Even if Fiorello always left Manny's with someone on his arm while O'Malley went home alone to an empty apartment.
The next street was Ayers, and O'Malley slowly turned the wheel to the right. Even on a Sunday night, there was always something happening on Ayers.
Sure enough, there was movement to O'Malley's left, as well as the sound of metal grinding against metal, though still no lighting. It was the Tavares Pawn Shop, which stayed open until midnight, though it looked like they were closing a few minutes early. The sound had come from a man pulling the grate shut; a woman was crouching down and pushing a padlock shut. O'Malley didn't know their first names, but he knew the Tavareses had always cooperated with the cops, reporting stolen merchandise and such.
Slowing down the cruiser, O'Malley leaned out the rolled-down window. "You guys all right?"
Mr. Tavares looked over and smiled when he saw the cops. "Yeah, we're good, Officer. Headin' home."
His wife, having applied both padlocks, stood upright. "Hey, guys, if you see the Bruiser tonight, could you do me a favor and thank him? Some guy tried to jump me on the way in to open this morning, and he drove 'im off."
"If we see him," O'Malley muttered. "Get home safe."
"Thanks!"
"What the hell?" Fiorello asked as they continued down Ayers. "'If we see him'? Sounds like DeLaHoya saved her ass."
"I guess."
Fiorello stared at his partner. "C'mon, DeLaHoya's one of the good guys. And you know how I know that? You said it when we first partnered up. 'Most'a the costumes,' you said, 'they're assholes, but the Bruiser's okay.' So what the hell?"
O'Malley sighed. "You know that double MacAvoy caught last week? DeLaHoya fucked with the evidence—they had to toss the case 'cause'a him."
Fiorello shook his head. "He doesn't usually do that."
"Yeah, well, he ain't police. None'a them are." O'Malley went through an intersection, ignoring the octagonal stop sign.
His heart suddenly hammered into his chest as he saw a square block of a man dressed all in black jump into the middle of the street right in the cruiser's path.
"Dammit!" O'Malley slammed on the brakes and tried to get his breathing under control. It wouldn't do to run down the Bruiser, since in that confrontation, the costume would still be standing, and the front grille of the blue-and-white would be smashed in. The last thing O'Malley wanted to do was call in a damaged cruiser again—not after that time the Brute Squad totaled the unit, and he had to ride a desk for a week.
Fiorello smirked. "Hey, now you can give him the Tavares lady's message."
"Kiss my ass," O'Malley said.
No one knew what exactly happened to Jesus DeLaHoya to make him super-strong, invulnerable, and big as a house, but ever since it happened, the former amateur boxer—who'd acquired the nickname of "the Bruiser" when he was a Gold Gloves champ back in the day—had taken it upon himself to clean up Simon Valley. Unlike most of the costumes, he usually cooperated with the cops, and even testified in court when he helped put someone away.
DeLaHoya walked around to the driver's side. The verb to walk was probably not giving what he did enough credit. The Bruiser tended to stomp, on account of he weighed a ton, and O'Malley was just waiting for the day that the pavement gave out under him and he fell into the sewer.
"Officers, how you two doin'?" the Bruiser said. He was bending over and staring into the window at O'Malley, getting so close that he could smell the cheap coffee on the costume's breath. DeLaHoya kept his dark hair close cropped, and it just accentuated that his head looked like a trapezoid, with no noticeable neck—just went straight from the jaw line to the shoulders.
"Whaddaya want?" O'Malley asked.
"Got somethin' you two'll wanna see."
O'Malley looked at Fiorello. "You believe this?" He turned back to the costume. "Look, DeLaHoya—"
"It's serious." With that, the Bruiser stood upright and stomped toward an alley between two apartment buildings.
Fiorello got out of the car.
"Hey, Paulie, what the hell?" O'Malley asked, but his partner was already crossing in front of the blue-and-white to follow the costume.
