Gods of Manhattan

by Al Ewing

  "Even if I could help you -"

  Lomax scowled, standing suddenly. It was all taking too long. He had to speed this up. "Fine. Fine, fine, fine, your own life isn't important to you. I get it. You're a big hero, well done, very good. How about hers?" He drew a revolver from his belt and pointed it directly between Maya's eyes. "Because one way or another I plan to hurt him, Doctor. I plan to hurt the big blue banana very badly indeed. And between you and me? I don't really care about methods."

  Maya strained against the ropes, testing them again. Then she spoke, coolly. "Queen to queen seven, queen takes bishop. Check. And don't you dare threaten me."

  Without taking his gun off her, Lomax made the move. He chuckled, and called back to Hamilton. "Her Majesty speaks! And she's right, you know, Doctor, I am indeed in check. Seems a shame to end the game at this point, doesn't it? I'd look like a sore loser. It'd be sour grapes." He laughed again, eyes flashing fire, matching Maya's as his finger stroked the trigger. "Sure you won't reconsider my generous offer? I'd so hate to seem unsporting."

  "Go ahead and shoot. I may be more resilient than you think." Maya smiled, daring him with her eyes.

  "You are fascinatingly long-lived, I'll grant you that. A true scientific puzzle. But immune to death by gunshot? I'd be a poor scientist if I didn't test that little theory." He chuckled, spying something on the chessboard. "Oh, and..." He took one of his knights and quickly knocked the white queen over on the board before picking it off. "Knight takes queen. That's game over, I think, Maya."

  Maya looked back at him, and at that moment the entire cabin lurched sideways, the pieces toppling off the board, the board toppling off the table, the torture-chair sliding across the smooth metal floor.

  Maya smiled. "Game over. Yes, I rather think it is. King's knight to king six." Her eyes sparkled. "Checkmate."

  A hand tore through the metal siding of the cabin, peeling it away like a can-opener, as the superhuman forced his way in. Lars Lomax only smiled, and straightened.

  "I thought he'd never get here."

  He raised the gun and fired twice at Doc Thunder, aiming for the eyes. They were the weak spots, where a well-placed bullet could -

  wait something not right

  i thought he'd never get here

  why did he say that

  The insight hit like a thunderbolt. They were starting again. He needed to tap out soon, give Maya the signal, but he couldn't yet. Not until he'd worked it out.

  "I thought he'd never get here."

  But Lomax hadn't found the answer he was after - hadn't found his poison, the death-in-a-bottle that would end the life of the man he hated most. But he'd sounded impatient-

  what else had he said

  out of my hair for a while

  strange way to put it

  Another flash. Stronger. He was on the edge of something, he knew. What had happened next?

  There'd been a fight. An unequal fight, as always. He'd kept firing his pistol, even as he'd climbed into the cabin, even though he knew it wouldn't affect him. No, that wasn't quite true. He'd gone for the eyes. Always for the eyes.

  The weak spot. A bullet in the eye would go straight into his brain and kill him, or at least brain-damage him. During the Second Civil War, he'd kept goggles with bullet-proof glass in them to wear during gunfights, but in the long run they'd limited his vision too badly to be worth it, especially after Silken Dragon's people had discovered inexorium -

  inexorium

  the metal cuts through my skin

  no poison required

  Doc gritted his teeth, tasting the rubber of the gag. He was almost seeing something, but not quite. The flashes were coming more quickly now. The insights. He travelled back in his memory, remembering the unequal fight, Lomax darting and ducking, aiming more bullets for his eyes, diving to the floor to escape a punch, rolling and snapping off one last shot - the one that killed him. The bullet had bounced off Doc's forehead, ripping up through the roof of the cabin and into one of the hydrogen chambers. It must have struck a spark on the metal, or at least he'd assumed later that's what must have happened, because suddenly the cabin was filled with flame and smoke. He'd heard the terrible roar and the rush of heat as the hydrogen went up -

  but why hydrogen

  antiquated and unsafe

  why not cavorite

  - and then he'd just reacted, grabbing Maya and Doctor Hamilton, ordering Lomax onto his back. He remembered that part very clearly, that oddly triumphant look. "You don't get to save me, Thunder." A coughing laugh. And then he'd run into the flames. Later, in the wreckage of the airship, they'd found his blackened skeleton. In death, it had seem to laugh at Doc Thunder, grinning with an empty skull-smile at his inability to save his greatest foe. It was the smile of the last enemy, of death itself.

