Young Turks
by Brian Patrick McKinley and Mark JenkinsGoddamn, life is fucking funny sometimes, Faolan O'Connor thought as the hard rubber toe of his shoe connected with Victor Conrad's teeth. There was a good, solid crunch, and Conrad's head snapped back. Bits of tooth tinkled to the floor like Tic Tacs.
The look on his face, when Frank first knocked his legs out from him with the baseball bat? Fucking priceless.
Frank swung the bat again, cracking the side of Conrad's head just as he was recovering from the kick. Conrad spilled onto the hardwood floor, his animal instinct starting to take over. Faolan gave him a sharp kick to the diaphragm to knock his wind out.
"Sorry there, old chap," he said, not bothering to try an English accent. "But with the economy and all, we gotta do some down-sizing. Not to mention your recent job performance really sucks."
Frank gave Conrad a gratuitous knee smashing while Faolan fired up a Camel. Conrad should have realized something was up when he came in, frankly; the Stones' "Street Fighting Man" was playing on the stereo.
He tried to be fair, after all.
When he glanced down, damned if Frank wasn't sawing Conrad's arms off at the elbow! "Jesus, Frank, what the fuck?"
"I'm down-sizing him."
That was vintage Frank Giordano. Never laughed, hardly ever cracked a smile, this guy. His nickname among the other vampires on the East Coast was "The Ghoul."
There wasn't any life in Frank's eyes, that's what spooked people. Wasn't that they were vicious-cold like a psychopath - they were more like the glass eyes in the automatons they used to have in the boardwalk museums. He rarely blinked.
"You know you're cleaning that up, young man," Faolan said.
"Yeah, yeah..."
Really, you can't go wrong with a hardwood floor, he thought. It looks nice and blood cleans off real easy. Normally, they didn't do things this messy, but Conrad was a special case.
"Snap his neck, would you? He won't stop squirming," Frank said. Conrad's thrashing was making Frank slip with the knife. As any butcher (or body disposal wiseguy) will tell you, slicing joints ain't as easy as it looks, especially when the joint's covered in a suit. To a human being, the snapped neck would be deadly; Conrad being a vampire, however, allowed its use for paralysis purposes only.
Given time and blood, he'd heal it up good as new. Of course, Conrad was slated to starve to death, so he wouldn't be getting that blood.
Faolan nodded, cigarette in teeth, and knelt down. "Hang on. Hey, watch the knife, would you? Liable to slice my fucking hand," he muttered, reached around, and grabbed Conrad's chin.
"What, you afraid you'll get Tetanus?"
"Fuck you."
A quick twist and a muffled crunch did the trick. Conrad, though Faolan's subordinate, belonged to the old boy network of traditionalists eager to see Faolan and his crew of "young Turks" removed from the boss' favor. Conrad had been very slick about his secret dealings with the vamps in Washington up until now, but had made the mistake of trusting a young New York vampire who had seen a chance for promotion over Conrad's dead body.
Faolan stood, pushed a lock of blond hair out of his eyes, and glanced down at his Armani suit. Couple spots of blood, but his black leather trench caught most of it. He'd clean the coat. Normally, he wore jeans and a work shirt for this sort of thing; hell, that's what he usually wore. The suit had been for the meeting with the big boss.
"Nah, Frank," he said, "lookit, you're doin' that - you're sawing, you gotta use the weight of the knife. Chop down like an axe."
"You know, I have done this a few times before - "
"I saw it on one of them cooking shows. Guy was demonstrating with a chicken. Just saying, that's the way that type of knife is s'posed to be used."
Frank just kept sawing. "Here chick, here chick, chick, chick..."
Honestly, Frank did creep him out a little sometimes. Faolan strolled toward the center of his spacious office, located in an upper floor of the Empire State Building. Sure, the place was a little worn these days, but there was just no substitute for its richness and character. Any building that could survive a fighter plane smashing into it was okay in his book. His hand dug out the small blue racquetball he always carried in his coat pocket and bounced it off the floor as he walked, smoked, and thought about the night's developments. Fucking werewolves? Like some goddamn B movie or something.
Quoth the racquetball: Pok!
Faolan fired up another Camel.
Metallica replaced the Stones: "Of Wolf and Man."
He traded his lighter for the racquetball and blew his thoughts out in a cloud of smooth Turkish blend as Frank finished up and then left to call the cleaners in. He threw the ball against his office wall.
Pa-pok!
Pa-pok!
Pa-pok!
Faster now, the racquetball blur ricocheted from floor to wall to hand and back again. His movements were thoughtless, instinctive. Faolan appeared to be an ordinary-looking guy in his thirties. Fair skin, short blonde hair, and a face you might describe as boyish if not quite handsome. But his blue eyes betrayed the unmistakable mark of experience beneath their merry twinkle, and nobody who saw him playing could mistake him for human.
Pa-pok!
A couple cleaners moved around, eyeing him cautiously. The cleaning company was owned by members of The Order - the term vampires used for the secret society they all belonged to - but they generally didn't have to clean up messes like this in his office. They just swept up his butts and got the trash while he bullshitted with them, asked about how their family was doing and such. Easy to forget what you were really dealing with.
Pa-pok!
Pa-pok!
Pa-pok!
Pa-pok!
Pa-pok!
Pa-pok!
"Whatcha thinking 'bout?" Frank asked.
Faolan snatched the ball from the air as Frank moved slowly around the office in a clean suit. Looked identical to the other, of course. Fucking creepy.
