Arkham Nights

by Glynn Owen Barrass

  I spat it out as the door opened, the light hitting me in a flash as two dark figures stepped outside. The door slid shut again and my eyes adjusted. Before me stood Whately and the ape, the former in a suit as ill fitting as the guy’s beside him. Wrists dangling from his sleeves, his pants at half-mast on a suit crumpled, threadbare and stinking of sweat. It seemed Whately wasn’t gaining any dough from his fighting endeavors. The next thought saw me grinning: they probably paid him in raw meat.

  The ape scowled in the darkness, saying, “Funny man, eh?”

  “I aim to please,” I said, turning back to Whately. Towering over me, the red-haired giant continued to smile his moronic smile.

  “Just had words with the boss,” the ape continued.

  I interrupted him sharply with, “Boss Logan that’ll be?”

  “Yeah, now you’re a clever girl.” He breached the gap between us and stepped forward. “The boss says beat it the hell out of here or never be seen again.”

  This sounded like a threat, and this, coupled with the fact he was invading my personal space, saw me saying, “Okay... well I can see where I’m not wanted.” I went to turn, before decking the bastard with a single sock to his face.

  The ape staggered backwards, his hands clenched around a dripping mouth.

  “Dastard,” he said from between bloody fingers, “you broke my dose!”

  I shook my hand free of cramp and tipped my hat, saying... nothing, for at that moment a fist came crashing against my head, sending me flying sideways towards the gym wall. The impact nearly dislocating my shoulder, the wall hit me like a second iron fist—an iron fist from ‘Iron Man’ Whately to be sure. I saw sparks and slumped down its rough surface, tasting copper and cracked teeth as I fell flat onto my ass.

  Turning, blinking my vision back, I pressed my back against the wall. The ape, on his knees now, dripped blood as he said, “Kill the dastard, snap his neck. Gaah dat hurts!”

  A huge shape stepped around the ape. Whately, still grinning widely, loped towards me with deadly intent.

  Well, considering my current situation, I reached into my jacket, retrieved my gun, and shot him. Not much a sore loser, I aimed my bullet towards his left shin. The discharge, drowning the ape’s complaints, sent Whatley staggering back. But only slightly, that slug of mine having the cheek to pop from his leg without leaving a mark.

  I swallowed blood but not my panic. I looked to Whately’s face and found him smiling, of course.

  “I think ‘Oh shit’ are the words you’re looking for,” Braces said, the punk having stepped out into the alley sometime during the commotion.

  Although still wanting to snap his neck, I found myself agreeing with his words. As Whately loomed closer, I realized saving my own neck came first.

  I hurried back to the office only to find that Towers hadn’t yet returned. I wisely opted to use my car this time instead of plodding through Arkham on foot. Beside myself with rage, I started the heap and rushed off to find Trevor but only after availing myself of some heavier artillery. I wanted to avoid gun play and the Thompson I’d taken along for the ride often had an intimidating affect on two-bit punks. I had a pretty good idea where to look for my partner, figuring he might still be searching area gyms in an effort to find Logan’s boxer and talk some sense into him. Knowing my partner’s idiosyncratic definition of conversation, violence was a foregone conclusion.

  If Eddie’s sister was really in the hands of Logan’s crew it would be necessary for us to proceed cautiously. Admittedly that was a different approach from our usual, and meant that we’d have to be more selective about who we killed, and when. Hopefully I could find Towers before he managed to knock off any of Logan’s thugs. This was one of those cases where rescue must come before retribution.

  I had visited two gyms in a fruitless effort to find Towers and was steadily driving towards French Hill when the sound of a gunshot grabbed my attention. It tends to do that and it didn’t take a brain surgeon for me to realize that my search was nearing its end. I drove in the direction of the ominous sound and hoped like hell that Towers hadn’t killed anyone yet. I parked in a small lot outside Aldo’s Gym and got out of the car. There were only a couple of other cars around and no one standing out front.

