Dead Eye Hunt (Book 2): Into The Rad Lands

by Meredith, Peter

  Without looking up, he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “I told you to wait at the restaurant.”

  Deciding to be tough, she knelt next to him as if hovering around dead bodies was an everyday thing, which it was beginning to be. “The owner was giving me the stink eye. You know how them Mandarins are.”

  He knew very well, and it was why he had told her to eat slowly. “Well, you shouldn’t be here. It isn’t smart to be seen with me. You never know who’s watching. I’ll meet you outside, now get.”

  “Just trying to help,” she grumbled and moved off into the crowd.

  When she was gone her spot was taken by a tall, balding man in a metallic silver shirt, green cotton trousers and black cowboy boots that were scuffed and run down at the heel. He wasn’t the only one dressed like this. All the dancers wore chaotic mismatching colors and fabrics. They were all peacocks regardless of sex. “Hey, pal do ya mind taking that outside? You’re killin’ the vibe. I got payin’ customers, pal and they ain’t payin’ to stand around watching you feel up a dead body.”

  Cole gave a quick glance at the crowd around him. “It looks to me like that’s exactly what they’re doing. You want this to go quicker? Hold his shoulders while I take off his pants.”

  “Oh, hell no! I ain’t no muncher. I’m a full red-blooded man.” He stated this loudly so that there would be no question of his manliness among the women present.

  “Suit yourself,” Cole said and began to wiggle the man’s pants down. As expected, the corpse resisted being undressed and it took him several minutes of shifting and pulling before the corpse was naked. More minutes went by as he slowly looked the man over from head to toe. There was nothing obvious about the bare flesh that caused the crowd to whisper and titter. It was just a dead man; a sad dead man. In death, his face was somber, his eyes downcast.

  “What’s that say?” Corrina asked, pointing to the man’s ankle at a blue tattoo. She was sipping from a glass that she had picked up off the bar. It was a gin fizz and normally she didn’t like gin, but with the cherry fizz added it wasn’t half bad. “Maybe it says his name, you know? Some people do that. Or they get their mom’s name inked on them after they died, ya know? I knew one guy who gots his mom’s name on his sack. Ya know, his ball sack? I was like, didn’t that hurt? And he said he was big as a baby so it was only fair.”

  Cole ducked his head and hissed, “Are you drunk?”

  She would’ve said no right away except she couldn’t really feel her feet. The gin fizz was not the first drink she’d sucked down while slipping around the bar. “No. I’m just happy is all, ya know, that we got one.” She winked and pointed at the body.

  A groan escaped him. “No more alcohol. Do you hear me?” He held out a hand for the glass.

  Corrina knocked back the last of it and gave it over. “Here ya go. So, what does the tattoo say?”

  Instead of glaring, which would’ve been a waste, he sighed, set aside the glass and leaned over the body. “It says: A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet.”

  “Huh? What’s that mean? Is a rose a type of candy?”

  “What? No. It’s a flower. You never heard of a rose before?”

  She shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. I just didn’t know what it meant by being sweet. That’s all.” She was about to ask if a person ate flowers but then remembered that flour made bread, so obviously they did. “So, what’s it mean?” Now it was his turn to shrug. He was about to postulate that maybe the man had a secret identity, something all Dead-eyes in the city had in common, when Corrina raised her voice and asked the crowd, “His tattoo says: A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. Anyone know what that means?”

  “Who cares?” the owner of the bar spat out. “He’s already dead, ain’t he?” Half the crowd agreed, while the other half tried to appear wise, stroking their chins or looking off and nodding gently. Faked wisdom did not come up with an answer.

  “Go back to your dancing,” Cole said to them, trying to shoo them away. Those that left came right back when he flipped the man over. “Ugh. He was a muncher, alright.” On his left buttock was an odd smiling face and on the other was an even odder sad one.

  Corrina blinked largely, feeling the extent of the alcohol hit her. “I don’t think either of those is going to smell sweet.” She got a big laugh out of this and in her tipsy state she smacked the corpse on the ass and was in the middle of formulating another butt joke when one of the women in the crowd spoke up.

