Noir Fatale

by Larry Correia

  “Well, yeah, but specifically it sounds like we’re dealing with a Boomer. They’re rare.”

  She nodded. “Like that lunatic who tried to assassinate FDR.”

  Everybody had heard of that mook. “Giuseppe Zangara. Sort of like that, but he had a spell carved on him to augment his Power.” There was another case he knew a lot about, but he couldn’t say much to someone who’d not taken the oath. Not the protect and serve oath, but the other one…the Grimnoir one…which he supposed was also a protecting and serving kind of thing. “Never mind him. He was an anomaly. Most Boomers, they can create a little explosion out of thin air. It has something to do with gathering up energy and then releasing it all of a sudden. Usually we’re talking firecrackers, tops. Zangara was like cannon shells. From the pictures, I’m betting what our murderer can conjure up is more like half a stick of dynamite at a time.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t sound bad at all—unless he puts it inside your head.”

  “Actually, the task force says that the fatal blows originated inside the abdomen or chest, or at least that’s what they think from the way everything got sprayed around the crime scene. I think it’s because that’s one of the types of Power you have to charge up and aim, and the body is a bigger target.” Then he realized he shouldn’t have corrected her, because that really wasn’t helping, and this was a hard enough sell as is.

  Crash was an attractive girl. Short, strawberry blond, perky and athletic, she looked more like she should be wielding a cheerleader’s pom-poms than a .38 Special and a nightstick. Wait… Did they issue nightsticks to the lady cops? He didn’t actually know.

  “It isn’t like you don’t know bigwigs. Why don’t you just have mommy call in some favors? Everybody loves a Healer. I’m sure she’s cured the mayor’s ingrown toenail at some point. Just have him order Richards to officially put you on the unit.”

  That was just her being petty, but to be fair, Crash’s family was stevedores union without two nickels to rub together, while Henry’s played golf with the president.

  “You know damned good and well I can’t ask my family for help like that.”

  “You mean won’t.”

  “Same difference. I’ll make my bones on my own, or not at all.” She didn’t come from that world. She couldn’t understand. “You asked what I was up to and you offered to help. Well, this is it, and I could use some help. I know you’re frustrated where you’re at, Crash. You’re a walking tank they’ve got fetching coffee and running a typewriter. This maniac will be running around New York blowing people up until we stop him. The task force has got squat. Help me crack this case and we’ll be heroes. It’s your ticket out of the office and onto the streets.”

  She snorted. Like they were ever going to let her bust skulls? She might break a nail. But from the way she gave him the sly eye, he knew he’d hooked her. “What do you want from me, Henry?”

  Crash probably thought it was because of her Power—which, frankly, was nothing to sneeze at—or maybe because she was clever. But in reality, it was because he needed backup and another set of eyes, and none of the other cops he was friends with would be desperate enough to risk career suicide. She always talked like she was motivated to climb the ladder.

  “I need a partner.”

  “Sure. But I’ve got a condition.”

  Of course she did. It was that union upbringing. “Name it.”

  “If we get caught poking our nose into someone else’s case, you take the blame and say I was just some poor innocent girl you suckered into helping you.”

  “That hardly seems equitable.”

  “You get fired and you can just ask your pals at the country club to loan you a wad. I’ll end up waiting tables to pay the rent. Which, come to think of it, wouldn’t be that bad. Waitresses probably make more than we do once you factor in tips.”

  “Deal.”

  “Deal.” They shook on it. Despite her petite hands she had a grip that felt like he’d gotten his fingers stuck in an industrial press. She was burning a bit of Power to let him know that she wasn’t messing around.

  “I’d save the magic if I were you. You might need it where we’re going.”

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  An hour later they arrived at their destination in Manhattan. Judging by the line of cabs picking up and dropping off, the club was a popular nightspot.

  “When you said you needed a partner, you didn’t say it was for dancing.”