The cleaners were gone now.
Frank began checking the room with a scanner, like he did every few nights.
Executive privilege allowed them to order from the same company that manufactured equipment for the CIA and Secret Service. It was supposed to be able to pick up even a passive bug or bomb, but there was always that possibility of operator error or treachery. Which was why Frank taught himself how to use it. This was for the off-chance that one of the cleaners had been flipped, despite their extensive background checks and monitoring. Same reason the windows were a special non-conductive (and UV-protected) Plexiglas that made lasers and shit useless for eavesdropping: you could never be too careful.
He took a drag, waiting for Frank to finish the last wall, and remote-programmed the MP3 player. Boy, was Frank in for a fucking shock. Faolan almost never got to surprise Frank with anything. Finally, Frank finished his sweep and set the device on the floor.
"Las Vegas got taken out by a bunch of werewolves," Faolan said pleasantly. Waited...
Frank's face didn't move but his eyes shifted down and he blinked. Once. "That makes sense."
"What? The fuck do you mean, that makes sense?"
"There's been a few MIA's over the years that never quite sat with me," Frank said. "I knew it was from outside, but nobody fit perfectly. Rothstein showed me records of others going back before us."
"And why the fuck didn't you ever mention any of this to me??"
"I did, the night after you became the New York Reeve. You said 'What the fuck does this have to do with anything? I got bigger things to worry about right now.' So I dropped it."
Technically, this didn't warrant a physical beating ... but he could shoot him. Just for being an irritating, grudge-holding, know-it-all prick. Once in each kneecap should do it. Maybe another through the heart just to slide him within smooching distance of the Grim Reaper?
"So you dropped it for fifty fucking years, Frank? No, don't answer that."
The player switched to "Synchronicity II" by The Police. After Frank's initial shock, this was supposed to be Faolan's wry commentary on the current topic. At least all the back and forth in the song still fit their situation.
"Anyway," Faolan said after a few seconds. "Seems these fucking things go way back. The whole killing the Indians and taking their land had a secret agenda to it, which was eliminating these guys."
"So the werewolves are Injuns?"
"Yeah. But, of course, not all Indians are werewolves."
"Of course."
"Indian fucking werewolves, can you believe that? I mean, where's John Wayne when you need him?"
"Lone Ranger."
"Lone Ranger?"
"Silver bullets."
"Silver bullets." Faolan nodded, lit another cigarette. "Point is: the boss was sure he killed the last of 'em back during the big fire in Chicago. Looks like a few have been pulling hit-and-runs on us ever since. I got a copy of the Vegas video. Big, nasty fuckers, kinda like the ones in The Howling, except without them bat-ears and doggy legs. Tell you, they hadda be pretty fucking good to keep hidden all this time."
"Not necessarily," Frank said. "Vampires are pretty fucking stupid sometimes; not talking knowledge or intelligence here, but basic common sense. Get a bunch of guys like Conrad together and they get pretty damn cocky. We concentrate on other vamps, we get complacent. I mean, who would have thought to be on the lookout for werewolves? All these things had to do was not leave witnesses or neon signs..."
Frank drifted off and did one of those laugh-to-yourself things.
"What?"
"Remember the big massacre in '35? Probably werewolves. We only got the power 'cause our gang was in hiding. Now we're gonna increase our power by killing them while they're in hiding. That's fucking poetic."
Faolan blew the smoke from his lungs. "So, we'll send 'em a fucking Hallmark card.
Anyway, the boss has a major hard-on for these fucks. Whole domain's on full alert, but guess who isn't taking part in the hunt except in an 'advisory capacity'?"
"The feds."
"First shot outta the box." He felt them falling into synch. This was what made their bizarre partnership so effective, this groove of shared experiences.
"So, we're the bush beaters while the feds ride ahead with the net - "
" - which means they're lookin' for prisoners instead of corpses - "
" - which means they suspect that there's more of 'em than this bunch - "
" - so if the G wants prisoners - "
" - give 'em corpses instead."
"'Oh I'm fucking sorry there, sir, you shoulda said something' - "
" - and, meanwhile, most of the old timers run for cover - "
" - 'cause it's safer not to be noticed at all - "
" - than draw attention by trying and failing. So, if we can kill 'em - "
" - it'll send the G into over-drive to track down the rest - "
" - so they'll have to wait for their revenge for Conrad - "
" - and all the other traditionalists we'll be forced to take out for their failure to catch the werewolves."
"So, if we move up our plans for whacking the boss, we can leap-frog the feds while they're out chasing their tails," Frank concluded. "They hate us, but they want the country stable more. They won't let the others go to war over it."
"Nah, they'll let the other bosses kill us instead," Faolan said. "So, subject to last-minute inspirations and the inevitable fuck-ups, whaddaya think?"
Frank shrugged. "Only step I don't see in the master plan is where the werewolves send us a postcard with their home address on it." But, seeing the amused glimmer in Faolan's eyes, he added: "Unless, of course, that folder on your desk is a line on where they are."
"Better."
"Better?"
"Gallup."
"Gallup?"
Faolan smiled. "Lemme tell you a little story 'bout a man named Red. Red Johnson's a connected guy in the mob. Red Johnson's stuck in Gallup, New Mexico. When our guys send the photos from Vegas around, this very same Red Johnson picks up the phone and calls - "
"Why?" asked Mr. Never-Trust-Good-Luck.
