by Alan K Baker
‘So,’ said Fort. ‘Who wants to see me?’
The zombie opposite replied: ‘Like I said, someone very important.’
‘Capone?’
The zombie did not respond, merely gazed at him with his eyes the colour of half-cooked egg white.
Fort glanced to either side, at each of the once-living, now undead men who flanked him. ‘Come on, fellas! You might as well tell me: I’m going to be seeing him in the next few minutes, anyway.’
But it was no use; the zombies had clearly been instructed to divulge nothing, probably as a tactic to maximise Fort’s fear and unease. They needn’t have bothered: Fort already felt fearful and uneasy. He glanced over the shoulder of the zombie facing him, at the cracked, flaking skin on the back of the driver’s head. It wasn’t easy to teach a zombie how to drive: they tended to floor the accelerator and go in a straight line, directly into whatever obstacle happened to be in their way. Self-preservation was not high on your average zombie’s list of priorities – the phrase ‘nothing to lose’ could have been invented for them.
There was only one man (scratch that, thought Fort, one mobster) with the magical know-how to teach a zombie to drive properly.
Alphonse Gabriel Capone, the Diesel-Powered Gangster.
Fort sighed and tried to relax as the limousine weaved through the Brooklyn traffic, but it was no use. The lifeless eyes of the zombies, combined with the stench of their decaying bodies and the unknown (and almost certainly unpleasant) reason for his summons, told him that it had been a mistake to get out of bed that morning. As a private investigator specialising in the occult and supernatural, Fort was no stranger to the mob, although, like any other sane person who enjoyed being alive and in good health, he tried to keep his contacts with the criminal fraternity to a minimum.
What the hell does Capone want with me? Fort wondered. Have I done anything recently to draw attention to myself?
His last case had been routine enough: a widow out in Coney Island whose dead husband had been convinced that she was having an affair, and had decided to return from the Other Side to make her pay for her infidelity, apparently not caring that the fact that he was dead kind of released her from that particular marital responsibility. Fort had tried to exorcise the spirit himself, but the man’s jealousy had proved too powerful an anchor in the physical world. In the end, he had had to bring in his old friend Father O’Malley to perform a banishing. Case closed, client invoiced, no mob involvement. Done and dusted.
I haven’t done anything to annoy the wrong people, Fort told himself in desperation. So why am I here, in a limo full of zombies, trying to breathe through my mouth?
A thought suddenly occurred to him: a possible explanation which didn’t make him feel any better. In fact, it made him feel a whole lot worse.
What if Capone wants to hire me…?
*
The car moved swiftly across the East River on the Williamsburg Bridge, then glided onto Delancey Street and turned north into Midtown. As Fort had more than half expected, they finally came to a halt outside the imposing facade of the Algonquin Hotel on West 44th Street, where Capone maintained his New York residence.
The zombie to Fort’s right opened the door and stepped out. Fort heaved a sigh that was part resignation and part relief at getting away from the stench that filled the limo, and followed. The other two zombies quickly climbed from the car and flanked him on the street, doubtless to make him think twice about making a run for it. Fort had no intention of doing so: he wanted to get this over and done with as quickly as possible; in any event, Capone could have him picked up again whenever he chose, and he strongly suspected that next time the gangster’s goons wouldn’t be so polite.
Feeling a little like a gangster himself, Fort entered the hotel’s plush foyer with his new and unwanted entourage and headed for the bank of elevators at the rear, the gilded bars of their doors reminding him uncomfortably of a prison cell. The people milling around cast furtive and uneasy glances at the new arrivals, and those in front of them got out of their way in a hurry.
Fort didn’t blame them.
The elevator boy looked like he wanted nothing more than to get out of their way as well, but he had no choice in the matter. With a nervous little nod to Fort, he slid the gilded gate shut as the lead zombie said: ‘Penthouse.’
