by Debra Dunbar
“Sounds complicated.”
“Like I said, I just do it. And I know what I can get away with and what’s going to cause me trouble.”
Fern sipped her wine. “Then you are a rare man, indeed.”
He frowned, unsure what that meant.
“You doin’ okay?” he whispered.
“What do you mean?”
Vincent tried to lean in, but she stiffened, so he held his place. “I saw those marks on your arm, a week ago,” he whispered.
She reflexively pulled her arm behind her.
“Look, if Cooper’s hurting you, there’s guys who’ll take care of him.”
“Like who?” Her voice was brittle.
“Like me,” Vincent replied before he had a chance to think about the ramifications of what he was offering. Cooper was family. He wasn’t. The price for sticking his nose in would be steep, but could he stand back and do nothing while that pig hurt a woman? He’d been complicit in the slaughter of so many. And that boy the other week… There had to be something he stood up for. Something or someone. Otherwise wasn’t he just the monster they made him out to be?
“Don’t.” She looked away. “Everything’s okay. Don’t interfere. You’ll only be stirring up trouble for yourself.”
“It’s not right. He shouldn’t be treating you like that.”
She set her wine down and turned for the lobby. “It was nice seeing you again, Vincent.”
“Oh, wait. Don’t go. I’m sorry for upsetting you.”
She paused.
“It’s bad luck to waste champagne,” he added.
Fern sighed, then turned to face him. A bruise-purple half-circle hung beneath her right eye. Vincent sucked in a breath.
“I’m perfectly fine, Vincent,” she stated with exaggerated clarity. “But thank you for your concern.”
She took her flute, drained it, then handed it to him with a smile that wobbled a bit at the edges. Vincent gripped the stem of the flute dumbly, watching as she turned and made a quick exit.
A knot formed in his chest, and not from his powers. This was volcanic. Magma threatening to shoot up and out of his throat. What sort of untamed animal did that to a woman? He knew what sort…and he knew where the sonuvabitch did business.
Screw the ramifications.
Vincent set down both glasses and turned for the exit, abruptly altering his plans for the rest of the night. As he was about to leave Lefty stepped through the lobby doors, his wingtips clacking against the terrazzo floor. Vincent held up, taking several short breaths as Lefty approached.
“You weren’t at home,” Lefty grumbled.
“Having a drink,” Vincent replied through gritted teeth.
Lefty’s brow lifted. “What’s your beef?”
“Nothing. Just…got a problem I have to tend to.”
Lefty held up his arm, bracing it against Vincent’s shoulder. “I saw Fern walk out just a few seconds ago. You need to ice your heels.”
“You see her face?” Vincent spat.
“Listen, he’s a cur-dog. Everyone knows this. And sure, someone’s going to give him a what-for one of these days. Probably going to be Fern, but it can’t be you. And anyway, right now you and me have business.”
Vincent shook his head, staring at the doors. He released one more breath, then cleared his throat. “What business? It’s late.”
“I know, but this comes from Vito. There was some trouble down in Virginia.”
“Yeah, I heard. Tony’s on a toot back in the bar.”
Lefty shook his head. “Don’t half blame the palooka. He’s on a riot seat.”
“What’s our business?”
“Took me all day on the phone with the Richmond boys, but we got an agreement. We gotta blouse down to some finger of mud by the name of Deltaville and meet one of the Upright Citizens’ pinchers.”
Vincent squinted. “One of their pinchers?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
He shrugged. Vincent had met a pincher from New York City, and one from Philadelphia. But those were rare moments in his solitary life. Any chance to share space with another of his kind was golden. This might be a good night after all.
The drive to Richmond was longer than Vincent had counted on. Before they’d hit the road, he had changed into something less urban, and Lefty had made a stop at the church for whatever it was he did there. The sun had filled the eastern sky with powder-blue by the time they’d pulled onto a miserable gravel dust road leading into a ribbon of pine trees.
