Midnight

by Brenden Carlson

  “But you yourself are human.” Allen almost laughed at the irony. “How can you say that? Are you willing to admit that you are like that, too?”

  Schafer tilted her head to one side, not in annoyance, but interest. “As I’ve climbed the ranks of GE, I’ve realized one thing. Call it humanity’s number one rule: everyone’s a hypocrite, and if they say they aren’t, that proves the point. This has been and always will be true, no matter who or what you speak to. No doubt your Nightcaller friend has some ironic attitudes about the things he has done?”

  “He does, as do most people.”

  “Point made, it seems.”

  Allen nodded and took his leave, walking out of the double doors back into the cold. He turned back before she closed the door. “By the way, one more thing, Miss Schafer.”

  “Yes?” She didn’t seem impatient this time.

  “Nightcaller — Roche doesn’t like that name. I’d suggest not calling him that.”

  She smirked and closed the door, leaving him alone on the lit steps. She wouldn’t follow his advice, but he felt better for saying it.

  The drive back to Manhattan was bittersweet. Allen could see the Plate shining all the way from Manorhaven, and seeing it grow closer and larger reminded him once again about the Depression the city lived in. Watching the foliage and vegetation fade into concrete and steel made him feel like the city was digging its claws back into him as he drove west. Reaching Queens, he could see details on the underside of the Plate, the bright lights on top blocking out the stars and turning the black night grey. The hour’s drive went by in a blink, and before he knew it, the Talbot was crossing the 59th Street Bridge. Once again, the wind in the trees was replaced by car horns and old drunks yelling at rusted machines. The crunch of snow replaced by gunshots, and the entrances to golf clubs replaced by dark alleyways and overused lanes.

  He parked the Talbot in front of Roche’s apartment building and made sure it was stable and locked. As he approached the hot dog vendor, Yuri, Allen felt his stomach churn with hunger. Looking at his watch, he saw it was eleven at night, too late for anywhere else to be open. He put some change on Yuri’s cart.

  “Cond-i-ments?” the man asked in his thick accent.

  “Please. Everything you’ve got,” Allen responded, resting his arms and head on the trolley. “Thank you.”

  “You okay?” Yuri handed him his meal.

  “I’m not okay. I’m tired, I’m stressed, and I might get killed if I’m not careful. Everything is a mess.” Allen bit into the hot dog and his eyes lit up. “Holy moly, this is good.”

  “I make best dogs in city, no one but Elias believe me!” the Russian said, almost jumping up in triumph. “Other machines not eat, why you?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Ah. Why you drive Elias’s car?”

  “He wanted me to check on something, and … ugh. I’m going up to wait for him. If you see him, tell him I’m here. My name is Allen, by the way.” He shot out his free hand.

  “Yuri Semetsky,” the man responded, shaking Allen’s hand. “Some people before ask about Elias, say they need to meet him.”

  “Who?”

  “Not sure. Girl. Tall, look mean.”

  Allen had a feeling he knew who was looking for Elias. He made his way to the lobby to get up to the apartment. He almost ran, but he needed to eat first; even with fear clenching his stomach, his hunger was immense.

  The elevator ride to Roche’s floor took forever. Running to the apartment door, Allen could see it was ajar. He reached for his gun, hesitated, then put his arm down by his side. Easing the door open, he saw five uninvited guests sitting inside Roche’s apartment, none of which he was happy to see.

  “Erzly, sit. We need to talk to you and Roche.”

  CHAPTER 17

  THIS WOULD BE THE FIRST TIME IN recent memory that I’d gone to the Brass and Pass without the intention of drinking. The cab driver who brought me to SoHo mentioned that I looked like a guy who needed a drink. Still, it didn’t matter too much what he thought. I knocked three times on the metal door, leaned back against the brick wall, and spat out another glob of blood. My face was on fire, and the cold weather didn’t help things.

  The Red-eye Titan named Dallas opened the slide, saw me leaning there, and muttered the sentence I had heard too often: “No derms allowed.”

  “Dallas, I ain’t in the mood.” I coughed from the dry air. “Just open it. Get Tiny, I don’t care.”

