Conquer (The John Conquer Series Book 1)

by Edward M. Erdelac

  The shit worked.

  Magic was a tricky business. Generally it was only effective along cultural lines. That was why you usually didn’t see white zombies, unless they had been initiated in the Vodoun traditions and truly believed. Likewise, no two-headed Hoodoo doctor who hadn’t heard of sak yant would get any use out of magic tattoos, and a Thai ruesee would only shake his head and laugh at a mojo hand.

  Real power could come from a blending of traditions, a crossing of those lines. Yet the paradox lay in that the more knowledge you accrued, the more you opened yourself up to a wider variety of spiritual attacks. If you knew something worked, you’d better learn the counter, because it could be used on you. That was why really hardcore magic fiends tended to go nuts, seeing hexes and tricks in every crack in the sidewalk.

  In Conquer’s case, he hadn’t thought to ward his door with black cat gall and screech owl blood against a Hand of Glory because who in the hell carried one around these days? He’d figured a simple dressing with Shut-Out oil would close his pad to the average burglar.

  Obviously this was no run of the mill burglar.

  Conquer’s mind raced behind his frozen face as the dude in the topcoat kicked the door shut and came towards him. If the finger lights were snuffed, he’d be able to move again, he knew, but if he remembered right, from what he’d read, not even a hurricane could blow them out.

  The intruder set the weird candelabra on the coffee table, reached out, and took Conquer’s pistol, hefting it.

  “Say, that’s a whole lotta gun, Jim,” the man quipped, and lay it on the table beside the Hand. He stowed his .38 in a holster on his belt.

  Conquer wondered if the door slamming open had awakened Maceo. Straining to see into the dim office with his peripherals, he didn’t detect any movement from the chair. Of course, Maceo would be under the effect of the Hand too.

  “Now where’s your master, huh?”

  Conquer narrowed his eyes. Master? He tried to get a smart-assed reply through his teeth, but couldn’t spur his vocal chords to life, and only managed to push a rasp of air out. He found that he had to concentrate on his breathing, and was thankful his heart and his sphincter hadn’t given out.

  The intruder’s eyes went over Conquer’s shoulder and he put a finger to his lips and slipped past into the office.

  Conquer fought to turn his head. No good. He blew through his lips as hard as he could, but Maceo didn’t wake up. His eyes practically bulging, tears streaming involuntarily down his cheeks as he tried to see, Conquer watched the man creep over to stand above Maceo. He took something out of his coat, something long and pointed, raised it above his head, and stabbed down once. The sound was like a shovel in a wet grave mound.

  Maceo shrieked; a long, loud sound of agony that slowly dwindled and died.

  Conquer began to sweat. Was this gonna be how he bought it? A tour in ‘Nam, Đắk Sơn, dozens of scrapes in The Bronx and Harlem, and now some nutcase was gonna slit his throat like a sleepy pig in a pen?

  The killer moved around the office. What was he doing? Who was he? Conquer’s mind went to King Solomon Keyes, the secret power behind the The Council, Harlem’s criminal board of directors ostensibly led by Nicky Barnes and the Luccheses. Conquer had had a run in with Barnes in Thailand years ago, and pissed off King Solomon a couple times. Keyes was known to employ magic in his dealings. Maybe the man had finally sent somebody for him.

  The shades on his office windows snapped up the rollers one at a time, until the room behind him was flooded with early morning light and the sun seeped across the floor in front of him.

  Conquer heard the distinct sizzling of meat on the skillet. Was the lunatic helping himself to the ham in the fridge, cooking breakfast before he worked Conquer over? He hadn’t heard the icebox open, or the huff of the stove turning on. The smell filled his nostrils. He could hear the assassin moving around in his office again, rummaging.

  Then the man returned to his field of vision. He had a glass of milk and Conquer’s wallet from his coat. Conquer felt a surge of hope. Conquer’s coat pockets were treated with Essence of Bow-Down. He’d have the motherfucker if he could just get a single word out.

  The dude flipped open the wallet, inspecting Conquer’s ID.

  “John Conquer. Like on the sign. Private investigator, huh?”

  What game was this spade playing? Maybe he wasn’t from King Solomon after all. Conquer got an out of town vibe off the man. That coat was too light for this time of year in New York.