"Because Red Johnson also happens to be a connected guy for The Order and fucking hates Gallup with a passion. He got the same APB from his Reeve in Albuquerque, put together that this was Order business, and decided to roll the dice that his tip would be worth a ticket back to the Big Apple."
"Is it?"
"You're fucking-A right it is. Mr. Patrick Michaels - whose half-Irish, half-fucking-Cherokee life story is in that folder - has a meeting with Mr. Johnson scheduled in the next night or two to purchase fake IDs, guns, and other werewolf essentials. Been doing this for years, apparently, and never a hint that Michaels was anything but your basic lowlife. We get Michaels and make him tell us where all the others are - bam! Dead werewolves. So, Gallup, New Mexico is where we place our net while the G's still busy suiting up."
"Gallup?"
"Gallup."
Frank nodded. "Do the werewolves know they've been made?"
"Well, since at least a couple of 'em got questioned by the cops, let's hope they had the sense to watch the local news."
"Right. They weren't caught in Nevada, so that puts them well into Arizona or possibly New Mexico by now. They will have changed their appearance. Is this guy Michaels noticeable?"
"Yeah, got himself a nice facial scar and a clubfoot. Though the bum leg seems to disappear when he's a wolfy."
"Either he'll go straight for Gallup or never show up."
"Well, this Red middles a lot of fake IDs and guns for him. They'll need money and new covers if they're gonna go to ground. He'll show by tomorrow if he's coming at all, so we gotta move quick. That's why I sent for Gualterio."
"Conrad's pet rat? I don't think this is something you wanna be involving that little weasel in, boss." Frank calling him boss was the same as another guy begging.
"Nah, it's perfect. He goes out to New Mexico with the Wrecking Crew, rips the location of the Big Bads out of Michaels, and returns with glory on a silver platter. Quick and clean, in and out."
"And if this goes tits up?"
"First off," he said. "I have yet to see the thing - or army of things - that can take down the Wrecking Crew, werewolves included. But if something doesn't work out, it'll be Gualterio's ass, not mine. Nobody else knows Conrad's out yet, so we'll say Conrad got the info about Gallup and sent his boy Gualterio out without telling me." When Frank didn't respond, Faolan smiled and spoke like a mom bribing her kid with ice cream. "C'mon, you'll have days to play with New York before we put Gualterio in control. Think of all the spies you can plant."
"I don't like the idea of being without the Wrecking Crew for a couple days."
"C'mon, nobody'll have time to get something together in a couple days. I'll stay inside the whole time and let Miranda baby-sit me, honest Injun."
Frank just gave him a look. "All right, it's obvious I'm not gonna talk you out of this, so I'll support it with reservations." Frank pointed at him with mock-gravity. "But I reserve the right to say 'I told you so' if this blows up in our faces."
"So noted."
A bell sounded: the private elevator.
"That's Gualterio now. He's early."
"All right, so what should I do with Conrad?" Frank asked.
"Huh? Oh, get him out of here."
Frank didn't move. "You gotta say it. It's only cool if you say it."
He'd gotten Frank to join in on one of his movie nights back when he was still hoping Frank and Miranda could get along. They'd watched Conan the Barbarian. Frank loved when James Earl Jones told his guys to put Schwarzenegger on the "tree of woe" and declared that Faolan should have a tree of woe to put people on. Summoning his best Thulsa Doom, Faolan bellowed, "Put him on the Tree of Woe!"
Frank actually smiled - a genuine one, not the oily grin that gave people goosebumps - and bowed with his arms crossed. Then he picked up the now paraplegic Conrad and carried him out to the waiting guards.
Noticing that he'd crushed out his previous Camel already, Faolan tossed it away and pulled out his ball.
Pok - pok -
He chucked it into the floor. It ricocheted into the wall and bounced off to his left.
Pa-pok!
He caught it, threw it again without thinking, and fell into an easy rhythm as he waited.
Pa-pok!
He heard Gualterio open the secretary's door over the intercom. He had the remote in the other hand so he could shut it off before they came in, but he always got a kick out of Gualterio and Frank's verbal knife-fights.
Frank had finished getting Conrad up on the wall about a minute before and was waiting to catch Gualterio's surprise reaction to it, hoping he'd give something away.
Pa-pok!
Frank: "Well, well, the Prodigal Son."
Pa-pok!
Gualterio: "Frank. They find you a donor for that personality transplant yet?" Smooth and cool - he hadn't noticed Conrad.
Pa-pok!
Wait, there it was. Frank chuckled; silence from the new Reeve. Frank: "Glad you could make it in. Conrad called in sick."
Pa-pok!
Frank: "Christmas came early, so I hadda hang the stockings." Was Frank really that clever or did he sit in his room the night before and rehearse?
Pa-pok!
Gualterio had to be terrified, but Faolan couldn't hear any sign of it in his voice. "Yeah, I heard about how great you are with kids..." Nobody ever joked about that summer day in 1931; Frank and Mad Dog Coll went gunning for Dutch Schultz and shot up a Harlem street full of kids instead...
Pa-pok!
Movement toward the door. Frank: "You know, people gotta be careful who they put their trust in. One day you're walkin' around spic and span, and the next, you're a wall decoration."
Gualterio had made himself an eternal enemy tonight. Frank didn't usually stoop to racial slurs.
Pa-pok!
Gualterio: "This the part where I'm s'posed to laugh?"
Pa-pok!
