City of Heretics

by Heath Lowrance

  Securing Garay took a lot out of him, and Crowe was still breathing hard and fighting dizziness when Garay came to.

  It took Garay a few moments to get his head together. Crowe gave him the time, saying nothing, until finally Garay peered up at him with bleary eyes and said, “You… you sonofabitch… if I get outta this I’m gonna kill you, I’m gonna rip your goddamn lungs out.”

  Crowe put away the gun and found a soiled cloth and a solid hammer on the workbench. Sears & Roebuck. The right tools for the job. He said, “Here’s how this is gonna work, Garay. I’m not gonna get cute about it, and I’m not gonna engage in any banter with you. Understand? It’s gonna be simple.”

  “You motherfucker—“

  “I’m gonna ask you questions, very specific questions, and for every answer you give that makes me unhappy I’m going to smash one of your fingers with this hammer. Is that clear enough?”

  Garay eyed the hammer, and finally some of the fear he’d been feeling began to show on this face. But he still had some bravado left. He said, “I ain’t scared of you, Crowe.”

  “Not yet,” Crowe said.

  This was Crowe’s element, hurting people. It was what the Old Man had paid him for, back in the day, and he was good at it. It was simply a matter of shifting perspective, shoving all the human aspects of mercy and compassion to another part of the brain and just going on machine-mode. He didn’t get any pleasure from it, but he also didn’t suffer remorse. It helped, too, that Crowe was exhausted beyond caring.

  Garay clenched his fists, hiding his fingers, and it was all there in his eyes now, the knowledge that bad things were about to happen to him and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  Crowe said, “Keep your fingers out. If you don’t, I’ll just have to smash your hands first and believe me, that’ll make things much worse.”

  Garay just looked at him, sweating now, teeth clenched and something like the shakes coming over him. He kept his fists tight.

  In a quiet voice, he said, “You… you ain’t any different than them. You think you’re better? You ain’t any different than them.”

  “Okay,” Crowe said, and shoved the cloth in his mouth.

  He smashed the hammer down on Garay’s left hand.

  Garay screamed against the cloth and his body spasmed, straining against the ropes. His fingers shot out like ten exclamation points against the chair arm.

  Crowe brought the hammer down again, crunching his left little finger to a pulp.

  Five minutes later, Garay had told him everything Crowe needed to know, and it had only cost him his one hand and the pinky finger attached to it.

  Crowe left him still tied to the chair, barely conscious and muttering to himself. Upstairs, he half-expected to see the mother, since even with the cloth in his mouth Garay hadn’t been exactly quiet. But she was nowhere around. Grief must have sent right into the deepest of sleep; that’s how some people deal with it.

  Garay had some interesting things to say, things about the Society of Christ the Fisher.

  “It’s like… like I told you,” Garay had said. “Vitower is old news. Bad Luck, they… they’re the New Breed. Welling knew it. And it made a… it made a split in the Society.”

  “What kind of split?”

  “Some of the others in the Society, they didn’t wanna do deals with Bad Luck. But Welling trumped ‘em… he wanted to get Vitower outta the picture. Vitower knew it. I don’t know how, but he knew it. That’s… that’s why your man Vitower wants to kill Murke… it ain’t got nothing to do with his dead bitch. Well… not much, anyway.”

  “I don’t understand. Talk sense, Garay.”

  Garay was crying, looking at his mangled little finger and his flattened hand. “’Cuz, man… ‘cuz Murke would be on Welling’s side. And now… now that Murke is out, the others in the Society, they’ll be, what, over-ruled.”

  So Bad Luck, Inc, were the Society’s new first line of defense in the city now, doing the dirty work that didn’t relate specifically to the Society’s agenda. They’d been ordained. They’d been taken into the fold and given tattoos and the Word.

  Vitower and his wife and certain select others—like Dallas—had been welcomed into the Society. And then Murke killed Jezzie: the beginning of the end for Vitower’s future with them. If he’d been the kind of guy to shrug off his wife’s murder, things might have taken a different turn. And Vitower probably knew that. And yet… and yet he’d decided his course, and to hell with the repercussions.

