by S T Branton
“What’s up?” I asked.
It took him a long time to answer, and when he finally found some words, there weren’t very many of them. “I do not understand.”
“Talk to me. Maybe I can help.”
Surprisingly, I felt sorry for the guy. Maybe he was a weirdo from the way past, the way future, or whatever god-realm he kept talking about, and maybe tracking a theoretical hero down in a totally foreign world was a little outside my sphere of experience, but I knew what it was like to be let down.
“How could he not accept the duel?” Marcus wondered out loud. He obviously didn’t expect me to answer, but I let him ask the question. “It is part of the sacred binding words of Carcerum. If the king should fall and the realm be breached, a warrior whose worth is proven in battle shall be selected from the masses.”
Okay, so he didn’t sound any less crazy now than he had before this whole hero deal became a major issue. But since it had fallen through in such a big way, I thought I might be able to talk some sort of sense into him.
“Marcus, have you thought that maybe you won’t find a warrior here? Like, is it possible we just don’t make warriors like you anymore?”
“No.” He was resolute. “The human spirit is not easily altered or broken. There is a warrior here. I know it.”
“Then, could it be that you don’t personally have the greatest sense of who that person might actually be?”
He thought deeply about that one for a few minutes. “Yes.” His broad shoulders slumped again. “When I fought in the old empire, before my service to Kronin, I took great pride in my ability to select superior soldiers from a throng of hundreds. I suppose not all things can endure the test of time.”
I put my hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. Cameron Cruze does his own stunts. If he weren’t such a weenie little asshole, I bet he would make a great hero. So, you weren’t that far off.”
“Far enough.” Nothing could dissuade Marcus’s dull mood.
I had just decided to give him his space when I spotted something out of the corner of my eye that made me turn all the way around. My heart jumped into my throat. Frank, the flunky from Rocco’s bar, shambled down the sidewalk in a dirty overcoat with his huge hands shoved deep into his pockets. I only caught a glimpse of his profile, but it told me everything I needed to know.
He looked rough. Beat up. Prime for some strategic information gathering.
Marcus wasn’t the only one with a mission.
“Stay here,” I said to the Roman. “Don’t move an inch. I just saw something real interesting. I’ll be right back.”
He didn’t acknowledge me at all. I jumped to my feet and pursued Frank along the side of the building, staying barely at a safe range. Like Marcus, Frank seemed oblivious to the world around him. He kept his head down around the next two corners, and then, he ducked through the door of a dive even worse than Rocco’s. I wrinkled my nose.
At least Rocco had VIP service in the back. This place looked like it just had cockroaches.
Still, Frank might know something too valuable to lose. So, I went in after him.
The place stunk like a live-in ashtray. A “no smoking” sign was tacked above the dingy bar, but it was so blackened by cigarette smoke that I could barely tell what it said. I made the mistake of breathing in too deeply, coughed, and wiped the stinging soot from my eyes. How did anyone survive in this awful hellhole? Still, I could see silhouettes—presumably living people—through the nasty fog. One of them was Frank.
I was not about to let him get off easy.
He didn’t notice me gliding through the smokescreen to arrive beside his table. He was too busy wiping the lip of his water glass. It was sort of reassuring to see that even he knew the bar was grungy as shit.
“Hi, Frankie,” I said.
He glared me down with red-lined, bleary eyes. “Aww, get the hell out of here, kid. Didn’t you do me wrong enough last time?”
The fact that he recognized me at all was a sign that I might have underestimated him, at least, a bit. I kept that in mind as I leaned over his table, smiling. “Nah. I could have popped you off real easy. I didn’t, but I could have.”
He scowled. “Next time, maybe you could make the gun barrel taste like chocolate cake. The hell do you want, anyways?”
“I need to know where Rocco is.”
“Heh.” He inspected the edge of his glass. “And what makes you think I know something like that?”
“You’re a big guy, Frank.” I gave his generous stomach a friendly pat. “You can hold your own with the big dogs, can’t you?”