  Doc had blamed himself, but the simple truth was that hadn't had time to go after Lomax. He'd just hurled himself out of the crashing airship and into the waters of the Amazon, doing his best to shield Maya and Miles from the full effects of the fall. He'd dragged everyone to shore - Hamilton had nearly drowned - and then he'd freed him from the chair, the metal band across his brow leaving a deep indentation, although he didn't seem to be in that much pain. Hamilton had thanked him, without smiling -

  was that when he stopped

  after that he never smiled

  and now we don't talk

  - that was when he'd changed, that day that Lomax died. They'd been good friends before, and after that they'd drifted apart, and eventually Doc Thunder had stopped feeling the need for a personal physician. Now they were strangers.

  He could smell skin cooking.

  He wanted to tap out, but there was something he was still missing. He could feel it, right on the edge of his thoughts. That unsmiling thank-you on the riverbank -

  holding out his hand

  it caught me off guard somehow

  his left hand shook mi -

  And then it was over.

  Doc slumped in the chair, panting, as Maya took her hand off the switch. When she took out the gag, he stretched his jaw, and then spoke, throat raw. "Too soon."

  Maya shook her head. "You were in there for almost a full minute. Your skin was cooking. I thought you'd passed out."

  He shook his head, gingerly feeling the burned patches at his temples after she undid the straps holding him down. "No such luck. I think I might have something. Or a lot of somethings that are going to add up to something." He shook his head, trying to clear the feeling of nausea - always the aftermath of an omega session. "We need to go back to the hospital."

  Maya froze. "Is Monk in trouble?"

  Doc frowned, thinking. "Maybe. More than we thought. But... I think I might be the one in trouble, Maya. I think I might have made my second mistake of the evening."

  He stood, breathing in, trying to steady himself. Then he spoke again.

  "Because when I met him... Doctor Hamilton was right-handed."

  Chapter Seven

  The Case of The Killer Caballero

  The new Junior Under-janitor at the Jameson Club swept the floor slowly, methodically. Occasionally, he scratched the back of his head.

  He was a temporary fix - quite the wrong sort of person for a permanent position, even as Junior Under-janitor - but the Club had needed someone in a hurry, as the previous Junior Under-janitor had sent an urgent telegram to say that he would not be coming in today, or any day. It was always difficult to measure a man's tone through the medium of something as impersonal as a telegram, but those who read it were of the opinion that the man had written it while frightened out of his wits. Some sort of psychological condition, perhaps. A poor show if he'd hidden it during his interview.

  Fortunately, the new Junior Under-janitor had walked in the door only a few minutes later, quite literally begging for work. While he was quite the wrong sort of person - quite wrong - he did have a knack for making himself entirely unobtrusive, and thus was hired on for the day, with the possibili
ty of being allowed back the next day if - one - the Club seniors could find nobody else on short notice and - two - he could keep his unfortunate racial handicap from bringing opprobrium on the Jameson Club.

  He was, after all, quite the wrong sort of person.

  Parker Crane certainly did not notice the new Junior Under-janitor as he breezed in, nodding a curt hello to Jonah, who hovered at the foot of the stairs.

  "Sir, if I may, you have a visitor." The slight, nigh-undetectable pause before the word visitor, and the set of Jonah's eyebrows, communicated all of his feelings on the matter.

  "Detective Stacey. Thank you, Jonah."

  "I took the liberty of placing him in the Lower Library, Sir, as I felt your conversation would be best conducted in a private setting."

  "Thank you, Jonah."

  "Also, your guest has a somewhat curious smell and I fear allowing him into the more commonly-used environs of the Jameson Club would irreparably damage your standing as-"

  "Thank you, Jonah. That will be all."