  “I think he’s an actor.”

  “You can tell by his butt cheeks?” Corrina asked. “What kind of shows are you watching?”

  The woman went pink as the crowd laughed. “No. I went to a theater once. My boyfriend took me. And above the door were faces just like those.”

  Cole was on his feet in a flash. “Where was this theater?” He knew that all the big theaters were on Broadway, which was something of a holdover from the time before the Dead-eyes. But he also knew that crime tended to be local. Either the killer was from around this area or the victim was.

  “Uh, east of here on Canal. I dunno about eight or nine blocks from here. Maybe more. I think.”

  “Do you remember the name of the place?” She didn’t but someone threw out the Play House. Leaving the naked body sprawled on the floor, Cole turned and headed for the door, snapping his fingers at Corrina, who had been helping herself to another drink. She came wobbling after him, a goofy grin on her face. “He’s a muncher alright,” he told her. “He works at a place called the Play House. What the hell is that? Grown men playing make-believe? Pretending to be someone they’re not? Sounds like…”

  Corrina had wobbled into the street and he grabbed her by the coat and pulled her back. “Do you need some coffee? Huh? Look at me. Try to focus, okay? I don’t have enough money to get a room for you to sleep it off. We have to bag this Dead-eye tonight or things are going to get real tight.”

  “We could go home. I need to change out outta these clothes. They’re stinky city.”

  “Our place is being watched. That’s a fucking guarantee.”

  She snorted laughter, saying, “Watch yer lang-gage. And we ain’t that bad off, neither. We got that big gun to pawn.”

  “Pawning the Crown makes more sense…”

  She drew back, clutching her pocket. “No way! This is mine. I need it to per-tect myself.”

  “I said we might pawn it. If this case doesn’t pan out, we’re going to need the money. We could get a few hundred and keep out of sight for a couple of weeks until all of this dies down. Then we make a run on our bank first thing on a Saturday morning. If we get lucky, we get our stash and the Crown back.”

  Corrina thought on this for a few blocks. “What if we have a little extra?” He shot her a hard look and she shrugged, sheepishly, pulling out a small wad of cash. “It was just sitting there,” she lied. In fact, it had been sitting in a wallet, inside a coat that was hanging on the back of a chair. The owner of the coat, along with his girlfriend had been turned around in their chairs watching Cole and hadn’t noticed the little girl.

  “Son of a bitch,” Cole groaned, stuck between doing the right thing and giving back the money, and fearing for Corrina’s safety. Chances were the police would be called and as she was with Cole at the time, she’d feel the full wrath of the justice system. It was a system which leaned so far against the accused that they were always presumed guilty and had to fight to prove their innocence. In this case, the trial would be only a formality. By this time tomorrow she’d be on her way to a work program. A minor infraction like this would net her a year in a labor camp where the conditions rivaled those of the terrible factories out in Brooklyn.

  He stood, glaring, his face twisting in anger until even she stepped back. “We need the money, Cole. I was just…”

  “We don’t steal! And we don’t lie!” He took her wrist and squeezed until she opened her hand. “Seven dollars is not worth going to prison for a year over. Haven’t I
taught you the right way by now?”

  Of course, he had mouthed the words and she had let them wash over her, nodding at all the right places, but he was one voice with one message of how to be “good.” The concept of “good” struggled to find its place in her world. In her world, what was good for her, regardless how it affected anyone else, was the only good that mattered. Every experience in her life had reaffirmed this, just as it had reaffirmed the need to lie when necessary.

  Cole was good for her. He protected her, and fed her, and kept a roof over her head, and most importantly, he offered her a future. Perhaps it would be on a boat or, more than likely, it would be hunting down zombies in a city that really didn’t care. Whichever didn’t matter to her. He offered her a future that was livable. She didn’t have that on her own. Because life with Cole was good, she would lie and steal for it. And she would lie and steal for him, as well. She would just have to lie about lying and stealing. Mentally, she kicked herself for having mentioned the money at all. And yet, he needed the knock-off as much as she needed the Crown.