  “No … derms.”

  “Dallas, you open this goddamn door right now, I ain’t in the mood to knock!”

  The stupid machine closed the slide on me. I had no more patience. So I knocked.

  Two times, twice.

  The door swung open, and every Red-eye in the joint was holding on to a weapon: pistols were drawn, bottles smashed, knives sharpened. Dallas clenched its fists, its non-blinking eye shimmering red. The Blue-eye bartender at the far end had a mean-looking shotgun. The rest of the armaments were comprised of standard .38s and .45s.

  One of the closest machines was a Boomer with a 1911, the gun looking like a toy in its oversized hand. It towered over me, the hydraulic pistons in its back meant to make it look larger than it really was. The damn thing could bench-press a building, and I was several inches into its personal space, with its pistol pointed at my forehead.

  The Boomer began to speak. “Don’t do anything stupid, or —”

  “Or what? You’ll what?” I interrupted. It didn’t respond. “Just because you got some back-alley police programming, you think you’re hot shit? You think that’s enough to deal with any derm with a grudge?”

  I grabbed its hand with both of mine, my thumbs pressing down on the metal finger that was wrapped around the trigger. I pushed my forehead into the barrel and pressed my thumbs down harder. Its finger resisted my force. It was like pressing against a steel girder. No matter how hard I pressed, the trigger remained where it was.

  “I thought as much,” I whispered. “Let go.”

  I grabbed the gun from its hand — the machine allowed me to take it — and let it dangle by my side. Every other firearm in the room was pointed to my chest. My finger slipped against the trigger, and the Automatics turned their aim onto my arms and legs.

  “Some advice for you all: don’t pretend to be something you ain’t. You’ll live longer that way,” I said, pulling the slide off the gun and letting the stripped parts fall to the floor, save for the frame. “The only thing I should be afraid of is Dallas over here, but I ain’t, because it’s too stupid to do anything.”

  The tension lifted when Tiny scuttled over, yapping. It leaped onto the bartender’s rifle and pushed it down. “Oi, relax, people! Jesus, Roche, yer gonna get yourself shot doing that.”

  “Your Titan is about as stupid as a gorilla,” I remarked.

  “He got ’alf his fuckin’ Interface blown off in a fight a few months back, be patient with him!”

  I gave the Boomer back its pistol by tossing the frame at its head. It didn’t react to the impact, but I could feel its eyes on my back. I grinned as I sauntered up to the bar. Dallas closed the front door and resumed its lazy post while the rest of the Automatic patrons put down their weapons.

  “What can I do fer ya, Roche?” Tiny asked, as if nothing had happened.

  “I need to meet with Moses. He likes to work here, if I remember correctly.”

  “Aye, he’s here. Might’a spooked him with that knock of yers, but let’s hope not.”

  Tiny chattered in Bitwise to the bartender, who led me around the speakeasy to a hidden door in the wall, just beside the bar. While the place was nice — wood-panelled and buffed to shine — the backroom I was brought to matched the rest of SoHo, with decrepit concrete walls, burst pipes, chipped paint, and something or other leaking. The bartender closed the door after me.

  The man I was here to see was packing up when I came in, but he stopped once he saw me. He had a bald head, pale skin, and a prim a
nd proper moustache of the sort an Old West sheriff might wear. His tense body loosened a bit, and he slid the loaded gun on the table beside him out of view. He replaced his small suitcases and containers back on the folding wooden tables he had set up. There were several reclaimed wooden chairs nearby for customers to sit in.

  “Elias, thank goodness.” He opened his wares once more, revealing multitudes of weaponry and ammunition. His voice was quiet but solid, unmistakeable in its fluid delivery. “I thought the Eye might have come for me. Can’t be too careful here.”

  “Why not get out of the city, Moses? I’m sure you could find paying customers out there.”

  “You have no idea how much money I make here. It’s almost worth the death threats and paranoia … almost.”

  I smirked and sat in one of the chairs, feeling my side itch, and now my mouth, as well. I pulled out a small wad of bills and pushed it onto the table, then leaned back to try and staunch the blood flow. “Hopefully this covers it.”