Shaking his head, O'Malley said, "Fine." He turned off the ignition and got out, pulling his ballcap out of his back pocket and putting it on his head. Technically, the plain black ballcap wasn't proper uniform, but O'Malley had always hated the blue department-issue hat. Fiorello, of course, wore his, with the SCPD logo on the front and the word central under it—and it never messed up his hair. O'Malley really had no idea how he did it.
Adjusting the bill of the cap as he walked toward the alley, O'Malley asked, "You wanna give us a hint, DeLaHoya?"
"I got a tip that some of Turk's boys were dealin' outta here."
This was starting to annoy O'Malley as he followed his partner and the Bruiser, pulling out his flashlight so he could see. "Turk's boys been dealin' outta here forever." His nose started to wrinkle, as the alley smelled like half a dozen homeless guys had taken a shit and then all croaked. O'Malley started breathing through his mouth.
"Not the last six months, they ain't," the Bruiser said, and O'Malley could hear the pride in his voice. "So I was checkin' it out, and I found this."
The Bruiser and Fiorello had stopped walking, the costume pointing between two Dumpsters. O'Malley shined his flashlight where the Bruiser's meaty finger was aimed, and Fiorello did likewise.
Barely, O'Malley could tell that it was the body of a man—and then only because the face was more or less intact. The rest of the body, though, had been torn apart. Organs and bones were sticking up through ripped flesh and torn clothes, and blood was all over everything. The limbs, what he could see of them, were all pointed in different directions than legs and arms usually went.
Something was stuck on the man's forehead.
The light got dimmer, and O'Malley turned to see Fiorello run across to the other side of the alley to throw up. He almost made it. His retching echoed off the brick walls of the two buildings. Uncharitably, O'Malley wondered what all those women who ignored him and chased Fiorello would think if they saw the two of them right now.
O'Malley shined his flashlight directly on the victim's forehead. It was a yellow Post-It with a pen-and-ink drawing of an eagle's talon on it.
The Bruiser said, "That's what I think it is, right?"
Nodding, O'Malley said, "Yeah." He turned and flashed his light on Fiorello, who was still doubled over, and was now dry heaving. His regurgitated dinner was doing nothing to make the alley smell better. "Guess I'm callin' this in."
"Look, I still gotta find Turk's boys. Can you just say this was an anonymous tip or something?"
"You didn't touch nothin', right?"
The Bruiser sighed. "Look, I'm sorry about what happened. That was a mistake, and I already apologized to Detective MacAvoy—twice. I didn't touch anything, okay?"
O'Malley was about to argue some more, but there wasn't any point. Besides, he now had bigger problems. "Yeah, fine, go beat the shit outta Turk's boys. Oh, and hey—Mrs. Tavares, from the pawn shop? She says thanks."
At that, the Bruiser actually broke into a big grin, which made his ugly face even uglier. "Tell her she's welcome." And then he stomped back out of the alley.
Fiorello was now standing with his hands on his knees, dry heaving. O'Malley grabbed the radio that was clipped to his right shoulder. "PCD, this is Unit 2202 with a signal 85. We got a dead body in the alley on the 400 block of Ayers. Need crime scene and Homicide."
"PCD roger."
"And hey, PCD?" O'Malley looked down at the mangled corpse and the distinctive Post-It. "Tell Homicide that the Claw's back."
Also From the Tales of the Scattered Earth
The Second Veil – By David Niall Wilson – Free Preview
Chapter One
The main chamber of the meeting hall of The High Council of Urv was a stately edifice with towering columns and a decorated, vaulted ceiling. It was centered by
a huge oval table of polished stone and ringed with ornate chairs covered in plush upholstery. It was, in fact, a statement, and as Euphrankes Holmynn entered, all he could do was shake his head.
Seated around that table, watching his entrance in solemn silence, an array of gray-haired councilmen waited in frowning silence. Euphrankes had been in the chamber before, and he'd known, more or less, what to expect, but the sheer pomposity of it still made him cringe.