  She decided that next time she would “find” the money in a gutter, that way it would be a win for both of them. “Sorry,” she said, faking a look of remorse.

  Turning her hand over, he let the crumpled bills fall to the wet pavement. “You will be if you keep this up.” Leaving the money, he pulled her along, heading east through a late evening crowd that walked with their heads bowed against a chill damp wind.

  Even warmed by the gin, Corrina shivered but decided it was best not to complain. Cole would be mad at her for some time and he would only say something like, Suck it up. Any other time he would’ve given her his trench coat, even if she was so short that it trailed on the ground.

  When they finally reached the Play House, both stopped and looked up and down the street. It wasn’t lost on either of them that they were only four blocks away from Krupp Metalworks, where he had hunted down and killed a pair of Dead-eyes six months before. They shared a look before Cole told her to, “Wait here. Do not get into trouble and try not to be seen.”

  She agreed to the idea. He didn’t believe her and, sighing, crossed the street to the dark theater. A tiny sliver of light escaped from beneath the door. Cole put his ear to the cold metal and listened, but caught nothing. He tried the door and startled a man who was just about to head out.

  The man had his Homburg pulled low and his collar up, making it hard to pick out his features. “Whoa, hey,” the man said. “This ain’t a bar, big fella. You can’t just barge in.” After he said this he paused expectantly, giving Cole plenty of time to cast a glance past the door at a part of a long room that had soft red draping covering the walls and a glass booth in the dead center where patrons bought their tickets.

  “I’m looking for one of your actors. You missing one? About five-foot seven. A hundred and fifty pounds. Dark hair?”

  The man was already nodding. “Yeah. You’re talking about Sean Davidson. He hasn’t been around in a few days.”

  Cole’s eyes narrowed at the name. Edie the Axe had been looking for a man named Davidson. “Does he also go by Scott?”

  “No, that’s his brother. He was running lines on stage a minute ago. You can go talk to him if you want.”

  “Thanks,” Cole said, speaking softly. He moved cautiously past the man, his hand on the grip of the Eagle knockoff. Something wasn’t right. The mob wanted this guy found and here he was running lines in a theater he probably worked in. Clearly this was had been a set up from the beginning. The question was: who was being set up? Cole was a nobody to the mob. Setting him up was a waste of time. It meant that Cole was playing a part in someone else’s drama. He was supposed to find Scott Davidson.

  Suddenly, he was struck with a sinking feeling in his gut. There was a good chance that Sean Davidson hadn’t been killed by a Dead-eye at all. The handcuff marks, the flagrant disposing of the body, the lack of mutilation, all suggested that a human had killed Sean.

  Cole parted the red curtains that led down into the auditorium. It was a small theater with seating for maybe a hundred people and the stage was a low affair set up to look like someone’s living room. A man stood facing away, leaning on an upright dresser. “Are you Scott?” Cole asked from halfway down the aisle.

  Scott glanced over his shoulder, but said nothing. “Hey,” Cole snapped. He wasn’t in the mood to be ignored while he was busy being played. “Listen up, jackass, the Fantucci crime family is after you. And if I were…”

  “Go the fuck away!” Scott boomed, his voice reaching from one end of the auditorium to the other. “You don’t want any part of this, Cole Younger.”

  “How do you know my name?” Cole demanded. Again, he was ignored. Cole took a giant step up onto the stage. “Hey pal, I asked you a question.”

  Scott watched him over his shoulder. When Cole reached center stage, Scott turned, and although he kept his chin down, Cole saw that his eyes were beetle black. “What the fuck? Who turned you?” This was not right. How was Scott reading lines one minute and staring at Cole with a lust to kill the next? And why was his hand stealing up under his coat?