  Crowe almost admired him for it.

  Head spinning, Crowe left Garay’s house and the cold night air didn’t help clear things.

  He was beyond exhausted. He remembered climbing behind the wheel, popping another three pain killers. The stitches between his shoulder blades had busted again and blood ran warm down his back. His right shoulder ached fiercely from exertion, and even the scar on his face felt as if it had been lit afire.

  Somehow, some time later, he was at the motel, pulling up in the space in front of the room. He got out of the car and nearly stumbled on the walkway, and was dimly aware that it wasn’t just the wounds; he was dangerously close to putting himself into oblivion with the pills.

  It seemed like a minor consideration, though. In fact, it almost seemed like a goddamn good idea.

  He managed to unlock the door after what seemed like a very long time, nearly fell inside, and slammed it shut behind him. Sleep, he thought. Some sleep, some oblivion, and he would be fine.

  He leaned against the door, eyes closed, trying to will the strength in his legs just to make it to the bed.

  When the bedside light snapped on and he heard the voice, he wasn’t even surprised.

  “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” the voice said.

  Crowe opened his eyes and saw Detective Wills, reclined on the bed, his gun leveled at him.

  “Try to resist arrest, Crowe,” he said. “Try it. ‘cause there’s nothing I’d rather do than shoot you down right here and now.”

  There was a bottle of whisky on the nightstand, and the bedside lamp shined through it and showed it nearly empty. The room reeked of it. Crowe willed the fuzziness in his head away, off to the corners, and tried to focus. Wills smiled at him and crossed his legs and wiggled his toes in his socks.

  Crowe said, “Whisky and firearms don’t mix.”

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “When I’m drinking whisky, that’s when I like my gun the best.”

  “Probably,” Crowe said, “that’s the only time you can actually feel good about it. Right?”

  Wills frowned briefly before understanding dawned and then a slow grin spread across his face. “Oh, right. That was Freudian, yeah? Ain’t you the clever boy?”

  His coat was draped over the little writing desk by the front door, and his shoes were arranged nicely at the foot of the bed. Crowe sighed and leaned back against the door, feeling all his muscles screaming. “Are you gonna shoot me, Wills? Or arrest me, or what? Because whatever it is, let’s get on with it.”

  Wills sat up, stretching, and grabbed the bottle. With the gun still trained on Crowe, he took a long pull of whisky, finishing all but a nip of it. Burping, he tossed the bottle over his shoulder, where it bounced on the bed and rolled off to thump on the floor.

  “Truth is,” he said, “I haven’t really decided yet, Crowe.”

  “Well, then. You care if I sit down?”

  He motioned to the floor. “Go right ahead. Right there on the carpet, in front of the door.”

  Crowe slumped down carefully until he was sitting, legs splayed and hands on the carpet. It didn’t feel any better than standing.

  “You wanna know how I found you?” Wills said. “It was amazingly easy.”

  “Not really interested.”

  “Aw, come on. Don’t you wanna hear about how the dumb-ass redneck cop tracked down the oh-so-clever crook?”

  Crowe thought for a moment, and said, “Rad’s Pontiac. GPS device or something, ye
ah?”

  Wills looked disappointed, and Crowe couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, Wills, that’s really clever, boy. You sure did outsmart me.”

  He stood up, took one long stride across the room, and kicked Crowe in the gut with his bare foot. Crowe doubled up on the floor, not able to breath, and everything went dim around the edges.

  While he struggled for breath, Wills said, “The stroke of genius was in knowing who’s car you’d be in. Get it? You and Radnovian, you been like pigs in a poke. I figured you’d turn to him eventually. So after you killed that little piece of ass of yours, I—“

  “Didn’t kill her,” Crowe said. “You know… you know I didn’t…”

  “What? I didn’t hear you, Crowe, on account of I was talking. As I was saying, while everyone else in town was scouring the streets for you, I just turned my attention to Radnovian. And you didn’t disappoint. You turned up there in no time at all.”