  The killer slung Conquer’s wallet on the green sofa and went over to the Hand of Glory, picking it up and setting the glass of milk down.

  “Alright, John Conquer,” he said, taking out his pistol again and pointing it lazily in Conquer’s direction. “You and I are gonna rap a little. Don’t move, or I’ll put a hot one in your belly, you dig?”

  He overturned the Hand of Glory, and staunched the lit fingers in the glass of milk.

  Conquer felt his muscles loosen, prickling. He cleared his throat, felt his jaw pop.

  “Put the gun down, motherfucker,” he said.

  The killer’s eyes widened, but he instantly set the .38 on the table.

  “Hands up!” Conquer snarled, stalking over. “Don’t move.”

  The killer obeyed, sticking up all three.

  Conquer took his gun and jammed the dude’s .38 in his own waistband, then went to his office.

  It was filled with smoke and the smell of burnt pork.

  Only it wasn’t coming from the kitchen. The stove wasn’t even on.

  Maceo’s body was pinned to the chair by the broken end of a sharpened broom handle. More, he was burned to a blackened skeleton, his charred, eyeless head thrown back, mouth agape, bony hands curled around the three foot stick of wood in his chest.

  The chair was ruined. Yet Maceo’s hospital threads were white and untouched by fire or blood. His chain with his dog tags was intact too. Conquer slipped them over the crisped skull, clinked them once, and slid them into his pocket.

  He waved away the heavy smell, opened one of the windows to let it out, and went back into the foyer, pausing to dump the egg and ham sandwich in the trash. His appetite was as dead as Maceo.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Conquer demanded, when he came back to the man standing in his waiting room.

  “I came here to destroy that vampire,” the man said rapidly and without pause, totally under the spell of the Essence of Bow-Down.

  Vampire!

  Well, Conquer knew about vampires. When he had run with the 167th Street Black Enchanters in the Bronx, they had rumbled with a gang of the creepy motherfuckers feeding on heroin addicts. White vampires went up like flash powder in the sun. The ones with melanin took a little longer. They had to be staked first before they could get to shade.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Dr. Gordon Thomas,” said the man. “I’m a pathologist with the L.A. County Coroner’s office.”

  “You got anything in your pockets? Anything magical?”

  He looked confused.

  “Holy water. Garlic.”

  Conquer reached into Thomas’ inner coat pocket and took out the badge and ID he’d seen through the peephole. Deputy Coroner, Los Angeles County. He checked out.

  “Alright, Doc,” said Conquer, taking out the .38 and dropping it on the table. “Easy. Put your hands down. You can move.”

  Thomas put his hands down. All three of them.

  “You should’ve told me what you wanted right off,” Conquer said, taking out his cigarettes. He offered one, and Thomas took it.

  “These things, sometimes they have somebody to help them during the day,” Thomas said, lighting up.

  “I know,” said Conquer. “What’re you doing out here on the East Coast, besides hunting vampires?”

  “You believe me?”

  “The stink in my office don’t lie.”

  Thomas looked at him oddly, but shrugged.

  “I was attend
ing a forensic pathology conference. Some mandatory training thing. I met this Maceo Peace cat there, recognized the signs, followed him home. Figured I’d take care of him there, but before I could move, he left. I tailed him, thought he was going to work. But he came here. How come?”

  Conquer poured himself a Black Label and downed it, eyeing the charred corpse in his office.

  “I knew him at NYU. Guess he thought I could help him. I don’t think he knew what he was. All he thought he wanted was a sandwich.”

  “Sorry,” said Thomas. “That means he’s new.”

  “Yeah,” Conquer said, pouring himself another. “So are there a lot of vampires running around L.A.?”

  “A few less, since I got wise to them,” Thomas said with a shrug. “I can’t help but answer everything you say. Why? What are you doing to me?”

  “Essence of Bow-Down,” said Conquer. “I dress my coat pockets with it. It’s a Hoodoo thing. We got a lot of sticky fingered motherfuckers in this city. Easier to tell a pickpocket to drop a wallet than chase after him.”

  “Hoodoo,” said Thomas, shaking his head. “Crazy.”

  “Say where’d you ever get a hold of that fuckin’ thing anyway?” Conquer said, indicating the Hand of Glory with a grimace.