  “Covers what, exactly?”

  “I’m looking for a present. A friend of mine saved my life and has continued to be helpful ever since. I want to get him something nice, something practical.”

  “Ah, you’ve come to the right place.” Moses moved over the many containers, looking over his stock. “Any idea what his preference is? What’s his dominant hand? Is he a fan of German or American designs?”

  “He’s not a fan of weapons, in general, though he uses them reluctantly. He seems capable when firing at Automatics. Got anything good for that?”

  “Well, you do have your Diamondback,” he said, smiling.

  “I ain’t lending it to him. And I doubt you have another.”

  “Fair enough.” Moses searched through his cases, considering his stock. “You need something with some punch. I recommend the Browning Hi-Power. It’s a new prototype I wanted to test out before purchasing a few crates, and it might fit the bill. The ammo can be hard to come by, but that’s not an issue for me.”

  “Show me.”

  He brought over the weapon, placing it on the table. My left hand was holding the handkerchief against my jaw. With my other hand, I lifted the pistol and felt it out. It was lighter and shorter than the 1911, but it felt much more versatile, if less lethal. The trigger felt heavy to pull, but that wouldn’t matter much to Allen.

  “It’s chambered in .40 Luger, seeing as the Germans and French are having fun making Frankensteins out of each other’s technology,” Moses scoffed, something he did often when referring to the Germans. “While your standard .38s are fitted with heated rounds, I’m sure tungsten-tipped bullets will suffice for getting past either flesh or metal.”

  This seemed perfect for the metal man. I nodded and placed the pistol back on the table. “Will my cash cover it?”

  He took the money I had already put down, flipped through it, and set it down. “No, but I’ll cover the rest.”

  “You’re not one for letting things slide, Moses.”

  “You’ve done me a great service. That fiasco you solved a month ago spooked the Feds and kept them up on their cloud. The less they look down here, the easier it is for me to sell my wares. One less thing I have to worry about. The extra money you’ve made me will cover your purchase.”

  “How did you know that was me?”

  “Word gets around between the Eye’s old compatriots.”

  That was one good thing that had come out of that last case. “Great. Excellent. It is a gift, so, you got any boxes to wrap it up in?”

  “I’m a dealer, Elias, not a Sears. Can’t you get this wrapped anywhere else?”

  “It’s almost Christmas Eve, Moses. Come on.”

  He sighed and took the gun from me. “Cretin.”

  It was midnight, the morning of Christmas Eve, only twenty-four hours before society felt obliged to be complacent and kind, but I sure didn’t feel any different as I took a cab back to my place. I held the small wrapped box on my lap, the green bow on top bouncing as the cab’s wheels smacked against each bump and pothole in the road. Seeing my car parked in once piece in front of my building was comforting; it meant that Allen was safe upstairs. Yuri was just bringing his cart into the lobby, an apartment attendant helping him to push it up the steps through the double doors. They’d finished the job by the time I paid the cabbie and got out.

  Yuri looked tired, but happy to see me. He was curling up on a bench in the lobby with some patched-up red cushions, his cart resting nearby.

  “Elias, good man, back before tomorrow!” he said with a smile.

  “Nah, it’s tomorrow, Yuri. I’m right on time.”

  “Friend of yours came here, went upstairs. Also, other people looking for you, just so you know.”

  I groaned and thanked him and went to the elevator. Why did everyone know where I lived? Simone, the Rabbit, and who knew who else? Maybe some people knew, but never showed up because of my reputation. Or they were just being courteous. I wished they’d keep it up, because seeing a new person in or around my apartment every night was really starting to piss me off.

  Entering my apartment, I noticed how quiet it was, but then again, I hadn’t expected Allen to be making a ruckus on its own.

  “I’m back. Any luck with Schafer? The museum was a dead end, and Morane is clean, I think.”

  I found Allen in the living room with several more people. Not the ones I’d expected to see, either.

  “Roche. Sit.” Eva Greaves, punctual as ever.

  I’d had a feeling she’d be back on my tail before long. Judging by its expression, Allen was more surprised than I was. Really, I was more bothered than shocked. I knew the museum had been too easy to slip in and out of. First placing the wrapped package on my kitchen counter, I obeyed Greaves’s command and sat down on the couch beside Allen.