Frank: "Don't worry. On the inside, I'm laughing for both of us." Pa-pok!
Faolan shut off the intercom and pocketed the remote as the door opened. Gualterio was followed by Frank, who went to the desk after pulling the door shut. Pa-pok!
"Hey, José, whaddaya say?" Faolan said.
Pa-pok!
"Wondering what's up with Conrad. Wasn't how we were gonna play it." Faolan shifted in mid-throw and angled the ball at him -
Pok!
The young vampire's hand snapped up, snatching the ball from the air. His eyes never left Faolan.
"Somethin' big came up, hadda change the plan. Needed you free and Conrad out of the picture." Faolan fished out his Camels and stuck one in his mouth.
Gualterio rolled the blue ball in his hand. "We could have gotten more of his supporters in one shot, that's all." He was casual, dismissive, but he had to be wondering if there was a place on that wall reserved for him, too. Yeah, it sucked being the low man in the room. But in The Order, you were always the low man somewhere. "The traditionalists are my headache from now on," Faolan said. "Your part in that's done with. As of tonight, you're the Reeve of New York City. No strings. But, since the Big Apple's gonna be in a transition period for a bit, I want you to do a job for me before you get bogged down in reorganizing the place."
"You said no strings."
Gualterio had no choice in the matter, but Faolan liked that the kid tried anyway. "Yeah, but I didn't say no favors." Gualterio threw a quick glare at Frank, who smiled like an undertaker. "You'll be in charge of the Wrecking Crew and infiltrate the Midwest Territory for an ambush," Faolan explained. "I just need a brain controlling the gang out there or they'll fuck everything up. The boss personally made this a national priority, so it's a guarantee of getting his notice. It's up to you whether he notices your success or failure. You wanted your shot, so I'm giving it to you."
He was playing straight on this one; getting noticed by the boss as a Reeve was what had allowed Faolan to make his bid for Governor. Way Faolan saw it, if you could figure a way to beat his set-up, then you deserved his job. Conrad, for instance, wasn't being killed for planning to take out Faolan's crew; his crime was being dumb enough to bring Gualterio in on the plan.
As for Gualterio, he'd either decided to make the best of the situation or was really warming to the idea; his anger had disappeared and he smiled. "All right, let's hear it all."
Fucking Gallup.
Gallup was a depressing little shithole of a town built around a railroad track, as far as Patrick Michaels was concerned. 'Course, you wouldn't find it described that way in the local brochures and tourist shit; hell no, they'd tell you up and down about the wonderful pow-wows and "authentic native ceremonies" and arts and crafts and all you could find here. Fine if you went in for Indian shit, but all that was during the tourist season, and this was late October. Tourist season was fucking over and done. These days the only Indian ceremonies you'd find went on at the nearest bar or welfare office.
Of course, the town had a main strip with restaurants and stores and shit: Route 66 beside the railroad tracks, which did decent business from the locals. But Uncle Red's Tavern was on the other side, on a road called Montoya right next to I-40.
The wrong side of the fucking tracks.
Michaels sat at the bar getting pleasantly sloshed and trying to forget a certain battle while Red Johnson, the owner, got rid of the last remaining customers. Michaels had challenged for the leadership of the Pack this evening - his last real shot at being more than just their resident criminal - and he'd blown it. Story of his fucking life.
"God-damn reservation trash, all I ever fucking get in here," Red muttered, unaware that the man still sitting in his bar was half Cherokee, and walked to the backroom door. "I got the stuff in back, pour yourself another and I'll be out in a few." "Way ahead of you." Drink in hand, he rose a little unsteadily. Fucking A, damn winter coming on always made his leg ache...
Limped on over and took a gander at the music selection. The box was one of them big, silver pieces of shit from back in the seventies with the flipping cards inside. Looked like the songs hadn't been changed since then, neither. He remembered Red telling him, years back, how he'd called the place a tavern on account of it sounding classier than lounge. It looks like a fucking lounge: cheap wood paneling, puke-orange carpet, and green pleather on the booths and chairs.
He wondered at what point in the late eighties somebody got Red to take down the disco ball.
Maybe it fell of its own accord. Suicide.
He raised his glass to the memory of the late disco ball and downed it. Caught sight of the old Warren Zevon tune "Werewolves of London" when he put the empty glass on the box. Well, well...
Dropped some change in and punched it up.
The song brought back memories, good and bad. He felt himself choke up a little and swallowed it back down hard. Fuck it, he wasn't crying in his beer over them. Just the way it had to be is all; he wasn't staying around with that new guy in charge and, frankly, the whole damn glorious mission had gone south for him a while back, hadn't it? He'd get this last batch of shit for 'em, maybe a few guns for himself, and say his goodbyes. Even Steven. He still had his wolf-skin, he could still change. Been making a little side career during the off-seasons pulling second-story jobs and the occasional contract work for his Columbian buddies. Just move into that full-time, was all. Get enough to fix himself up in no time.
Besides, wasn't like Crusading Werewolf had ever been an upwardly-mobile career.
Red came from the back with the thick envelope in hand and Michaels made his way back to the bar. Red Johnson looked like a washed-up boxer, but he swore he'd never been in the ring: big meaty arms, busted nose with the red veins from sampling his own product a little too much, and cauliflower ears. Michaels couldn't remember him ever having hair up top except that Brillo pad that ran around the back of his head.