  “A witch in Burbank sold me on it. Doesn’t work on vampires, but stops everybody else cold.”

  “No shit.”

  “What happens now?” Thomas asked.

  “Well, you got your vampire, so….”

  “I got one vampire. They’re like roaches. If you see one, you can be damn sure there are more. And that one works at a hospital. Lots of blood, in bags and patients.”

  “You ain’t lyin,’” Conquer said, sighing. “Alright, looks like we’re going to Harlem.”

  “Why Harlem?”

  “His ID tag says he’s a morgue attendant at Harlem Hospital.”

  Conquer went into the office, put on his coat. He went to his herb cabinet and grabbed a tin of powdered garlic. He took a small box of religious pendants from his desk drawer, shaking it absently as he returned to Thomas.

  “What’s all that?” Thomas asked.

  “Oh, various stuff. Crucifix, Star of David, Dharma wheel, triskelion, khanda. You never know what denomination these things are gonna be.”

  He poured the last of the Black Label into the glass.

  “That for me?”

  “You’re driving,” said Conquer, slamming it back.

  Thomas had a rental parked across the street, a blue Thunderbird, and as Conquer sank into the white leather passenger seat, he was reminded how preferable a car was to the subway. Still, it was New York. He just couldn’t justify the expense.

  “How’d you get into vampires, Doc?” Conquer asked as the big car lurched away and they went humming into the rising sun, Gene Page on the radio.

  “My girlfriend’s little sister,” said Thomas. “She hooked up with some Kunta Kinte motherfucker in a cape. Seems obvious now in hindsight, but the bloodsucker got her under his control.”

  Vampires and pimps; both bloodsuckers, in their way. In Conquer’s experience, nothing good ever wore a cape outside of a comic book.

  “How’d it turn out?”

  Thomas looked at him gravely through the harsh dawn light flashing through the windshield.

  “Yeah, that’s how it usually turns out. You get him?”

  “He got himself a third degree suntan, but my lady left me,” Thomas said. “Got my own special detail at the coroner’s office now.”

  “Drac Pack?” Conquer said, grinning. “No. Wait. The Nos Squad.”

  Thomas didn’t smile.

  “I got lucky,” he said. “Too many white cops saw too much for them to call me crazy and fire my black ass.”

  “Hey at least you got to keep on makin’ your daily bread. What more can a black man ask for?”

  “I heard that. So what about you? You some kinda witch doctor?”

  “Just a P.I.,” said Conquer. “I point a camera at people’s windows. It’s just that sometimes when folks’ neck hairs stand up, they call me.”

  “Right on.”

  They knew they were near the hospital when the ambulances began to proliferate.

  “Turn off Lenox, go up 5th. Park across from the school on the corner. Morgue entrance is down the block at the back,” said Conquer.

  When they parked, Thomas led Conquer to the trunk and popped it. There were four sharpened broomstick halves, a crossbow, and a couple handheld mirrors.

  “Hot socks,” Conquer said, whistling as Thomas picked up the crossbow. “Doctor Black-Helsing.”

  “Grab it all. I ain’t taking this shit back to L.A. on the plane.”

  Loaded for bear, they stuck their weapons under their coats and hoofed it up 5th, through the lines of kids trudging listlessly to their daily toil at John B. Russwurm Elementary.

  Walking briskly behind a well-timed exiting ambulance which stopped at the back drive to chew the fat with the sleepy security guard at the gate, they made it to the morgue bay and a locked back door, where Thomas re-lit his Hand of Glory with a BIC.

  “I got to get one of those,” Conquer remarked as the door clicked open and they slipped into the dull grey corridors.

  “Sure comes in handy,” Thomas said with a wink.

  Conquer shook his head.

  “Sheeeyit,” he chuckled.

  “Here hold it,” said Thomas.

  Conquer took the withered hand as Thomas pulled a little 250ml milk carton from his pocket, tore it open, and extinguished one finger at a time. He tossed the carton outside and put the hand in his coat.

  They crept toward an elevator at the back of the hall, seeing no one, and Conquer called the car. They waited tensely for a minute, before the doors slid open, then went inside. Thomas hit the button for the basement.

  Just as the doors were about to slide closed, a scuffed loafer kicked its way in and jammed them open.