The elevator car ascended – far too slowly for Fort and the elevator boy, who took each breath in a quick, shallow gasp. Not for the first time, Fort wondered if zombies were embarrassed by the miasmal reek that emanated from their reanimated bodies. He had never had the heart to ask one – or the guts, for that matter.
Finally, they reached the twelfth floor, and the elevator boy breathed an audible sigh of relief as he yanked open the gate and squawked: ‘Penthouse, sir!’
The zombies ignored him, so Fort gave him a smile and replied: ‘Thanks, kid.’
‘Follow me,’ said the lead zombie. Fort followed him along a wide corridor, past several dark-suited goons who looked him up and down with undisguised contempt. Capone had permanently reserved the entire penthouse level of the hotel for himself and his entourage, and Fort experienced the uncomfortable certainty that he would be here until Capone told him he could leave.
The zombie came to a halt before a set of double doors and knocked.
From the other side, a harsh voice barked: ‘Yeah!’
The zombie opened the doors and unceremoniously shoved Fort into a large and beautifully furnished room.
‘Charlie boy!’ said the man behind the vast antique oak desk which dominated one half of the room. ‘Glad you could make it. Come on in!’
‘I wouldn’t have missed it, Mr Capone,’ Fort replied.
Like I had any choice, you son of a bitch.
Capone stood up, and Fort took an involuntary step back. Everyone knew what Capone had done to himself – or rather, what he’d had done to himself, by a neuromechanic who preferred to remain anonymous. People saw him on the streets, here in New York and in Chicago; they saw his pictures in the papers, they knew exactly what he looked like; but no amount of familiarity with his image could prepare one for being this close to him.
His fat, brutal face was intact; his hard eyes shone from beneath his thick, bushy eyebrows while his prominent, almost sensual lips curled in a smile that was far from benign. That, however, was where his resemblance to a human being ended. His body was gone (‘ditched like last year’s Cadillac,’ he was fond of saying), replaced by a steel exoskeleton whose powerful pistons served as muscles. His heart (if he could ever have been said to possess one) had been replaced by a small but highly efficient diesel engine, its exhaust gases captured by two large circular filters where his shoulder blades had once been.
Al Capone, the Diesel-Powered Gangster, indicated an overstuffed leather wingchair in front of his desk with a hand whose fingers were the shape of .50 calibre shells, and said: ‘Have a seat, Charlie. Take a load off.’
Fort forced himself to step forward and sit down.
‘My boys take care of you?’
Fort shrugged. ‘They got me here without taking any bites out of me, so yeah, I guess they did.’
Capone gave a loud, throaty laugh as he stomped over on hissing, piston-powered legs, to a large and well-stocked bar. ‘Let’s have a drink, Charlie.’
‘It’s a little early for me,’ Fort replied.
‘I’m sorry, Charlie, I don’t think I heard you,’ said Capone, all traces of humour suddenly vanishing from his voice.
‘Er, I’ll take a small bourbon.’
‘Sure, Charlie boy, sure!’ Capone grabbed a crystal decanter and poured. ‘Rocks? Soda?’
‘Just ice.’
‘You got it.’
Capone handed him a glass, clanked back to his chair and sat down heavily. He slurped his bourbon loudly.
‘I didn’t kno
w you could drink,’ said Fort, fascinated in spite of himself.
‘Oh yeah, I can drink. Eat, too. It goes into a receptacle here…’ Capone thumped his mechanical torso just below the sternum. ‘Course, I don’t need to, but I still like the taste of good food and good booze. When the receptacle’s full up, I just take it out and empty it. Good system. Means I don’t have to waste time on the crapper.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ Fort nodded, taking a sip of his drink. ‘So, Mr Capone, may I ask why you… invited me here?’
Capone grinned like a hyena that had just found a fresh carcass to chew on. ‘Straight down to business. I like that. Okay, lemme ask you a question.’ He indicated his powerful mechanical body. ‘Why do you think I got myself kitted out like this?’
Fort shrugged. ‘Is it tax deductible?’
