Blood Standard

by Laird Barron

  Tonight, I was a prisoner: drugged, stripped, tortured, and well on the way to becoming a corpse. I intended to face my approaching doom with a smidgen of equanimity. Fortune and ruin, life and death, all the important things, are balanced upon the razor’s edge. Yes, the chickens had come home to roost. In this business they always do. Actions have consequences and my fate could be put down to physics. I regretted nothing. Nothing except the perpetual bad weather that had socked in all the flights out of town and kept me stranded, vulnerable to reprisal.

  Sweat peeled the duct tape from my mouth. The tape was a formality, stage dressing for a ritual as old as crime itself; that ritual concerning the purification of traitors. I could yell all I wanted. Nobody would hear me except the rest of the thugs keeping watch upstairs. We were in the underworld, that spot on the map marked with skulls and crossbones and dragons. Tape, pliers, and ball-peen hammer were meant to satisfy tradition as much as anything else. The goons understood that trying to frighten me was a waste of effort.

  Well, the hammer served a purpose. Tony F had busted several ribs and squashed the little finger of my left hand with it. He’d be working his way up the arm soon. I knew the routine; I’d been the one with the hammer in my fist often enough. Our destination held no mystery. By evening’s end it would be big bad Isaiah Coleridge’s head on the mantel.

  I spat out the tape and said in a voice scarcely my own, “How’s Vitale?”

  Night loomed conspicuous in his absence. I guessed he wasn’t feeling well.

  Tony Flowers said, “Ain’t gonna sing karaoke no more. Can’t even talk. He really, really wanted to be here to see you off.”

  “How could you tell? They hang one of those whiteboards around his neck?”

  My wit earned me a smack on the left wrist and I went to the hot white void for a while. Angelic figures on winged horses saluted my hovering soul, celestial music trumpeted, and thunder boomed from Mount Olympus. That sort of thing.

  I crashed to earth, disappointed to find myself still chained, still hurting. Tony Flowers and his goons stared down at my sorry bulk. They’d held a conference, from what I gathered.

  “Y’know what I say, Tony?” The kid hefted a pair of garden shears with industrial rubber grips. He glanced toward the vicinity of my crotch. “I say we skip the pleasantries.”

  Tony Flowers let the hammer clank onto the floor. He took his fancy glasses out of his pocket and pushed them onto the bridge of his nose. He seemed abruptly eager to get this filthy business done. Doubtless, a stewardess or college-age stripper was keeping the sheets warm back at his hotel.

  “Okay, kid. Have at it.”

  The kid tipped me a wink of his own as he knelt between my thighs. The shears snicked wide. I flexed every muscle in my body, but the chains didn’t burst. Mama, your son is about to be made a eunuch.

  Thank God the phone rang.

  * * *

  —

  WORD CAME DOWN FROM ON HIGH that I’d been pulled from the job. No more fun for my tormentors.

  The goon reluctantly put his shears away.

  “Hey, let’s do this again.”

  “See ya around, pineapple.” Tony Flowers spat on my face. The others did too.

  They loaded me onto a cargo plane bound for Anchorage, where I did a stint at Providence Hospital. My catalog of injuries was modestly impressive. Mashed nose, broken ribs, broken fingers, hairline fracture of the wrist, and a partially collapsed lung. Contusions from head to toe. Small potatoes, really. Nothing some righteous dope and a few weeks of proper R & R wouldn’t fix.

  Cops came around and were sent away counting out the crisp C-notes that’d been pressed into their sweaty palms. I expected a visit from Vitale Night or one of his favorite henchmen. Had I awakened to Tony Flowers cutting my throat, it would have seemed the most natural thing in the world.

  Except, that’s not how it went.

  FOUR

  When the latest morphine buzz faded, I opened my eyes. The Outfit’s headman in Anchorage, Mr. Lucius Apollo, sat at my bedside like the world’s most sinister uncle. I’ve known him forever. He befriended my father twenty-five years ago. This had been during my teens when the Coleridges settled in Anchorage permanently. No idea where they first crossed paths or what bonded them—probably a mutual interest in hunting and drinking and whoring around.