“Rocco don’t talk to me,” he replied sourly. “Especially not after I got my ass handed to me by some fresh whore in fancy shoes.” He’d stopped watching me. His guard was down.
I seized the opportunity—literally. My fist clamped down around his family jewels, and Frank’s eyes just about fell out of their sockets. He blew out his cheeks like a pufferfish jonesing for a drink of something strong.
“Don’t scream,” I told him conversationally. “In fact, don’t do or say anything except what I ask you to. One false move, and you’ll be singing soprano in the church choir.” I grabbed the wadded napkin he’d used to clean his glass and stuffed it in his mouth. “There. For good measure.”
Beads of sweat stood out on his greasy forehead. He held out for a decent time, but once my fingernails dug in, he cried uncle fast. “Rocco’s not here!” He spit out the napkin. “He’s not here. He’s not anywhere.”
“He’s gotta be somewhere, Frank.” I made my voice as soothing as possible. “Think hard. I’m sure you’ve got it tucked away in some cranny of your massive brain.”
His face turned sulky and resentful. “You’re a real rattlesnake, girlie. Them things you say can hurt people.”
“The things I do can hurt people, too, Frank. And if you call me girlie, or sweetums,” I squeezed down harder, “or whore again, I’ll hurt you in ways no man can recover from.”
He swallowed. “The boss went underground, all right? Jeezum Crow. He went underground, and ain’t nobody heard shit from him since then. That’s all I can tell you. I swear. No forwarding address.”
“You better not be lying, or I’ll use that fork as a skewer,” I said. As proof of my seriousness, I grabbed it in my other hand.
Frank winced. “That’s it, you damned hellion. That’s it! The only other thing I know is, there’s some new guy skulking around. Don’t got a name yet, but the boys are saying he’s worse than Rocco. Ten times worse. A hundred times worse.”
“Oh?” That was new and interesting. “You seen him?”
“Only once. He don’t come out during the day. And he looks like he don’t wash his hair, neither. Real scary-like, though. Don’t get me wrong. You can’t just go screwing with him.”
“Who says I’m gonna?”
“Come on, kid. I wasn’t born yesterday.” Frank brought up a hand and pulled at his shirt collar. “Now let my stones out of your vise-grip, will ya? Hell on wheels. Who taught you how to handle a guy like that?” My face must have been set to mean because he backed off immediately. “Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
“You’re sure Rocco’s gone?” I demanded.
“He’s sure as hell out of my reach.” Frank adjusted himself and pushed his chair back on its hind legs. He examined me through hooded eyes. “What’s it to you?”
“None of your business,” I grumbled.
I was upset. How could I have let Rocco Durant slip through my fingers like that, only days after getting closer than I had ever been? The reality of it made my heart hurt.
“Oh, I getcha.” Frank nodded sagely. “You and Durant have a score to settle.” He picked up the fork and tapped the tines idly against the threadbare tablecloth. “Well, you’re right. That’s none of my business. But a girl like you wouldn’t be in a place like this without one hell of a good reason, eh?” He motioned me closer. “I got an idea. The one time I see
n that new guy, he was on his way to the place we just bought in the old meat district. Hasn’t been fixed up yet. It’s not your grandmother’s neighborhood.” He glanced around to make sure no one was listening in. “But if I were Rocco Durant, that’s where I’d go.”
I stared deep into Frank’s eyes, searching for any hint of deception and finding none. “Do me a favor and write that down for me, Frankie.” Then I turned toward the bartender. “I need your biggest glass, and I need it filled to the brim with ice. It’s for my new friend here.”
I stood and turned toward the door, palming the slip of paper Frank had scrawled on. Without looking back, I said, “Always a pleasure Frank. See you around.”
The sound of his squeak was all the goodbye I needed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Marcus hadn’t listened when I told him to stay put. It wasn’t surprising, but I was a little annoyed nonetheless. His shenanigans grew less amusing the longer they dragged on. I was beginning to see this hero thing for what I really suspected it was: pure, unfiltered arrogance.
