And then the night

by C S Thompson

CS THOMPSON is also the author of A Season of Strange Dreams, featuring occult detective, Jim Rankin, as well as a poetry collection (City at the Edge of Night), a new translation of Baudelaire's classic Flowers of Evil, and Lannaireachd: Gaelic Swordsmanship, a training manual on the use of the Highland broadsword. He is the President of the Cateran Society, an organization devoted to researching and practicing the historic Gaelic martial arts. He is 32 years old, and lives in Portland, Maine.
Contact CS Thompson

Faceless

We wouldn’t let them drive us back home, especially considering that Asturiana lived just past the Eastern European part of the Mound. Instead we walked, with my arm around her, as she shivered in the rising wind of early morning.

"Are you alright?" I said.

She nodded. "I’m okay."

"I think it’s time you told me the truth. What are you doing? We’re risking our lives here."

That didn’t matter much. But it was leverage.

"It takes time to trust someone," she said quietly.

"Not when they’re going to die for you." I couldn’t decide if I was lying or joking, or in how many ways.

"I guess you’re right." But at first she told me nothing. I squeezed her shoulders a little — to pass some warmth to her, to remind her. All the buildings around us were dark and silent. The cars were sleeping, but there were sirens in the distance.

"Caterina recognized me, or she almost did. And we’re almost out of time, Jim. It’s her fifteenth…"

I glanced at her face, and saw years of nightmares. She knew she needed to act now, there was no more time for stalling. And I think she would have told me then — except for the gun at my head.

"Get in the back, Jim. We need to talk."

The gun at the back of my head was a strong inducement. But I know better than to get pulled off the street. They don’t ever find those people — at least not in one piece.

"You can kill me here," I said. "It’s the same to me."

Whoever it was, they had come up behind us as we walked. That surprised me — I’m not easy to sneak up on. But I hadn’t noticed a thing until the car arrived.

"I’m not going to kill you tonight," said the voice behind me. A bland voice, without character — the voice of murder. Whoever this was, they were as cold as a Dead Guard.

"Both of you — get in the car."

"I’m not going anywhere." I could feel the trance coming on. If I had the opportunity, there would indeed be consequences. Asturiana was looking at me with her mouth open. She looked paralyzed and sick.

"You come from Nottamun, Jim. That means you know my story. I don’t have all night to negotiate with you, so I’ll just tell you the truth. I’m the pie guy, Jim. Does that tell you anything?"

The words were quiet and unthreatening, but they made my muscles weak. I almost fell to the sidewalk, and he had to catch me. His hand gripped my arm like cold water. There would be no escape from this.

"I see that you understand me now. So get in the car."

Even in Nottamun, the pie guy was a legend. He had been an ordinary man — perhaps a businessman, perhaps an accountant. No one seemed to know much about him, except that his wife had been murdered. But we knew what he’d done in revenge. He had become what he was.

Fat Angelo was the boss back then — the last real Cosa Nostra boss Nottamun ever had. The pie guy had baked him in his own oven, seasoned him up, and mailed him to Vic Viscattio. The guy had actually taken a bite — or so the legend was told.

Viscattio would have killed him then, if he hadn’t gone mad. And if the pie guy hadn’t come down on Angelo’s crew like the curse of God. By the time he disappeared, there was no Mob in Nottamun. There was only a void to fill, and my friend John Barton to fill it. John Barton, then Loco, then the others — right down to the massacre I myself had left behind. The pie guy made Nottamun what it is today.

He guided us to the car.

"Let’s start with the facts," he said. I couldn’t see his face. We were parked down by the river, and his gun was still aimed at me from the shadows. His tone was that of a district manager giving a presentation to the board of directors. "You’re Jim Rankin, and you come from Nottamun. You were once an associate of a petty hoodlum named John Barton, who tried to take over the street rackets after the Italians were no longer a factor. That was when you made the acquaintance of Mark Walker, also known as Bible Mark, who was a follower of John Barton’s. You became involved in some kind of occult conspiracy with a man named Frank Barnham and various associates. People started calling you the Sleepwalker around this time. You were the prime suspect in a vigilante beating that left an enemy of yours in a coma, and you were also suspected in the disappearance of Frank Barnham, who is presumed to be dead. After disappearing for five years, you returned to Nottamun as an associate of Mark Walker. Mark Walker has now also disappeared, and you are wanted as a material witness in several murders. The police in Nottamun believe you are a gangster, multiple murderer and possible cult leader. Although you are not currently wanted for murder, you will face very serious problems if you return to Nottamun. Is this substantially correct?"

"Yes." I nodded. "None of that is a secret. I don’t know what you’re doing here, or who sent you after me, but the information you’ve put together is not exactly esoteric. The only surprising thing is that you found me."

"That’s not surprising at all," he said. "We weren’t looking for you. When you took over the management of Halcyon, our people took pictures of you because you were working for our enemies. We showed those to friends of ours — we have a lot of friends. We wanted to know who you were, and what you meant to them. Most of what I’ve just told you came from your police file in Nottamun. No, what’s surprising is that we couldn’t find any more than that. No juvenile record, no school records. No indication that you existed at all before about fifteen years ago."

I didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. Before the events he described, I remember nothing. If I ever had a childhood, I’ve left it back there in the emptiness. The same emptiness I heard in his flat voice, and in mine. I wasn’t scared of him anymore. So he was the pie guy. I was the Sleepwalker. I gave him my ghoulish smile, and he actually moved back a little.

"Who do you work for?" I said. "It can’t be the Italians."

"I work for the Italians. Why shouldn’t I? It’s work."

"It’s none of my business. But it doesn’t match your reputation."

"Because I killed some of them, I wouldn’t work for others? I don’t understand the logic of that, Mr. Rankin. Those who offended me are dead."