"There you are, best on the market," Red said, as always, dropping the folded yellow envelope on the bar next to Michaels's bottle. Michaels returned the gesture with his own envelope of cash. "So, how you been?"
"Terrible," Michaels answered. "I'd complain, but who'd give a fuck?"
Looked over the IDs and documents, they seemed solid. Red checked the money, but he seemed distracted. Glanced at his watch.
"You all right, Red?"
"Ah fuck, who knows? I ever tell you 'bout my brother?"
"Nah."
"Smart guy, my brother. Helluva lot smarter'n me; had the good sense to stay put where he was happy. Passed away a few months back."
"Fuck. Sorry to hear it." Michaels lit a cigarette.
"Yeah. Prostate cancer. Spent the last year of his life wearing a diaper and shitting in a bag. I ask you, what kinda way is that to end your days? Ain't seen him for more'n ten years and he goes and fucking dies on me. Went back east for the funeral and it fucking hits me - I'm it, I'm the last of my family. Never had time for kids..."
Red stared at some spot on the carpet only he could see.
Michaels poured himself another drink. As if he didn't have enough problems without his bartender crying on his shoulder.
"I can't die in the desert," Red said like some movie pirate about to pass along the treasure map.
Michaels swallowed his whiskey. "Yeah. Well, don't stay put on my account. Moving on to some greener pastures myself, so I don't figure you'll be seeing me around anymore."
"That so? Well...glad to hear it."
Definitely something funny 'bout Red tonight. Maybe he should just head out, song was almost over, after all. Still...
"Got any guns in the back there?"
"Huh?" Red brightened. "Oh, sure. Jesus, would you listen to me going on? Go get yourself a seat at a table and lemme go grab 'em outta the back. Got some nice ones in, couple weeks ago, see if any strike your fancy."
Michaels nodded, took his bottle, and made his way to a nearby table while Red went into his back room. Sound of motorcycles outside.
Michaels waited. Red was taking his sweet time in back, maybe he'd rack 'em up and play a quick game of eight ball. Heard the bikers pull up -
The door fucking explodes -
Michaels's dagger came out of its sheath, ready in a heartbeat. This little white trash greaser piece of shit flew into the room -
Eye shine: vampire! Quick, while his eyes are adjusting -
Michaels let fly and the throwing dagger whipped through the air -
Fonzie's eyes locked on the movement -
THWACK! The knife nailed the little fucker right in the head!
Vamp threw aside a table, kicked a chair into splinters -
"Motherfucker!"
He wasn't stopping.
Think, asshole, THINK!
The whiskey! If he doused the little shit, he could -
Hands grab him like a steel cable tightening! Christ, the breath was like dead skunk dipped in diarrhea. Those eyes: blazing yellow suns in a blood-red sky.
He went through the air like he'd been shot from a cannon -
SLAM!
The boards cracked, he smacked down to the floor. Beaten again. Just lay there, wishing he was dead.
Michaels came up from the warm darkness with his whole body throbbing. His leg felt like somebody was giving him a full color tattoo.
"C'mon, wake up, Michaels."
He was still alive. Fuck.
Felt almost sober. That was worse.
Opened his eyes. Some spic kid staring down at him. Expensive suit.
Cop? Dealer? His memories of his last few minutes slink back in like a kid past curfew. Vamp?
The spic held something up, and it took a sec for him to recognize his dagger. "You gotta be more careful with this, amigo."
Chuckles in the background.
Yeah, he was definitely fucked.
The spic helped him sit up - his head turned to cotton. He felt like he was gonna puke, and he leaned against the seat of the broken booth he'd crashed down onto. Whole fucking gang of bloodsuckers in the place now. Three of 'em moved to join the party: a nigger in a doo-rag and trenchcoat, a giant white caveman in a dress shirt and slacks, and the greaser who'd trashed him.
Before he could blink, the nigger had a sword at his throat; one of them fucking kung-fu swords. "Spill, motherfucker, or I turn your cracker ass into a pop-top!"
Michaels sighed. "Kiss my ass, Tupac."
The Puerto Rican looked annoyed. "Hey, guys - "
Then the greaser snapped his left pinky˜Aw, fuck! - and agony shot up his arm and made his eyes water. Simple trick every wiseguy and would-be hardcase knew, but damned if it didn't still work every time.
"Tell us where your fucking pals are, motherfucker, or I'll fucking rip it outta your fucking skull!" That breath hit him again - and the little shit reached for his eyes!
"All right, back off you guys!" The spic.
The greaser stopped. Dirty fingers with thick, ragged, yellow nails twitched a bare inch from his face. Jesus, that's the ugliest fucking vamp I ever seen...like if you took one of them shitty little Chihuahua dogs and turned it into a person.
Almost made him laugh, but he held it back. Good thing, too; the little Mutant
Chihuahua From Hell stomped away, but looked like he'd have no problem breaking his leash at the first insult.
"That goes for the rest of you, too," the spic said. "Sandman, put him in the back room. Rest of you wait out here."
"Yo, G, what da fuck?" the nigger asked without putting the sword away.
"Orders from Faolan. Little more to this than a hit, but ain't nothing you's gotta concern yourself about. If I don't get the right answers from him, he's all yours." The kid looked back at him on that, but all Michaels had eyes for was the dagger in the spic's hand. Once they were alone, he just might get a chance ...
Tupac dragged him to his feet. "C'mon, bitch! Still gots your friends to smack down." Spotted Red sitting alone at a table near the bar and the old man gave him a look like a hound-dog that just messed up the carpet.
