Floodgate

by Johnny Shaw

  The city burnt behind them. Black smoke and heat. A phantasmagoria. Demons rising from the flames.

  They chanted. Mongol words vibrated in my chest. Strange and foreign and hate filled. Metal weapons on metal as chorus. Shrill and sour sounds.

  Fat Jimmy pushed me aside, taking a look from the door. “Like a dago Alamo,” he said. A big smile.

  “What do we do?” Marco Ronda asked.

  “What do you think?” Fat Jimmy said. “Kill ’em all.”

  “Let’s get out of here. We’ll find somewhere safe,” the girl said, pulling me inside. “Everyone here is going to die.”

  “These are my people,” I said. “I owe them.”

  “I don’t,” she said. “Whatever you said yesterday don’t mean nothing today. Look at the city. That place is gone.”

  I stared at the fire that had replaced the city that I grew up in. The only place I knew. I had never even stepped outside the county.

  “Even more reason. I can’t leave. But you can.” I gently pushed her shoulder. Pushed her inside. “Find a back window. Something. Get out. Try to make it to the river. To the Terrace. Or out of the city.”

  She gave me a long stare. Then checked the cartridges in her pistol and handed the gun to me. Frowned. Shook her head.

  “Try to stay alive,” she said. Turned and went into the building.

  Knew she would have a better chance. Not a good one but a better one. It was disappointing, though. Not how our adventure was supposed to end. No such thing as happily ever after. Not on a battlefield.

  I joined the men and their wait to be massacred by a horde of Chinese crime soldiers.

  The standoff was tense. The fight would happen. But nobody in a hurry to die. Steeled for one last battle but not impatient.

  The Chinese chanted on. Swayed to the rhythm of the words. I wished I knew what they meant. Why they sounded so calm. Not like Fat Jimmy’s men who shouted, angry. No aggression from the Chinese. Disciplined. True soldiers.

  The chanting stopped. Dead silence. A motionless army. Unblinking. Unwavering.

  “What the hell is going on?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “Get ready for anything.”

  “They blink before they strike.”

  A sound like a growl. Heavy wheels on stones. The army parted.

  “Maybe they got a dragon,” someone joked halfheartedly. He wasn’t far off.

  The Chinese rolled out a cannon.

  1986

  CHAPTER 19

  I took the steaks. I sure did. Prime T-bone. But I left four dollars. Honest. Can’t help it if someone stole the damn cash register.

  —Accused looter during the Midnight Riots testifying in court (1968)

  Riding back to the candy factory, Andy looked for signs of rising discord. Among the regular pedestrian traffic, he spotted people heading toward the Ruins. Walking with purpose, with attitude, with anger. Mostly black and brown. The men in suits walking in the opposite direction, casual and oblivious. Shoulders bumped without either side pausing to acknowledge.

  The street would spread news faster than any media outlet. The death of Hector Costales and his wife would be all over the city within an hour. By phone, by whisper, and by shout. When the massacre led the evening news, the information would be stale to anyone without a 401(k). And when it found the front page the next day, only the trust-funded on Gallows Terrace would learn something new.

  Among the lower classes, Costales was as close to a folk hero as the city had. He was more than a gang leader, knowing how to earn goodwill. Everyone loved Robin Hood. His after-school programs, food banks, work-training programs, and nonstop advocacy for the poor cemented his slum sainthood. Hated and loved, like any true martyr. A reminder that ruthlessness and compassion weren’t mutually exclusive. Even if the compassion was a facade, his actions spoke louder than the politicians’ empty words.

  The crowds would grow. Some in peaceful grief. Some in nonviolent protest. Others with the intent to destroy. To unleash their frustration. To illustrate their anger. To exploit the chaos. A riot was little more than a community gone mad. It was a good thing that the weather was cold. If Costales had been killed in the summer, the city would already be ablaze.

  That’s not to say that fires hadn’t been set. As they arrived at the waterfront factory, smoke rose from the Ruins and the eastern part of Exposition Boulevard. According to the radio, people were starting to gather. No incidents. A few burning couches. No mention of the police response, although one cop had to be taken to the hospital after getting hit in the head with a toaster flung from someone’s window. But that could happen on a regular day in Auction.

