Sundance

by David Fuller

  He braced himself for a suicide run, to get between Prophet and the Black Hand. He checked his gun, surveyed the terrain, then remembered Flexible. The grinning paisan was out there. And Silvio as well, so maybe a couple of others from that first night. Superstitious toughs who had imagined their own private ghost. Who was he to deny them their apparition? At that moment, they did not know who was shooting at them in the dark. Time to inform them. He pulled the bandanna up over his nose.

  He called to Levi, “Lamp!”

  Levi sent his lamp in a looping throw so that it landed in a soft mound of dirt near Longbaugh’s shoulder. He set it alongside his own lamp.

  Longbaugh looked for the best angle. He would use the lamps in tandem to make a stronger beam of light. He arranged them side by side, pointed at the nearby wall, then saw the bones of the ship and decided to aim them there instead. It was a big dumb risk, but less suicidal than his first plan. The moment he stood up in the light, he would be exposed to one or more of the Hands, but if he knew gangster mentality, when they saw what he was about to show them, the apparition just might hijack their attention. He was counting on them reacting without thinking.

  They were shifting in the dark out there, coming closer and getting into position. No chance to test it. He made brief eye contact with Levi, who looked as if he understood what was about to happen.

  Longbaugh lit both lamps.

  The boys went quiet out there when the light hit the ship’s ribs and threw curious shadows at the wall. He listened to their whispers, “What’s happening?” “Where’s that light from?” “What is that?” They were uncertain, but not yet aware that they were afraid. They still believed they had power in numbers.

  With their attention diverted, Levi moved from his spot.

  Longbaugh also moved, sliding along the ground just under the beams of light. To keep their interest on that wall, he had to make his entrance soon. He watched the wall as he crawled away from the lamps to make sure his shadow didn’t show too early. He judged the distance, decided he was in the right place, and slowly began to stand. His shadow climbed the wall.

  Longbaugh jolted when a sharp, penetrating whistle animated his climbing shadow, as if his shade was actually hissing within the ship’s skeleton. For an impossible moment he thought his shadow was the source of the noise. Then he looked and saw Levi turning the handle of a steam valve. The blasting shriek grew. He realized in that instant he had been the credulous one. He nodded to Levi, who nodded back.

  This was the moment. If Moretti’s boys kept their eyes on the shadow, he had them. If they noticed him standing there in the open, he would be slaughtered in the crossfire. His shadow reached its full height, a frightening, damaged thing looming between the ribs of the ship. The loud steam began to lose intensity. But the effect had been better than he had hoped for, ominous and gruesome, and on that scale, if you were an ignorant and gullible sort, goddamn terrifying. The impossible unholy thing hovered over their heads and riveted them, chilling their hearts and inflaming their imaginations. As the steam fizzled out, he could better hear their squeals. He moved a step sideways and the horrible shadow twisted between the ship’s ribs, and his heart was mean and glad as the superstitious boys cringed. The side of his body was fully lit by the carbide lamp, in plain sight of at least two of the Hands, but that massive shadow had them by the balls. They never once looked at him.

  “Gesù Cristo, it’s the Ghost!”

  “That’s the Ghost? Egli è enorme!”

  “I told you he was real!”

  “He’s after us!”

  “Madre di Dio! Levati dai coglioni!”

  The Hands opened fire, but as Longbaugh had hoped, they fired at the shadow. Longbaugh saw bullets chunk the wood, pock the wall, dirt bursting into the air like water splashes, then a line of loose earth poured out of the holes like tiny waterfalls. The steam hiss was done, but it didn’t matter. As more bullets hit ribs and shadow, he took a step closer to the lights and the ghost grew larger and more terrifying, as if he was moving closer to them. They yelled and fired as they backed away, fleeing, their aim ever more erratic. He raised his hand, as if reaching for them, and one of the Hands screamed and fell to the ground, trying to run on his knees.