Lefty eased the car up a tiny grade until the trees gave way to a clearing of dog-eared shacks. Vincent stepped out of the car, taking in the odors swilling around the clearing. Pine. Old fish guts. And something like burned bacon, but sweeter. And sicker.
And then his eyes caught the source of the odor. Several bodies lay beneath tarps, most of them in a row.
Lefty wound his way around the front of the car, pointing to a spot at the far end of the clearing. A man stood alone, his back to them.
Lefty nodded to Vincent. “That’s the guy, I think.”
The man raised a hand, angling it just an inch or so. The wind eased off the water with the motion, sweeping away the foul smells of the clearing.
Vincent smirked. “Yeah, that’s our Jake.”
They approached the man, who was decked out in a light gray suit and fedora. He kept his hand in the air and turned at the very last minute. His face was genial, if smug. He had light blond hair and eyebrows, with piercing blue eyes. His nose angled at just too perfect a shape to look natural. The man appeared as if he was chiseled from some hunk of marble by Michelangelo.
“Gentlemen,” he purred. “Which one of you is Vincent Calendo?”
Vincent extended a hand. “That’s me.”
He shook Vincent’s hand with an alarmingly firm grip. “Elmer Capstein. It’s a genuine pleasure.” The man spoke with a white bread accent, no hint of color or heritage.
Lefty nodded. “You been here long?”
Capstein gestured at the campsite. “Only about an hour. What we’re looking at is a massacre.”
Vincent turned to take in the scene. At least a dozen bodies had been covered.
“You policed these bodies?” Lefty asked.
“I brought canvas, just in case. Almost didn’t bring enough.”
“What happened?” Vincent asked.
“That’s what we’re here to determine,” Capstein answered. “We know this.” He stepped forward to approach the road entrance. “We sent a party to pick up a delivery of six barrels from you people.”
Lefty corrected him. “Four.”
“My people say six.”
Vincent muttered, “Maybe we’re onto what went sideways?”
Capstein pointed to the nearest sheds as he continued. “I found wood all chewed up from bullets. Hell of a firefight.”
Lefty said, “If your men got itchy over missing two barrels, things probably fell to shit.”
“I’d accept that,” Capstein said, “only for the fact that all these bodies were burned.”
“Burned?” Vincent asked.
“Yes.”
“Who would just burn a body and leave it lying here?”
Capstein smirked. “That’s the question.” He took a seat on the tailgate of an unblemished truck, slapping his hand against…something. A cloud of dust lifted from dried mud, slaking off to reveal barrels. “Another question being, who’d do this and leave four barrels of giggle water just sitting here all loaded nice and tight in a perfectly good truck?”
“These barrels came from West Virginia. I recognize the brand,” Lefty said.
Vincent leaned in to brush away more of the mud, revealing a florid wood-burned DF-WV brand. “These came from that business with Tony and Coop?”
Lefty lifted a brow at Vincent, who decided to clam up. Capstein hopped back off the barrel, dusting off his trousers with a flick of a finger and a sudden gust of wind.
Vincent grinned at the
motion. “So, you’re an air pincher, huh?”
Capstein’s smirk broadened into a genuine smile. “Born and bred. And you, sir, I hear are a time pincher. I find that impressive, believe you me.”
They shook hands once again.
Lefty interrupted with a grumble. “These weren’t our men. All our water traffic goes to freelance boat-leggers.”
Capstein shrugged. “Then your men better say some prayers and give at church, because your boat-leggers are fried up nice and crisp.”
“Feds?” Vincent asked.
“No,” replied Capstein. “Feds may plug them all with lead, but this sort of thing is just…medieval.”
“Any signs of car tracks?” Lefty eyed the gravel road.
“This truck was the only thing in and out. Doesn’t discount a water assault, though.”
Lefty shrugged his assent, then moved out to investigate the scene further. Capstein approached Vincent, hands in his pockets. Vincent gave him a nod, and the two watched as Lefty poked and prodded at the truck, the barrels, and the surrounding shacks.