  Greaves was sitting in my favourite chair beside the TV. Two Upper City spooks nearby kept the room under her thumb.

  “Productive night?” she asked.

  “Not particularly.” I wiped my lip with the handkerchief. It was still bleeding. Maranzano had better not have dislodged a tooth.

  “I’d say otherwise. Breaking and entering a city-owned property — not your smartest move. Find what you were looking for?”

  “No.”

  “We did. Plenty of security footage showing you, and you alone, sneaking around that museum. I’m shocked that your bumbling didn’t set off the Automatic Security.”

  I hadn’t realized there were Automatic guards.

  “Roche?”

  “Sorry, lost in thought,” I said. “Just trying to think what a state-owned Green-eye could do to me, seeing as they can’t roughhouse.”

  “Did I say the Automatic Security was composed of Green-eyes? We spotted you looking at some peculiar weapons.” She snapped her fingers, and one of her lackeys passed her a folder from a briefcase. “Let’s see … Mercier’s Vierling, same calibre weapon as the bullets found at the Edison Hotel murder. Coincidence?”

  “No, but —”

  “I’m not finished. I know about your current employment. It may scare officers down here, but not us at the Bureau. We take criminals and terrorists very seriously.”

  “Terrorists? Are you out of your gourd, lady?”

  She pointed at me sharply. “Don’t interrupt again. As I was saying, plausible motive for committing the murders, ability to procure weapons matching the ammunition found at the scene, record of violent acts in the Lower City for well over four years, and clear camera footage depicting you as the sole trespasser at the Met earlier tonight. The evidence doesn’t lie.”

  “About what?” She stared at me, waiting for me to figure it out. What she was doing finally clicked in my head, and I almost laughed out loud. “Are you kidding? Me, the killer? Did you not see her?”

  “Who?”

  “The —” I abruptly choked down what I’d almost said.

  Simone had said that she’d done this before. Perhaps she’d known where the cameras wer
e and taken care to walk in the blind spots. Maybe she’d let me be captured by the cameras … to cover her own trail. Then again, I hadn’t noticed her taking any odd paths through the museum.

  “The who, Roche?”

  “The … man I thought I saw in there, stealing some medieval artifacts to bring up to your house on the Plate.” I grinned, and Allen cowered lower.

  “You said ‘her.’”

  “I’m a bit thick-headed.”

  “If we’re done here, I’m placing you —”

  “No.” I stopped her, standing up. The agents put their hands at their hips, and I held out my own hand to tell them to relax. “No, I am not the killer. That’s stupid. Why would I threaten Tony Shen?”

  “To make sure no one but you and your metal friend here investigated that crime scene. I asked Jeffrey about it, and he said there was no formal report about the crime in the Upper East Side. He says the only two people who investigated that scene were you and the machine here. That gives us even more probable cause.”

  Robins must be covering for Viessman’s people and for Sinclair. No doubt they’d copy their boss and be tight-lipped about the whole thing. “From plausible to probable. Ain’t that convenient?” I remarked.

  “Your newfound fame on the radio will not save you from prison, Roche. I assure you, you cannot run from this one. Killing thugs on a street corner is one thing, but pissing off people from GE is another.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you, I didn’t do it!” I stepped forward, and her goons pointed their pistols at me. “I was at a gala with Allen when the Upper East Side murder occurred.” That wasn’t quite true, but I needed an alibi. “I was saving some old lady’s kid when they shot up the Edison. I’m not the killer!”

  “Sure,” Greaves said. She motioned for the agents to relax, but one of them took out a pair of cuffs.

  Nope, that ain’t happening.

  “I can prove it,” I snapped.

  “Oh, you can prove it? You can counter all this incriminating evidence and exonerate yourself, just like that?”

  “I’ll bring you the real killer.” Greaves laughed at me. “I’ll bring him, dead or alive, to this apartment, and show you that it wasn’t me. You can follow me for the next few days, I don’t care, but I am not going to prison because of your inability to think!”