Shrouds of Darkness

by Brock Deskins

  “Fuck off, white boy,” the kid says with complete contempt. “Get’cho ass outta here before I gut you too.”

  I almost smile—again I blame the buzz that fresh lifeblood gives me—as I advance on the youth and the crying, cowering girl.

  “Don’t move, bitch,” the kid orders the girl as he would a dog. “I’ll be back for you in a second.”

  Yeah, the kid has balls all right. He would have fared a hell of a lot better with less balls and more brains. It is apparent that neither of us is intimidated by the other. That will change in a second as two nighttime predators assert their dominance for their territory.

  When we are within six or seven feet of each other the kid lunges forward, knife leading and aimed straight at my heart with a darn good bit of skill and speed. It is obvious this is not his first knife fight, but it is definitely going to be his last.

  My left hand darts out faster than the eye can track and I grab his wrist in a vice-like grip that stops him dead in his tracks. A slight flick of my own wrist snaps both of the bones in his arm as if they were dry spaghetti noodles.

  “Mother fucker, you broke my fucking arm!” the kid cries out more in anger than pain.

  Luckily, for him, depending on how you look at it, he will be dead before the shock wears off and he feels every bit of pain such an injury produces.

  He takes a swing at me with his free hand but I slap it down with contemptuous ease. I release my grip on his ruined arm and open-palm slam him in his chest. I feel the ribcage compress and hear the bones crack as I send him flying backwards and knock him senseless on the unyielding brick wall.

  I look over at the girl just now getting up, unsure if her nightmare is over or just beginning. She is holding the torn ends of her blouse together in fear and modesty. Judging by what I can smell she was not so modest before she left her lover’s house.

  “Go on, go home, kid,” I tell her in a half growl.

  She walks shakily towards me and the end of the alley. With a nervous glance at her assailant, she rushes me, weeping.

  “Oh, God, thank you,” she cries as she tries to wrap her arms around me.

  I grab her by the front of her ruined blouse and send her wind milling towards the street. “I said get out of here, you stupid little bitch! Go home and think about this the next time you want to make a booty call in the middle of the night in shittiest part of the city!”

  She squeaks in terror and sprints down the alley and out onto the street. Yeah, I know I’m an asshole. I’ve gotten used to it.

  I look at the kid crumpled against the wall and wonder what I should do with him. Be a shame to let a perfectly good meal go to waste.

  I am just finishing my second meal of the night when my phone rings. I wipe off my chin with my hands then wipe my hands on the kid’s jacket before I answer it. I already know who it is. I’m late and I am being reminded of it.

  “Mr. Malone. I assume you are waiting for me at the club?” the heavily Russian-accented voice asks through my Motorola.

  “I will be, Yuri, don’t worry,” I reply more calmly than I feel.

  I am really buzzed and edgy right now. I haven’t had two full meals back to back since I was in Vietnam. Nobody missed people back then in that hellhole. It was a shitty war but there was some damn good eating.

  Yuri is not pleased with this answer and he tells me so. “Mr. Malone, you have one purpose this evening, and you cannot fulfill it if you are not where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there. Do not make me wait.”

  Yuri hangs up on me before I can answer. That is a good thing. I had nothing to say and it avoids what could have been an awkward silence. Yuri pays me well because he knows I am worth it, and the meeting he has arranged is serious enough for him to contract me out instead of simply relying on his usual bodyguards and mobster compatriots.

  Yuri Poplonovich, also known as Molotov for his tendency to burn up those who piss him off or get in his way, is a Russian—or is it Ukrainian—whatever, mobster. Yuri is a ruthless man but he also conducts himself with a certain sort of standard you do not often find in your typical criminal types these days.

  I guess you could say he is your old-school type of mafia. He grew up reading about America’s old mobsters from the days of prohibition and watching movies like The Godfather. He charges various businesses in his territory for protection money like any good mobster does, but unlike other crime organizations he actually affords them protection.

