“They could afford not to advertise until weeks before release?”
She shrugged. “Well, they do own Times Square, so yeah, I think they can afford it.”
“When did you come up with the idea for this … show?” I hoped she didn’t know about my past, before I’d started taking real Night Calls. Before I’d stopped my rampage.
“Some stories about Night Calls trickled in for a few months in late ’30, but we had no idea who you were. Then, about two years ago, civilians started calling the news desk to report your random acts of justice. It took some doing to get my hands on official reports — the police are very tight-lipped about the existence of a man who doles out justice to the Mob — but the stories passed along by civilians were enough to make you something of an urban legend.”
“Uh-huh.”
“We also have a source outside the city who told us about some of your past antics. Andrew Stern. He said he’d had a few run-ins with you in the past, even worked in the precinct with you.”
Stern. What a bastard. “Should have killed him when I had the chance,” I muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing … He’s just a prick, is all. A nuisance.” At least he’d listened to me and gotten out.
“Well, those tales passed around, along with the police reports, were enough material to build the idea of the show, which I pitched to RCA. When the writers came up with a pilot, test audiences loved it, but RCA kept it on the down low until they felt it was ‘ripe’ enough. They had me keep providing them with research on you. Then I discovered Andrew Stern, who’s living in San Francisco now. I contacted him and he gave me a lot of little details that make the show feel that much more authentic.
“I know you’re not keen on your privacy being invaded, but I can assure you that RCA isn’t eager to plaster your image all over. It would ruin the mystery and allure of the Nightcaller character. You’re more attractive as a hero when you’re anonymous.”
“Ironic, ain’t it? The reality isn’t much compared to the fantasy on the radio.”
“I wouldn’t say that. I have a suspicion that the way you work is even more exciting than what they make up for the listeners.”
She went back to her meal, and I to mine. The band changed, and now a man and a woman were singing a melancholy tune. No, not a man and a woman, a machine and a woman. His — or, rather, its — flanging voice resonated throughout the restaurant. The music was good, enough to get my foot tapping along. Simone smiled to herself.
My gaze drifted into the crowd around the stage. A firm, square-jawed face looked back up at me. Salvatore Maranzano, Caesar himself, was sitting with his cronies down below, all of them drinking and laughing. He gave me a nod and turned back to the music. At least he followed his own rule.
It felt good to get away from the underworld for a while, to take a walk on the outside. I wished I could stay here forever.
The meal ended, I bid Adamo and Maria goodbye, and then I walked Simone out of the restaurant. I might as well act civilized as long as I was in civilization. She put on the same long fur coat as before. It completely hid her dress, save for the hem at her ankles, and it made her shoulders look twice as wide as my own. I drove her home in the Talbot; I wasn’t about to let the woman ride in a taxi twice. Plus, if I’d let a lady go unescorted, Adamo or Maria would have slapped me the next time I walked into the restaurant.
Her apartment was in Lincoln Square, one of the better districts of the Lower City, which wasn’t saying much. Still, this was one ritzy place, especially given the salary most reporters got. I helped her out of the car and walked her to the door of her complex, the cold wind piercing my skin. The snowfall had ceased for today. While the roads were clear, having been salted, the grass and bare trees in the small park behind us were coated in several days’ worth of white. It must have been nice living somewhere that wasn’t covered by the Plate. At least the vegetation didn’t wither from lack of sunlight, even in the summer. I revelled in the feeling of the sun’s searing rays on my face and neck.
“How can you afford a place in Lincoln Square?”
She smirked. “A girl knows people. I don’t make all my money from reporting.”
“That explains the coat, too. Mind telling me where that other money comes from?”
“And give away my secrets? Never.” She climbed the four concrete steps to the front door. She was happy. This must have made her whole year. “Thank you for the interesting lunch. I can’t imagine how busy that place must get at night.”
“Oh, it’s hell.”
“But you can still get a table, right?”
I grinned. “Of course.”