  “The victims seem random, the ones we can identify at least, but I heard that two of them were regulars here. I wanted to look around, but it’s a couples place and I didn’t want to stick out being by myself.”

  “Why, Henry Garrett, if you wanted to take me out on a date you could’ve just asked nice.”

  “It’s a slim lead, but I want to start checking out all the places the victims were last seen.” Then he realized what she’d just said and gave her a lopsided grin. So much for keeping it professional. “Well, maybe after we catch this guy we can go celebrate.”

  “I’d like that.”

  He pulled his Chrysler around to the lot in back. Most of the cars were fairly normal, but there were a few hot rods. There would probably be boys racing for pink slips later tonight.

  He had his .38 Police Colt beneath his suit jacket but didn’t know if Crash was packing. “I’ve got a spare heater in the glove box if you need it.”

  “I’ve got one in my purse.” She giggled. “Heater? You’ve been reading too many Chandler novels.”

  He didn’t reply to that, but all his copies were autographed.

  Inside, the dance floor was so full they had to be bribing the fire marshal. Henry’s musical knowledge was limited to being forced to take a few piano lessons when he was ten, but he immediately liked the catchy tune. The band was playing that weird mix of electrical powered guitars, drums, and saxophones, that sounded like a bunch of excitable hillbillies were trying to speed up rhythm and blues. But whatever it was, the affluent white kids loved dancing around to it enough to come to this part of town to slum it with the poor ones.

  From the smell in here, some of them also loved smoking reefer. Luckily, neither he nor Crash particularly looked like police so nobody made a run for it. With the suit and fedora, Henry was a little overdressed for this crowd, but if Crash was going to get mistaken for a cheerleader, then they’d figure him for the quarterback.

  “How do you want to play this?” she asked him. “You want to dance? You know…to sell our cover.”

  That wasn’t dancing. It was twirling and gyrating. Actually that sounded kind of fun with Crash as his partner, but if he was going to try something that silly looking, he’d definitely need some beers in him first. Jake Sullivan had said when you’re looking for information always start with the bartender. They’re the one person who saw everybody. Plus, they were usually easy to bribe. “Let me buy you a drink.”

  Crash looked a little disappointed.

  The bar was too crowded for stools. It was shove your way up, shout your order, and then hope someone heard you over the amplified music. He got bumped into by some guys in leather jackets. Henry tried to be polite about the shoving. Besides the greasers, bikers, street racers, and general hooliganry, from the short and awful haircuts there were a lot of soldiers and sailors in here on leave too, and every one of those groups was easily inclined to give somebody a knuckle sandwich to show their lady how tough they were.

  Unfortunately, politeness went right out the window when he saw who was already talking to the bartender. “You poaching ass!”

  And as soon as he shouted that, Lance Browning Garrett looked up from his conversation with the bartender. Henry had taken after their mother—tall, effortlessly fit, and classically good-looking—while his twin brother had taken after their father—short, stocky, and perpetually disheveled. Lance seemed really surprised. It looked like he said, “What’re you doing here?” but it was hard to tell over the blaring noise.

  This was no coinciden
ce. There was only one reason Lance would be here. He’d taken after Dad in more than just looks. Unlike Henry, who was a magical dud, the Power had picked Lance to be a Mouth, and a really potent one at that. Lance was local and a secret knight of the Grimnoir Society. They were hunting the Bomber too.

  But before Henry could articulate any of that, the nearest greaser shoved him hard. “Who you calling an ass, germ?”

  “That short dumpy guy at the bar,” he tried to explain, but of course as he looked back over, Lance had already disappeared. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

  “What, you think you’re too good to talk to me now?” With a response that dumb, this guy was obviously spoiling for a fight. If it hadn’t been with Henry, it would’ve been someone else.

  “Pretty boy’s cruisin’ for a bruisin’,” said another one of the kids, egging on his buddy.