I shrugged. "Okay, so you work for the Italians. That means nothing to me."

"And yet you work for ‘Rasputin’ Plehve. You fired shots in public to protect his nephew."

"I have my own agenda. You must know that, or you’d have killed me. We’re sitting here right now because you want to know what it is."

"We are… curious on that score. But it doesn’t really matter. Every man has his motivations, peculiar as they may be. I’m here to give you reasons to change your mind."

"You want me to kill for you? Or to give you information? I’m not sure that’s really in my best interests."

"Would you rather we handed you over to Nino Bilotti, who lost an arm to your friends less than a month ago? He’s in the emergency room now, barely alive. His best friend Mike Kelly was in the car they blew up. The explosion fused his body to the street like melted cheese."

The driver in the front seat leaned back to glare at me. "You should give him to me. I’d make him do the Houdini."

"That’s enough, Tony," said the pie guy, "I don’t need your help right now."

The driver turned around again, muttering. The pie guy still stared at me from the shadows.

"Of course, we could just phone in a tip to the police. You’d be out of the picture then, and we wouldn’t have to do anything."

I sneered at him.

"But there’ll be no need for that," he said. "Because you’re going to help us."

"Like I said, what do you want? You should just come out with it. I’m not a friend of these Russians. They’re a means to an end."

"That’s a reasonable philosophy, but you won’t need to do much. Car bombings are investigated by the FBI. They’ll come to question you soon. Just tell them the truth."

"That I don’t know a damn thing about any bombing?"

"That you heard the Plehve Brigade discuss it before it happened. That they practically boasted about it to you. That should slow them down a bit."

"I’m not a rat," I growled.

"How charmingly naïve," he said. "What does ‘rat’ mean? You don’t understand the game. The police work one end of the street, and we work the other. But it’s all the same street. Information flows both ways."

"If I’m questioned at all, they’ll want to see my ID. I don’t carry any, but they won’t leave it at that. I’ll be going back to Nottamun."

He shook his head. "Wars bring everything to the surface. There are charges. People flip. When the FBI find out who you really are, they’re going to offer you a deal. You don’t know anything about us, so you can’t hurt us. But you know about the Russians and their investment scam. You can sing about that. Along with anything from Nottamun that could sweeten the deal."

"There’s no way they’ll put me back on the street without time. I’m not going in as a rat."

"You’d go in with our blessing."

"Your blessing doesn’t mean anything anymore. Your people pay the Aryan Brotherhood just to keep from being prison bitches."

"It’s not like it used to be. But we can still do some things. In any case, our resources are far greater than those of your friends. These Russians aren’t connected to anybody. We’re tied in to the Genovese."

"You’re not offering me very much here," I said. "I go to prison for a while, then the WPP. You have a bunch of old wiseguys baby sit me while I’m inside. What the hell is in that for me?"

"The fact that I won’t be calling on you. Or on your girl," he said. A simple list of realities.

"She doesn’t mean a damn thing to me. You can kill her. And you can kill me too."

She gasped in the seat beside me, but I was doing my job. If they thought she didn’t matter to me, they’d have no reason to kill her. I would fulfill at least that aspect of my mission. He sat there in silence for a moment. His gun was aimed at my face.

"The FBI will be questioning you no matter what we do. Assuming you’re alive. When they question you, they’ll find out who you are. They’ll threaten to send you back home, and they’ll offer you a deal. Accept what they offer you, and destroy the Plehves. Then we’ll help you in any way we can. Otherwise you will still go to prison, but you’ll go in knowing this — Asturiana will die. Rose will too."

The blood drained from my face in an instant. There was no more bluffing. I dropped towards the deep well of sleep at a sickening speed. He saw the change in my face, and pointed his gun at my forehead.

"Emotion at last," he said. "I assure you, it will be done."

I tried to calm myself, to keep the trance back. I knew I had to wake up. Just because they had read Rose’s name in a police file, didn’t mean they could find her. She’d dropped out of the civilian world long before I had met her. She could be in any abandoned house or alleyway anywhere in the country. But the hate overcame me.

"You don’t seem to know what you are," I said. "Don’t you remember why you killed them?"

His arm didn’t tense up or waver. He didn’t even look curious.

"If you’re referring to my wife," he said. "Then yes, I remember. That has nothing to do with Rose. They are two separate people."

For a moment I was on the edge of killing him. With anyone else, it would have been easy. His gun was just an inch or so from my face. Sleepwalking, I could push his arm down before he could pull the trigger. My knife would have opened him up till his guts rolled out on the seat.

But this was the pie guy, and he was always asleep.

"I have a different proposal," I said. "It’s better for both of us."

"What’s that?"

"I’ll put them out of business on my own. Then I’ll disappear."

"You’ll destroy Rasputin Plehve? I don’t think so. We put twenty bullets in him, and he’s still alive."

"I was already planning to. That’s my only reason for being here. You know my record. You just recited it yourself."

"Those were skinheads and gangbangers. This is different."

"We all bleed the same."

He paused, as if thinking about it. The driver turned around again. "You’re not even a made guy. Hell, you’re not even Italian. You don’t make decisions on your own. You just do what Jerry says."

The pie guy turned and looked at him. I grabbed a single piece of hair from his suit. The driver lowered his eyes, and turned back around.

"We don’t make deals, Mr. Rankin. We give orders. And you’ve heard yours. We’ll be holding on to the girl until you’ve spoken with the FBI. You claim not to care about her, but you’re lying… about something. You’re going to have to do as we say, or accept the consequences. Now it’s time for you to go."

###

Copyright © 2005 C. S. Thompson

Read C.S. Thompson's A Thing Out Of Season: Honor In The Noir Universe