City of Heretics (6 page)

Chester had slouched on a leather sofa across the room, smoking one of his smelly French cigarettes and watching with casual interest. There were two other men in the room, black guys who looked like proto-Vitowers, wearing good suits but without the panache of their boss. One of them stood by the door, the other hovered near Vitower’s left elbow.

Crowe was placed in the seat of honor, a comfy high-backed suede chair right in front of the desk, with a pretty good view of the room. Vitower was saying, “I was a little offended, if you want to know the truth, Crowe. I mean, I sent Chester out to see you, as an emissary, really, and you just toss him out?  Bad form.”

“I was tired, what can I tell you?  Chester picked a bad time.”

Chester smirked, shook his head, and smoked his cigarette.

Vitower said, “I suppose I can understand that. Speaking frankly, you stopping by tonight sort of… lessens my annoyance.”

“I thought it over, Marco. I figure I owe you that much.”

It was a clean, spacious office, not the sort you’d expect to see in the back of a nightclub and nothing like the makeshift space the Old Man had utilized. A picturesque seascape in pleasing blues and greens occupied the wall behind Vitower’s enormous oak desk. The carpet was a plush wine-red. An impressive bookcase filled almost one whole wall on the right, and the unread volumes that lined it were nice editions of various classics. A well-stocked wet bar sat next to the bookshelf. It looked more used than its neighbor.

The office smelled strongly of incense. The incense smell came from a small altar in the far corner. Sticks were burning, candles were fluttering, and a large photograph of Jezzie Vitower gazed out at the room with an innocence that only the dead are capable of.

Vitower caught him eying the little altar, and his mouth went tight. He said, “You don’t owe me anything, Crowe. I mean, you and me, we hardly knew each other back in the day, did we?  All the same, I’m glad you feel that way. I’d like to take you on. The Old Man always had good things to say about you.”

“That didn’t stop him from dropping me like a bad habit when I got busted,” Crowe said. He didn’t mention the guy Vitower had sent to kill him in prison.

Vitower nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. Well, let’s be honest, Crowe, you screwed up. I mean, you really blame him?  You got yourself in a position where the Old Man couldn’t do anything for you, not without getting himself involved. Right?”

Crowe smiled. “Would you have done the same thing, Marco?”

Vitower said, “Heard you swung by Jimmy the Hink’s today.”

“Word travels fast.”

“What made you do that, I wonder?”

“I missed Jimmy’s conversation and sparkling wit.”

Vitower said, “Ha. Okay, fine. You don’t have to answer. Are you still averse to signing on with me?”

Crowe glanced at Chester, who quickly looked away.

“My qualms about it,” he said, “are not as pronounced as they were.”

Chester sucked on his cigarette and, not looking at Crowe, said, “I’m glad you came to your senses, Crowe. I was kinda worried you were gonna flop around for a while, looking like an ass.”

Vitower glanced over his shoulder at Chester. “Little passive-aggressive there, Paine?”

Chester shrugged, grinning. “I can’t help myself. If you could’ve seen what he was like, back in the good old days… I mean, it’s kinda funny. You’d never guess now, looking at him.”  He turned to Crowe. “No offense, there, old pal.”

Crowe smiled pleasantly. “None taken, Chester. I’m just glad you were able to survive seven years without me covering your ass.”

Vitower laughed. “Right. Take it easy, boys. You worked together well. I do remember it, Paine. And the two of you, working together again, is just what I need right now. Big things are about to go down. You probably already know some of it.”

Crowe nodded at the altar to his dead wife and said, “Murke is being transported to Jackson on Tuesday.”

Just the mention of Murke’s name caused a massive change in Vitower’s demeanor. The easy-going good humor vanished and the face went hard again, and he made a point of not looking at the altar. His voice was flat when he said, “Yeah. Tuesday.”

Nobody said anything for a long moment.

Crowe knew a great deal more about the murder of Vitower’s wife than Vitower could ever have guessed. In prison, he’d made the acquaintance of a guy named Pernis, who happened to be the lover of one of Vitower’s old buddies from before he quit high school, a slight but menacing-looking man named Marvis Hicks. Sometimes Crowe had to pay Pernis in cash or cigarettes or even the occasional dime bag, but mostly Pernis was a more than willing transmitter of information. He was the one who’d told Crowe about Vitower and Chester and the punk they’d sent to kill him. He liked to talk.