  Henry slowly moved one hand to the leather sap he kept in his back pocket as he flashed his most disarming smile. “Sorry about the misunderstanding. Let me buy you a beer.”

  The mope telegraphed the punch. He must’ve been used to fighting drunks. Henry easily dodged to the side, and then cracked him over the melon with the sap. It made a very satisfying noise on impact. If there was one thing a beat cop learned fast, it was how to sap a fool. The kid must’ve had a thick skull though, because he wobbled and blinked, but didn’t drop. So Henry gut-punched him. That put him down, wide-eyed and gasping like a fish.

  Apparently, fighting in this club was a team sport, because all the greaser’s friends suddenly decided they got a turn too. Henry easily ducked the next fist, and he responded with an uppercut that dropped the guy and left his fist stinging. That’s why you should always stick with the sap.

  The beer bottle that got flung at his face probably would’ve hit, if Crash hadn’t suddenly stepped in the way. It shattered against her forehead.

  “Oh shit! Sorry, baby!” shouted the kid who’d thrown the bottle. Sure, it was one thing to break a bottle over a guy’s head, but you didn’t go around giving concussions to girls. That kind of thing was downright impolite.

  Except Crash was unharmed. She just reached up and wiped the beer out of her eyes. “You got glass in my hair,” she snarled. And with a surge of magical energy, she crossed the distance, grabbed him by the leather jacket and, despite the fact he was double her size, hurled him violently over the bar. He hit the cash register and bounced off with a clang.

  You never ever wanted to get into a physical altercation with a Brute.

  Everything might have been fine, and everyone could have gone about their business, but it was always the little sawed-off runts who escalated stuff. Henry didn’t even see the switchblade until it was too late. The tiniest greaser he’d ever seen slashed at him. Henry thought he’d gotten out of the way, except all of a sudden there was a rip in his sleeve. He didn’t even realize he’d been cut until blood started coming out. Then it hurt.

  The greaser lunged at him again, knife pointed at his stomach.

  “Stop!”

  The word hit with such magical impact that everybody immediately did as they were told. Not just the combatants, but the dancers, and even the band. Everybody in the room froze. It was suddenly, painfully silent.

  Even Henry found that the shock of the word had momentarily stunned him. And he’d had his whole life to learn how to resist that kind of Power. He still managed to move away from the knife. Not that it mattered, since the greaser was pretty much stuck there, quivering and confused.

  Every eye in the joint was on them. Way to go, Lance.

  Now that his brother wasn’t in immediate danger of being disemboweled, Lance moved to a conversational tone and used his Power of suggestion in a calm and soothing fashion, now directed only at the punk. “The fight is over. There are no hard feelings. Put the knife back in your pocket.”

  “Sure thing,” the greaser said. And Henry knew that to him, Lance’s words sounded like the most reasonable thing he’d ever heard, and it was coming from his bestest best friend in the whole wide world. So he immediately shoved the knife back in the pocket of his jeans…Only the kid was dumb, and Lance hadn’t specified that he should close the switchblade first. “Ahhhhhhh!” He screamed as he stabbed himself in the leg.

  Which was the moment when everybody in the club realized that there was a wizard fight, and nobody wanted to be in the middle of a wizard fight.

  “Time to go,” Henry said as he grabbed Crash by the arm and tugged. Since she was all fired up, her arm was as hard as an iron bar, and he might as well have been trying to pull a locomotive. “Unless you want to stick around and explain what we were doing here.”

  “Nope.” Her arm returned to normal.

  He caught a glimpse of his brother innocuously walking toward another exit. They shared a knowing glance. They had some business to discuss. He and Crash headed for the door, mixed in with the crowd, and got the hell out.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  There was a twenty-four-hour drive-in both he and Lance liked, only four blocks from the club. When he pulled in there, Crash seemed a little surprised. “What’re you doing?”

  “I’m craving a milkshake. Want one?”

  “You just got knifed.”

