Empire State (2 page)

  "Ah, shit!" said Jerome again, this time raising an arm to protect his eyes. The car was flooded with blue and white light. Rex blinked away purple spots just in time to see the police cordon ahead, but it was too late. He reached for the wheel and pulled again, ignoring Jerome's protest, but there was nowhere to go. There were police cars on either side of the street, and a temporary wooden barrier ahead. Rex's rash action caused the automobile to skid around, turning it sideways but maintaining forward motion as Jerome slammed the brakes on. All around them, police and pedestrians alike scattered. There was shouting, a lot of it, then a
crack
as the wooden boom of the roadblock snapped against the passenger side. The impact was surprisingly solid, throwing Rex across the bench seat and finally tearing Jerome off the steering wheel.

  The Studebaker was large and heavy, and the road was slick. The police barrier hadn't stolen enough of their momentum. The last thing Rex saw before the car stuck on something and tumbled sideways onto its roof was fireworks over the squat, blunt shape of the half-completed Empire State Building a block ahead of them. He wondered what the occasion was as red, green and blue explosions lit the sky, silhouetting the construction cranes balanced high over the city. He wondered what the building would look like and how tall it would be when it was finished.

  Two more thoughts crossed Rex's mind before the car stopped and unconsciousness claimed him. Firstly, that he really needed a drink, and secondly, that his night had been going so well before McCabe showed up.

 

Rex tipped his hat, straightened his tie, and rubbed a thumb over the lapel of his double-breasted jacket. It was his way of showing that he was relaxed and comfortable, that Martin Jeremy's last statement had made perfect sense and hadn't thrown him in the slightest. Behind him he heard Jerome crack a knuckle. His junior partner was slightly less careful with hiding his thoughts.

  This was how it worked. Rex was the businessman. Jerome was the muscle. Rex did the deals and listened to his customers. Jerome made the customers change their minds and accept Rex's terms. Times were tough. The Depression wasn't just biting into the pockets of ordinary New Yorkers, it was
killing
people. But in such trying times, Rex was doing just swell. Because in such trying times those ordinary New Yorkers drank, and drank, and drank. Hell, even the government was on Rex's side, with Prohibition just a way of charging more and more for his product. The bootlegging business was booming and Rex was reaping the rewards. Jerome too. He bought the kid a flash new car, a Studebaker the size of a bus. That kept Jerome happy, but also made sense as a business investment. Not only could they haul liquor in the car's capacious interior without tipping the police off, it was one of the fastest automobiles money could buy. Rex didn't drive, but with Jerome at the wheel getaways were easy.

  "Martin, Martin," said Rex with a smile, placing a hand on the barkeep's shoulder with just enough pressure to show the conversation had taken a very serious turn. "You gotta understand, buddy. Me and Jerome here are just trying to make a living. Understand?"

  Martin Jeremy was thin and bald. Standing in the dead backstreet behind his speakeasy the streetlight shone off his pate, damp with a light evening drizzle and a healthy dash of cold sweat.

  Rex licked his lips and watched the barkeep. Something was up, something more than he had let on. He squeezed the man's shoulder a little harder. Martin flinched, but said nothing.

  Huh. The usual form of quiet intimidation wasn't working. And Rex hated the next part. Beating on an old man was not something he enjoyed at all. Which was why he got Jerome to do it.

  "Rex, my friend, we have done some good business in the past," said Martin at last. His voice wavered but with age, not fear. He proudly held his head up, thin jowls swinging under his chin as he spoke. Rex raised an eyebrow.

  "I think you misunderstand, Mr Jeremy. Changing suppliers is not an option. My business supplies the whole of Midtown. Ain't nobody else in this neighbourhood gonna sell you the goods. So, what'd'ya say we just shake on it and you pay me an extra hundred dollars now for, ah, renegotiation of terms, and we won't mention it again." Rex turned to his partner. "Jerome, unload the car."

  The teen nodded and headed off towards the side street where the Studebaker was parked.

  When Rex turned back to the barkeep, he just caught the end of a smile on the man's face that he didn't much like at all. He frowned as the barkeep took a step backwards, and he made to take a step closer himself, maintaining the distance of intimidation and control, as he liked to think of it, but stopped short as three men peeled out from around the speakeasy's loading door.

