Monster City

by Kevin Wright

  Carlo’s eyes remained on Mister Sklar’s as he replied, “Uh yeah, yeah, I seen her last night, at the club. During the fight.” He picked at the cast on his right hand. “This piece of shit was there, too, Mister Sklar. I was tailing him.”

  “Yes, now, come over here.” Mister Sklar waved his hand.

  Carlo did as Mister Sklar bade and walked around the hot tub. He knelt in a puddle. Mister Sklar wrapped a large bejeweled hand around the back of Carlo’s neck as he whispered something in his ear. Carlo glanced up at Peter then whispered something back. They spoke for a minute in hushed tones.

  Peter couldn’t hear what was said. Fidgeting, he stood there. As the silent conversation went on, Peter became increasingly aware of Vinks’s eyes upon him, judging him. He did not seem like a nice man.

  “Well, alright, Carlo, yes, you may go,” Mister Sklar said. “Oh, one last thing, Carlo, before you leave.”

  Carlo froze.

  “How’s Therese doing?” Mister Sklar stood up in the hot tub then stepped out, dripping. Vinks placed a terrycloth robe over Mister Sklar’s shoulders and held out a lighter. Mister Sklar cut the tip off another cigar then lit it over Vinks’s lighter. He took a deep pull.

  “Uh, she’s good, Mister Sklar.”

  Vinks drew his gun—

  * * * *

  Journal of Occult Histories 1969-70 October 12,1969

  …and despite the price on his head, Terrence Brudnoy has proven himself once again by prosecuting the leader of the Aces and Eights, Mister Azban Sklar, on eighteen counts of murder. Despite the outcome, which is a sham, the jury was certainly paid off, or under threat of death, Terrence Brudnoy has shown his worth to the people of the city by standing up and fighting where for decades men have laid down and cowered. The people believe in this relative newcomer and, in recent polls for the mayoral race, he is the certain victor.

  The people believe in him and will vote him mayor next month. Certainly, this has unnerved the incumbent, who in his past four terms has met no resistance. Thus, he embarks on a last-ditch smear campaign to sully the name of the man who can, and in the past two years since he has arrived here, do no wrong.

  * * * *

  It was over before Peter could react, before he could draw, not that his gun even worked.

  Vinks lowered his pistol. Smoke oozed slowly from its barrel, dissipating in the sunlight. There had been only one shot, point-blank, in the head. Like a sack of shit his body thwacked against the hard marble floor and slid halfway into the hot tub, turning the churning water crimson.

  “Excellent, Vinks.” Mister Sklar scanned the marble floor; it sparkled.

  Vinks said nothing; he had other concerns.

  Peter stood frozen, his pistol clutched in his hand aimed at Vinks.

  In the bubbling red water, Carlo’s carcass bobbed.

  “Easy, Mister Reynolds.” Mister Sklar strolled around the hot tub. “Vinks doesn’t miss. He’s not paid to. Sit. Please. We shall discuss.”

  “I can discuss standing,” Peter said, his gun riveted on Vinks, who stood likewise. Peter took a cautious step back to keep Mister Sklar in his peripheral vision.

  “Guns, Mister Reynolds, are poor bargaining tools when both sides possess them,” Mister Sklar said. “Now tell me, exactly what you want, and I’ll tell you exactly what it is I want.”

  “I want to know where my father is and if he’s still alive.” Peter could feel pressure in his hand, his trigger finger alive, squeezing in. “And if he is still alive, I want to walk out of here still alive.” He swallowed. “What do you want?”

  “I want that gun you’re holding.” Mister Sklar picked a folded towel up off the floor. “It’s unusual, indeed, Mister Reynolds. A most unholy piece of steel, truly, though the same could be said about all guns. A result of their limited use, I’m afraid. A very specialized tool.”

  “Look, enough bullshit,” Peter said. “Tell me what you know. Where’s my father? What did Pussywillow do with him?”

  “I haven’t spoken to Pussywillow in years, Mister Reynolds,” Mister Sklar said. “Not since her Cowboy days. Before her change.”

  “Then, what did Carlo tell you?” Peter snarled.

  Mister Sklar slung the towel over his right arm and began to walk around the pool again.

  Peter shuffled back, keeping both men in view.