‘As it happens, yeah – but that ain’t the reason. I ditched my old body and got a new one so that no one would fuck with me.’
‘I’d have thought that was pretty unlikely before you… ditched your old body.’
‘Unlikely, yeah, but it still happened. It happened way too often, Charlie. But not anymore – at least until now.’
Fort took another sip of his drink. He didn’t like where this conversation was headed, although he had to admit that that was inevitable.
‘You read the papers this mornin’, Charlie?’ Capone continued.
‘Yes.’
‘Then you know about the Martian Falcon.’
‘I know it was stolen from the Metropolitan Museum.’
Capone slammed his glass down onto the desk. It shattered with an ugly crinkle of sound. ‘And someone’s tryin’ to make it look like I’m behind the heist!’ he thundered, his face suddenly twisted into a fantastically ugly mask of rage and hatred.
Fort’s breath caught in his throat. When Al Capone got mad, you’d better watch out, even of it wasn’t your fault. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr Capone,’ he said.
‘Not as sorry as I am, buddy! And not as sorry as the son of a bitch who’s responsible, when I get my hands on him!’
I believe you, you crazy mechanical bastard.
‘Do you have any idea who’s behind it?’ Fort asked.
‘Oh yeah, I got a pretty good idea. Johnny Sanguine.’
‘The Vampire King of Brooklyn?’
‘King, my cast-iron ass! He’s nothin’ but a two-bit hustler. A cock-suckin’ nightwalker who got lucky.’
‘According to the reports, the Falcon was stolen by zombies, and you’re well known for using them. So you’re saying that Sanguine used them so that suspicion would automatically fall on you.’
‘Got it in one,’ Capone snapped.
‘Sounds like he’s moving against you,’ mused Fort. ‘But why bother? You control Chicago; your interests in New York are minimal. What could he hope to gain by taking you out – assuming he’s stupid enough to try?’
‘Oh he’s stupid enough,’ Capone replied. ‘And talkin’ of “stupid”, I’m disappointed in you, Charlie.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Fort said, meaning it.
‘It looks like Sanguine is lookin’ to make a move on my turf, on Chicago. He’ll need to get me out of the picture before he tries it. This is a pretty good start, no?’
‘I guess… if that’s what he’s really doing.’
Capone fixed Fort with his dangerous gaze. ‘If? What’re you talkin’ about?’
Damn, thought Fort. Shouldn’t have said that.
‘Come on, Charlie, spit it out!’
Fort sighed. ‘How much do you know about the Martian Falcon, Mr Capone?’
‘Not much – apart from it’s from Mars and it’s pretty goddamn valuable.’
‘More than valuable; it’s priceless. It was discovered during the US expedition to Mars two years ago, in the ruins of what we assume is an ancient temple.’
‘Yeah… so what?’
‘Well, I’m curious about life on other worlds – even extinct life, like on Mars – and I’ve been keeping track of the expedition and its aftermath. Did you know, for instance, that the crew of Rocketship X-M have all suffered psychological problems since they returned to Earth?’
‘Who gives a shit?’
Fort shrugged. ‘A lot of people, actually – not least the National Committee on Planetary Exploration, and the families of the spacecraftsmen.’
‘Okay, so they went gaga. What’s that got to do with me and that bastard Johnny Sanguine?’
‘I’m not sure it’s got anything to do with you. But there have been rumours floating around the scientific community ever since the X-M returned and its crew started to experience mental problems…’
‘Rumours?’
‘Yes. Some people think that the Falcon might be responsible.’
Capone sat forward suddenly. ‘How so?’
‘No one really knows. The expedition brought a lot of stuff back: artefacts of all kinds. Following analysis, it was all transferred to the newly-established Martian Exhibit Hall at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Falcon was the only artefact to be placed in a lead-lined case, and was only viewable through a small window. The curators explained this as an extra security measure, given the Falcon’s apparent uniqueness and pristine condition – don’t forget, it’s more than five million years old. But…’
‘But you think there’s another reason,’ said Capone.