At length, Vincent straightened up, then snapped his fingers.
“Lefty,” he called from across the clearing, “what if this was the work of a pincher? Like, say a fire pincher?”
“No,” Lefty said, “Not possible.”
“Why not?” Vincent prodded.
Lefty answered, “Because there’s no such thing.”
Capstein added, “He’s right. Pinchers come in all sorts of colors and flavors, but no fire pinchers.”
“Oh.” Vincent looked over to Lefty. “How did you know that?”
Lefty shook his head. “Think you’re the first pincher I’ve met?”
Capstein took a step forward, his face easing into a calculating cast. “However…”
“What?” Vincent asked.
“Well, it’s ridiculous. Odds are practically impossible. But, if we’re talking about any given possibility…this could be the work of a Hell pincher.”
Lefty cocked his head. “I never heard of no Hell pincher before.”
“I suspect not.”
Vincent made a winding motion with his open palm, and Capstein cleared his throat. “Hell pinchers. They’re not like you and me. Not born with our powers. They’re something different. They have access to dark, ancient secrets. Old secrets. Secrets that punch through the normal order of things.”
“So…wizards?” Lefty asked.
“It’s not a terrible term for it,” Capstein answered. “They study dark arts. Methods of twisting nature and exerting their powers over the forces of Hell itself. Hence the moniker.”
Vincent released a low whistle. “That’s some head cheese!”
Capstein snapped his fingers. “In fact…” He trotted away without finishing his sentence.
Vincent and Lefty exchanged glances, then rushed after Capstein as they took a turn down a slight hill toward the water’s edge…
…and a burned-out shack with a tin roof.
“What?” Vincent prodded as they came to a halt in front of the shack.
Capstein led them on, off the gravel path, past the shack, and nearly to the water’s edge.
“Peel your eyes on that.” He pointed to the ground just above the tide line, lapping at the rocks and oyster shells tracing a white line along the coast.
Lefty crouched down, peering into the mud.
Vincent shook his head. “I don’t see nothing.”
“Then look harder,” Capstein chided.
Lefty nodded. “Yeah…this make sense to you, Vincent?”
Vincent sighed, then crouched down beside Lefty. “It’s mud.”
Lefty pointed, his finger inches from the surface of the mud, and Vincent finally saw what it was that had Capstein in a lather.
A tiny circle had been traced into the mud, now dried and semi-firm. Three arcs circumscribed the circle, not quite touching each other.
“Someone had a tickle for art?” Vincent shrugged.
“So, this don’t mean anything to you?” Lefty asked.
Vincent stood up. “Not a damn thing.”
Capstein eyed Vincent, then nodded his assent.
Lefty shook his head. “You think this is all because of some sorta Hell pincher witchcraft?”
“It’s possible. Worth looking up. It’s more than we had, at any rate.”
Lefty stood and dusted off the bottoms of his trousers. “So, we’re talking about a rogue element. Some maniac with a head full of mischief, and this had nothing to do with either Richmond or Baltimore.”
Capstein nodded.
Lefty continued, “It’s damned unfortunate, and our sympathies go out to you and the families of your men up there. But, when I go back to Baltimore, I have to tell Capo Vito something concrete.”
“And you don’t want to spin a yarn about warlocks? I understand,” Capstein said.
“I just need to know that the Upright Citizens aren’t holding this against the Baltimore Crew. If we iron that daisy out flat, then I think we’ll have sunny skies come tomorrow and the next day.”
Capstein snickered. “I assure you, I’m confident that the Baltimore Crew is not capable of this sort of violence.”
Lefty’s face took a hard edge, but Vincent chuckled. The three men withdrew from the shack, but Vincent paused, spotting something odd. “What’s that?” he asked, stepping toward the shack.
Capstein stiffened, then rushed to join him. “What is it? What’d I miss?”
Vincent paused at the side of the shack, running a finger along the outside of the planks. The finger came back covered in soot. But resting in the face of the wood, now cleared from who knows how much ash, was a deep rut.