“Pays to know people, huh? Well, the interview was eye-opening. Good to know the man behind the name better. If there’s anything I can do for you in return, please let me know.”
“There is, actually.” She raised an eyebrow. “We’re tracking down the perp in a crime scene or two, and we’d appreciate your assistance if we need to get anywhere … less accessible to the public. Can you do that?”
Simone leaned against a railing, excited. “Of course! I’m a journalist, I have keys to almost everywhere in the city. You call whenever you need me, and I’ll be ready.”
“Thank you. Enjoy your evening.”
“And you, as well, Elias. Don’t work yourself too hard.”
I walked back to my car. On the way, I felt the notepad and pen in my jacket pocket slapping against my hip.
Damn it, forgot to take notes.
The drive home felt too short, and parking in front of my building felt like jumping back into the rut I had just left. I was disappointed not to see Yuri at his usual post. He must have been down the street selling dogs on another corner. Missing the relief of chatting to him, I went in through the lobby and rode the elevator to my floor. When the doors parted, I noticed that the hallway was unusually quiet. But the silence was soon interrupted by the buzzing of the flickering wall lamp above my door. I should get someone to fix that.
Stepping inside, I went over to the coffee machine and plugged it into the Tesla Battery in the wall. It spooled up to prepare the hot liquid for me. Suddenly, I heard something heavy drop behind me, in the middle of my living room.
“Jesus!” I screamed.
I looked around to see that something had indeed landed on the ground, right beside my new TV. An eight-foot-tall something. It was creepy how the Rabbit could crawl around like that, its every move smooth and silent. We locked eyes. We were both waiting to see who would flinch first.
“YOU’RE GETTING SLOPPY,” it said.
“And you’re still creepy as hell. How did you get in here? Actually, never mind,” I said, looking at the fresh finger holes in my ceiling. The black liquid began to leak out into the cup under the coffee maker, and I reached for it when it was full. “Been waiting long?”
“LONG ENOUGH.”
It didn’t have eyes or a mouth, but judging by its tone of voice, it would have given me a shit-eating grin if it could have. Did it know about my meeting with Simone? No, don’t let it get into your head.
“ONE LAST JOB, AND THE MEETING WITH THE EYE IS YOURS. THINK YOU CAN HANDLE IT?” It spoke slowly, trying to set me off.
“I shouldn’t be treated like this, I’m her goddamn enforcer,” I said under my breath.
“YOU HAVE BEEN SLIPPING. THESE LULLS IN COMMUNICATION ARE MEANT TO TEACH YOU A LESSON, ROACH.”
“Did she tell you to say that to me? Or is that your own opinion, capek?”
The Rabbit didn’t respond to my question. “SHE WANTS YOU TO STOP LOOKING INTO THE EDISON HOTEL MURDER.”
“Why?”
It marched to my front door, its eyes never leaving me. “THE KILLER IS CHIPPING AWAY AT MARANZANO AND GIVING HER SOME BREATHING ROOM. SHE KNOWS YOU WANT TO FIND THEM, BUT SHE DOESN’T WANT THEM FOUND. LEAVE THEM BE. UNDERSTOOD?” I DIDN’T RESPOND. “I’LL TAKE THAT AS A YES.”
The machine disappeared through my
door, leaving me alone in my apartment.
This was too strange. Why? Why all of a sudden keep me away? Was I getting close? I wanted to find out if the Eye was up to something, but this visit had answered my question. There was no doubt the killer was working for the Iron Hands. I was so goddamn tired of grey areas and wavering loyalties. Next, that capek would be putting a gun to Allen’s head to keep me away.
But not yet. The Eye’s words had less and less power over me every day. She shouldn’t have sent the Rabbit with this message. She’d just guaranteed that I’d get to the bottom of it all.
CHAPTER 14
IT WAS THE EVENING OF DECEMBER 23, two days before Christmas.