  "Yes, Sir." Jonah gently ushered Crane through the door and into the room. Harry Stacey was waiting there with a near-empty glass of scotch - not the malt, thank goodness - and impatiently drumming his fingers on the dusty arm of the old leather chair he'd stationed himself in.

  "About goddamn time! I been waiting here for close to an hour, you god-damned pansy!" He threw the rest of the scotch down his throat, then pointed an accusing finger at Crane. "Listen, pal, you better get on the ball, capeesh? 'Cause I'm in pretty tight with you-know-who, mac, and if you-know-who finds out you messed me about when I got important info for him, you-know-who might just figure on stickin' one of his guns right up your well-pounded rich boy ass and pulling the trigger until he friggin' breaks it off! Get me?"

  "The Blood-Spider. You can say his name. This room is quite soundproofed." Crane was amused, despite himself, by the little man's bluster, but there was business to conduct. "You have the information he asked for?"

  "Yeah, sword killings." He lifted up a manila file and opened it up on his lap. "You know, I didn't think there'd be this many. All recent, too - last few days."

  "The last few..." Crane's eyes widened. He hadn't expected this at all. "Tell me." The urgency in his voice made Stacey look up, a trace of puzzlement on his idiot's face, and Crane scowled. It wouldn't do to even let this cretin guess his secret. He'd already risked too much with that little stunt at the party. "The... Blood-Spider will want to know the information urgently." His voice dropped, faking an air of concern. "I've... already angered him. I might have accidentally boasted of my connection to the Blood-Spider to, ah, guarantee success with a woman." Harry Stacey looked worried about that, which pleased Crane immensely. "He told me he might be considering getting another mail drop with a smaller mouth. I have to prove my worth to him, or..." He left the sentence dangerously unfinished. He was satisfied that he'd drawn Stacey away from any possible suspicion, and perhaps the ruse might keep him from flapping his own receding gums quite so often.

  No such luck. Stacey's worried look transformed into a vicious grin, and he leant back in the chair, pointing a finger at Parker. "Too bad for you, buddy. I figure he'll probably cut your balls off you and bury 'em in concrete. Parker Crane, the richest eunuch in New York city. You oughtta get in his good books, like me. Me and the Spider, we're like that." He pressed thumb and forefingers together. "Thick like thieves. Two old buddies from around the way. He told me once that I was the cream of his whole friggin' Web, y'know? I mean, compared to some of the things I've seen, y'know, in the line, this is just a hobby for me, kinda like stamp collectin'."

  Crane sighed, shaking his head. He was probably going to have to do something about Stacey one of these days. "The sword killings." He forced a smile. "If you wouldn't mind."

  "Don't want to make the Boss mad, right? I feel you, buddy." Stacey smirked, passing him the photos one by one; the crime scenes left behind.

  "We got two futureheads here, found dead with sword wounds. One to the throat, one to the abdomen. That's down in East Village. Both white, swastika tattoos, previous for, uh, 'racially motivated assault'. Roughhousin', I call it, but you know these progressive types. Another over in the Bronx, same. Three more over on Staten Island, one right in midtown, five in Central Park. Whoever this nutcase is, he sure gets around, I'll tell you that much."

  "All the same man?"

  Stacey nodded. "Sure. Wounds all match up. Plus, the vics all have a lot of things in common. All with previous for rolling jigs or queers, all heavily on the Kraut side of politics if you catch my drift. A couple of these dumbasses were actually killed during assaults in progress, while they were rolling other guys. We got witnesses who saw this guy work, said he saved their lives. 'Course, these are mostly jigs or spics, and you know they lie -"

  "Stacey." Crane's voice was acid. "Let's have the facts without the editorial, please."

  "Listen, rich boy, I don't see the Blood-Spider having a problem with the way I talk, so why don't you just -" Crane's look froze him in mid-sentence. "- ah, fine. Fine, whatever."

  He rummaged quickly through the files. "Here's a witness statement for you. The five in Central Park. Apparently these guys pulled knives on a... on a latino couple, pardon your delicate friggin' ears, out for a late-night stroll. Went for the lady's purse, the fella stepped it, he got cut up some. Things were getting ugly, you know? Anyway, we got a clear description of what happened next. Just when our witnesses think they're gonna bite it, they start hearing this laugh."