"I can't die in the desert," Red said again.
Michaels figured he'd have done the same thing in Red's place. "Fucking piece of shit," he spat.
Tupac dragged him to the back room and shoved him inside just as Fonzie started rampaging through Red's collection of bottles.
That's it, you little shit-dog, bark all you want.
He tensed his muscles (careful not to let it show) as the spic entered and turned to close the door.
That's it...just wait for the door to click. Gotta be a back way out. Locked door'll take an extra second or two for them to kick down...grab my skin from the car...
The door closed with a soft click.
Michaels uncurled like a cobra, whipping forward - one arm poised to wrap around the spic's throat and the other headed for the dagger -
Came face to face with the barrel of a pistol.
"I'm stronger, faster, and harder to kill than you," the spic said with icy cool. "Take a seat and let's talk."
Michaels sighed. Looked around at the crates of booze and found a stack looked stable enough to sit on. The room stank of sweat and old liquor and looked like it hadn't seen a broom in all the years of Red's ownership.
The Puerto Rican holstered his pistol just as calm as you please...but, wait, there was more to it. As the vamp strolled over, grabbed the desk chair, and put it across from Michaels, it was like he'd become a different person. All the street swagger was gone and, instead, he had a whole different air to him.
"My name is José Gualterio. I apologize for the rudeness of the introduction, but it was unavoidable." The voice was different, too. There wasn't a drop of that spic accent. Now the guy sounded like a Bond villain or something, all slick and cultured.
Michaels met a local boss of the Columbians once: went up to the guy's mansion with one of his contacts. Only took a minute, but Michaels remembered how the little man strolled like he owned the world; just walked down his front stairs to where they stood like God himself coming to Earth. Looked Michaels right in the eyes, and that pudgy Columbian had the darkest and scariest eyes he'd ever seen. The devil's eyes. Only looked at him for a second, then he took a puff of his cigar, turned to Michaels's contact, and nodded. Then he walked away without a word and Michaels was allowed to keep living.
Gualterio had eyes like that.
"Would you like a cigarette?" Gold cigarette case sitting open in the vamp's palm.
Just like that.
It was weird, 'cause he usually hated slick yuppie-types, but as he reached up and helped himself to a smoke, he realized that wasn't the sense he was getting from this guy. When Gualterio talked to him, it wasn't like he was talking down to him.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome." Gualterio sat down and crossed his legs, one hand closing the case and trading it for a gold lighter, the other hand still holding the dagger. Moved like a fucking stage magician, this guy. More graceful than Michaels could ever hope to be, werewolf or not. Sharp suit, too˜probably silk. Had to run a couple grand.
Gualterio lit his cigarette for him.
"So, can all vamps move like that? Or is it something you practice?" Never had the chance to just sit and talk to a vamp before, so why not satisfy his curiosity a little? The immortal kid with the devil's eyes chuckled - not a word that'd normally come to his mind, but the vampire hadn't laughed or grunted or done any of them things regular folks did. That was a genuine fucking chuckle, like something out of Masterpiece Theater.
"Both, to be perfectly honest."
"Hey, I always wondered ... Well, uh, do you guys get the fangs automatic when you get turned or do you gotta file 'em sharp?"
Gualterio smiled with a touch of sheepishness. "We have to have them filed. We have dentists who do it for us nowadays - though I'm sure such people existed throughout The Order's history."
"Well I'll be dipped in shit. It hurt?"
"I'm told it's like getting a cleaning, in and out in half an hour."
"Huh."
The Puerto Rican vampire shrugged. "Not everyone does it. I prefer to use blades or hypodermics, since my position makes visible fangs a liability." Gualterio leaned forward a bit, looked him right in the eyes. "May I call you Patrick?"
He shrugged.
"Unfortunately, Patrick, I'm here to tell you that your worst fears have come to pass. Two nights ago, your group of shape-shifters eliminated the Reeve of Las Vegas and his subordinates. This attack was recorded by hidden surveillance equipment. In addition, you and two other members of your group were questioned by Las Vegas sheriff's deputies at the scene. I'm sure you have seen the sketches on the news. Take a moment and consider this: your attack occurred only two nights ago in Las Vegas and here we were, waiting for you to arrive in New Mexico tonight." It felt like the wind had been knocked out of him; that hopeless depression came on him like he was dipped in cement. They were fucked, all of 'em, and it was all his fault. Hadn't been for his damn face and his record and his usual shit-ass luck they might have been okay, but it was clear now that the good-looking guy in the sharp suit just gave him the old last cigarette 'fore the execution.
Guess this was the end of the line, after all.
"So," he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. He'd go out like a man at least. "I tell you where the rest of 'em are and you'll make it quick, right?"
"Not at all, Patrick," the vampire answered. "In fact, I'm here because I want to help you and your friends."
Almost couldn't believe what he just heard, but he also knew somehow that Gualterio wasn't lying.
Suddenly, the Puerto Rican flipped the dagger around in his hand and offered it to him, just like that. "Here, a small demonstration of faith."
He took it back and put it away in his sheath. Didn't even think of using it. What would be the point?
"You may not believe this, Patrick," Gualterio continued. "But, when I first saw the recording of your group in action, I felt the touch of God upon my heart. For years now, I have longed to eliminate the corruption that has taken root within The Order like a cancer. We vampires have a purpose - a sacred purpose mandated by the Divine Himself - but it's been long neglected. My wish is to bring my people back to grace but, to achieve this, I'll need the help of your people."