The walls were hung with portraits of still more elders. They dated back to the beginning of The Council. When Euphrankes, as a boy, had asked what there had been before the earliest portrait, he'd been cuffed on the ear and told to keep his silence. He had since come to understand that he'd gotten his answer…they didn't know.
The rule for all those summoned to The High Council Chamber was silence. There were words to be spoken, but though they called it a court, there were no deliberations to be made. There were lines on old parchment that spoke with the voice of the law, and policy never deviated. That is why, stepping into the center of the room, where a slightly raised circular stage stood facing the base end of The Council table, seemed like such a waste of time and a display of idiocy. Euphrankes already knew what they would say.
It didn't matter. He'd made his request because it was his nature to make such requests. He'd stood his ground because he knew that he was not the only man on the planet who wished that things might change – that it was possible to prove the limitations and proclamations of law were not inviolate. It didn't even really matter that they would say no, because he knew that – in the end – there would come a time when it didn't matter what they thought, or what they said. If he died in the attempt, he would die knowing in his heart what was, and was not, the truth.
The chamber was only dimly lit by a ring of flickering lanterns. The only bright spot was where he stood, a trick of lenses and mirrors, and he knew this was to make it difficult for him to meet their gaze or study their expressions, while making it simple for them to do the same to him. Euphrankes' father had helped in the most recent redesign of the chamber, and he still had the books of notes explaining the structure, construction, and purpose of each architectural tidbit.
It was, in fact, the influence of his father, Edwin, that allowed Euphrankes to be granted any audience at all. He knew that he was a disappointment to The Council. His father had done great things at their bidding. His inventions and his innovations, as well as many of the technologies behind the existing infrastructure of the city, had made their lives easier. Euphrankes, rather than proving helpful, had done little in his life but cause them a long string of headaches for which the only cure had proven a semi-banishment to a private dome outside the city. He wondered grimly where they might send him next if he angered them sufficiently.
A phlegmy cough broke the silence, and Euphrankes stood as calmly as he could, facing the length of the table. It stretched interminably into the distance, and at the far end, in a dim pool of illumination, High Councilor Cumby sat and gazed back at him. At least, Euphrankes assumed the High Councilor was looking at him. At such a distance he might have been asleep, or facing the opposite way entirely.
"Good morning, Euphrankes," Cumby said. Despite the distance, the acoustics of the chamber amplified the old man's voice so that it seemed the two were standing side by side.
Euphrankes bowed very slightly and kept his expression as devoid of emotion as possible. He didn't believe there was any chance of his request being approved, but he didn’t want to give them new reason for their denial before they'd even spoken it.
"It is an honor, as always," Euphrankes said.
"Is it indeed?" Cumby asked. "Well, we shall see. I would like to extend my condolences on the loss of your father. He was a great man. He will be sorely missed in the city, and in these chambers. I pray that his passing was a gentle one."
"It was," Euphrankes said. He was surprised at how close his voice came to breaking as he spoke those words. His father had been a great man in the city, but the man Euphrankes remembered – the brilliant mind that had shown him the magic of metal and gears, steam and pressure, mathematics and theory – had been the rock in his life. His father had kept him busy and sane when he'd wanted to rail against The Council and their rules.
"One of the last things he said to me," Euphrankes added, trying to be as politic as possible, "was that I should send his regards to this council. I've chosen to carry them personally, and hope that you will forgive the indulgence."
A soft murmur ran about the table at his words. Euphrankes figured they were nodding and patting one another on the back. They'd always believed his father to be their tool – a man who would do as he was bid and give no argument. So unlike his son.
In truth, for every project Edwin Holmynn had completed for The Council, he'd completed a dozen others in the streets, taking care of those in need, and studying ways and means to move beyond the stagnant, dying city he'd called home. When a small outlying branch of the veil-roads had become untenable, it was Edwin who, through judicious use of his influence and several daring trips by air, between veils, had salvaged the complex to which his son had been banished. It was as if he'd glanced into the future and prepared a safe haven against the inevitable.