  “Carlo told me where he took Pussywillow,” Mister Sklar said. “Apparently you pistol-whipped her a few times and caused her some discomfort. Oh, I wish I could have seen that! Mmmmm… She needed help, and Carlo, ever the gentleman, gave her some. He took her back to her lair.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “I can’t tell you that, of course,” Mister Sklar said. “If I tell you, then I have only you’re word that you’ll give me the gun. I don’t think you’d give me the gun once you knew, Mister Reynolds.”

  “So you want me to give you the gun?” Peter asked. “And then you’ll tell me? How do I know you’ll tell me or let me go?”

  Mister Sklar nodded, a slight grin upon his lips. “You see the difficulties in bargaining with guns.” He and Vinks stepped forward as Peter stepped back.

  The pressure in Peter’s hand was great; it was a strain for him not to fire his pistol … his pistol, it was his, not anyone else’s. Anger surged through his bones. I won’t give it away.

  “Lay it down on the floor, Mister Reynolds, and I shall give you what you desire.” Mister Sklar dropped the towel draped over his arm. He had a gun, too. “Lay it on the floor. You’ve been out-bargained, Mister—”

  Boom!

  * * * *

  Journal of Occult History 1969-70 November 9, 1969

  …has made no public appearances since the attack on his home on the night of the sixth, when ghouls slaughtered his wife and attempted to do the same to him.

  Terrence Brudnoy was injured in the assault but fought off his attackers and was taken to Colton Falls General Hospital with a minor neck injury. He refused treatment and was released.

  Benjamin Salazar, Esq., Terrence Brudnoy’s comrade, colleague, and campaign manager, spoke today affirming that Brudnoy is physically well, with only a minor injury, but is in mourning now for his lost wife. He promises that Brudnoy’s run for mayor will not be hindered by this most heinous of crimes, and he will certainly be fully recovered by election day and carry on despite what has transpired.

  Lies are within his eyes as he speaks.

  Alicea Brudnoy’s funeral was held today as well, at Saint Patrick’s cathedral. Her body was cremated…

  * * * *

  Peter’s fingers quivered in anticipation, saliva flooding his mouth. He didn’t fire again, though every tendon in his hand, every muscle in his arm wanted to, tensed to, begged to.

  “I’d like to apologize, Mister Reynolds.” Mister Sklar lowered his gun. He glanced down at the marble floor.

  Upon it lay Vinks, squirming, clutching the side of his head.

  Peter didn’t glance down; he didn’t dare; he had just shot a man. Venom rose within his throat, but he fought it down, focusing on Mister Sklar, whose gun now was by his side. Slowly, coolly, despite the fear Peter could smell coming off the man, Mister Sklar bent down and placed his pistol on the marble floor.

  “Really, Mister Reynolds, I do believe we got off on the wrong foot.”

  Peter’s gun remained level, aimed at Mister Sklar’s head. The door at the back of the hall burst open, and men poured in, only to stop short.

  “We’re fine.” Mister Sklar raised a hand. Not a trace of fear lay in his voice. He might have been calling out numbers in a bingo parlor. The men remained. “We’re in a tight spot, indeed, Mister Reynolds.”

  “I … I didn’t want to shoot him,” Peter said. “It … it wasn’t loaded.”

  “Hmmm, yes, well, don’t let it bother you.” Mister Sklar threw a towel down to Vinks who, still thrashing, ignored it. “All part of the bargaining process. When only you and Vinks had pistols, it was seemingly ev
en, and so bargaining was grid-locked. We were getting nowhere. I added a gun, thus gaining the advantage, seemingly. However, because you’re quicker than the mongoose at Surely’s, you took back the advantage. I know some things about that gun, Mister Reynolds, and while I am quite willing to risk Vinks’s life, I am more than hesitant to do so with my own. Even now that I have eight guns to your one, I realize that my soul would be forfeit were a firefight to ensue at this particular time and place. Easy, Mister Reynolds. I’m going to send them out.”

  Mister Sklar raised his voice. “Go on, men. Just bargaining. Take five. Vinks is fine. Carlo … well, just go.”

  The men, confused, reticent to leave, eased their weapons down and made their way out the door.

  Vinks clutched the towel and pressed it to the side of his head.

  The door slammed shut with an echo.

  “Now we can bargain, Mister Reynolds,” Mister Sklar said. “Easy, Vinks. So, you want to know where Pussywillow lives, eh? Well, Carlo took her to her hole down on the corner of River Street and Bruce. Basement floor, it’s only one of her holes, but that’s where they went.”

  “Is my father there?”