Who was he to come stomping down from his personal paradise, demanding that someone else rise to meet his needs? The more I thought about it, the more it bothered me.
I finally found him all the way over near my place, standing in front of Mac’s newspaper stand. The scene was disappointingly familiar: a grown-ass man making a scene because he couldn’t buy a paper. This time, the underlying problem was different. Also, Marcus didn’t have a fat wallet for me to pickpocket so that I could feel better about things.
“Mister, I can’t sell you a magazine if you don’t have any money,” Mac said, shrugging. “Then I’d just be giving them away, and I can’t afford to do that.”
“And you would refuse my offer of a trade?” Marcus asked incredulously.
Mac chuckled. “The barter system’s a long way gone, pal. These days, it’s money or nothing.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. This cannot be happening to me. Gathering my resolve, I marched up behind Marcus and tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey, Wonder Tunic. What’s going on here?”
“I merely wished to exchange with this gentleman for a book, yet he will not allow it!” Marcus spoke with genuine outrage, gesturing broadly at the little stand.
“Right, because like he said, you don’t have money.” I fished the formerly fat wallet out of my purse. “Lucky for you, I happen to have some.” I put a dollar on the counter. “Just the magazine for him. Keep the change. Consider it an inconvenience fee.” Mac raised his bushy eyebrows at me, and I shook my head. “Come on, Marcus. Let’s get home before this shitty day slides any further into the dumps.” I led him away and glanced at the periodical in his hand. “Why’d you want that so bad, anyway?”
He displayed the cover proudly. “Behold! I have found a new hero.”
I rolled my eyes so hard they nearly fell out of my skull. “Okay, first of all, that is not a hero. That is a guy who stars in yogurt commercials for middle-aged women. Second, did you learn nothing from today? Nothing at all?”
“All failure is but a minor setback and must simply be overcome.” Marcus would not take his gaze away from the magazine cover. “We must find this warrior at once. Much time has been lost to other pursuits.”
“Yeah, pursuits that happened because of you.” I’d had it with his bullshit. I was not about to go traipsing all over New York in search of a handsome sitcom actor turned yogurt spokesperson. He could be in California, for all I knew. Or Florida. Or literally anywhere. “I think we’ve done more than enough of your stuff for one day. It’s time for you to help me. I’ve got a lead. It’s a warehouse in the Meatpacking District.”
Marcus shook his head. “I cannot be distracted. More now than ever I need to be true to my course. The true hero is out there, waiting for me to find him.”
I clenched my fists. “There are no heroes, man! We’re all just miserable people trying to make our way in a shitty world. We don’t care about gods or war or that swanky golden place you used to live in. We just want to survive!” I glared at him. “Or maybe you forgot that’s what my quest is about. Survival and vengeance. Real shit. Not some mythical donkey piss about heroes.”
“If you want to continue in your unbelief, that is your choice,” Marcus told me, his voice unwavering. “My quest for a warrior sits above all else.”
That was enough for me. I got right up in his face, standing so that he couldn’t walk any further without bowling me over. “I will continue in my unbelief. And you can keep chasing down your damned hero. But next time you get thrown behind bars, just remember that it was your belief that got you there.”
I spun on my heel and stormed off down the street, fuming. It didn’t sound like he was following, nor did he call out to me as I left. Whatever. I had far more important things to think about at the moment, like the address I had gotten from Frank before leaving the bar.
I headed for the nearest bus stop, reaching into my purse. There was the wallet, there was my phone, and there was a certain sword hilt.
Marcus had never even felt it disappear.
His ranting about the gods might be bullshit, but this sword had some serious stopping power. And I was not about to turn down the opportunity to run Durant through with it.
I took up my post by the bus stop marker.
Next stop: sweet revenge.