  "Well now, that ain't very nice," said the first man. "These two giving you trouble, Mr Jeremy?" He was tall and wide, not fat but built, like a football quarterback. His companions were a small, wiry teenager and another man who towered over both of them. The man who spoke raised an arm up to adjust a cufflink; a diamond the size of a pea glinted in the streetlight. "After all, ya can't trust a
nigger
."

  "McCabe, you sonovabitch," whispered Rex. It was suddenly too hot and the air too thin. Rex gulped, but stayed still, hoping the poor light hid his fear.

  McCabe. The sonovabitch. Head of a family business running liquor and a dozen other rackets. One of the most powerful of New York's underworld. Richest too. Rex had done a few jobs for him, years ago, before branching out on his own. While McCabe had seemed happy to let him go, Rex knew that one day it would come back to bite him. You didn't make friends in this business, only enemies.

  McCabe sat at the centre of a web that spread far and wide over the five boroughs, but Rex had thought he was safe. Midtown and downtown Manhattan hadn't interested McCabe much in the past, the gangster apparently happy to let other mobs control the city. Rex had always thought that was odd, given the concentration of speakeasies in the area and the rich pickings they represented. It had only to be a matter of time, he was sure, before McCabe made his move, but in the meantime there was moonshine to sell and barkeeps to squeeze. He'd forgotten about McCabe, but clearly McCabe hadn't forgotten about Rex. The time had come to add Midtown to his empire, and two black guys pushing liquor was the obvious place to start.

  "Oh, language please, Rex. Didn't they teach you to speak nice down on the plantation?" McCabe laughed and his heavy sniggered; the teenager – the driver, thought Rex – was expressionless. He probably had no clue what McCabe was talking about, and he sure didn't want to show it.

  Rex held his hands up.

  "McCabe, I apologise, I really do. So how about we have a drink and talk things over? I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."

  McCabe smiled. Rex dropped his hands.

  "I'm sure we can, Rex, I'm sure we can. And it starts with the disappearance of two amateurs causing trouble. How about that, huh?"

  Rex ran his tongue along his bottom teeth. He tensed his calves, ready to make his move. Jerome hadn't returned from the car, which either meant McCabe had more men around the side of the building or that he'd seen or sensed trouble and was waiting at the wheel. He hoped it was the latter.

  "Not your style, McCabe. How about you just buy me out and I retire to somewhere nice in New Jersey, huh?"

  McCabe laughed and the heavy sniggered again. Rex thought that perhaps the heavy understood as little as the driver and was just matching his employer's mood because he was paid to. Behind the trio, Martin Jeremy slipped through the loading door and back into his speakeasy. Wise man, thought Rex. Trouble was brewing.

  "Billy, fetch the car," McCabe called over his shoulder. The teen nodded and turned, heading down the back street. McCabe smiled at Rex again, then looked up at his muscular companion.

  "You wanna grab some dinner after, George?"

  The heavy nodded and balled his fists. "Sounds nice, Mr McCabe. I feel like steak."

  McCabe clicked his fingers. "Oh, yeah, me too. We should head down to that grill on Fourth."

  "Sounds great."

  The pair took a step forward.

  "Aw, you guys are sweet," said Rex, taking a step backwards. "When's the big day?"

  White light swept into the alley as a car turned in, engine purring as it coasted towards them in low gear.

  "We're taking a little ride, you and me, Rex," said McCabe. He put his hands into the pockets of his jacket and nodded at George. "You can either get into the car, or George here can fold you up and put you in the trunk. That's up to you."

  The car was nothing but two spotlights in the dark. As it slowed, McCabe moved to one side to allow more room, then reached out for the door.

  The door swung out and back in one swift movement, connecting with the gangster with enough force to knock him off his feet. He hit the tarmac on his backside, but George was at his side in a second, helping him up.

  "Rex!"

  He didn't need the invitation. Rex was halfway to the car when Jerome called, the driver leaning over to open the passenger door. Rex dived in head-first, head landing practically on Jerome's lap. Jerome put the car into gear and pushed the accelerator to the floor, Rex's legs flapping out of the open door as they powered out of the street.

 
 

 

 
 

REX WOKE UP IN THE DARK and rolled over into a large puddle. He jerked at the shock and knocked his forehead into the curb.