  There was a flash of silver as Scott drew a gun, what looked like a vintage Crown. As fast as his hand had been grabbing the weapon, his arm unfurled slowly as he took deliberate aim. He was too slow, and Cole ducked away, pulling the big Eagle knockoff out of its holster. It roared with the sound of thunder. He rushed his first shot and hit Scott in the belly. The next went into his throat off-center, spraying the dresser with blood. The third hit mid-forehead above his right eye.

  A fourth shot wasn’t needed. Scott went comically stiff and fell over on his back with a hollow thud sound, his pink brains splattered across the fake living room.

  Chapter 10

  “What the hell?” the man in the Homburg cried from the top of the aisle. He stood staring down at Cole in pale-faced shock. He pointed accusingly. “Look at what you did! L-Look! Why? Why would you do that? Why?”

  “It was self-defense,” Cole explained, sliding the knock-off away beneath his suit coat. As he did, he felt clammy cold sweat under his shirt that had sprung up from nowhere. It was the suddenness of the fight. Along with the sweat, a tremor of adrenaline ran through his extremities. He ignored the sensation and advanced to stand over Scott. His mind was filled with questions but each seemed to stick and clog up the works. Nothing about the case made any sense. He had a dozen Whys running through his brain and not a single answer that began with: because.

  “There’s got to be a mistake,” the man with the Homburg was saying, cutting in on his thoughts.

  Cole blew out, wearily. “There’s no mistake. I need to use your phone.” He took a step toward the edge of the stage and in response, the man fled to the curtain.

  “He was playing a part you dumb fuck!” the man cried. “He was acting for shit’s sake, and you killed him.” He had an arm raised and was pointing an accusing finger at Cole. That made even less sense than anything else. What kind of play had Dead-eyes in it? As it was a state secret no play would dare do it. Cole was on the verge of mentioning this but rightly held back.

  “Just get me a phone and don’t let anyone come onto the stage. And don’t talk to anyone. I’ll have a clean-up crew here as soon as possible. You’ll need to make new scenery, but that’s…” The walls of the faux living room were sterile white except where the brains had splattered, red and pink. “What the hell?” Dead-eyes didn’t have pink brains. They were black from the virus. It’s what drove their rage.

  “Hold on,” Cole said to himself. The Homburg-wearing man had disappeared. In shock, Cole went to Scott, kicking his gun accidentally. It went skittering lightly away making a noise that made no sense. The gun was plastic, not metal! It was a toy. “Christ,” he whispered, realizing he had been set up after all. Scott’s blood was red, his brains were pink and…Cole now saw that he had been wearing black contacts. One had slipped halfway up into his head, exposing the white sclera be
neath.

  Instinct told him to run and he was on his feet in a flash. He was too late. At the top of the aisle stood Lieutenant Hamilton and three patrol officers. All three had their guns trained on Cole.

  “Look at you,” Hamilton said, shaking his head. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Murder in the first degree. Remember how you would lecture me about the evils of sin? And here you are breaking the biggest of your commandments. What would your stupid sky fairy say now?”

  Cole’s hand itched to draw his Forino, but he had been taught that suicide was just as much a sin as lying and murder. They would gun him down if he pulled his piece. He’d have no chance at all. But what chance did he have at the hands of the justice system? Less of one, likely.

  “He pulled a gun on me,” Cole said. The moment he said this he realized he was doomed. It had been a fake gun pulled by an actor on a stage. The prosecutor would laugh all the way to the gallows. “I thought he was a…he was a…”

  “A what?” Hamilton asked, coming down the aisle. “Tell me, Cole. What did you think he was? I want to hear it.” To answer the question would mean a horrible torturous death, one that would be filmed as a warning to future bounty hunters.

  Again, Cole’s hand inched toward his gun. He was being set up. He was standing in the midst of his own murder. Just because it was slow in coming didn’t make it any less of a fact, and by natural law he had the right to defend himself from it. And if he died in the process? Shit happened sometimes.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Hamilton asked. “You really think you can draw against me? Against us?” They were wearing body armor and carried semi-automatic rifles. Hamilton smirked, knowing the answer. “Why don’t you do the smart thing and get your hands up? Go on. Get them…”