  Crowe managed to sit up straight again. The room was cool, almost cold, but sweat ran down his face and pricked under his arms. His perspective was off; Wills looked like a long, narrow giant looming over him. Crowe was getting vertigo looking up at him.

  “Okay,” Crowe said. “Hooray for the cop.”

  Wills laughed a sort of throaty, sick laugh and turned around and went to sit down on the bed again. He perched on the edge, legs splayed, so Crowe could see the bad cut of his slacks stretched along the thighs. There was a hole in one sock, and his little toe stuck out of it. He said, “I was thinking that maybe you were my ticket to seeing Vitower locked up. I’ve been waiting for a long time for that, you know. Something, anything, to pin on that bastard. And the minute you came back to town… scratch that. Not the minute you came back to town, but the minute you showed up at Vitower’s club, I started getting my hopes up. Crowe, I thought, wouldn’t be seeing Marco Vitower without a good reason. And the fact that ole’ Peter Murke was about to be transported to Jackson, well… it just all came together, didn’t it?”

  Crowe didn’t answer, and Wills didn’t look as if he really expected him to. He set his gun on the bed next to him, reached for a pack of cigarettes sitting on the nightstand, lit one up, and, sucking smoke, gazed at Crowe thoughtfully. Finally, he grinned again and said, “But it didn’t really. It didn’t come together at all. You haven’t given me anything, Crowe. Nothing to pin on Vitower. Oh, sure, I could take you in and the prosecution could work up a good case against you on something—if not your bitch’s murder, then something else—but what good would that do me? I still wouldn’t be any closer to Vitower.”

  “See, now you’re making me feel bad.”

  Wills snorted. “Yeah.”

  “What’s your mad-on with Vitower anyway?”

  “He’s a crook. I’m a cop. Do the math.”

  “There’s plenty of crooks. You’ve made it your private mission to take Vitower out. It’s not just the job. There’s something personal there. Right?”

  Wills’ face went dark, and his eyes glittered with alcoholic fury. He said, “You need to mind your own business.”

  “Yeah, okay. Sure. But you know, if you really want Vitower, you could always try to convince me to turn state’s evidence or something.”

  “You seen too many cops and lawyers shows. There’s nothing you could give me.”

  Crowe drummed his fingers on the carpet. “Maybe, maybe not. But as it happens, I was at the scene when Murke got busted out. It’s possible that I could tell you a thing or two about that.”

  Wills shook his head. “You really are a major league dumb-ass, Crowe. You think I don’t know you were there? But lucky for you, there was nothing at the scene that could officially connect you or any of Vitower’s people to it. And even if there was, it still wouldn’t do me any good. The state cops are handling that investigation now. If you got busted, it would be their break, not mine.”

  Crowe laughed weakly. “Well, that’s some hard luck, Wills. You got me, but now you don’t know what to do with me. Like a dog chasing a car.”

  “Oh, I got some ideas about what to do with you, Crowe. Don’t you worry none about that.” He took a last long drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt in Crowe’s direction. It bounced off Crowe’s leg and on to the carpet, where it immediately started burning a hole.

  Crowe picked it up and crushed it out between his fingers and tossed it away. “When did you become such a bad cop?” he said.

  Wills stood up very suddenly, gun back in his hand, and for a second Crowe thought he was going to shoot him right then. His face tight, Wills said, “I’m not a bad cop. I’m the good guy here, Crowe, you understand that? I’m the one trying to stop the bad guys.”

  “Well, you haven’t done such a hot job so far, have you?”

  “It’s not my fault that the system works in their favor. People like your boss, they’re well-protected in this fucking city. They know the ins and outs. They know the right people. It makes my job goddamn difficult.”

  “So what’s your solution, Wills? You gonna shoot me and leave me for dead here?”

  “You wouldn’t be the first gangster found in a seedy motel room, killed under mysterious circumstances.”

  “There wasn’t anything seedy about this room before you got here, Wills.”

  Teeth clenched, Wills pointed the gun at Crowe’s head and Crowe forced himself to not look away, to stare him right in the eyes. Seconds went by that felt like minutes, and Crowe’s heart pounded.