  A pudgy, balding Italian spud in a checkered trilby and a shabby beige raincoat pushed the doors open, a Saturday Night Special in hand.

  “Freeze,” he hissed through his brushy mustache. “NYPD. You boys don’t look like you’re here to make a deposit.”

  Conquer bristled at ‘boys,’ but kept his cool and let Thomas do the talking.

  “Easy, officer,” said Thomas, deftly turning his body and tucking the crossbow behind his leg against the wall of the elevator before the cop could see it. He raised his hands. “I’m with the L.A. Coroner’s office.”

  “L.A.?” the cop screwed up his face.

  “Got my ID in my coat pocket,” he said. “Take a look for yourself.”

  “Meadows?” the pudgy cop said.

  A pasty faced kid in a uniform appeared in the door, gun drawn.

  “You got it, Sarge.”

  He stepped forward and dipped his hand in Thomas’ pocket. Conquer smiled to himself, wondering what the cop would do if he wound up shaking hands with Thomas’ bizarre candelabra by accident. The cop pulled out the doctor’s badge and ID. He looked it over, then held it up for his superior to read.

  “What’s so funny?” Meadows said to Conquer.

  “Nothing,” Conquer said.

  The detective lowered his gun in wonderment, apparently deciding it unlikely anybody would try to forge an L.A. pathologist’s ID, of all things.

  “Who’s that you got with you, Doctor Thomas?” the detective said, as they both lowered their hands.

  Conquer took out Maceo’s ID tag and held it out.

  “Maceo Peace,” the cop read, not even glancing twice at the photo. “You work here?”

  “Yes sir,” said Conquer.

  “Detective Sergeant Lou Lazzeroni,” said the detective, letting his shield catch the light briefly. “Vice. What are you doing way out here in Harlem, Doc?”

  “I’m in town for a pathology symposium,” said Thomas coolly. “Met Mr. Peace there. He offered to give me a tour of the facilities out of professional courte
sy. Anything wrong?”

  “Might could be,” said Lazzeroni, watching them closely as he spoke. “You know the last time I was down at this morgue was when I was in narcotics. Some asshole was stealing formaldehyde, goin’ home and dipping joints in the stuff. See, dealers like to dip marijuana cigarettes in PCP, sell ‘em as wet cigarettes. They call the PCP ‘embalming fluid.’ This dumbass thought they meant the real thing.”

  “You don’t need a college degree to be a morgue attendant, I guess,” said Meadows, grinning and staring into Conquer’s face.

  “Or a cop,” Conquer said, smiling back, “last I heard.”

  Meadows’ smile melted like an ice cube on a skillet.

  “Last night,” Lazzeroni went on, ignoring the jibe, “I got a tip from a hooker about some sicko down here turning a buck leasing out corpses for….immoral purposes. You know anything about that, Peace?”

  “Hell no, man!” Conquer exclaimed, genuinely appalled.

  “That what you wear to work every day?” Lazzeroni said dubiously, looking him up and down.

  “This ain’t my shift. I’m just showin’ the brother around, you dig?”

  “Yeah well, I guess you don’t mind if we share the ride?” Lazzeroni said, stepping into the elevator.

  “The more the merrier, Sergeant,” said Thomas, putting his back to the wall and further obscuring the loaded crossbow.

  Meadows entered too, staring bullets at Conquer as the doors closed behind them.

  “I guess you seen some sick ass shit on Vice, huh, Sarge?” Meadows said as the car began its descent.

  “Well, it ain’t all wine and roses, kid,” said Lazzeroni.

  “Yeah but pimpin’ out stiffs?” Meadows said. Though he was talking to Lazzeroni, he was practically snarling at Conquer. “You got to be a lowdown, depraved, inhuman piece of shit to do somethin’ like that. I mean, what could be worse than that?”

  Lazzeroni was quiet as the car bounced to a halt.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess maybe the creep that would pay for it.”

  The doors slid open to a chilly hallway of cake batter yellow ceramic bricks and a gray, no-slip floor that reminded Conquer of his high school locker room. Somewhere down the hall, tinny voices crackled out of a transistor radio. Marty Glickman and Dave Herman in a tizzy over the quarterback of the Jets getting his own fullback subbed out for cheating at last night’s Super Bowl in New Orleans.