Damn. He always wanted to be part of something honest, something with a purpose and a future. Used to think he'd found it in the Pack, but it was obvious he'd been fooling himself.
"How?" The cigarette in Michaels's hand had burned down almost to nothing and, in the back of his mind, his broken pinky and battered leg continued to throb, but it all might as well have been happening to somebody else.
"Simply continue - "
A pounding at the door cut Gualterio off and they both turned in irritation as the nigger outside shouted, "Yo, you fucking sucking each other's dicks in there or what?"
Christ, he'd forgotten all about them other vamps in the other room. They just didn't seem important any more.
Gualterio rolled his eyes for Michaels's benefit. "Just hold your fucking panties a'ight, I be done in a few," he called, slipping effortlessly back into the Puerto Rican street lingo.
Then Gualterio just let it roll off him like water on a duck's ass. God, Michaels wished he could be that smooth. "As I was saying, all you would have to do is to continue what you're already doing: killing vampires. The difference being that you would work under my direction, with my guidance and support. Imagine having your targets provided for you well in advance, along with all the background and security information you need to effectively assault them. Imagine having backup and support during the strikes, state-of-the-art equipment at your disposal. From here on, your group will fight with a purpose, live in comfort, and command the fear and respect of everyone around you. Just imagine it."
Oh, he was imagining it all right...no more bullshit, no more looking over their shoulders, no more wasting time and arguing...and he'd be the one who did it for them.
His Pack.
José Domingo Amadeo Esteban Gualterio scrubbed his teeth and gums thoroughly with his sonic toothbrush, as he did every evening after waking and every morning before retiring to bed. Switching the brush's head for the flossing attachment, José meticulously cleaned the narrow spaces between each and every one of his straight, even teeth.
Most vampires ignored the tarnishing effects of blood on their teeth and, as a result, most had terrible smiles. Some of the elders Victor had introduced him to over the years had teeth so discolored as to appear black. He was due for another whitening session, he decided. He wondered if he'd be able to make the time now that his plan had picked up so much speed.
He'd check his Blackberry to find an hour he could clear. Cleanliness was next to Godliness, after all.
Placing his toiletries back into his travel bag, José stepped out of his private jet's washroom into the executive suite. Tonight, his suit was a storm gray, single-breasted, Versachi Italian cut with a sharkskin pattern, peaked lapels, and subtly built-up shoulders. The way a man presented himself indicated that man's image of himself and a judgment of his own worth. Here in The Order, the image one projected carried far more weight than the reality of one's accomplishments, even more so than in the mortal world. For a young vampire like himself with an unimpressive background, the first judgment of his elders and social betters was instantaneous, severe, and unalterable. Victor had done his utmost to prepare José for the world he had entered, the personalities he would deal with, and the etiquette he would be expected to observe.
Victor Conrad.
It was Victor who had patiently taught him how to dress, how to behave, and how to think like a gentleman. He alone had offered young José Gualterio entrance into the world of the elite and powerful on terms of equality, helping him leave the grubby Puerto Rican street punk he'd been back in the gutter where he belonged (except, of course, when it was advantageous to slip him back on like an old pair of jeans for the comfort of fools). In the years they'd been together, the former English lord had taught José more about the world than he could ever articulate. Betraying Victor to that coarse, Irish buffoon had been one of the most difficult actions of his life. Unfortunately, Victor was too much of an idealist for his own good, too naïve, too obvious, his thinking limited by too many outdated notions. One could not allow sentiment to prevent one from doing what was best for The Order and one's own personal ends.
Victor Conrad had taught him that, as well.
His city.
Never mind whoever the current Reeve was; the fate of this city was closer to his heart than any other man's. It was the witness to all the successes and failures of his mortal and immortal lives. He was born here, raised here, and he'd sworn he'd die here.
Faolan strolled down the once-familiar sidewalks of Bedford Street in Brooklyn and thought about change. He wouldn't let anyone accompany him, which infuriated Miranda to no end. Even now, he knew, his bodyguard was pacing around the building like a Sicilian surviving his only daughter's first date. But the whole point of these spontaneous tours of the city was for him to get away from his position for a while. Besides, Frank was safely locked away. Even if the Wrecking Crew was gone, hardly anybody else knew it. He was safe enough.
These had been his old stomping grounds, many decades ago. When he was a kid, these streets were jam-packed with people. Brooklyn was still crowded, but nothing like back then. When his folks got their little brownstone, further up on Division, this was a neighborhood in transformation. Williamsburg had once been the playground of the rich, but the opening of the bridge (which he could see up ahead) in '03 brought a tidal wave of Russians, Italians, Irish, and Polish spilling in from the Lower East Side. He was born that year, giving his Old Man another mouth to feed and a reason to join the caravan to Brooklyn.
So WASP country club became ethnic slum.
The ornately carved brownstones of prosperity sandwiched between the grim stone tenements were virtually unchanged from his boyhood. But now, four lanes of cars replaced vendor carts, horse-drawn wagons, and pedestrians. Jews, Dominicans, and Puerto Ricans had supplanted the older waves as the new ethnicities of choice. Graffitied kosher delis and convenience store bodegas now occupied spots where he remembered produce stands and butcher shops.
Still, the basic sense of the place hadn't changed. This was a vibrant, proud community that he walked through with no self-consciousness. It was still the neighborhood that taught him that even when cultures were different, people were still basically people.