  “It’s only a scratch.” Actually, his sleeve was damp with blood and he was probably going to need a few stitches. He parked the Chrysler next to one of the speakers. Then he struggled out of his jacket and took a look at the cut. It wasn’t that bad. “There’s a flask in the glove box.”

  Crash got it out and unscrewed the cap. “Ladies first.” She took a swig.

  “Hey. I need that.” He snatched the flask from her, took a deep breath, and then poured the rest on his arm. It stung enough to make his eyes water. Muttering obscenities, he wrapped his sleeve around the cut like a makeshift bandage. Most of the obscenities were related to the ruined clothing. The arm would heal. He’d liked the suit.

  Sure enough, a big black sedan pulled into the space next to them a moment later. The passenger side window rolled down revealing that Lance was in the passenger seat. Henry shouldn’t have been surprised to see he had a partner driving. Grimnoir only worked alone when they had no choice. But he was surprised to see who it was.

  “If it isn’t Justice Jack Moody. Hey, I called your office the other day.”

  Moody was a big, heavyset man, with a thick black beard. “I’m on vacation.”

  “I can see that.”

  Moody just gave him a noncommittal grunt.

  Lance leaned out the window a bit and clucked disapprovingly when he saw the bloody jacket around his arm. “You’re hurt. You should go see Mom and let her Mend that.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Whatever, tough guy. She was just complaining you never come to dinner anymore.” Then Lance whistled. “Say, who’s the lovely lady?”

  Instead of answering him, Crash asked, “You know these clowns, Henry?”

  “Unfortunately. This is my brother, Lance, and his associate, Jack. Considering where we ran into them, they’re looking for the killer too.”

  “Maybe I just really like rock and roll music.”

  Crash leaned forward so she could address Lance directly. “You two are Grimnoir knights like Henry?”

  Lance and Moody shared a look. “Hang on a minute. Henry’s no knight.”

  “I never claimed I was.”

  “Yeah, but you love letting regular folks assume it! My brother here is in the Society. Anybody can be. It’s all about protecting magicals from the world, and protecting the world from magic. But he’s not one of the knights. Oh, he’s tried. But you don’t ask to be one, they ask you. Knights are special. We’re like the commando problem solvers who step in when necessary, for example when the cops can’t do their jobs, to take care of problems. And to be one nowadays, you need to have magic. Strong magic.”

  “You talk too much, kid,” Moody muttered. He was the senior and far more experienced of the two.

  “If blondie he
re is chasing a lunatic with my brother, she needs to know what she’s getting into.”

  Henry chuckled to hide his embarrassment. Yeah, it ticked him off that they wouldn’t let him be a knight, but so what? “Lance here is just bitter that I got all the height, smarts, and good looks, so he likes to rub it in that he got all the magic.”

  “You need to stay in your lane. The Bomber isn’t an average killer. He’s got skills. You’re getting in over your heads. Let us deal with him before you get hurt.”

  “The Society is supposed to let the law take care of it. This is NYPD’s turf.”

  “Well, they need to handle their business faster,” Moody said.

  “Why haven’t you caught him, then? With your Power you should be able to track this guy down no problem.”

  “Can’t. He’s warded.”

  “What?” That was unexpected. Lots of people had magic that was just naturally attached to them, but very few knew how to craft different kinds of spells. Creating a ward that could keep you from being magically spied on took skill, and you couldn’t learn a spell like that just anywhere. “So he’s a pro? We talking Imperium? Soviet?”

  Moody shrugged. “Wherever he learned it, his warding’s solid.”

  “Wait… That’s why you’ve stepped in. You’re worried he might’ve learned it from the Grimnoir.”

  “Now which one of us talks too much?” Lance asked Moody.

  The intercom buzzed next to his window. “May I take your order please?”

  He was trying to emulate the great Jake Sullivan, who in this situation would probably have gone to a smoky bar to down shots of whiskey in a most hard-boiled manner, but he really did want that shake. “Large vanilla shake, please.”