  Prophet looked directly at him. He had watched the whole thing. He pointed at Longbaugh, then at the shadow. He began to laugh. Longbaugh aimed a finger to keep him in place. Then Prophet yelled, “Save yourselves! Run, boys, save yourselves!” while laughing maniacally.

  The gangsters ran, the gunfire silent but for the occasional shot over a shoulder. Levi closed the steam valve.

  Prophet went on laughing, “Save yourselves, little grease boys!” Longbaugh grimaced at his unworthy arrogance, his casual racism, and he was tempted to call them all back and hand over the spineless coward.

  He turned off the lamps. He listened to the pounding feet of distant runners, back near the tunnel, and once in there, the footsteps echoed louder. He looked at Levi, who stared at him with awe and respect. In the dark, to his right, already about halfway to the tunnel, Silvio continued dragging himself away, whining into dirt, calling out when he realized he had been left behind, “Come back, help me, don’t leave me here with that thing—” But the others were too far away to hear him. He cared nothing for Silvio, not after Brooklyn, and his frightened whining did not move him.

  Out of the dark came a tiny flash and a clap-sudden gunshot, and Silvio was silent. Longbaugh dropped to a knee, aimed where Silvio had been whimpering while squinting into the dark, looking for movement, anticipating an attack, already knowing what had happened and trying to pick out the shooter. For the flash to have been that small, the muzzle of the automatic must have been held directly against the target. After a moment he heard footsteps running in the other direction, leaving the silent Silvio and finding deeper darkness.

  He was up and charging the spot, trying to see the escaping figure. The shooter was moving quickly for a big, bulky man. The small voice inside his head mocked him. There had been seven. The lamps were somewhere back there, and when he knew he wouldn’t catch the shooter, he went back for one. He lit it and aimed the light at Silvio’s drag marks, following blood until he reached shoes. He stopped, passed the light up Silvio’s legs to the bullet wounds in his thigh and buttocks. But those wounds had not pinned the boy against the ground. The light tracked up the boy’s shirt until he came to a small hole drilled into the back of his skull. He had died instantly and lost little blood. Longbaugh chose not to turn Silvio over to see the exit wound in the middle of his face.

  He returned to Prophet, walking slowly.

  “Run away, run away, little grease pigs!” Prophet’s laughter was forced, as he tried to sustain his excitement.

  “You can shut your mouth, they can’t hear you.”

  “Little pigs,” Prophet said more quietly, as if he had to gradually decelerate before he could stop.

  Longbaugh wanted to rain the carnal fear of Hell down on the man, but he only said, “They’ll be back. We’re going.”

  “But you’ll protect me.” Prophet’s knowing smile curdled the last morsel of his compassion. “They wouldn’t dare mess with you.”

  Longbaugh walked rapidly to Prophet, grabbed him by the scruff of his coat, and brought him to his feet. Prophet continued his self-satisfied chortle and Longbaugh curled his fist and hit him just hard enough to amaze him, a quick thump to the chest. Prophet drew in a stunned inhale.

  “What was that for?”

  Longbaugh kept his eyes locked with Prophet’s as he set his lips and reached down into the anarchist’s pocket, unloading dynamite cartridges one by one by one, lining them back up in the crate. Prophet tried to object, but could only manage, “Those are mine—”

  “One bullet, and you’ll go up like some lunkhead carrying dynamite in his pocket.”

  He came to the last cartridge and his fi
ngers found the folded paper Prophet had tried to give to the editor of The Masses. He put the last stick in the crate, and secretly slipped Prophet’s article into his own pocket.

  Prophet’s expression changed, and Longbaugh read it as a revelation.

  “I know you.”

  Yes, thought Longbaugh, you saw me at the magazine office.

  “From a dream, you were sent here.”

  Oh wonderful, thought Longbaugh.

  “You’re the emissary. You’re the missionary, you’re the tributary.”

  Please shut your mouth.

  “You’re the guardian angel. You’re divine intervention, you saved me so I can make history.”