Allen had never celebrated this holiday before, so although he was on a mission to find out what kind of weapon had almost killed him and his partner, he also made sure to peer through every shop window on the way to the New York Public Library. Streamers, presents, electronics — all of them were dirt cheap, with sales everywhere. It was an overload of the senses, flooding his eyes and ears as he explored the frivolities of the season.
Meanwhile, Toby was not enthralled by anything. He was the anchor dragging Allen back from complete absorption in the show of capitalism. Allen had hoped that bringing Toby along would give them a better chance of being admitted to the library. After all, two officers were more legit than just one, even if they were both Automatics.
“I ain’t no reading machine, Al,” Toby said, taking out a half-full bottle of something from under his coat. “You going to entertain me while we search?”
“Didn’t you quote Dumas a few days ago?”
Toby let out a grunt. “Shut up, you know what I mean.”
“Please, be patient. And you can’t drink on the job.”
“I’ll do whatever the badge lets me do, square.”
“Well, hopefully that badge will be getting us inside.”
“Yeah, here’s hoping the derms don’t try to stop us.”
“I could have very well gone with Sergeant Sinclair …”
“Nah,” Toby dismissed the thought, “I gotta keep you out of trouble, especially after our little conversation at the Funhouse.”
“I don’t need to be kept out of trouble?”
“You surely do after the shit I’ve seen.” Toby snickered. “Watch out, Al, you’re turning more human every day.”
The two machines approached the library doors, and just as he’d predicted, Allen had to explain their intentions up and down, even after they’d both flashed their badges. The guard at the front of the library said he would have their police numbers looked up. A quick call to Robins cleared things up, granting them access and leaving the guard with an aching ear and a severe dislike of the two machines.
The interior of the library was magnificent, spectacular even by Upper City standards. The murals and painted ceilings were well-maintained, chandeliers illuminated the scores of desks, and to the left and the right off the central hall there were thousands of books. It was a bookworm’s dream, and Allen desperately wished he could stay here and read every book they had.
Toby looked around rather lazily. “Fuck. You wouldn’t catch me in here without you.” Someone shushed him, making him twitch in annoyance.
“Try to be low-key,” Allen said. “We don’t want to cause any incidents. Not without a human present.”
“Fair point, chrome dome. Lead the way.”
Perched behind a small hill of books about the Great War, Allen was absorbed by the text, transported to a time neither he nor his ancestors had ever seen. He wrote down everything he could, copying texts and lists by hand, the reproductions almost perfect carbon copies of the originals. He was learning everything he could about the War, since he hadn’t been given that opportunity while in Camp Theta, his “birthplace” out in the Midwest, where he had been stuck until about a year ago. The Balkan powder keg, the old Austro-Hungarian Empire, the Central and Allied nations, the chaos caused by Serbia that lead to the massive mobilizations, and each country jumping to aid another, followed by the trenches being dug and the machine guns taking root.
Everything had changed when the Americans approached Marshal Joffre in 1915 and the first Manuals were sent behind the backs of the general public. It all escalated from there, and the massive orders Russia placed had guaranteed co-operation between the two nations ever since. He read that the Czar’s own Manual, called “The Hand of God,” was cemented in the centre of Petrograd, immortalizing the Russian Empire’s victory and survival in the War.
And then there was the German Debacle. Their need and want for expansion and their summary punishment by the Manual Corps of America and Russia led to their losing morale. That, plus their country being the central battleground after the Diesel Initiative was green-lit, made them want the War to end, no matter the cost. They’d wanted to surrender, but the Allies wouldn’t accept a simple surrender. Even now, there was great resentment throughout Europe toward Germany due to their treason in sharing plans for the war machine they’d helped create.
Allen was distracted by the sound of someone hissing. His eyes darted to a clock, and he discovered that it was almost four in the afternoon. They’d entered at eleven in the morning. The hissing came once more, and he scanned his immediate surroundings, trying to find the source.