So this was what Crowe knew:

Two years earlier, Jezzie Vitower was visiting her mother on Memphis’s north side. By that time, the Vitowers were living on Mud Island, in an expansive stone house with five bedrooms, six baths, and a staff of four to run the place. Jezzie was four months pregnant. She’d been trying to talk her husband into buying a home for her mother in a nicer part of town, and it was something Marco Vitower had every intention of doing, eventually. As far as Crowe knew, afterward, he never did get around to it.

Jezzie left her mother’s house at close to ten pm. She’d been there about four hours. Her car, a sporty dark green MG she’d had for less than a week, was parked half a block up the street, because when she’d arrived all the other spots to park along the curb were taken. The folks three doors down from her mother had been having a family get-together. It was kind of a miracle that the MG wasn’t lifted.

Later, witnesses claimed to see a man wandering around the neighborhood, a white man, with longish sandy hair and a strangely wide mouth. Peter Murke. The descriptions couldn’t have been more accurate.

But such is the world that three or four people spotting someone who looks like you in a neighborhood doesn’t convince a jury that you murdered someone. When Murke was arrested, some two months later, the DA’s office went over their evidence pertaining to every murder they were sure Murke had committed, and came up with only one they felt would stick. Thirteen-year-old Patricia Welling.

But the cops and the DA, privately and in conference with Vitower, were convinced that Jezzie was actually Peter Murke’s last victim.

Pieced together, it looked something like this: She’d still been on the sidewalk, three steps away from her car. Between two houses, a walkway of broken and buckling concrete cut through to the next block; the walkway was walled on either side by some scrubby but tall bushes. The killer had been waiting there, crouched. When Jezzie passed, he swooped down on her, slapping one hand over her mouth, dragging her back into the shelter of the walkway. At the same time, he plunged a knife into her spine—a gutting knife, most likely, the kind hunters use to gut deer—and effectively severed the bundle of nerves there that controlled her motor impulses.

With his victim completely helpless, the killer dragged her halfway down the covered walk, straddled her, and went to work. He slit her throat first, a quick and clean stroke, designed more to silence her than anything else. And then he did what Peter Murke always did. He sliced her sternum to pelvis, like a surgeon, and proceeded to pull things
out
of her.

The whole thing must’ve taken about ten minutes. Fairly risky behavior on Murke’s part. Some kids on the way to school the next morning found her, her heart, her liver, her intestines and lungs all laid out beside her and above her head. The killer didn’t take anything with him.

A goddamn horrific murder, no two ways about it.

But the night Jezzie Vitower was slaughtered, Tennessee State smoked Jackson State, 20-14, in the Southern Heritage Classic. The story of Jezzie’s murder got pushed to the back pages to make room for this obviously historical victory.

That, more than anything, stuck in Vitower’s craw.

He said, “Tuesday, Crowe. They’re going to take him up to Jackson, set him down in front of some shrinks, and decide that he just can’t be held responsible for what he’s done. They’ll decide he’s crazy and needs help.”  His smooth hands clenched tight and his jaw twitched. “Needs help,” he said again. “Poor old Peter Murke.”

Chester said, “It don’t seem right.”

Vitower glared at him. “No. No, it doesn’t, does it?  First, the prosecutor’s office insults me, right to my face, telling me that they aren’t even going to mention Jezzie’s murder when they present their case. They aren’t even going to
mention
it. Only one victim mattered to them, a little white girl from goddamn Bartlett, a little white teenage whore wandering around in Midtown all by herself, looking for drugs. Because you know, even in Memphis, where the population is eighty-goddamn-percent black, the only murders that matter are the murders of white people.”

Chester squashed out his cigarette in the standing ashtray by the sofa.

Vitower swallowed hard. “No offense meant, gentlemen.”  Crowe shrugged, and Vitower said, “As if that wasn’t bad enough, right?  Now, they’re going to declare him a raving nutjob and set him up as cozy as can be at the state loony bin.” 

He slammed his fist against the desk. His rings thunked into the wood, leaving little round indentations.

Crowe said, “You want to make sure he never gets to Jackson. Right?”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s about the size of it, Crowe.” 