He nodded, smiling, at two Hasidic men (a grown son and father) as they approached. "Evening."
He moved aside to let them pass and they returned his greeting, a little surprised. He shook his head, remembering a time when little courtesies like that were expected. Continuing down the street, he felt that odd mix of pride, longing, warmth, and regret that was reserved for visiting childhood surroundings after a long absence. Nostalgia, they called it. A few blocks from here was the cemetery where Ma's grave lain right next to the Old Man's.
He'd never visited it.
He had vague memories of his father's funeral, hazy child's images of a cop's burial laced with bitterness and relief. But Faolan had always believed his Ma died hating him for the criminal life he'd chosen (and the other son he'd cost her), and regretted the birth of the boy she'd always called her baby.
Still, becoming a vampire had made him a better man. It sounded like bullshit, but that didn't change the truth of it. He had a love of life that only surviving death could give you. The few times he'd tried to ask another vampire if they enjoyed their life, they'd assumed he was threatening them. It never even crossed their minds that it could be an honest question. He snuffed out forty-seven fucking lives when he was mortal (he actually sat down one night and made a list to count them) and God-only-knows how many in the decades since. He knew better than anybody just how quick it could all be over; how little it took for somebody to shut down everything you were and everything you were ever gonna be.
He'd seen jet planes break the sound barrier, men fly to the moon, heart transplants, the Berlin wall go up and down, Alyssa Milano's naked body delivered right to the screen of Frank's computer, and damn near every movie Christopher Walken had ever made. Not bad for a guy with a sixth grade education who should have been dead almost seventy years ago.
The air was a little fresher here than in most of Manhattan. He smelled the water as he moved into the darkness of the underpass, pausing to "snatch a fag and fire it" (as they used to say when he was a kid). He put his lighter away, exhaled smoke, and wandered around the underpass a little, pebbles crunching beneath his feet. The place was rich with memories. He and Benny Siegel were always down here smoking, playing cards, bullshitting, and dividing the spoils from whatever thefts or scams they'd managed that day. He'd fired a gun - cheap little .22 from a pawnshop - for the first time down here at the not-so-tender age of twelve.
He didn't even hear them until the last second: a scrunch of pebbles, a scuff of dirt, a shove -
He fell and a sneakered foot came down on his shoulder to hold him. He held back his ingrained reaction as he realized his assailants were three local boys - two PR's and a black - all in appropriate gang uniform. He didn't have the night vision that others of his kind develop, but he could see that the oldest of these kids couldn't be more than sixteen.
"Don't fucking move or say nuttin', puto," said the one pointing a small pistol at his face. It was a snub-nose .38: scuffed, plastic grip, safety off, five rounds in but the chamber was empty. Looked loaded, but no accidental discharge. Smart kid.
"Gimme your fucking wallet, man," the kid continued. Of course, by now, he could have fed all three of them their arms. But, why bother?
The black kid removed his foot so Faolan could sit up enough to dig out his wallet. It was one of many pre-set with fake IDs and some show money. He held it out, trying to look appropriately cowed, and the other Hispanic snatched it away. He just hoped they wouldn't do something stupid like shoot him, 'cause then he'd have to play dead until they left and cover a bloodstain on the subway ride home.
"Yo, man, dude's fucking loaded!" This from the second Hispanic man; he couldn't resist checking the wallet. "Like six hundred fucking bucks here!"
The black kid grabbed his wrist and popped his watch off. "Eh, it's a focking Casio, man! Tree focking dollar piece o' shit!" the Dominican complained. He almost threw it down, but shoved it in the pocket of his parka anyway.
"Cheap-ass motherfucker," the second Hispanic chimed in.
The vampire could only shrug. What did he need a Rolex for?
The kid with the gun pulled back the hammer with an ominous click-click. This was his cue to squeeze his eyes shut in fear so they could run off without looking foolish. He obligingly cowered back and closed his eyes, but heard the direction of their movements quite clearly.
Boy, if his Reeves could see him now, huh? And Miranda? Forget about it, Miranda would kill him if she ever found out about this. Still, he had a good memory for faces and, one day, those kids might end up working for him. Hell, for all he knew, they already did somewhere down the line. He took out another cigarette and lit it.
Enjoy the dough, fellas. Get your gals somethin' nice for Valentine's, maybe a little somethin' for your mothers. Have a party just 'cause you're immortal and strong and feel like dancin'...
He picked up the sound of another set of feet. His eyes snapped open as a huge beast came toward him and everything clicked. Gualterio. Making this the famous Mr. Michaels. Shit, he thought as he flicked his last smoke away. Well, least I ain't gotta listen to Frank's 'I told you so.'
As the monster lunged for him, he kicked it in the knee and rolled up to his feet. Faolan O'Connor had no intention of going down easy -
©Brian Patrick McKinley and Mark Jenkins
Both Mark and Brian are lifelong vampire fans from New Jersey, where they met in the Garden State Horror Writers and found each had had a story published in the same small press magazine. They became instant friends and, struck by how well their independently-written stories flowed into each other, began collaborating. Brian has written four screenplays and a stage play which won a state-wide contest and was produced by a NJ community theater. Mark has a B.A. in English from Syracuse University and served on the board of the New Jersey Romance Writers before becoming a founding member of the GSHW. For twenty years, he has proofread, written, and copyedited for CCH Inc., the country's leading legal publisher.