  The Prophet Jonah.

  “You’re the sign that I’m doing the right thing,” said Prophet.

  Longbaugh dragged him along to where Levi had finished binding a tourniquet around Bill Marley’s upper thigh.

  “He’ll be all right once we get him to a doctor,” said Levi.

  “Can you get him out?”

  “Crew’ll be along, we’ll take him in one of the trucks.”

  “Do what we talked about. Don’t go home. Take care of your wife.”

  “And you?”

  “You did well today, but for your sake I hope you never see me again.”

  16

  Prophet made certain that he stayed close to Longbaugh once they reached the street above the cut-and-cover excavation. He was not aware that Longbaugh had scanned the area to see that they were alone. They traveled Cortlandt Street, away from the river, then turned north. The morning sun was low but bright, and Prophet blinked and squinted, as if his blue eyes couldn’t handle the intensity.

  “I got you this far, now you’re on your own.” Longbaugh’s comment was disingenuous. He knew Prophet would never let him get away.

  “No, what are you saying? We stick together, don’t you know how this works? You’re my spiritual guide. Why didn’t you let me keep the dynamite?”

  Longbaugh let silence answer that question. He walked as if unaware that Prophet followed.

  “So what are you?” said Prophet. “Seraphim? Cherubim?”

  “Something else.”

  “Right, good, an angel of death guarantees my plan’s success.”

  Longbaugh promised himself he would be patient. He still had things to learn from this man.

  “The first part of your plan better be to go home.”

  “Right this way.” Prophet led him north. “My own private angel.”

  “You know how asinine that sounds?”

  “I am prepared to convert to my angel’s doctrine if it carries me to my goal.”

  • • •

  PROPHET LED HIM through an alley to a room behind an oyster bar. Longbaugh was impressed by the well-disguised location. As the bar had its own rear exit, no one was likely to test this other door in the shadow. A door on the inside of Prophet’s room would have led into the bar had it not been painted shut with the doorknob removed. No one on the other side would ever investigate.

  Other than a small pallet on the floor, a chair and table were the room’s furnishings. There was little space for much else, as the place housed dozens of piles of newspapers, each paper assigned its own stack, many of the stacks reaching chest or shoulder height, apparently arranged by their degree of irritation. The top newspaper on every pile had come under attack. Each individual story had been copyedited—underlined, circled, scratched out—with different-colored pencil or ink. He rolled back a few in the closest stack and saw that Prophet had attacked the earlier editions as well, and he noted editing marks at each fold all the way to the floor. His attacks had started some time ago, as the oldest editions at the bottom were yellowing. He scanned other piles. They were the same. It appeared as if almost every article in every newspaper had suffered his pique. What dedication! Here was a full-time job at an elevated level of outrage. And Prophet was nothing if not an egalitarian critic. The Evening Call, The Evening Mail, The Times, Morning Telegraph, Evening Sun, Wall Street Journal, American Banker, New York American, The Press, and these were just the papers close enough for Longbaugh to make out their names. There were more, many more. Not one was left unbloodied. In fact, the radical paper, Free Society, had been more savagely attacked than the others. Years of newspapers and magazines, each one read assiduously, each one disagreed with vehemently, edited with fury and discontent, the brilliant editor unmasking their idiocy, their infantile philosophy. Here was a rare and special madness that he very nearly admired.

  “How do you like the place?” said Prophet.

  “Astonishing,” said Longbaugh.

  “Thank you. It’s one of my favorite spots.”

  “You’ve read all these?”

  “How else can I expose their fallacies?”

  “You should offer yourself as an editor.”

  “I do. Persistently.”

  “I am impressed.”

  “Thank you. Not many understand my dedication. I suppose that’s why you were assigned to me.”

  Every time Longbaugh tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, Prophet said something annoying. “And give up the angel thing.”

  “Sorry.”

  Longbaugh looked past the newspapers and scanned the room for personal items, clothing, shoes, a suitcase perhaps. He saw nothing of the sort.