  The day would be a cakewalk compared with the night. Looters got braver as it got darker. The wrong people took command. The anger would boil over. Poor people were going to die tonight.

  Walking into Floodgate HQ, Andy, Kate, and Rocco were greeted with the sound of breaking glass, furniture knocked over, and a steady rant in English and Spanish. Pilar had not taken the news of Hector Costales’s murder well. Three coffee mugs, a potted plant, and a six-pack of Bubble Up bottles appeared to be the victims of her reaction. A trash can got a good kicking. She wore a prosthetic arm, perhaps to do more damage. The metal hook on the end showed wear, dull and scuffed.

  “Slaughtered him. And Anna. Cómo podrían? Hector Costales era—never going to be anyone like him. Él ayudó a. Did more for me, my girls, than anyone. I’d be dead, a slave, worse. El Roto lo debemos. Inocente Anna, never hurt no one. Motherfuckers will pay. Going to hurt them. I am going to kill.”

  Rocco sat down at a desk. He dialed a phone and pressed his ear to the receiver, a finger in the other ear. He shouted his name over Pilar’s rant and asked for Cardinal Macklin. He glanced at Pilar but made no attempt to quiet her.

  Andy turned to Kate. “What do we do now?”

  “That’s the spirit, Destra. We have a lot to do,” Kate said. “After Pilar winds down—she will. If she doesn’t let off some steam, the wrong people get hurt. We need her to hurt the right people. She’s got to figure out Consolidated. Until they have a new leader, it’s a snake without a head, whipping its tail around, breaking everything in sight.”

  “We need to confirm that it is Gray and/or Robinson responsible for the murders. That it’s the cops,” Andy said. “If it is them, they’re not done. This is the beginning.”

  “Mac will make contact with the rest of the leadership, make sure they are warned and safe. They got to Costales. We have to assume the other leaders are targets. I don’t think we’re safe either,” Kate said.

  Pilar had found a hammer and beat holy hell out of one of the filing cabinets. Andy was relieved it wasn’t one of his. They had sentimental value.

  “You up for talking to your would-be assassin?” Kate asked. “The guy tried to kill you the day before Costales’s murder. If he’s part of the same plot, he’s our best shot at confirming Gray’s or Robinson’s role. Maybe even some insight into what the overall plan is.”

  “You think he’s going to talk to us?”

  “Probably not.”

  “What then?”

  “Agnes.”

  “Is that an answer?” Andy asked.

  Kate shrugged and found a seat at one of the desks. She motioned for Andy to sit. He picked up the loose pages of the day’s newspaper and folded them back together as best he could. The headline read, “Top Cop Death Shocker.” Written by Kurt Rebane.

  AUCTION CITY—When the police arrived at the Gallows Terrace home of Deputy Commissioner Aloysius Gray, it was obvious that something was amiss. The door was ajar, wood splintered at the latch. Guns drawn, they entered the home and found the body of the deputy commissioner shot in the chest.

  But it doesn’t end with a simple burglary gone wrong. As shocking as the peace officer’s death, a mountain of evidence was discovered that implicates the late Gray in a world of corruption, backroom dealings, and even murder. An overwhelming amount of
evidence to crimes committed during his tenure, including the fabrication of evidence to disgrace a number of his own men.

  When the city should be mourning one of its leaders, instead we are forced to see the lie that Aloysius Gray told even the people closest to him.

  The newspaper article continued, detailing the specifics of Gray’s illegal activities. The list was long.

  “How?” Andy said, after reading the article twice.

  “We used Gray’s journals, ledgers, notes, and even trash. The man was so corrupt, we had to manufacture very little. It was just a matter of sneaking it to Rebane before the cops could bury it. Not only does it publicly steer attention away from the crime but a dead crooked cop is investigated differently. Once the allegations exist, they have a harder time creating their own narrative. We included evidence on how you and the others were railroaded. No harm in clearing your name while we were at it.”