None of that mattered now. What mattered was that the city was dying, and these old fools didn't care. They would be perfectly content to sit back and watch, their laws fiercely clutched in liver-spotted, blue-veined hands, as the city shrank around them, becoming in the end a mass coffin. None of them had that many years of life left, and an equal number of them cared for the well-being of the inhabitants of Urv living beyond their immediate circle of acquaintance.
"We welcome you," the High Councilor said at last. "We are informed that you have a request, and we are …eager …to hear what you have in mind. Your family has always served the needs of The Council, and of the city."
Again, Euphrankes gave his small, half bow. Then he stood to his full six foot four inches and squared his shoulders. He was a big man with a slender, muscular frame tapering to powerful shoulders. His hair was long, and he wore it back over his shoulders in a braid, as his father had before him. He knew that they could hear him if he spoke softly, but he chose to project. He wanted to catch them sleeping and maybe, just maybe jostle them awake long enough to win their support.
"As you know," he said, "the roads between the cities are becoming steadily more treacherous. Flights beyond the First Veil run at regular intervals now, carrying cargo and passengers. Still, they are serving a shrinking world."
There were cleared throats and coughs around the room. Euphrankes held his temper in check, and continued.
"It isn't just the cities. The outlying factories and agricultural collectives are failing. Power sources are limited, and the rituals do not always work to repair what has fallen to age or neglect. It is a troubling time."
"Have you come," a voice piped up from his left, "to lecture us on the history of our world, young man?"
Illana Mirkos, eldest of the women serving on The Council, was a shrill, overbearing woman who had never forgiven Euphrankes' father for turning down her offer of marriage. It would have elevated Euphrankes' family to a level where they might – one day – hold a seat on The Council, but Illana had been twenty years his father's senior, and she was insufferable. She was least likely of all the members of The Council to look favorably upon anything Euphrankes proposed.
"No lady," he said, turning to acknowledge her, but unwilling to be cut off before he'd spoken his peace. "I am here talking about our future, and whether, in fact, there is to be such a future if we do not soon take action to ensure it. The prophets predict another ten years might bring a time when there is no ground travel between cities at all; how long can our cities exist without fuel, or food? Our present fleet of airships cannot bear the brunt of such a catastrophe."
"And you have a solution?" High Councilor Cumby cut in. "I assume by your prattle that this is why you are
here. You have some way to prevent the roads from crumbling, or to tie the cities one to the other?"
Euphrankes paused. This was the critical moment. What he proposed was actually not intended to help with the roads. It would not, in fact, make moving supplies from one city to another simpler or cheaper. His vision was more far-reaching than that of The Council, and the moment to show that divergence was upon him.
"I have developed a means," he said, ignoring the question and thus dodging the answer, "to travel beyond the Second Veil. The resources of this planet are finite. We lack the material or facilities to repair or rebuild what has fallen. We must look outward, not inward for a solution. We must look beyond the Second Veil, and I have created a ship that…"
Several voices rang out at once. They ranged from high-pitched screeching to angry shouts. High Councilor Cumby glared across the expanse of the table to where Euphrankes stood, letting the tumult grow until the room reverberated with the cacophony, then slammed his hand down on a button embedded in the tabletop. A piercing shriek of sound emanated from amplifying tubes around the room. The vibration of the sound met in the center of the room and swirled, swallowing all the words and screams and protests completely. When Cumby released the button, the room was heavy with silence, and Euphrankes stood, his shoulders shaking with startled anger and outrage.
"You dare?" Cumby said. The old man actually rose from his seat at council, a thing Euphrankes had never witnessed.
"I…"
Suddenly whatever it was that amplified Euphrankes' voice died, and though he continued to stutter into the void, only the High Councilor's voice could be heard.
"You dare to come before this council and suggest that, not only are the laws and the prophecies to be ignored, but that the very safety of our planet should be violated? You dare to suggest," the old man paused and seemed to gasp for the breath he needed before plunging on, "that we cause the very type of damage we fear every waking moment of every day?"
Guilt in Innocece Page 18