  Whatever the case, the men were thick as thieves for a while, and not long after Dad and I had our great parting of the ways, Mr. Apollo took me in and saw to my education. I called him Uncle Lucius. He saw talent beneath my surly exterior; talent wasted on petty crime and petty violence. Uncle Lucius became Boss and Boss introduced me to the life. There are those who’d say I should hate him for making me into an instrument of destruction, for ruthlessly exploiting my anger and loyalty to achieve his nefarious ends. I don’t, because, at its worst, manipulation was better than living with a father who had no use for his son at all.

  Only Boss would dress for the tropics while residing in the Arctic. Decked out, as ever, in his finest white Panama suit and a straw-weave hat that shaded his expression. I didn’t need to see his eyes to get the drift. Boss was unhappy. Boss wanted an explanation. Boss wanted a reason not to finish what Night’s friends had started in that basement in Nome.

  “Damn it, kid. You were only supposed to observe and report. Now it’s a bloody mess.”

  “And crack a few skulls,” I said.

  “Not Vitale’s. What in God’s name happened?”

  Obviously, Tony Flowers had already raved at Mr. Apollo over the phone, detailing my infamy. I told him my side of how it went down. Afterward, I clammed up and waited to see whether my tale of woe intrigued him or if he’d simply order an associate to put a pillow over my face.

  “Walruses?” Mr. Apollo said. “You putting me on? Walruses?”

  Wiseguys and cops alike called the old man the Kingpin of Anchorage. He owned paving companies and contracting companies, a famous strip club, and a swanky restaurant chain where the staff presented you with a loaner jacket if you forgot to bring one. Don’t let any of that fool you. The buttoned-down, crimp-mouthed sonofabitch had a claw in every dirty deed from Anchorage to Fairbanks.

  “Walruses,” I said. “Hand to God. A whole herd.”

  “Vitale is after ivory.”

  “There’s a shortage of cribbage boards at Ye Olde Nome Gifte Shoppe.”

  “Ivory is not worth the heat.”

  “Nope.”

  “I’ve told him—I’ve told all of them up there—to stay away from ivory and polar bear hide.”

  “My impression is he doesn’t give a shit.”

  “Can you prove anything?” The question implied that he was still deciding whether or not to have me dumped in the bay.

  “The whole kill is on candid camera. One of Night’s idiot thugs filmed the operation. I, ah, appropriated the camera when I left. The reason Tony was tenderizing my parts—he wanted the footage.”

  “The Feds will tack Vitale’s hide to the wall if he isn’t careful,” Mr. Apollo said.

  “Better him than us. Thus goes my reasoning.”

  “The bastard isn’t even cutting me in. That’s what really hurts.”

  I didn’t tell him my suspicions about Night’s arrangements with the Nome black-market ivory dealers. A few weeks monitoring the situation had given me a world of insight. You shoot the breeze with your fellow lowlifes and soon learn who’s screwing whose old lady, who’s skimming the till, and who’s in debt to whom. The Nome crew had a mean dope habit—coke for Night, meth for the rest. Night didn’t want money for ivory, he wanted drugs. All pleasure and no business.

  Mr. Apollo stared at the ceiling for a bit. I could practically hear the steel ball bearings clicking in his head. Finally, he patted my arm.

  “Well, Isaiah, it was a good thought.”

  “Thanks, Boss.”


  “Who’s got the film, if you don’t mind?”

  I told him I’d mailed it to my personal P.O. box and where to find the key. No point to holding out on him. Either I’d be pardoned or I’d be crab food. When I’d finished talking, my bedclothes sopped with sweat.

  Mr. Apollo removed his hat and set it in his lap. Bald as a turkey vulture, pale blue eyes, a trim silver beard; a Confederate general in his dotage. He leaned so close that I got a whiff of imported cologne, the sweet, dark scents of Cuban cigars, and top-shelf whiskey. For a moment I worried that he intended to give me the kiss of death. Turned out it was only the kiss-off.

  “Son, I’ve always liked you,” he said with what resembled genuine fondness.

  “Sir, I know that.”