Sitting a few desks away, a man in a thick winter coat with small rimmed glasses and thin hair was staring at him, beckoning him over. Curious, Allen walked over. The man studiously pretended to be reading a book, even when Allen was within inches of him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Shh, not so loud! They’re watching us all the time.”
Allen looked around in confusion and embarrassment. “Okay …”
“Reginald Edwin Curio, writer and journalist.” The man shoved his hand into Allen’s before retracting it and hiding behind his dainty book once more. “I’ve been trying to contact you and your partner for some time. But I don’t like meeting in the open — too many ears.”
“Curio … You left a phone message for Roche, correct?” Allen spoke in a whisper to appease Curio’s paranoia.
“Yes! Now, this is of extreme importance, it is urgent I speak to you, or him, or both of you.”
“About what?”
“I’ve heard the radio show. To be brief, it’s garbage, absolute pandering trash! I can’t believe that a man like Roche would condone something like that. I’ve tracked down information about him from people far and wide, all the way to the Grotto! I almost got clipped by the Gould Mob for snooping near the Plate. That should tell you how dedicated I am.” He gasped to take a breath before rambling on. “I’m asking you and Roche to collaborate with me to put out the truth. The total, unabridged truth of the Nightcaller. I want people to see what it’s like on the streets fighting the Mob — none of this cat-in-a-tree shit they’re peddling on the tuner!”
Allen was stunned by the request, but he kept composed. “I should inform you that he doesn’t actually like that name. But I will be sure to pass on your request.”
“Good. Now get out of here before they spot us!”
Still confused, Allen wandered back to his desk to continue reading. As soon as he’d planted himself in his chair, Toby piped up behind him, making him jump.
“Hey, Al, Paddy wants you to check out the 11th, make sure Shen is holding up all right.”
Allen grabbed his coat and joined Toby, a needle of annoyance piercing his brain. “Where is Sergeant Sinclair?”
“He’s on patrol near Chelsea, making sure the Hands and ’Zano’s boys keep the peace.”
“Will you be coming with me to the 11th?”
“Nah, got to meet my dealer,” Toby said.
“Dealer? For what?”
“For parts, scrub! Not all of us are brand-fucking-new.”
With a sigh and silent resentment, Allen headed out, already planning to return later to get the information he needed. If only he had the time to continue reading what he
wanted. Then again, if Roche didn’t have the time, neither did he.
Allen dropped far too much money into the slot for the cab driver, running out before he heard a thank you. Even in the early evening, as the bulbs of the Plate wound down to be turned off, the 11th was a prism you could look straight through. The window in Tony Shen’s office that Roche had shot out was temporarily covered with a large wooden board. Inside his office was the commissioner and several people wearing black. One of them had long, curled hair, brown with grey streaks.
“Darn,” Allen said to himself, running through the door and to the office.
The moment he placed his hand on the commissioner’s door, two G-Men turned and pointed guns in his direction. Allen’s hands shot up as the barrels lined up with his chest. The spooks ordered him inside. Eva Greaves, director of the FBI, former spouse of Commissioner Jeffrey Robins, and no-nonsense hardass, paid no attention to Allen, continuing her speech without missing a beat.
“And given the gross, rampant destruction seen in this relatively quiet neighbourhood, I would be hard pressed to ignore it. People have complained — very high-profile people. The general might be senile, but he still understands what gunshots are. I don’t know if this is some kind of publicity stunt to get your precinct more funding, but do I need to point out it’s inadvisable to allow the public to think you’re incapable of doing your job?”
“You’re wrong!” Shen jumped up from his desk, nearly flipping it over. The G-Men didn’t flinch, more concerned with Allen than the commissioner. “You think I would pay for a gun to be pointed at my head just to get more funding? I was almost killed! Had the officers of the 5th not been here to help me, I might be dead!”
“And this crime that the other precincts cleaned up — were you told anything about it?”
“No. I would rather not be implicated in the matters of animals. My life and the lives of my officers were threatened, so I wish to stay as far from it as possible.”
Midnight Page 15