  After an eternity, Wills lowered the gun and said, “Boy, have you got some kinda death wish? Or are you just stupid? You don’t talk like that to a man with a gun. Especially a man who already wants desperately to just kill you and be done with it.”

  “If you really wanted to kill me, Wills, you’d have done it by now. As lousy a cop as you are, you’re still not good with killing a man in cold blood, are you?”

  “I wouldn’t presume so much if I was you.”

  Crowe shook his head. “It’s not in you. Or rather, it is in you, but you don’t want it to be. This city has made you sick, Wills. Sicker than the bad guys.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I think I do. I think Vitower did something to you, something that hit you in the guts, and you haven’t been able to think straight about him since. What was it? What did he do to you?”

  For a long moment he looked torn—Crowe could see all of it in his face. Wills may have been a tough one, but booze makes even the toughest bastard a weakling. An open book. Anger flickered through his features, then doubt, and then fear, the kind of fear a little kid has, unreasoning and panicked. He said, “You… I mean, you don’t…”

  Crowe waited him out, and finally Wills took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “The Old Man… your old boss, I mean… he and I had an understanding. He wasn’t a bad guy, not like the gangsters now.”

  “You mean he wasn’t black.”

  Wills shook his head hard. “No. That’s not it. Typical stupid Northerner assumption. You think I hate Vitower ‘cause he’s black? No, I hate Vitower because he…”

  “Because he what?”

  “Because he killed the Old Man. It wasn’t no heart failure. Vitower killed him as sure as I’m standing here.”

  “What do you care?”

  “What do I care? That’s a helluva question. What do I care, he says. Goddamn sonofabitch.”

  “The Old Man was just another gang boss. No better or worse than Vitower.”

  Wills’ face twisted and he spat, “That’s a lie. You say that again and I will shoot you, Crowe. The Old Man was decent.”

  “Yeah. The most decent guy who ever ordered a hit. The most decent guy to ever sell drugs to kids or pay strong-arms to break people’s legs.”

  “Shut your mouth.”

  “What a sweetheart he was.”

  Wills screamed then, and it surprised Crowe so much that he jerked his head back and hit it on the door. “He raised me, you smart-
mouthed punk! He was like a father to me!”

  “What?”

  “He treated me like his own flesh and blood, and you think you can bad-mouth him, can defile his memory?”

  “What?”

  Wills was breathing heavily, the gun still gripped tight in his fingers. His face had gone purple, and the broken capillaries in his nose showed white. He said, “My father… my real father… died when I was a kid. He worked for the Old Man, and he… he tried to go behind the Old Man’s back and do some drug deals on his own. He got killed by a bunch of dealers from Nashville. You’d think the Old Man would say ‘good riddance’ to a guy who tried to double-deal him. But he didn’t. He… he took care of me and my mom. He gave her money. He made sure I went to school. He—“

  “He did this,” Crowe said, “without anyone knowing?”

  “He wanted me to be a cop. I don’t… I don’t know why. But that’s what he wanted. And so that’s what I did.”

  Crowe threw his head back against the door again, on purpose this time, and laughed out loud.

  “What the hell’s so goddamn funny?”

  “You, Wills. You’re killing me. That’s the sappiest story I ever heard in my life.”

  “It’s not sappy!”

  “The benevolent old gangster, taking the poor widowed mother and little boy under his wing. Honestly, tell me you’re pulling my leg.”

  “You motherfucker.”

  “Your real dad died when he went against the Old Man, yeah? But the Old Man didn’t have anything to do with it. Please, brother. You really believe that?”

  “He never would have lied to me.”

  “All he ever did was lie to you, Wills! Any moron could tell you the real story: the Old Man had your dad killed, and took your mom in because… well, I don’t know. Was she hot? Did he wanna fuck her?”

  Wills took a step toward him and whipped the gun against his skull. Red light exploded behind Crowe’s eyes and he fell to the floor. Blood poured down his forehead and across his cheek, but he laughed.