  He does not terrorize or threaten those he calls his clients. He simply lets it be known throughout the criminal underworld who is under his protection and who is not. It is a very effective way to keep a good customer base.

  Yuri deals in cocaine, ecstasy, and stolen goods but is adamant about keeping crap like meth and crack off his streets. I don’t know if I would go so far as to say I like Yuri, but we have a mutual sort of respect for each other. I’m not real quick to judge the lifestyles of others.

  I hang up then select the first of very few presets programmed on my phone.

  “Yeah,” the disinterested voice speaks through the phone.

  “I need a cleanup, fast.”

  “Screw you, Leo. Clean up your own mess.”

  Damn, I hate caller ID. “I’m sorry to interrupt your jerk-fest, but I can’t. I’m on a job and there was a witness so I need you here now.”

  “Fine, what’s the address?”

  I give him the exact location of the corpse. The cleanup crew will be here in minutes and remove all traces of the kill. I don’t know why they always give me such a hard time. Since I was fired as a Sheriff, I have to pay out the ass for this, which really puts me in a bad mood. It’s not like I can add it to my client’s bill as an expense.

  I snap my phone shut and take the nearest set of stairs leading to the rooftops. I am really buzzing now and more full of energy and life than I have felt in a long time. That is the danger, the warning signs that sets off alarms in my brain. It is so easy to become addicted to the feeling that practically gorging oneself gives you. The feeling of having so much power makes me feel invincible even beyond my normal scary-strong and fast self.

  The buildings and lights are a blur as I sprint across the roofs and leap across the yawning chasms between buildings. I drop four stories onto the roof of the Perestroika Club before scaring the shit out of a valet by dropping down right behind him just as Yuri’s up-armored 1955 Bentley pulls up to the front of the club.

  The front passenger-side door swings open almost before the car comes to a complete halt. The valets are smart enough not to make the slightest attempt at opening the door or even more foolish, try to park the big, black car. A big, blond Slav pivots on his right heal the moment he steps out of the car, and with a quick look around, holds open the door for his boss.

  The mafia boss steps out in a well-made but non-ostentatious Italian suit and gives me a nod of recognition before slipping the valet a twenty simply for formality’s sake.

  “Mr. Malone, I trust everything is proper?” he asks without actually making it a question.

  I give him a curt nod. “All looks secure. It does not appear that Mr. Hanako has arrived yet.”

  “Bah, of course not,” Yuri replies with a disgusted snort. “Would not be seemly for the little peacock to be on time, much less waiting on someone.”

  Tommy Hanako is the leader of an influential and rapidly growing Asian gang that borders Yuri’s territory. Hanako wants to fill what he sees as a void—namely the vast assortment of drugs—which Yuri seemingly allows to exist.

  “Come, Mr. Malone. We will wait inside as is proper. I will need a drink or five to deal with this little prick I think.”

  Another twenty is exchanged with the doorman as I lead my employer into the club. It is a testament to Yuri’s faith in me that the big Slav does not follow us in but rather stays with the driver to guard the car.

  I drape my black trench coat over my arm and pass it off to the coat check girl. I s
lip the ticket stub she gives me into the front pocket of my black slacks. A black sports coat and black shirt finish off my rather drab ensemble. I know what you’re thinking—typical cliché vampire getup. It was no fashion statement however. It’s just that blood stains aren’t so readily apparent against the black material.

  My casual suit is acceptable but I won’t win any fashion contests. No tie, you see. I fucking hate ties. Stupidest damn thing ever invented by man. Come to think about it, a woman probably invented it. No self-respecting man would put a noose of silk around his neck to dangle in front of him as if he is just waiting for the scaffold to be built to finish his hanging.

  My steel-toed combat boots aren’t exactly a great leap towards being fashionably elite either. I’m a practical man and the steel-toed boot coupled with my ability to out-kick a mule makes them imminently suitable to my disposition and profession. At least they are polished to such a sheen a man can use them as a shaving mirror.