‘Possibly.’
‘You think that if anyone gets too close to the Falcon, they go nuts.’
‘Without adequate shielding… maybe. Chemical analysis revealed it to be made of obsidian, and x-ray photography showed that it has no internal structure to speak of. It’s apparently just a statue, and nothing more. If you ask the NCPE, that’s the answer you’ll get. I know: I’ve asked them. As far as they’re concerned, there’s no correlation between what happened to the crew of the X-M and the Martian Falcon. And they also play down the crew’s psychological problems – at least publically; they say they’re just experiencing the disorientating effects of such a long space flight. I guess that makes sense: after all, they travelled further than any human being has ever travelled. But I can’t help thinking there’s more to it than that…’
‘You think the NCPE has swept it under the rug.’
‘Precisely. For them, it’s a piece of damned data.’
‘A what?’
Fort smiled. ‘By “damned” I mean excluded. It’s something they can’t explain with current scientific methods, so they exclude it from their consideration. It’s a familiar phenomenon in science, Mr Capone.’
‘Yeah, well, I don’t give a fuck about science, Charlie. I want out of the frame for this caper, and I want out quick. That’s where you come in.’
‘Me?’
‘Yeah, you.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Fort, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. ‘What can I do?’
‘Let me explain it to you, Charlie,’ said Capone, in the manner of a teacher addressing a particularly dense student. ‘Normally, I’d take care of somethin’ like this by takin’ out the opposition. Normally, I’d just whack Johnny Sanguine…’
‘Whack him?’
‘Give him the big toothpick, stake him – you know what I’m talkin’ about.’
Of course I know what you’re talking about, for Christ’s sake! thought Fort. But whacking a vampire? My God…
‘You’re not… by any chance… suggesting that I stake him… are you?’
Capone laughed long and hard at this. ‘Oh, Charlie boy!’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That’s what I like about you: you got a great sense of humour. No, I ain’t suggesting you stake him. You don’t got what it takes to kill Sanguine.’
‘Then what do you want from me?’ Fort asked, deciding that it was way too early to feel relieved.
Capone leaned forward and placed his angular metal elbows on the desk. ‘I want you to find out if that son of a bitch really has the Martian Falcon. And if he does, I want you to find a way of provin’ it. I’m gettin’ out of the frame for this, Charlie, and you’re gonna help me!’
CHAPTER 3
Memories of Cydonia
There was a letter waiting for Lovecraft in the dingy lobby of his apartment building. The return address on the envelope was that of Weird Tales. Unable to wait, he thrust his newspaper under his arm and tore the envelope open right there and then. The first line told him everything he needed to know.
‘Another rejection,’ he whispered, shaking his head and scowling at the signature of the magazine’s editor, Farnsworth Wright. ‘You’re a buffoon, Wright,’ he said. ‘You can’t understand what I’m trying to do, even when I explain it to you.’
He trudged forlornly up the stairs to the third floor (the elevator didn’t work, of course) and along the corridor, trying to ignore the troglodytic shouts that emanated from several apartments – some of which actually contained troglodytes.
The door to his own apartment was ajar, the wood around the lock cracked and splintered.
Oh no, he thought. Oh dear Lord!
Lovecraft pushed open the door a few inches and peeked into the apartment, grateful for once that it consisted of only one room, the entirety of which he could see from his vantage point. It was empty; whoever had broken in had clearly come and gone. Lovecraft’s books had been yanked from their shelves and scattered across the floor; the threadbare sofa had been overturned, and the closet doors were open. The two spare suits that had hung there were gone, along with his overcoat.
You took my suits and my coat? Lovecraft thought with a heavy sigh. He looked down at the light summer suit he was wearing. This will be less than serviceable come winter… assuming I’m still here in this rat hole of a city.
There was a payphone in the lobby downstairs. Lovecraft turned and trudged back along the corridor. Once he had called the police, he would return to the apartment and see what else, if anything, had been stolen.