  I placed the Thompson beneath my long coat and let it hang loosely beside my leg. Cursing my arthritis and the general Arkham dampness, I flatfooted it to the rear of the brick building and found pretty much what I expected. Towers was holding the proverbial smoking gun and entertaining some new friends. One big bruiser with bloody face and flattened nose seemed plenty thrilled at the prospect of what his even larger compatriot was threatening to do to Towers. It didn’t take a quiz kid to figure that the wild-haired lummox with the matted beard was Logan’s fighter, Whately. We’d had dealings with at least one other member of the backwoods clan and this guy carried a family resemblance that just screamed intelligence.

  Whately was being egged on to acts of violence by a third shrimp of a character sporting red braces. I’d seen the little guy before working as a cut-man for some bottom of the barrel stumble-bums on the New England fight circuit.

  I stood in the shadow of the building and watched the proceedings with a curious eye. Whately grinned at Towers and lumbered towards him.

  I could see Tower’s grip tighten on his firearm and decided to make my presence known. I coughed loudly and said, “Hey, Trevor.”

  The Thompson had somehow appeared from beneath my coat and I now had the attention of everyone present.

  “Hey, now just a minute,” said Braces, his hands outstretched in a placating manner. “I’m sure we can talk this over.”

  “Oh, I’m sure we can,” I replied.

  Turning to Towers, I said, “My heap’s around front.”

  I tossed him the keys which he snagged with his free hand. He gave me a questioning look, obviously not understanding my eagerness to leave. “We’ll talk plenty once we’re out of here,” I said.

  Before leaving, he turned to the trio and said, “Later, ladies.”

  Whately started to make a move towards him but was swarmed on by his frantic companions who were none too eager to dance to the tune my Thompson would play.

  I held the machine gun on the trio as I slowly edged around the side of the building. Finally, I heard my car cough to life and made a fast exit from the scene. Once safely away I began to tell Towers what I’d learned and suggested we drive by Eddie’s home.

  He nodded and took on a demeanor that I’d seen a couple of times in the past. It didn’t bode well for anyone foolish enough to get in his way.

  “We’ll get the girl back safely,” I said, though I hadn’t stopped to figure out how yet.

  “Yeah,” Trevor replied. “And then someone bastard’s going to bleed.”

  I agreed but couldn’t help wondering how much of the blood was going to be ours.

  Eddie sat across from me clenching and unclenching his fists above the table’s blue-checkered cloth.

  “Damn,” and for Eddie, this was a strong cuss word, “what kind of people live in this world?”

  “Scum is the word I use,” I replied. and tears fell from his eyes in two long streaks.

  I felt for the kid, I really did: it wasn’t that long ago I was dealing with a guy that lost his daughter to a kidnapping, in a nearby town called Innsmouth. A shitty case that one, but not as shitty, or as close to home, as this.

  “Eddie?” I asked, keeping my voice low, “do you need a belt of something strong?” I could have done with a drink myself, least of all to ease the ache from Whately’s pounding. I fought it.

  “Eh? Oh I dunno,” he said and I wondered just how he was handling things this well. Better than Ma McCoy, that was certain, still upstairs being looked after by his sisters and... Barnes, where the hell was Barnes already? I stood, pushing my seat back, and after another look at Eddie headed for the door. I opened it to the darkened foyer and found Barnes stood whispering into a telephone.
>
  Up those stairs I could hear Eddie’s ma still sobbing, accompanied by his sisters voices. Damn, those two were strong gals. Barnes, speaking quietly into the receiver, turned to face me, nodded and said, “Yeah, yeah.”

  A door opened upstairs, followed by footsteps heading down the staircase. It was Tricia, Eddie’s eldest. I followed her wet face as she descended towards us, opening my arms when she stopped before me.

  “Mom’s just about asleep,” she whispered and the dampness of her cheek made me feel sad and angry at once. As she burst into sobs I patted her shoulders, saying, “Hey, hey, it’s okay,” although I knew things were far from it. I let those sobs wrack into me for a while and as she finally pulled away I said, “Listen hun, you got anything strong in that kitchen, liquor-wise?”

  Tricia nodded. Letting her shoulders go I said, “Go make Eddie a stiff one, and one for yourself if you need it.” I wanted her out of the room, as gently as possible, because behind her Barnes, his phone call finished, stared at me in a way that shouted privacy.