  I hate clubs. The noise and press of people is almost stifling and the smell makes me want to vomit. Too much sweat mingling with cologne and the disturbingly frequent smell of sex turns my stomach. Whether it is due to my presence or Yuri’s, people quickly get the hell out of our way as I easily carve a path towards the stairs that lead to the exclusive seating area reserved for VIPs. Two, heavy-set bouncers follow behind at a discreet distance to ensure that no one disturbs Mr. Poplonovich before he finds his table.

  The two shadows peel off as smoothly as they had attached themselves the moment we reach the stairs. Precisely one minute after Yuri takes his seat a very attractive young woman comes and takes Yuri’s order. He does not bother to ask me if I want anything. He knows I will take nothing.

  I remain standing and will continue to do so for the rest of the night. I can literally stand for days without so much as twitching a muscle. As a sniper in Vietnam, I often did precisely that. I was assigned to an elite Special Forces unit where I was given leave to act pretty much on my own initiative. I refused a spotter as I preferred—demanded—to work alone. I doubt I could have found one accepting of my peculiar culinary requirements.

  Those were the best and the worst days of my existence. I had so much fun I damn near destroyed myself. While everyone else was getting high on weed, hash, heroin, and the medic’s ample supply of morphine, I was glazed to the gills on the very essence of human life. I had developed such a fearsome reputation amongst the Chinese and Vietcong that I had to often move my sniper position, not because of fear of discovery, but because I had scared off the enemy. I was the ghost in the jungle, leaving nothing but blood-drained bodies to be found when the sun came up.

  Every night those poor squints found another one of their buddies dead on his sleeping mat, in his watch tower, or even leaning against the tree he had propped himself against to take a piss. I was everywhere and I was living high. So great became my lust, I nearly turned rogue. Hell, there’s no maybe about it. I was a rogue and a bad one. It’s just that in Vietnam at the height of the war no one really noticed, or if they did they didn’t give a shit. What’s one—or a few hundred or thousand—dead squints when there were over a million more pouring over the border from China?

  Yeah I said squint, so what of it? I’m from a different time and I’ve fought three major wars against the shifty little bastards. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a racist. I don’t hate them any more than I hate anyone else in this world. Hell, I would have to give a shit about them to hate them and I sure as hell don’t. Not them, not these screaming, gyrating monkeys in this club, and not those walking dead outside.

  I’ve seen too much and done too much to care. So why did I save that little girl and that stupid bimbo tonight? Saving the girl was just a side effect of my need to feed. That’s what I tell myself anyway. The little slut? I don’t know. Maybe I like to pretend I still have a tiny shred of a conscience left to help me maintain the slight bit of humanity I possess.

  Maybe, and this is a stretch, the pretense is my not giving a shit. Maybe I am pretending to be a heartless bastard so that I can go on doing what I do without becoming a complete basket case. How would you feel, with your so-called humanity, knowing that for you to simply exist others must die? A lot of others and the body count just climbs higher and higher, faster and faster the older you get. My shrink hasn’t been able to give me a definitive answer in nearly twenty years of on and off therapy so I doubt anyone else out there will be stepping forward with an answer that doesn’t reek of bullshit.

  It’s been twenty minutes and Yuri is on his third vodka tonic. He’s drinking slowly. He must be taking this meeting pretty seriously. My flashback is broken when I spy an immaculately dressed Asian man flanked by two big bodyguards ascending the stairs.

  Tommy Hanako. The man is nearly enshrouded in a kind of mystical aura from the club lights reflecting off the suit that must have cost a million silkworms their lives to make. My blood is running hot and it takes more than a bit of my resolve to keep from hopping the table and slapping that ever-present smug, superior smirk right off his face.

  I’m sure he feels immune to any sort of overt confrontations next to his two hulking escorts. The one on his right is huge. He is Six foot eight, three-hundred fifty pounds of sheer muscle and bad attitude. The bulge in his too tight-fitting suit jacket is mostly there as added insurance to discourage anyone so incredibly stupid as to still try to make a move. I think I’ll call him Tiny.