  Crane raised an eyebrow. "Laugh?"

  "Sure, this big crazy laugh, like Santa Claus, big and booming. Like it's everywhere at once. I mean, I didn't hear it, but according to the witnesses it really got the perps freaking out, you know? Yelling 'who's there', 'come on out', all that jazz, trying to make this guy show himself..."

  "So... they were scared?"

  "Yeah, that's something I don't get either. I mean, it's just laughing, right? Some asshole laughs at me out of some bushes, I'd walk in there, grab his ass and introduce him to a little chin music, capeesh? Guy's probably a friggin' homo, ain't a jury in the world gonna convict me if I hand the guy his face. You gotta get a little rough with their kind, mark 'em up some, or next thing you know, the whole institution of marriage -"

  Crane growled. "Stacey."

  Stacey shrugged. "Yeah, yeah, you've got your balls on the chopping block, I got you. So, yeah, I guess it must have been a hell of a laugh this guy had..."

  Crane nodded, trying to hide the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. One of his tactics as the Blood-Spider - one Stacey had never been on the receiving end of - was a merciless, mocking laugh that froze the hearts of his enemies like ice in their chests. Was this a coincidence? Could it be?

  "...anyway, suddenly this guy leaps out of the bushes. The witnesses didn't see exactly where he came from. It was like, one minute he wasn't there and the next minute, bam, there he was, large as life and twice as ugly."

  Crane's brows furrowed. "Describe him."

  "Go the description right here, let's see. Well, to start with, he's a wetback."

  "A... what?"

  "Mexican." Stacey shook his head, looking irritated that he had to explain the term. "Exhibitionist, too. No shirt, no shoes; just a pair of black suit pants. Oh yeah, and get this. He was wearing a mask. A red mask, wrapped around his eyes."

  "A red mask..." The sinking feeling intensified. A red mask, like the Blood-Spider wore. Was he being imitated?

  "Right. Anyway, this crazy bastard leaps out of nowhere carrying a sword and starts carving them up like Christmas turkeys. Lemme just repeat that for those sensitive ears of yours. One guy, not even wearing a shirt, against five. And these were big guys. They worked out, they'd done some time in juvenile. These were people who knew a little something about how to break a guy's head open, you know? Even if he did have a sword and a scary laugh."

  "So whoever this... interloper is, he's very highly skilled.
"

  Stacey frowned, looking around briefly as if checking nobody was in earshot. "Listen -" He leaned forward, as though imparting a great secret. "- I can handle myself in a fight, capeesh? I done a lot of stuff in the line. But five guys with blades - I couldn't have taken them. Seriously, they'd have cut off my dick and drop-kicked it into the East River. You ask any cop, they'd tell you the same. Even the Blood-Spider couldn't have taken all five of these guys with just a sword. Not all at once."

  Crane raised his eyebrow again. "But the interloper..."

  "Two decapitations, two fatal stabbings - one through the eye - and the last guy bled out from getting his junk cut off."

  Crane blinked. "No wonder castration was weighing on your mind."

  Stacey shrugged. "Like I said, it could be a lie, but something killed those assholes in the park. And until we got anything better to go on, I'm going with the sword-man theory." He frowned. "There's more, though. You know I got deep contacts in the FBI? Hell, I could have been a Fed myself, but I told those suit-and-tie assholes right to their faces: 'Harry Stacey is a man of the streets', I said -"

  Crane rolled his eyes. He'd heard this story a dozen times, the day Harry Stacey turned down the FBI, and the truth was a little more prosaic. Harry was in a twice-weekly poker game with a filing clerk at the Bureau. When Harry needed minor information on FBI operations, he either forgave a debt or two or - on those occasions when he was not owed - leaned on one of the local whores to give the clerk a free ride. Like so much of the detritus that made up Harry's life, it was rotten to the core, and Crane found himself wishing he could simply reach forward and break the disgusting little man's neck. But it was necessary sometimes, when fighting the darkness that riddled Manhattan like a cancer, to perform acts that were themselves unsavoury - morally dubious, even. The Blood-Spider knew that very well.