  “Vitale is mighty vexed over your shenanigans. The troops are referring to your rebellion as the ‘Ice Capades.’ It’s a big problem, Vitale being who he is and whatnot.”

  “Sorry.” I tried not to smile. Mostly because it hurt my face too much.

  “Leave it to you to not only piss off a made guy, but a guy who was once upon a time Chicago’s go-to hitter.”

  “I didn’t have time to break off his thumbs, more is the pity.”

  Mr. Apollo sighed. He’d put up with my antics since forever.

  Waves of exhaustion crashed over me.

  “Send him a fruit basket and a get-well card,” I said.

  “Your fat head in a Christmas basket would probably be more welcome.”

  “Sir, is it worth your trouble finding a basket that goddamned big?”

  He didn’t laugh.

  “Chicago called twice today. Second call came from the Chairman himself. He’s concerned. Very, very concerned.”

  I kept my mouth shut. Usually the best policy.

  “As it happens, Night hasn’t been authorized to make a move on you. And he won’t. For now, at least. Sooner or later, though. He wants to pay his respects personally. Claims he’s more than happy to wait until your bones knit. A matter of honor.”

  “A real prince, Vitale is.” I regarded the plaster cast on my arm and the one on my leg. The pulleys and cables and IV drips made me depressed and so I stared at the ceiling. “It’s going to be the death of him.”

  “I appreciate what you’ve done for the Outfit.”

  Oh boy. Here came the other shoe. I pressed the button again.

  “That is why it grieves me deeply to say this.”

  “Sir—”

  “I am afraid we’ve come to the end of the road.”

  “Sir—”

  “Shut up, son.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He straightened and put his hat on.

  “You can’t be around here anymore. Not in Anchorage, not Wasilla, not Fairbanks. Not a bloody igloo on Little Diomede. You can’t set foot west of Delta Junction again. Ever. If you’re smart, you won’t even visit the Yukon Territory. Ever. I also advise against vacationing in Chicago. Ever. Do you understand what I’m saying, Isaiah?”

  The medicine kicked in. Kicked in like that ball-peen hammer caving my skull in.

  I floated on a cotton cloud and beamed at him with the beatific simplemindedness of a newborn calf. Lately, I’d studied Buddhism via 1960s samurai flicks. My composure wasn’t solely a function of the lovely, lovely drugs. I emptied my mind the way any good samurai might, chucking the last twenty-odd years out the window.

  Mr. Apollo removed a manila envelope from his coat and laid it on the dresser in the shadow of a vase of white roses. Nice and thick too.

  “Your severance package. There’s another envelope for every year you’ve served, minus hospital expenses. Cash. Plane tickets. A letter of introduction addressed ‘To whom it may concern.’”

  “You shouldn’t have.” My eyelids were heavy.

  “Once you’re on the mend, I’m sending you all the way east. First class. I arranged a place for you to recuperate with old friends of mine. A horse farm north of New York City. Up in Catskill country.”

  “What do I know from horses?”

  “Don’t look one I give you in the mouth, I hope.”

  “Excellent point, Boss.”

  “Anyway, you go relax. Recuperate. Hope everybody here forgets your name. My friends at that farm got a soft spot for idiots. Picture it this way—you’re getting exiled from Alaska. Heck of a deal, is what I say.” Then the vicious bastard dropped the bunker buster he’d saved all along. “Best part is, you’ll be closer to your old man.”

  “Dad? You . . . talked to him?” Six years since last I’d spoken to Mervin Coleridge. Sixty would’ve pleased me more. I’d even kindled the tiny hope that he might’ve shuffled into the afterlife. The gods are cruel. As a goon of my recent acquaintance would say, “The gods got jokes.”

  “I sent him word you were in the hospital. Told him you might not be long for this vale of tears. He’s your dad. We must respect that.” Mr. Apollo gave me a look that recommended I best respect said familial bond or else. “We talked. He bought a spread in the Adirondacks a while back. Gotta be honest with you, son. It’s your father who tipped the scales against me whacking you. I owed Mervin a favor from the old days. Doesn’t matter what, don’t ask. He called in the marker and you get to keep breathing. We’re even.”