***
The bus rumbled down Horatio Street at the southern border of the Meatpacking District, pitching and weaving with the driver’s lead foot. There were open seats, but I stood above the stairs leading out the back door. I was way too wired to sit. The address Frank had given me burned in my eyes even when I closed them.
I couldn’t stop thinking, I should have known.
Which was absolutely, one hundred percent crazy. Despite all the legwork I’d done over the past five years, it was still a crapshoot every time. I had to be careful, or else the assholes might start to recognize me. Yeah, I knew my way around the mob scene better than I ever thought I would, but each scrap of the puzzle had a lot of luck mixed in. Too much, maybe.
I’d gotten this far because I was smart and because I had talked to, punched, and hunted down the right people. If they were all instructed to keep the new place hush-hush, then they weren’t going to tell the nosy broad poking around in places she didn’t belong. As soon as Frank mentioned the Meatpacking District, though, things sort of clicked in my head.
Really, where else would the pricks run off to? An old slaughterhouse seemed more or less like Rocco Durant’s natural habitat. I shoved my hands deep in the pockets of my sweatshirt and glowered at my shoes. A robotic female voice announced the next stop.
Mine.
Nobody looked up as I stepped off the bus. I turned left and walked a block. The building was a brick-fronted hulk, long, squat, and ugly as sin. A couple of its windows were broken, and in places, the façade had begun to crumble. When Frank said new, evidently, he meant it. Rocco Durant never let dumps stay dumps for long. In a month, this place would be cleaned up, a blank slate.
Good thing I was here early.
Three doors—right, left, and center—lined the ground floor. The double set in the middle had a huge, heavy padlock on a boat chain looped through the handles. So, that was out. Even if I could figure out how to pick that thing, with my luck, it would break my foot when it hit the ground. I turned my attention to the sides.
The right was guarded by a couple of roided-up meatheads, their eyes shielded by giant, reflective sunglasses. They looked like wax figures standing there in the shadow of the overhang with their arms crossed in front of them. One of them held a serious-looking gun. It was currently pointed down at the ground.
I sure as hell didn’t want it pointed at me.
It was hard to tell where Thing One and Thing Two were looking on account of the sunglasses. Their inhumanly chiseled faces pointed away from me for the moment, so I continued strolling casually along the sidewalk, pretending to mind my own bus
iness. I had the distinct feeling that lingering too long would be a death sentence.
Fortunately, the guards on the left were hardly as attentive as their gym-bro counterparts. In fact, they barely looked old enough to drink, let alone to be hanging around an abandoned slaughterhouse that had been recently purchased by the mob.
I watched them trade hits from a hand-rolled cigarette with a telltale skunky smell. They took their eyes off their phone screens maybe once a minute.
Perfect time for a little recon.
They didn’t see me slide into the alley running adjacent to the building. I picked my way through a minefield of trash bags, trying not to think about how much time I’d spent in alleys lately. I wished I had thought to bring something to cover my face. I wasn’t worried about being recognized for once, but the smell could have peeled paint.
The passage was littered with more garbage and general debris, but it was otherwise unguarded. It ended at a short wall, which I hopped over, and I found myself in a narrow courtyard lined with dumpsters. I ducked through a cloud of flies, grimacing.
“Nice place you got here, Rocco,” I muttered.
Around the corner, the space opened up into a series of loading docks. My breath caught in my throat, and I ducked down behind one of the dumpsters. The area was deserted, but movement caught my eye up in the bank of dirty windows on the second floor.
I squinted. The mask of dust made it hard to identify the figure standing with his back to the sill. Then, he made a half turn toward me, and I knew who it was.
Rocco Durant.
That son of a bitch. I balled my hand into a fist and beat it against my thigh. As if he was hanging out in an abandoned building just to spite me. As if I hadn’t shown up specifically looking for him.
All I wanted to do was turn around and haul ass inside, but this time, I managed to exercise restraint. I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes and let out a pained groan. Once again, I had rushed in unprepared.