  “Am I supposed to say thank you?” Andy asked.

  “We still hold all the evidence that incriminates you as the real murderer,” Kate said.

  “So probably not.”

  Pilar’s rant had turned into a low mumble. She paced in a tighter and tighter circle, until she dropped onto the couch and stared daggers at the wall across from her. She breathed heavily, her metal prosthetic hook opening and closing, clicking with the rhythm of her breathing. She hated everything about that wall.

  Rocco hung up and turned to Kate and Andy. “Mac’s going to do his thing. The Trust will control the message on the news, radio, and tomorrow’s papers. The murder they have to report, but any looting will be backpaged. Slow the momentum. Although tonight will tell. Mac was still trying to salvage some sort of peace with Robinson, but if we’re assuming that he had Costales killed, that needs to be shitcanned. I advised that he move on to Randall Ashley. Set mutiny in motion.”

  “Are the leaders safe, at least?” Kate asked.

  “They’ve been warned. Each organization is taking necessary precautions. Left the Fortress as an option. The Trust, 893, and the—”

  “Where the hell have you been?” Pilar yelled, interrupting Rocco.

  Everyone turned to see Ben Jigo at the entrance, Agnes standing behind him. The fifth member of Floodgate had been noticeably absent since Andy’s abduction.

  Ben held out his hands defensively. “What? What’s going on?”

  “I paged you an hour ago,” Rocco said.

  “I found him at that massage place again,” Agnes said.

  “My rubdown ran long. Left my pager in the cubby. It’s about full relaxation. If it’s any consolation, the massage made me collected and ready to work.”

  Pilar jumped off the couch and charged him. Her shoulder dug into his midsection and drove him against the wall.

  “Get her off me!” Ben screamed, before his voice was cut off by her hand around his throat.

  “Hector Costales is dead,” Pilar said.

  “I didn’t kill him,” Ben gurgled. He punched Pilar in the stomach. A decent uppercut but not much behind it. From Pilar’s nonexistent reaction, his fist might’ve hit steel. He tried again, but the blow was weaker from his loss of air. Still no reaction. He gave up, choosing to get choked instead.

  Agnes put a gentle hand on Pilar’s shoulder. Ben spit sounds, his arms flailing at his side. Rocco and Kate didn’t move to intervene. Andy watched the drama play out.

  “Let him go, Pili,” Agnes said, her voice gentle. “We are a team. We must act like one.”

  Pilar’s eyes never left Ben. “You hear that, Jigo? We’re a team. That means if you don’t take this murder seriously. If you screw around on this. I will hurt you. Genitally.” She let go brusquely, shoving him to the side. Ben fell to the ground, sucking in air and massaging his bruised throat.

  Pilar stomped over to Kate. “Tantrum done. I’m ready to work.”

  CHAPTER 20

  You’re not looking at the facts. If they’d’ve been alive, they’d’ve voted for me for sure. That’s a fact. Try to refute it. Prove me wrong. You can’t. So what’s the problem?

  —Attributed to Jefferson Stringer after being indicted for voter fraud after it had been revealed that more than a thousand Civil War dead had helped elect him into his city council seat (circa 1957)

  “You ready for this?” Kate asked Andy. “We do things a little differently here.”

  They stood outside the door of an interrogation room. Andy stared at the man inside through the small window.

  “The son of a bitch tried to kill me,” Andy said. “Walked up to me on the street with a shotgun.”

  “You can’t take things like that personally.”

  “Of course you can,” Andy said. “How do you not take attempted murder personally?”

  “He was just doing his job,” Kate said.

  She opened the door and entered the room. The man sat handcuffed to the table in front of him. The blood had been cleaned from his face, but both eyes were bruised black and his nose took a sharp left in the middle. Andy didn’t think he looked that bad for a brick to the face. He didn’t look up when they sat across from him.

  “What’s your name?” Kate asked.

  “Lawyer,” the man said.

  Kate laughed. “You think we’re the police? Are you kidding me? Oh, man. You’re either dumb or stupid.”

