Infernum Omnibus

by Percival Constantine

  “Yeah,” she said. “That's him.”

  “You're sure?” asked the pathologist. She nodded. The pathologist spoke into a voice recorder. “The body has been positively identified as Christian Pierce.”

  He slid the body back inside the drawer and then motioned to another one. “Maybe you can help me with this one.”

  “I'll try,” she said.

  He opened the second drawer and pulled the body out. Julie looked down at the man's face but couldn't recognize him in the least. She shook her head. “No, never seen him before. What's the connection?”

  “One of the people from your organization said you'd want to see him, considering what he was wearing when he was brought in.”

  “What was he wearing?” she asked.

  The pathologist closed the drawer and picked up something from a metal dish. He tossed it to her. Julie examined the object she just caught. A gold signet ring, with the Chinese character for fire carved into the top. She gripped it and sighed.

  ***

  “The body was found in a rented penthouse on the waterfront. The name on the lease was Arthur White but the security guards stated that the man wanted them to refer to him as Dante.”

  Julie stood before the Infernum task force, her hair pulled up and glasses over her eyes as the image switched from the body to a close-up on the signet ring.

  “This was the ring that was found with the body, which is what Agent Pierce described in his reports,” she said. “Based on all this information, I believe it's safe to say that the man we know as Dante, the head of Infernum, is now dead. Killed by former Agency operative Angela Lockhart.”

  “Thank you, Agent Kim,” said Chandler. “What do you think this means for the rest of the organization?”

  “A group that large would not simply dissolve overnight,” said Julie. “We're still in the process of locating the sniper who killed Agent Pierce and we have some promising leads on that front. But we believe Dante had contingency plans in place for the organization to continue in the event of his death. I'm afraid, Director, that we haven't seen the last of them.”

  “And Lockhart?”

  “Vanished, we've been able to find no trace of her anywhere,” said Julie.

  “Okay, that will be all, Agent. Thank you for that enlightening report,” said Chandler.

  “Sir, if I may, I have one more thing I would like to add.” Chandler gestured for her to continue. “Based on the strategy he developed and the outcome of said strategy, I request that Agent Pierce be honored posthumously.”

  “I will take that request under advisement, Agent Kim, thank you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said and moved back to her seat.

  Chandler looked through his notes, coming to a quick realization. “One more thing, Agent Kim. How did you say Dante was killed?”

  “I apologize for leaving that out, sir,” she said. “It was a gunshot wound to the head.”

  ***

  A man emerged from the front entrance of the hospital, walking towards the limousine that waited outside. He moved slowly and wore a pair of large, orange-tinted aviator sunglasses.

  The driver opened the back door and helped him inside the car. He found a young Asian woman sitting across from him with her legs crossed. The woman nodded to the driver once he got situated and the car started and began to pull away from the hospital. The woman pressed a button on her armrest and the window separating them from the driver slid into place.

  “How are you feeling?” she asked.

  “Tauna my dear, I do not recommend getting hit with the business end of your own sword,” said Dante, cringing a bit as he moved. “God, I could use a scotch.”

  Tauna nodded and opened a small refrigerator, drawing out a glass with the liquid splashing over the ice and handed it to him. Dante smiled as she did, sipping it.

  “Ahh, this is why I keep you around, love.”

  “I should inform you that Lockhart has gone missing, and quite a large sum of your petty cash was stolen from the rented penthouse. Her account has since been drained as well,” said Tauna. “I will find her, though.”

  “No, let her go,” said Dante.

  “What? Why? She tried to kill you.”

  “And in doing so, she gave us a bit of breathing space. The Agency will let up for a bit now that they believe I'm dead.”

  “What about the money?”

  Dante dismissed her with a wave of his hand. “Petty cash, like you said. Consider it a refund of her pension plan.”

  “There is something else,” said Tauna. “Carl Flint called, he's having some difficulties. Said you promised to help him out if the heat became too much.”

  “Call him back,” said Dante. “After ridding us of Pierce, he deserves all the help we can provide.”

  ***

  The immigration agent examined the passport and looked up at the woman who stood before him. She finally scanned the passport, stamped it in the appropriate place, and handed it back. “Enjoy Moscow, Ms. Pierce.”

  The woman who had been identified as Anna Pierce smiled and took her passport, walking through immigration and towards her plane.

  OUTLAW BLUES

  THEN

  He paused on the stage as he listened for the drummer to begin the introduction to the piece. As he waited, he placed his lips around the mouthpiece, moistening the reed just enough to prepare it for the performance. He waited for the timing, listening to the drummer’s rhythm and then blew inside the saxophone.

  The dim lights of the bar reflected off the instrument’s silver finish as the saxophonist began his piece. His fingers danced along the keys, a tune both sorrowful and upbeat at the same time echoing throughout the small tavern. The music reflected the pain the musician felt in his soul, but at the same time communicated his enjoyment and his peace at simply playing his instrument.

  Musicians sometimes joke that the saxophone is a “P.H.D.” instrument—“press here, dumbass.” It doesn’t require the same amount of mouth control as the brass or even some woodwinds, you just press a key, blow and instant music.