  "Ah,
Jesus
..." Rex grabbed for his forehead with one hand and the curb with his other. He pulled himself up and held the free hand in front of him until it rested on a wet wall, his forehead following close behind. His head hurt, and he was dizzy. For a moment he didn't know his name.

  Shit. The car. He spun around, finally focussing on the commotion around him. Or rather, near him. He was in the lip of an alley, in the dark. The main street ahead was a flurry of activity. People were gathered, lots and
lots
of people. Tourists and locals sandwiched together behind a flimsy police barricade, the boys in blue desperately trying to hold a line. The car – the huge, expensive, fast Studebaker – was upside down in the middle of the street, smoke curling from the undercarriage. Jerome was lying awkwardly over the lip of the missing windshield, and wasn't moving.

  Rex's mouth dropped open in surprise, and he patted himself down. But aside from a bump on the forehead, he felt fine. The car was angled slightly towards him, the one intact and functioning headlight spotting the wall next to him.

  "Holy Mother of God…"

  Rex kicked at something soft that tangled his feet. It was a stack of wet newspapers. He'd been thrown clear in the crash, through the missing windshield, into the mush of rotting paper. It was remarkable, miraculous. Rex didn't believe in God, but he muttered a thank-you just in case.

  Then he noticed something. The police and the crowd weren't looking at the car, or the dead body of the nineteen-year-old under it. The wreck was a sideshow, a distraction even, from the main event that shone across the street in brilliant flashes of red and blue.

  Over the half-finished shell of the Empire State Building, two superheroes were punching seven shades of shit out of each other, their tiny, doll-like bodies silhouetted against the maelstrom of energy that erupted around them with each connecting blow.

  Rex staggered to the corner to get a look. It was mesmerising. Exactly what he needed. Dragging his eyes away, he checked the crowd over. Everyone, police included, were looking away. He snuck out, hugged the corner and quietly ducked under the police barrier, the replacement for the broken boom which had been pushed into the gutter opposite. Safe in the crowd, confident that McCabe had probably taken off as soon he saw the Studebaker flip right in front of the police, Rex looked back toward the Empire State Building.

  There was a flash of green so bright the crowd gasped as one, followed a second later by a colossal sonic boom, so loud the crowd ducked. This was a heck of a fight between New York's two superheroes. In Rex's dazed state it pushed McCabe and Jerome and his shattered business clean out of his mind for a moment.

  Two superheroes? Scratch that. One superhero, one supervillain. It was a great story, one that Rex – and everyone else in the city, if not the country – knew, a tale of friendship and betrayal so perfect the movie was just waiting to be made.

  The Skyguard and the Science Pirate had been partners, friends since childhood. Brought up in the wrong part of town, they'd formed a dynamic duo even at school, watching each other's backs as they fought their way through their teenage years. As adults, they became rocket-powered heroes, the protectors of New York. They fought crime, corruption, enemy agents and infiltrators. They fought fascists and lefties, the mob, petty criminals. Bootleggers and Prohibition breakers. They defended the Constitution of the United States of America with fairness and impartiality. The ultimate patriots, given the freedom of the city and state, publicly awarded by Coolidge just a couple of years before.

  So the story went, anyway.

  Rex had been lucky. By the time he'd left McCabe's employ, the golden age of heroism had passed. The Skyguard and the Science Pirate stopped fighting crime and started fighting each other, effectively handing the city back to the overworked, underpaid, and highly corruptible NYPD.

  Nobody knew what went wrong exactly, or when, or how, or why. The Science Pirate turned against his partner, and the two became bitterest of rivals. Gone was the crime-fighting, the crusade against the mobs and gangs: the dealers, smugglers, predators. Instead the Skyguard and the Science Pirate declared open war on each other, each dedicating all their efforts and resources to this new monomania. And while the Skyguard and the Science Pirate fought, the city suffered. The mob made inroads again, and corruption – both local and Federal – began to eat at the core of the Big Apple. The police were stretched to the limit. The FBI was called in as McCabe and McCabe's ilk returned to the city and crime became organised once more, the city's sworn protectors having abandoned their cause. Which was all good for Rex, of course. He kept his own little business empire
just so
, large enough to make a tasty profit, small enough to stay out of McCabe's way. Until tonight, that is. Rex rubbed his head, wondering where his hat was and whether he could afford another car. Or, for that matter, another driver.