“Don’t know,” Vincent muttered. “Sorta caught my eye.”
“What?” Capstein urged.
Vincent gestured in an arc. “You don’t see it?”
“No.”
Vincent reached into his lapel to pull his handkerchief and began dusting off a wide swath of wood. Once he was done, and his handkerchief was pitch black, the wood revealed an ornate set of carvings. Two circles, one scribed around the other, with tiny glyphs dug into the wood at jagged angles.
Lefty released a low whistle. “That, right there, is infernal.”
Capstein eyed the carving with suspicion, then leveled a glance at Vincent. “I’ve been here an hour and didn’t see this.”
Vincent shrugged. “I forgive you. Come on, let’s take in the rest of this joint.”
They circled the building, and when they were all the way around, Vincent had indicated one such carving on each of the four walls.
“It’s like whoever built this shack,” Vincent mumbled, “meant to keep something in.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Capstein.
“Just…I don’t know. They look like locks to me.”
“Locks?”
“Locks.”
Capstein shook his head. “The door’s ajar. Not like anything’s stuck inside.” He stepped toward the door, and Lefty lurched forward.
“You sure you want to do that?” Lefty asked. “I mean, if whoever burned up your boys is still here…”
Capstein grinned. “Then they’d have burned us up by now, don’t you think?”
He reached for the door. Vincent stood alongside him, peering through the crack of the opening at the darkness inside. Capstein eased the door open, which slid against crude hinges without much noise. Once the door was open, the three stared inside. The early morning rays still hung low over the eastern tree tops, and the scant light did little to illuminate the interior.
Vincent cleared his throat, then stepped inside the shack.
“Fellas?” he called from inside. “You should take a gander at this.”
Capstein and Lefty joined him. The shack was surprisingly roomy on the inside. A neat cot rested along the far wall. A series of hooks on the wall carried a cold-weather coat, a rain slicker, and the third was bare.
“Cozy,�
� Lefty muttered.
Vincent raised both hands, shooting his fingers at the walls. “This…this is something else.”
As their eyes adjusted, the other two noticed another glyph carved into the inside of the wooden planks. Then another. And another. Hundreds. On all walls. Even the ceiling. No two were alike, and none bore a letter of any language they understood.
Capstein sucked in a breath, then whispered, “They weren’t attacked from the water. This Hell pincher lives here. They just chose the wrong spot to do the drop off.”
Vincent gazed at the array of occult carvings. They seemed ham-fisted and rough, like a child trying to carve his name into a tree with a pocket knife.
Lefty repeated, “This Hell pincher lives here?”
“Most likely,” replied Capstein.
“Then, it’s in our interests to leave before he returns. Yes?”
The three men exchanged glances, then made a quick exit, taking care to close the door behind them. Once they were on the opposite side of the clearing, and the morning sun had bathed their faces in warm light, Capstein swung his arm toward the truck, and the Volvo parked just beyond.
“Gentlemen,” he declared. “Seeing that this was one enormous misunderstanding that nearly lead to some unpleasant business between our families, I suggest we capitalize on the opportunity and turn things around.”
Lefty squinted. “How so?”
“Come to Richmond,” Capstein answered. “Surely you haven’t eaten yet. The Upright Citizens would be honored to host you for the day. Show you the city. Build bridges.”
Vincent thought of the long drive down, and his back began to ache preemptively. “Sounds aces,” he said to Lefty. “I’m fit to eat a horse.”
Lefty nodded. “We’d be rude to say no.”
Capstein clapped his hands. “Excellent! You boys just follow me in. There’s a gin joint off the river that serves meals all hours. Cook’s name is Bertha, and she makes a poached egg and grits that’ll give you religion!”
Lefty sneered at the comment but stepped into his car without another word. Vincent followed suit. As the auto roared to life, and Lefty steered them after Capstein’s Volvo, Vincent turned in his seat to peer back down to the Hell Shack.
Those symbols. They were utterly alien to him. But they felt familiar…natural.
