook me. I was still a little dizzy but my head wasn't the problem. I didn't feel right. Without warning, a stream of vomit erupted from my mouth. It was messy. It wasn't that much but it managed to get on my shoes, the kid, the train, and the station brick as I ran outside the car.

  I steadied myself against a wide pillar. The world continued to move.

  "Step aside," I heard from behind the crowd. I noticed a cell phone recording me. As the audience shifted, a police officer cut through.

  "Motherfucker."

  * * *

  I'd never gone to jail before. Mind you, I probably should have a handful of times for offenses much worse. But no. I was always clear. And then this stupid kid got on my train that happened to have a cop walking by, and here I was.