  “I don’t know, but Pussywillow is, or was,” Mister Sklar said. “She was pretty banged up. She probably hasn’t moved yet. Not until tonight. And now that I have given you what you want, you must give me what I want.” He held out a hand. “The gun, Mister Reynolds.”

  Peter raised an eyebrow.

  “Not quite so naïve.” Mister Sklar smirked. “If you leave by the pastry chef’s door, you’ll have a head start on my men. You understand. Go down two flights, and hop out the window onto the dumpster and off you go. You do realize, in order to save face, I have to send them. Especially since you murdered one of my men.”

  “Vinks is still alive,” Peter said. “He needs an ambulance, maybe I can—?”

  “I don’t mean Vinks, Mister Reynolds.”

  Peter glanced at Carlo in the hot tub.

  “I couldn’t have him abusing my niece,” Mr. Sklar explained. “Therese. Anyways, you must be going. The snakeheads will tend to Vinks. I’ll give you five minutes, Mister Reynolds. Run very fast, please. I don’t want any more of my men killed.”

  * * * *

  Journal of Occult History 1969-70 November 12, 1969

  …of Brudnoy’s private security state both were abducted from the campaign headquarters around ten p.m. The Colton Falls police chief states there is no evidence to indicate that any wrong-doings or foul play took place, despite one security guard’s apparent demise due to massive hemorrhaging. The police have confiscated the security tapes from Brudnoy’s campaign headquarters and make no further comment.

  Shadow powers are at play. Terrence Brudnoy and Benjamin Salazar are more than likely dead, if they are lucky…

  * * * *

  “Just go, Sid!” Peter slammed the door shut.

  “Chill out, Pete,” Sid said. “Would you? And talk normal, what happened? You work it all out?”

  “I … Sklar … just go.” Peter clutched his chest. He glanced out the window back the way he came. The Camden projects loomed still, though no activity yet. “Just go.”

  “Is Timmy trapped in a well, boy?”

  “Go!” Peter reached over the seat and popped the car into drive.

  “God damnit!” Sid slapped Peter’s hand. The car rolled forward, and Sid grabbed the wheel. “Don’t paw my baby!”

  “I need you to take me to a building at River and Bruce street. Pussywillow’s place.” Peter clutched his ribs.

  “River and Bruce? Fine. No problem. That’s all you had to say.” Sid scowled in the mirror. “Well, you’re not dead, so I assume your meeting went well. Got that contract taken care of?”

  “No.” Peter curled up into a ball on the floor.

  “No? But, you must have come to some kind of arrangement,” Sid said.

  “No.”

  “Agreement?”

  “Kinda, maybe…”

  “Well, who’d you talk to? One of the Big Boys? Spider? Or Daryl? Or, what’s that other guy’s name?”

  “Mister Sklar,” Peter said.

  “No, that’s the boss,” Sid said. “Guy I’m thinking of is real skinny, sick looking, real sick looking. What’s his name? He’s a shooter.”

  “No, I talked to Mister Sklar,” Peter said. “In his penthouse.”

  “The Azban Sklar?” Sid asked. “No shit? You must be like royalty, Pete. He don’t see no one. What’d he say? He cancel the contract, then?”

  “No.”

  “What agreement did you make?”

  “He, uh, he increased the price on my head, and I ran out the door.”

  “Increased it!” Sid said, screeching the taxi out of control. “What the hell’d he do that for?”

  “Well, I sort of … shot one of his men,” Peter said. “It was an accident. Vinks, he drew his gun on me.”

  “Vinks, you shot?” The taxi began traveling considerably faster. “Holy shit!”

  “We both fired. I thought he was going to, but I did, and now he’s … I don’t know.”

  “Holy shit, where’d you shoot him?”

  “Uh, in the head.”

  “HOLY SHIT!”

  The tires screeched.

  “I didn’t think it was loaded. It was just reflex. I didn’t — it just skimmed him, maybe.”

  “Skimmed?” Sid floored the gas. “Got to get you out of my taxi. You’re not safe here. I’m not safe here! Streets’ll be swarming with hit men. Where’s my vest? Where can I take you? You need to disappear fast!”

  “River and Bruce,” Peter said.

  “Shit shit shit,” Sid said. “Fucking Vinks! Gonna put a cap in my — is he dead? What’s at River and Bruce?”

  “Pussywillow,” Peter said.