  The man looked up, his eyes scanning past Kate to Andy. “I remember you.”

  “Who hired you?” Andy asked.

  “You know, for a chubby fuck, you’re faster than you look.”

  “Fear of dying improves one’s forty,” Andy said. “Who are you working for? Who else are you working with? Are there other targets?”

  “Is that all you want to know? How about the secret to pleasing a woman, while I’m at it?” The man put his head back down. “You ain’t getting nothing from me.”

  “We figured, but it was worth a try,” Kate said. “Some people like to do it the hard way.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  “I’ll get Agnes,” Kate said.

  He peeked up from the table. “Some other bitch ain’t going to scare me more than you. Still a woman.”

  “I’m not trying to scare you,” Kate said.

  Andy and Kate waited in the open area on the couch. Agnes had been in the interrogation room for fifteen minutes. She had come out twice. Once to grab a staple remover and a phone book. The second time she asked Kate if they had an ice cream scoop.

  “Why would we have an ice cream scoop?” Kate asked.

  “For scooping ice cream,” Agnes said. “No matter. I’ll improvise. There’s a three-hole punch somewhere around here.”

  Andy didn’t think he could feel any sympathy for someone who’d tried to kill him. Not until that moment.

  Rocco, Pilar, and Ben had all left on various errands and missions. When Agnes returned to the interrogation room with the three-hole punch, Andy stood up and paced. “Isn’t there something we can be doing?”

  “Mac’s wrangling the generals. We’re soldiers waiting for orders. Not much to do until we got something to do.”

  “What the hell’s she doing to him?” Andy asked.

  “I’ve never asked,” Kate said. “Never wanted to watch. She’s effective, though. He’ll talk.”

  “Your torturer is with the Church? Is she, like, a nun?”

  “Does she look like a nun?”

  “Then what is she?”

  “She’s Agnes,” Kate said. “That’s about as much as any of us know.”

  “How’d they get you to switch from one side of the law?” Andy asked. “Have something on you, too? A crime to hang over your head like me?”

  “They asked. Pretty much it. I’ve always had larceny in my heart.” Kate laughed. “I hit a ceiling because I was a woman. That sat poorly with me. When they asked, I saw an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity?”

  “Take a look at the group. Really take a look. We’re all outsiders,” Kate said. “Forgotten. Ignored.
Underestimated. Assaulted.

  “Rocco was a crook going back to the Flood.

  “Pilar? When was the last time you saw one of the Broken in a position of power? With a job at all? Plenty of sympathy for those kids. Led to nothing but talk from the people of this city. They were beggars, after all. Once the headlines died, they were abandoned. The Church and Consolidated took them in. Hector Costales led that charge. Pilar still takes care of most of those girls.

  “Ben’s uncle is the head of 893. They didn’t know what to do with him, a spoiled, rich kid. I get the feeling 893 is unhappy, bought some bad fish off the Chinese. They certainly don’t take Floodgate seriously. Sent Ben to us to kill two birds, get rid of him and not waste a good man on us. He feels disrespected, disowned. Not exactly a motivator. He’s smart, but he has no incentive to work hard.

  “And Agnes is Agnes.”

  Andy got all three of the Cat Scratch Fever drop targets and almost completed the Gonzo board. Ten thousand points shy of Kate’s high score on the “Nugent!” pinball game, he watched his second ball roll down a side lane.

  “Are you sure you’ve never played this before?” Kate asked.

  Andy launched his last ball. It bounced around.

  “Careful,” Kate said. “Don’t get nervous.”

  Three thousand points shy of the high score, Andy got overzealous. He banged the side in an effort to save the ball. But Ted Nugent didn’t like to play rough (although he probably did). The game tilted, and Andy watched the ball slowly bounce its way down the dead machine, impotent to do anything about it.

  “Tough luck, Destra. You got close,” Kate said. She kept her smile in her pocket. She had won. No reason to rub it in.

  Andy stared at the Nuge wailing on his guitar, but the Motor City Madman had been nothing more than a quiet observer to his massive choke (also something that Ted Nugent would probably do).