  Carl Flint knew differently.

  He knew that for any instrument, regardless of complexity, the one thing necessary to produce true music was simple.

  Passion.

  Passion for life, passion for memory, passion for anything. The instrument was simply a tool to communicate that passion. Whereas the writer would rely on the pen, the musician relied on his instrument. But passion was always the key ingredient.

  Without passion, music didn’t exist. Carl Flint understood this. Especially because for him, music was the only passion he had left.

  He finished his set and no applause came. No surprise, given that there were only four people in the bar besides him and the drummer. Two of them were regulars so engrossed in their particular brand of poison that they were practically passed out. The third was the man tending bar and the fourth sat in the rear, smoking a cigarette, his face obscured by the darkness.

  Flint took off the neck strap and set the saxophone down on its stand. He climbed off the stage and went over to the bar, taking a seat before the server.

  “The usual, boss?”

  Flint nodded. “My cancer sticks, too.” The bartender set down a pack of cigarillos with a small box of wood matches. Flint tore open his prize and placed it between his lips, igniting the tip of the cigar with one of the matches. A moment later, the bartender set down a glass filled with golden liquid, the ice clinking against the side.

  As Flint alternated between puffs on the cigarillo and sips of the double Jack on the rocks, the stranger came over towards him and occupied the empty stool without an invitation.

  “Good set.”

  “Thanks,” said Flint.

  “Been a long time, Flint.”

  Flint used his peripheral vision to get his first look at the stranger and instantly wished he hadn’t. “Jackal.”

  “Glad you remember me,” said the stranger. “But I’ve to
ld you before, it’s Jaquel.”

  “I prefer my version.”

  “I bet you do.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What, a guy can’t come down to visit an old friend?”

  “We were never friends. Wouldn’t even call us acquaintances.”

  “Be that as it may, I’ve got something that might interest you,” said Jackal.

  “I’m retired,” said Flint.

  “And how’s that working out for you?”

  Flint offered no response.

  “C’mon man, you’re sitting here, running some blues bar—”

  “I make a good living running this place.”

  Jackal glanced around the room as he smoked his cigarette and chuckled a little. “Oh yeah, I can see that. This place is really jumping.”

  “It’s a weeknight, what do you expect?”

  “Do you at least wanna hear what I have to offer?”

  “Do I look like I’m interested?”

  “Most people would say no, but I know differently.” Jackal flicked the ash from his cigarette in the tray. “I know you’re looking for a way out, a way to retire peacefully somewhere nice and quiet, preferably tropical. Instead, you’re stuck here in this dive, playing music that no one listens to.”

  “Did he send you?” asked Flint.

  Jackal smiled. “See? Tough guy routine aside, you are interested.”

  Flint felt his blood pressure rise. “Cut the crap and just answer the damn question. I’m in no mood for your shit.”

  Jackal took another drag on his cigarette and nodded. “It’s him.”

  “Christ...” muttered Flint. “Dante.”

  “The one and only. There’s a mark here in the city, he thought you’d be willing to come out of retirement for this one.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because you’re one of the best marksmen he’s ever seen, that’s why.”

  “Oh go to hell, Jackal, we both know he never did that ranking crap. So I ask you again—why me? He’s got any number of go-to guys, so why doesn’t he go to one of them for this?”

  “Okay, so it’s obvious placating your ego isn’t going to get me anywhere.”

  “Exactly, so why don’t you just tell me the real story? What makes me so goddamned special that he wants me for this job?”

  “One word—convenience,” said Jackal. “It’s an urgent job, he needs it done immediately. And he figures contracting you for it would be faster—and cheaper—than flying someone else in and risk missing his window.”

  “I haven’t fired a gun in five years,” said Flint. He looked at his right hand, stretching out the fingers. “Digits aren’t what they used to be.”

  “You still have your equipment though, right?”

  Flint hesitated. Used that hesitation to take a large gulp of his whiskey and a few puffs on the cigar. “Yeah, I still got it.”

  “Of course you do, bet you still clean them every day.”

  “Week.”

  Jackal shrugged. “Close enough. Besides, seeing you up there with that sax, seems like your fingers still move pretty well.”

  “Maybe so, but reflexes aren’t the same,” said Flint. “Cleaning is a game for young guns. I’m pushing fifty. I drink, I smoke, and I don’t exercise for shit. What makes you think I can handle a job like this?”

  “Your eyesight still good?”

  “As good as ever.”

  “Then you could be in a wheelchair for all the big man cares. It’s a distance hit, we just need him sniped.”

  “You said this was an urgent job.”

  “That I did.”

  “How urgent is urgent?”

  “Dante figured you might have some trepidation given how your last assignment went. So he’s giving you some time to think it over,” said Jackal.

  “How very generous.” muttered Flint. “How much time?”

  Jackal threw a few bills on the bar to cover his tab. “I’ll be back tomorrow night expecting your final answer.”

  “Don’t bother. The answer’s no.”

  “The job pays fifty.”

  “Thousand?”

  Jackal nodded.

  “Pretty decent chunk of change,” said Flint. “Still not interested.”