  “Ah, Christ,” I managed as my heart lurched and the mattress softened into quicksand. Man, I tried to climb out of bed in a sudden panic and got as far as the notion and no further.

  Mr. Apollo studied me with worry.

  “Isaiah, you okay, boy?”

  I wanted to tell him he should’ve left me in the iron chair, should’ve let the goons do what goons do best. My complaints came too late. Too late all the way around. The sirens of the void sang to me and I went.

  FIVE

  Like it or lump it, the Hudson Valley was in my cards. Might as well follow the advice of that sage Billy Joel and get into a New York state of mind. We all had roots in the Hudson Valley—the Coleridges and the Apollos. Dad’s family once owned property near Accord before they scattered on the winds of time and war. My surrogate uncle, Mr. Apollo, like most wiseguys not from Illinois, grew up in Yonkers.

  I chose to roll with the punches despite a searing antipathy toward anything to do with Dad. Antipathy and a not insignificant measure of fear. Dad’s property lay several hours to the north of New York City, deep in the Adirondacks. Remote, yet entirely too close for comfort. His longtime girlfriend, Harriet, a sweetly addled ex–B movie actress, kept in touch with us kids. She’d sent postcards from their previous abodes in Alaska and California. The pair gravitated to rural paradises surrounded by forest and streams jumping with trout. I imagined their latest retreat would be no different.

  The sole mitigating factor was, I’d not be likely to see him in the flesh unless I took the initiative. Dad frequently traveled abroad, and he relished manipulating events through intermediaries; always had. Mooks and thugs and femmes fatales, I could handle. Too weak to run, too weak to fight, biding my time as a wounded bear would in its cave felt appropriate.

  A friend of my father met me at Newark International. I’d balked at the idea; Mr. Apollo insisted I play nice, however. Said to let my father make his gesture and be grateful if Mervin didn’t come to be my personal chauffeur. The contact was a middle-aged bruiser by the name of Kline. Crew cut, aviator glasses, bomber jacket. Very likely career military, judging by his brisk comport, the way he held his mouth. Not the talkative sort. That suited me. I wanted to think, despite the fact that for weeks languishing in a hospital bed and thinking was all I’d done.

  Kline played Ellington’s Such Sweet Thunder on the stereo. The docs had busted my cast off and I enjoyed the simple joys of scratching an itch, the warmth of a breeze caressing my arm. I squeezed a squash ball. I didn’t use tennis balls because I ruined them too quickly. Two hundred with the left, two hun
dred with the right. Most guys neglect their hands. They love chest presses and biceps curls and squats, but when the chips are down, a man has to be able to depend upon his grip. If it’s a bone crusher, all to the good. Tony was never far from my mind as I throttled that ball.

  We entered the Hudson Valley.

  I’m comfortable with old, old places, places hostile to evolved life. My longest and best home, Alaska, is such a one: a vast, wind-blasted vista of mountain and river and sea as ancient as the bedrock of the world itself. Large and largely empty. Inhuman, yet aware on some primal frequency. Palpably malevolent in its indifference, Alaska is a land where winter kills off wolves and caribou alike and breeds creeping, deadly cabin fever that does in scores of men and women every year.

  But we were quits, Alaska and me.

  The Hudson Valley is old and frightening in a different way. Less a matter of deep geological time and more in line with the puny yardstick of man. Nonetheless, it hits you hard on a first encounter—say, as you’re wheeling along Route 32 in the back of a black sedan in the spring when the light is all pinks and greens and the geese rise against Van Gogh’s Wheat Field under Clouded Sky. Squirrels in the trees, bees in the hive, picket fences and gilded parkways, potholed roads winding onward and onward toward the falling sun.

  Where the Land of Ten Thousand Smokes strikes you with its austere immensity, New York State is much the opposite. She reveals her length and breadth, her mercurial character, by slow degrees. Reveals herself via the shift of sunbeams through the canopies of forests still wild at the margins, through the soft sweep of the Appalachians and the Catskills, the Hudson and the Rondout curving gently as a mama’s arm around her child.