  “What if someone finds out where you live?”

  “I have other places.”

  He attempted wit. “Marble palaces, châteaus.”

  “We all sacrifice for our beliefs.”

  No humor allowed. Longbaugh decided to keep his questions neutral. “You pay rent?”

  “Rent? Me?”

  He could do this, he could ignore the undue arrogance. “I bet you come from money.”

  “You think I’m not serious.”

  I think you’re harmless. Out of your ridiculous mind, but ultimately harmless. He tested the response in his head before he said, “I know how serious you are.” Longbaugh turned to take in the room. “Although I guess you don’t know many women.” He was sorry the moment he said it. He had meant to be more subtle when turning the discussion to the women in Prophet’s life.

  “I know women.”

  “Ask one over sometime, maybe you’ll be inspired to clean.”

  “I’ll have you know I lived with a woman.”

  “Whenever people say ‘I’ll have you know,’ it means they’re lying.” He couldn’t seem to get off this tack, but Prophet kept serving it up.

  “Right here in this very room.”

  “Your mother doesn’t count.”

  Prophet grew more insistent. “She was beautiful.”

  Longbaugh looked behind a newspaper stack. “You smell something?”

  “It was weeks and she was in love with me.”

  Longbaugh shook his head, because he just couldn’t do it, so he quit all pretense. If he was lucky, Prophet would dub him an Old Testament angel filled with vengeance and hostility. He pulled out the paper he had taken from Prophet’s pocket and proceeded to unfold it. Prophet recognized it immediately, and his hands dove into his overcoat to find his hard work missing.

  “How did you get that?”

  Longbaugh read the title aloud, “‘The Great Leon Czolgosz.’”

  “You have no right, give it back.”

  “Oh, did you write this?”

  “Leon Czolgosz was a hero and a patriot, and I want it back.”

  “Since when do anarchists have heroes?”

  “Give it to me.”

  He read on: “‘Influenced by Gaetano Bresci.’”

  “Bresci was an Italian, a great anarchist. He fought for the common man.”

  “Says here he killed King Umberto of Italy.”

  “Which inspired Leon Czolgosz.�
��

  “I bet you’re mispronouncing that. And Leon—”

  “Assassinated President McKinley.”

  “And you mean to tell me The Masses wouldn’t print this?”

  Prophet went pale. “How did you know that?”

  Longbaugh sniffed, pretending to read silently.

  Prophet collected his wits. “May I please have it back?”

  Longbaugh heard the word please and put the paper on Prophet’s table. “Leon used a gun. Why do you need dynamite?”

  “Whatever suits the target.”

  “Must be some target if it’s bigger than a president.”

  “I can’t be tricked into giving away my plan.”

  “You’ve never used dynamite in your life.”

  “I have so.”

  “You mean, ‘I’ll have you know I have so.’ Too bad you didn’t get what you needed.”

  “I can still get it.”

  Longbaugh turned away dismissively. “Sure.” It was foolish to torture the man. He looked for a way to take a step back. He was being impatient, but it was early and he hadn’t had breakfast. He began to plan when in the conversation to mention Etta.

  “You don’t believe me,” said Prophet.

  “I don’t see the same dedication as Leon.”

  “I, you, I’ll have you know—” Prophet caught himself, scowled, cleared his throat. “I am a serious man, as serious as Leon. And I have a source for dynamite.”

  “Then why break into the subway? Why not go right to your source?”

  Prophet looked at Longbaugh as if he were a newborn kitten he was intending to drown. “I don’t like to pay for it. But I will if I have to. Fidgy will be back in a few days.”

  The name Fidgy rang a bell. “I knew you had to have friends.”

  “Friend? Fidgy? The rosbif?”

  Longbaugh laughed in spite of himself. “The roast beef? Anarchy slang?”

  “What the French call a Brit, ‘the rosbif popped over from his castle in Twee-Sleeves.’”