One of his proto-Vitowers went to the little bar, mixed a short gin and soda, garnished it with a lime, and handed it to the boss. Vitower took it without looking at the man. He threw it down his throat and handed the glass back. He was having a hard time holding it together, but the drink seemed to help.

Crowe said, “Why me, Marco?  I mean, I understand why
now
, with him being transported, but why have me do it, and not one of your people?”

He grinned darkly. “For one thing, I’m looking forward to being able to say you
are
one of my people. For another, there’s a little bit of heat on at the moment.”

Chester said, “Wills.”

Vitower said, “Right. Eddie goddamn Wills. Sheriff’s Department detective. Been giving me grief ever since the Old Man kicked.”

Crowe said, “A cop, Marco?  Since when has a cop been able to give you any trouble worth talking about?”

“Since Eddie Wills. He’s trouble. One of the cops other cops don’t like. Hard-ass, follows the rules as loosely as possible without losing his job. And he’s got a hard-on for me.”

Crowe grinned at him. “What did you do to the poor fella?”

Vitower smirked. “Damn if I know. But the fucker keeps picking up my people on any minor charge he can—he even busted Maurice here for littering once. Threw a cigarette wrapper on the street, fucking Wills shook him down.”

One of the proto-Vitowers, Maurice, Crowe guessed, nodded, and that was about all he had on the subject.

“Whatever his damage is, he’s been snooping around, making himself a nuisance. Thanksgiving, the sonofabitch was even parked outside my house. On Thanksgiving!”

Chester said, “Maybe he’s just thankful for you.”

“Right. Whatever, I wish the bastard would just go away. In the meantime…” 

Crowe said, “Murke’s being transported by the Sheriff’s Department in an armored vehicle. What do you think we can possibly do about that?  He’d be pretty damn near untouchable.”

Vitower straightened his collar, which didn’t really need straightening, took a deep breath, and smiled. “Pretty damn near,” he said. “But not entirely. You find a way, Crowe. You find a way to kill that motherfucker before he makes it to Jackson.”

Crowe said, “The odds, Marco, aren’t good.”

“I know. That’s why I want you to do it. Here’s the thing. This is a shit job, and I don’t want to risk any of my long-time people on it. I don’t really believe that you’ll be able to pull this off, not without getting killed or caught.”

Crowe said, “You need someone expendable.”

“No, that’s not it. I’m giving you Chester, and as many of my boys as you need, and none of them are expendable as far as I’m concerned. What I need is someone to take the heat if it all goes south. That would be you.”

He smiled, and it wasn’t the easy-going, leadership seminar smile this time. It was the predatory smile of a reptile. He said, “All my resources will be at your disposal. Like I said, you’ll have Chester here as your right hand. You do this, Crowe, and you can consider yourself back in the fold. That is what you want, yes?”

Crowe nodded. What he really wanted, Vitower couldn’t afford.

But he said, “Fine, Marco. Consider Peter Murke dealt with.”

That night he dreamed about the Ghost Cat, although he didn’t know at the time that’s what it was.

It had all the surreal logic of any nightmare: alone, in a tangle of forest tainted an unnaturally dark green. Rain pattered on the canopy of leaves overhead and drizzled down in misty silence. But it wasn’t him, exactly. He was small, and had the physical sensation of being a young boy.

A cat—
the
cat—came out of the dark green undergrowth and nuzzled against his ankles, purring. He reached down to touch it and it lifted itself up on hind legs for a moment to meet his palm with a narrow head before rubbing against his ankles some more. The cat was sleek and jet black, with a blue-ish sheen, well-cared for. A white spot on its forehead formed an almost perfect cross.

But something felt wrong. They were too alone, him and the cat. It shouldn’t have been here, in this dark place. He felt a shameful rage welling in him when he realized this. He felt a strange betrayal. The cat had trespassed in his world, the one place he was safe from… from whom?  From
them
.

The cat was looking at him from the base of a huge maple tree, about five feet away. Dark gray eyes glittered. It was sitting and looking at him and then for a split-second he saw what it was
going
to look like, with its jaw ripped wide and one arm torn away, blood seeping into the undergrowth and insides scattered, and he tried to say, Go away cat, don’t let it happen, go away, but no words would come. It only gazed at him in that curious cat way, and the horrible vision of its end flashed before him again, and he knew he was some sort of Holy Man right then, some sort of Sacrificial Priest. Choking back a sob, he took a step toward it.