  “C’mon Flint, the hell’s the matter with you? You could do this job with your eyes closed and it pays a lot.”

  “The last job.”

  Jackal nodded. “Okay, fair enough. Things got messed up, but you walked away from a lot of cash that time. Cash that could’ve helped that girl. Think what you could do with that money now.”

  Flint hesitated before he responded with, “who’s the target?”

  “That information is on a strictly need-to-know basis. And until you accept, you don’t need to know.”

  “If I’m walkin’ into a shitstorm, I need to know which way the wind’s blowing.”

  “Relax, you grizzled old bastard,” said Jackal. “You know how the big man operates. This is nothing you can’t handle and no one you’ll shed any tears for, I can promise you that much.”

  “Tomorrow night, then?” asked Flint.

  Jackal grabbed his cigarettes and lighter before standing. “You got it, cowboy. I’ll see you then.”

  Once Jackal left, the bartender returned to collect the money. He counted it with a grunt before depositing it in the register. “Cheap bastard didn’t leave a tip.”

  “Not surprised,” said Flint.

  “Friend of yours?”

  “Don’t got any friends and if I did, I sure as hell wouldn’t count the Jackal among them.”

  “Don’t mind me saying boss, but he seemed to have you a bit rattled.”

  Flint locked eyes with the bartender. “I do mind you saying.”

  “Sorry sir,” said the bartender, now staring intently at his own shoes. Without looking up, he added, “so what did he want to talk to you about?”

  “Mickey, I pay you to pour drinks, not to ask questions.”

  Mickey nodded. “Sorry for being curious. I’m a bartender, it’s in my nature.”

  “And it’s in my nature to keep my business my own.”

  “Right, sorry boss.”

  Flint glanced over his shoulder at the two regulars who remained. “Get them up.”

  “Want me to call them a cab?” asked Mickey.

  “For all I care, you can leave them on the sidewalk. Just don’t want them in my place after hours.”

  “Got it.”

  “Good,” said Flint. He downed the rest of the whiskey and set the empty glass on the counter. “Lock up on your way out, I’m going upstairs to get some shut-eye.”

  “Have a good night, boss.”

  Flint set his hands on the counter and pushed up to get off the stool. As he moved towards a door at the back of the tavern, he muttered under his breath.

  “The hell’s so good about it, huh?”

  He ascended the staircase to the single room apartment above the bar. Once inside, he kicked off his shoes and removed his shirt. Flint caught sight of his naked chest in the mirror, running his calloused fingertips along the lines of his torso. Tracing the scars that stood there from battles long over. Each one had a story to tell and each story Flint wished he could forget. He looked into the eyes of the man who stared back at him in the mirror. His skin was creased from age and his formerly jet-black hair was thinning at the top and lightening at the temples. Even the stubble on his face had gone from black to gray and his dark brown eyes looked tired.

  He sighed and opened the door to the closet. Flint reached for the shelf above the hanging clothes and pulled out a large, black case.

  Inside sat an old shotgun and two long-barrel revolvers. Custom-made but with a look that resembled the old Colt Peacemaker. Flint removed one of them and opened the chamber, staring at each empty hole.

  “We may be too old for this life, girl. But something tells me we’re going in for one last ride. And I’m bettin’ it’ll be the one that finally does
us in.”

  NOW

  Antonio Rodriguez recognized the rugged white man with the long duster coat. He immediately took a bottle of Patrón from the shelf and filled a shot glass. The man slid onto the seat as Antonio laid the shot in front of him.

  His name was Joe Lawrence, although some of the kids referred to him as Old Man Joe. He wasn’t that old, maybe in his fifties, but Drunk Silent Joe doesn’t have the same ring to it. He came into this town about six months ago, bought an old house on the waterfront. Antonio didn’t know what the man did, but he never seemed to have a shortage of money, and he was in the bar almost every night, usually swallowing shot after shot.

  Joe rarely spoke. He sat at the bar night after night, sporting gray whiskers that complimented the salt and pepper hair on his head. His eyes were dark, his face lined with wrinkles. His eyes seemed far older than he was—a man who had obviously seen too much in his time.

  Antonio didn’t mind Old Man Joe. He dropped a lot of money, and he tipped well. He never tried to get fresh with any of the local young women who frequented the bar—hell, he never even looked at them. And he never started any fights. Far as Antonio was concerned, Old Man Joe was a model customer.

  Joe reached inside that old jacket of his and drew a cigar wrapped in plastic. He took the wrapping off and with a wood match, lit the end of it. Antonio could tell it was one of those cheap cigars, but Joe didn’t seem to mind.

  Antonio heard a racket coming from outside. Some hooting and hollering. He tried to ignore it as he refilled Joe’s glass. Hoping it was just some local guys who had too much to drink and stumbling home. Hoping it wasn’t his men.

  The bar door opened and three guys stumbled in. Young and strong. They weren’t locals, which meant they were probably employed by the man in charge around town. The three men stumbled towards the bar, nearly falling against it and each other, laughing as they did.

  “Three beers, Rodrigo,” said one of them. He was bald.

  “Rodriguez,” said Antonio under his breath as he took three empty beer glasses.