  The man on the left is another whole magnitude of freak. He easily tops seven feet and has the face of a man that got in a head-on collision with a freight truck only he wasn’t in a car at the time. I put odds on the truck coming out on the losing end.

  He too wears a suit that must have been made from five other suits stitched together by a skilled artisan and still they could not get the front to button. His jacket hangs open to reveal his own piece. It is a .50 caliber desert eagle in a quick-draw shoulder holster. I hope like hell he is smart enough to put the weapon on safe because I can see that the finger-guard has been removed to accommodate his sausage-sized finger. In lieu of a hacksaw, I bet he just chewed the thing off.

  Oh man, I want a piece of him bad. Normally I wouldn’t care, but tonight I am pumped and one of the few pleasures I can still claim is putting huge, vicious men like these two in their place. Guys like Tiny and Freak go through life with a skewed sense of reality. They think they can do anything they want to anyone they want because they are big, scary men. They don’t know the meaning of scary but I’ll educate them. Just let the bell ring. Class is in session.

  All three men look at me like I am a kid at the table reserved for grown-ups at thanksgiving. Tommy’s mouth twists into a derisive sneer so great I think he will tie his lips into a knot. Freak actually snorts at me. I’m almost certain he is about to sniff my ass then piss on the table leg in a show of dominance.

  I keep my cool and just smile politely as if I am the only one in on a private joke. Yuri knows the punch line too. Yuri likes a good joke—especially the ones where someone he doesn’t like gets hurt. And I know Yuri doesn’t like Tommy any more than I do. Less even. He actually still cares enough to hate.

  “Please forgive me for being late, Yuri,” Tommy says as he takes his seat. “I hope you have not had to wait on me for long.”

  Tommy Hanako is original Yakusa, but rumor has it that he fled Japan to save his finger when he pissed off the wrong squint. He is something like fifth or sixth generation Yakusa and such wanton cowardice did not sit well with the rest of his clan. So he packed up and came to New York to start his own little ninja clan. Lucky New York, lucky me.

  If you look at Tommy and expect to hear the broken English of Jackie Chan, you are going to be disappointed. Tommy speaks with the clear basso of George Takei without any of the charm. The man is both snake and weasel. I don’t know what part the Chinese calendar that falls on.

  I don’t know if it’s a vampire thing or just my own special physiology, but my tongue is host to
a small but quick brain that often takes over in the most inopportune times. Like right now.

  “Did you get stuck behind one of those slow, Chinese drivers or did you have to stop off for more film for your camera?” I ask without a trace of humor.

  I know Hanako is Japanese but Chinese stereotypes are easier and it only adds to the insult. Tiny and Freak’s hands twitch towards their guns and Tommy narrows his eyes at me. I’m not sure if he can still see me or not.

  “You would do well to teach your servant some manners, Yuri,” the mob boss warns through his false smile. “It would be a shame if I had to set my dogs on him.”

  Yuri nods but does not return the smile he knows to be as fake as the silk flowers that adorn the table. “Yes, a shame indeed. Then you would have to go back to the pound for new dogs. Of course, you would save a fortune not having to feed those two.”

  Tommy looks at me then studies Yuri’s face for a tell that would reveal the joke he must have intended. He doesn’t find one but laughs as if he gets it anyway. Freak grins at the top of my head as if I am a dessert he desperately wants to break his diet for. I pucker my lips and make a kissy face at him.

  I‘m sure he is going to pull his piece. I smile, a real smile, as his massive hand shoots inside his jacket and the handle of the .50 cal. disappears under its ridiculous amount of flesh.

  It’s starting to look like I am going to have a good time after all. I was so afraid that I would be bored to tears. Tommy wrecks my fun with a quick twitch of his head. Nobody lets me have any fun. Oh well, time to be a professional again. I blame my bad manners on the blood. Too much blood in one night. Have to work harder on my manners.

  Yuri is talking to Tommy again. A man like Tommy never wastes so much as a single word for a hired gun like me—a bullet perhaps—but not something as important as showing that I am worth even the slightest moment of his attention.