  “Good, excellent, wonderful.” Sid barrelled through an intersection. Horns beeped. “Running from the hit men to the freaking vampire princess herself. I hate you, Pete, but that might make sense, somehow. Hit men don’t like vamps either, right? You sure she’s there?”

  “Mister Sklar said she is.”

  Chapter 34.

  AIDS WAS KILLING Kade Valentine. More precisely, it was pneumonia, his fifth in as many years. For three nights straight he had been unable to lie down flat. Fluid building, growing, dividing, wriggling alive in his lungs made it impossible. Impossible if he wanted to breathe, if he wanted to live. Did he want to live? The purulent fluid that sat at the bottom of his lungs like stagnant pond water made him gurgle with each breath he took. Each breath was harder than the last. He took a deep pull off his cigar and let the smoke waft out of his mouth, twisting away in a white double helix.

  Skinny, pale birch twigs his arms had become. His skin was wet and moist, like a frog’s, he imagined. Mirrors repulsed him. He couldn’t stand to see what he was. In his mind’s eye, he knew what he had been, what he had become, and what he should be.

  From within his pocket, he withdrew a bottle of pills. Did it matter what they were? He cracked it open, grunting, palmed two and took another swig from his bottle. The whiskey burned his mouth as whiskey should, and then he swallowed. The pills slid down without a gag, another skill he’d mastered.

  The whore by his side, Maggie, cracked open one sleepy lid at the sound of the pills shaking and pawed listlessly at Kade’s arm.

  He shouldered away, protecting the grenade he wore about his neck. It was for a special occasion. He gave her the pill bottle and pushed her away.

  Overflowing her cupped hand, pills rolled out onto the table in every direction, clicking onto the floor like an elfin tap dance. Three or four she managed to pounce on, grasp in her limp palm, and pop into her mouth. As she bit down they crunched. She grinned.

  Before she could paw at his shoulder again, Kade pushed the bottle of whiskey her way. He didn’t look at her as much as he could. She had been beautiful; now she was a cracked reflection. His focus lay elsewhere as he stroked his long mustache an
d gazed with detached interest from the balcony and at the pit below.

  Gangbangers, Street Samurai by their powder blue colors, screamed and yelled and hollered all around, waving fistfuls of cash in the air as the combatants rolled on the ground inside the pit.

  A flurry of fur and scales, strikes and parries, dodges and ripostes, long serpentine coils and chittering teeth. It was too fast for the eye to follow. The cobra dwarfed the mongoose and by all rights should win. One bite and its poison would kill it, would kill thousands of them. And that’s where most of the money in the joint was, on the snake, the king of cobras.

  “Sucker’s bet.” Kade peered down, grinning in gray anticipation. His money was on the mongoose. It was always on the mongoose. When work was slim and times tight, that mongoose fed him, housed him, got him whores. He loved that mongoose.

  The cobra’s hooded head reared up five feet off the ground and struck forward at the mongoose, and it was over.

  Kade’s limp skin hung from his face like boiled spinach, and no expression graced it. Fire burned in his eyes, though, passion, passion for one of the few things that made him forget.

  The Samurai booed, shoving and cursing as the handler stepped into the ring, thick gloves on his hands. He grasped the mongoose and pulled and tugged and finally wrenched it bloody flipping from the back of the dead cobra’s neck. The handler dropped the chittering horror as it turned its fury on him. He swore in anger. The men still booed as beer bottles rained down into the ring, shattering as the man ran out.

  Kade collected his winnings from behind the bar and limped away past angry faces.

  “Mister Valentine,” one of the bookmakers said, holding up a phone. “For you, sir.” He handed the phone off then wiped his hands on his smock.

  “Yes?” The phone was lead in Kade’s hand. He held it to his ear, listening.

  “I’m dying still, Mister Sklar, and you?” Kade said, gurgling. He wiped his chin with a handkerchief. “Yeah, yeah … the fights … Surely’s … the mongoose, always the mongoose … doesn’t know how to lose … not in its genes … please, jousting’s a sucker’s bet now, fucking kids today killed it, level of play’s shit the bed … yeah, worse than basketball … oh, right as rain … Sure, I’ll take it … what time? Okay … Bruce and River … what’s he look like? … Desperate? … not as desperate as me … he packing? Hmmmph, Vinks never impressed me … no, not even during that Chinatown thing … could’ve done it with a staple gun … I’ll head right over … consider it done. Okay, I’ll contact first … the item? It’ll be gift wrapped.” He hung up the phone and stalked away in a listless drunken swagger.