  Tricia left us to it, sniffling as she went, and after the door closed Barnes and I stood silent in the near dark. Behind me, the sounds of cupboards opening and moving crockery indicated Tricia was putting those strong drinks together.

  “Anything?” I whispered.

  Barnes leaned against the staircase, his arms folded. He sighed, this being the last sound I needed to hear. “Logan owns any number of hideouts around town. We really would be looking for a needle in a haystack.”

  This made me hiss. So now the dirty rat had holes all over town to boot. “So,” I stepped nearer to Barnes, my voice becoming a hoarse, angry whisper, “we grab one of his punks and beat the information out of him.” I leered in the darkness, “You know I’m up to it.” I was serious.

  Barnes stared at me sadly. “We can’t risk it, not with that little gal’s life on the line.”

  I shook my head. “What are you saying pal?”

  Barnes stood straight, breaching the gap between us. He spoke just inches from my face as he said, “This is more than a kidnapping now and we both know it.”

  “Whately, yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Barnes answered.

  We were referring to Whately’s invincibility, that little aspect being far from the norm. It would be to most anyway, but me and Barnes had some experience in that direction. I had a thought, and Barnes did too.

  “Justin Geoffrey!” we said together. He was after all, the occultist in the know.

  Now Geoffrey had helped us before, through all kinds of misadventures, and if it involved the occult, it was a sure bet he could help provide some kind of answer.

  After some words in the kitchen, we left Eddie and his sister to head through the side streets towards Peabody Avenue, Justin’s current abode.

  His last house had burned to the ground, he never told us how or why, but we both guessed it was linked to one of his weird experiments. To tell the truth, the guy was one of the fruitiest nuts you could ever meet. But, this nut had the know-how and two friends who had seen firsthand how lifesaving that could be. Some months ago Geoffrey had seen us as a menace, until we helped him out of a jam with some torpedoes he’d crossed.

  Justin Geoffrey, possibly ours and Eddie’s savior. I had my fingers crossed, tucked inside my pockets because the night was a cold one, as we headed the short distance between Eddie’s home and Geoffrey’s. We reached Peabody Avenue quickly, encountering nothing but night mist on our way. This side of Arkham, to the southeast of the river and down below French Hill, seemed to like going to bed early, as the dark windows and closed curtains proved.

  The brownstones of Peabody Avenue, like its companion rows, slept too, but on reaching Geoffrey’s we found the front door ajar, a dim light filtering from within.

  My first thought was foul play: no one with any sense left their door open at night, not in Arkham. Barnes thought similarly: I saw a gun appear in his hand as he crept towards the door.

  “It’s not broken,” he whispered. He pushed the door further, the gun lowered to his side as he shouted, “Hey, Justin! Hey!”

  Subtlety, thy name is Barnes.

  With my .45 in hand I trailed my partner’s footsteps, following him into the house. Nudging the door closed I examined the foyer for signs of foul play. There were none, just a narrow, dark room with a table to our left and a hat rack on our right. A door before us provided the light, and sounds of ticking and chanting.

  Bare floorboards creaked beneath our feet as we continued. I felt a bit more relaxed now: it was Geoffrey’s voice we heard, omming and droning away. Barnes shouted him again and the chanting ceased, but not the ticking.

  “Err, hello?” a timid voice said, and shuffling sounds came from the room. Then the sliver of light grew large, the man we sought opening the door fully.

  A cloud of spiced incense filled the foyer as Justin Geoffrey faced us, his short red hair ruffled atop his thin face. Looking a bit surprised, he blinked and smiled before saying, “It is good to see you, really it is!” before ushering us into his inner sanctum.

  Geoffrey’s inner sanctum: a big room lined with bookcases and huge Turkish rugs, those covering the walls and the floor. Terracotta pots filled with salt, planted with smoking incense sticks, dotted the floor.

  After scanning the room I turned to Geoffrey. Why was he staring? It was our guns of course, Barnes tucking his into his jacket before saying, “Your door was open pal, and...”

  “And you were worried for my safety!” Geoffrey said. His face beamed as he turned from us. I forgot to mention, our fruity friend was dressed in a red velvet house-robe smothered in oriental designs, his turned back revealing a gold Chinese dragon. For a moment I thought I saw the dragon wink at me, smiling its sharp, toothy-mouthed smile.

  Shoving the gun back into my jacket I followed Geoffrey towards a small circular table, this bearing the source of the ticking. Geoffrey stepped around it and turned, his smiling dragon hidden but his face still beaming.

  You’re stoned, I thought, looking from him to his most recent weird experiment. The table held four metronomes sat on a black cloth, surrounding a chunky, deformed, brown clay troll. Its leering face was surrounded by a shock of gray straw-like hair. I thought, Heck, what a beauty.

  Barnes got straight to the point. “We have a problem with a boxer,” he said.

  I found myself looking at that ugly little troll, wondering if it was really staring back or I was just seeing things.

  I shook my head and listened as Barnes went through our trouble with Whately and Logan.

  “Logan, Boss Logan, I know that man,” Geoffrey said. He went on to explain how the mob ‘boss’ had been seen with the Frenchman, an occult fanatic who’d probably given the Whately fella his powers.

  “From what I know of these spells,” Geoffrey continued, “Whately can probably be supernaturally enhanced so he cannot be harmed for an hour or so, perhaps even longer.”

  “Damn,” Barnes muttered.

  “Yeah, but the fact Eddie’s sister’s been grabbed, means Logan’s worried despite this spell of his,” I said.

  “It seems perhaps that Logan knows something of your occult dealings, my friends,” Geoffrey said. “Taking on one of the Frenchman’s spells would be quite the challenge.” He grinned, showing off a mouth of small, perfectly white teeth. “I like it, immensely!”

  So, we finally had someone in our corner, with Geoffrey ready and willing to remove Whately’s powers. But would getting rid of Whately get our lost little gal back? Also, a win over McCoy would give Whately a shot at one of the top middleweight contenders, a shot that by all rights should be Eddie’s.

  Barnes and I shared a look, him wording my thoughts with, “We need to find her before the fight is over, have Eddie win the fight fare and square with his little sis safe in our hands.”

  This was our only possible plan if we were to retain our dignity, ensure Eddie’s future and save his sister to boot. Also, Logan was going to su
ffer, badly, he could count on it.

  We left Geoffrey’s soon after, the man poring through his books as we departed that gaudy, fume-filled room. Facing the night, filling my lungs, Arkham’s air had never tasted so fine. We never did find out why he’d left his door open, and Barnes, stepping outside after me, closed it tight behind us.

  A clever, gifted man Justin Geoffrey might be, but he was sure lacking in the common sense department. This is why I found myself wondering how long it would take him to burn down this latest house. Probably not long, I mused, as we headed towards Eddie’s.

  Regarding his counter spell, Geoffrey had told us to ring him the next morning. We had a long night ahead of us, me doubting I would get any sleep before picking up the phone for some hopefully good news.

  Sometimes, being right can be a real bitch.

  I arrived early at the office, having managed to sleep only a couple of hours. I’d left my partner at the McCoy house the previous evening believing it would be wise to have a hard-case like Trevor on hand in case Logan got any other bright ideas. This whole set-up had gone sideways from the beginning and we couldn’t take a chance on things getting further out of hand.

  Searching for the coffee pot, I nearly tripped over a loose spot in the carpet and cut loose with a string of expletives. I hated making coffee but it was way too early for our office girl to arrive—never a sure bet during the best of times—and I desperately needed something to keep me going. If things got worse I had some little white pills that could do the trick but they tended to make me a bit erratic in my thinking. I only ever used them as a last resort because guns and erratic thought processes could be a pretty lethal combination.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, I managed to get the coffee brewing and plopped down behind the Kingsport desk to light a smoke. I listened to the coffee percolate and stared at the telephone, willing it to ring. Geoffrey had promised to call but God only knew how long it would take him to come up with what we needed. I couldn’t help but smile perversely at our plight. When the success of our plans depended on a fruitcake like Geoffrey then I knew we were in trouble. But, to be fair, the strange little occultist had saved our bacon on more than one occasion. For now, I could only whistle past the graveyard and hope he was up to the task.