In The Falling Light (24 page)

Cole started pulling himself backwards
again, both severed legs pumping blood and his vision starting to
gray. “Brick, I…I…help me. Please!”

The giant salty began walking towards him,
its bulk swaying side to side.

“Nutria ain’t the only nuisance out here for
us poor folks. Nuisances gotta be put down.”

Cole didn’t take his eyes off the advancing
croc as he struggled to back up. “They know I’m here, Brick.” His
voice was breaking, like high-pitched puberty. “They know I went to
see you.”

“Sure, your buddies know you come out to
check up on me, I believe it. But you didn’t use your radio to tell
no one we was coming out here. I’ll say you come seen me, said I
was gonna get my permits back, then went on your way. Pappy will
swear to it, too. Don’t know what happened after that.”

The croc opened its mouth with a
grumble.

“Brick, please…” Cole’s strength was gone,
and he could no longer crawl backwards, only lie propped-up on his
elbows, wheezing for breath as he bled out, turning the black mud a
glistening red.

“They’ll find your truck eventually. Then
it’ll be, ‘No sir, I don’t know what made him go out there. Didn’t
say nothing to me.’” Brick chuckled. “They’ll give your mama a flag
and maybe put your picture up in the county building.”

“
Goddamn it Brick help me!”

Old Nick struck then, lunging forward and
snapping down onto Cole’s torso, cracking bones, making him babble
and shriek before his air was cut off, and then swiftly turned and
trotted back into the black water, Cole flopping in his jaws. The
surface boiled as Nick rolled in the shallows, finishing off his
prey and tearing it apart. Within minutes the creature was gone and
the rippling water began to still.

Brick LaBauve sat on the LDWF truck for an
hour, swinging his heels and spitting tobacco into the mud, humming
and watching the water. In time the surface broke again, a bald
head followed by narrow shoulders, the pale, thin body of a naked
old man, wet and muddy. He picked his teeth as he walked to the
Ford and began dressing.

Brick hopped down and climbed into the
Ford’s driver’s seat.

“You brought a warden out here, boy? Pretty
damn reckless.”

A shrug. “They’ll think a gator got
him.”

Cornelius LaBauve looked at his grandson
with one eye blue and winked with the milky white one, smiling.
“Close.”

Her name was Alixis, and she was a long way
from home, a place of fire and endless pain. Here only a few hours,
already she was homesick for the screams of the eternally damned.
Still, there was work to be done, an important task assigned to her
by the Dark Royalty. She would not fail.

Grand Central’s lower level was a place of
snack bars, shops and restrooms. At its heart was a lounge with a
ring of Alice in Wonderland chairs, red oversized things which
tourists loved and sleeping bums loved even more. She wore black
like an old Italian widow, perched on the edge of a chair,
pocketbook on her knees. Her eyes were black and soulless behind a
veil as she murmured phrases in a tongue not uttered among men for
thousands of years. Something squirmed inside her purse.

At the bakery kiosk, a woman dropped dead
from an aneurism. A vagrant in a nearby seat vomited in his sleep
and quietly choked to death. A man with a briefcase and a coffee
decided tonight was the perfect time to strangle his wife, and an
NYU student walking upstairs checked the time and realized she
would have to hurry if she was going to throw herself under the
wheels of the 2:15 to Connecticut.

Alixis smiled with yellow teeth, still
speaking softly, as the unleashing spread outward.

*

The crush of morning commuters poured off
the 4 train and onto the platform. A broker in a rush bumped Karen
hard, and she stumbled in high heels against the filthy metal side,
almost falling into the gap. She swore as more people pressed past,
mindless of her.

Karen shoved off the train, using a hip to
push another woman out of the way, clenched her laptop handle and
joined the herd. She cursed the bag’s weight as she moved with the
crowd. The surge carried her to a wide set of steep stairs packed
with bodies. It looked like a mountain.

“Screw that,” she said, turning right
towards where a grimy ELEVATOR sign was fixed to the wall. The
lighting here was poor, but at least she’d have the place to
herself. Of course the elevator would smell like urine, but that
was city life.

The doors opened and she stepped inside.
They were waiting for her, black and deadly, clinging to the
ceiling of the car like wild-eyed bats. Karen felt a stringer of
drool drop onto her hair and she looked up as the doors closed.

They fell upon her, and no one heard her
screams.

*

Leland pushed out of the terminal and onto
the street, gritty and loud, choked with speeding cabs which
wouldn’t stop for anyone. The train had been late, he was tired and
hungry, and there was the hotdog cart.

Ellen would shriek if she knew. The
fifty-year-old was not supposed to eat hotdogs, especially dirt
water dogs from street vendors, but at this point he didn’t care
what his wife thought.

“One with mustard,” he said. The Phillipino
vendor grinned and nodded, and Leland lifted a metal flap to get
himself a Pepsi.

From within, a small black hand caught him
and black teeth crunched down hard, biting his finger off clean.
The little demon choked a bit on the wedding ring, but managed to
get it down.

A honking cab drowned out Leland’s
cries.

*

He could always be found here, on the
landing where the stairs turned as they descended to the 6 Train.
Filthy, concealed within layers of coats, a vagrant huddled on the
floor with a hat in front of him.

Commuters flowed past, few looking at him,
fewer still dropping change or bills into the hat. He didn’t move,
didn’t look up, and appeared to be sleeping. Within the layered
coats, six small creatures feasted on his opened chest, black fur
matted with blood, talons ripping greedily at the soft, juicy
organs.

On the wall above, a PSA bulletin announced
in bold letters, “If you see something, say something.”

*

She was perfect, hunched and shuffling with
age, dressed in black, her handbag hanging loose and unprotected.
The crackhead smiled, pacing her slowly from behind. He wiped a
trembling, dirty hand at his mouth, his need all-consuming. A
glance around for cops.

She was in a scattered crowd when he crowded
in close beside her. God, she smelled
bad!
He gave the purse
strap a brutal yank. It snapped easily and he was moving, tucking
the bag under his coat and slipping quickly into the rush hour
crowd, while behind him people stopped to help a fallen old
woman.

No one saw him. The old lady didn’t even
scream.

Minutes later he was in a men’s room stall,
perched on the bowl so his feet wouldn’t show. He smiled and opened
the bag to get his prize.

The pocket demon burst out, talons sinking
into his chin and ear, needle-like teeth ripping into his throat.
The crackhead’s hands fluttered helplessly as blood jetted across
the graffiti-covered partition. The small creature pulled out his
larynx.

Out in the terminal, Alixis chuckled behind
her veil.

*

The priest needed a shave, and his eyes were
wild and feverish. The ancient scrolls had predicted the day and
location of the old woman’s arrival, and he had come to Grand
Central ready to put an end to her with the sacred dagger blessed
at Saint Pat’s. But now the cop had the dagger, and he was
handcuffed, being hustled out onto the sidewalk of 5
^th
Avenue.

“You have to listen to me!” he shrieked.
“She’s come to usher in the End of Days!”

“Right, Father,” said the beefy cop, pushing
the priest into the waiting Bellevue-bound NYPD van and slamming
the door behind him. It pulled away, and the cop took the
opportunity to light up a cigarette, wrinkling his nose at the
worse-than-usual odor coming from the storm drain.

Let’s talk about money and limousines. And
murder. I know a lot about the first two, and more than I want
about the last. If the wrong people hear this, I suppose I’ll learn
about life expectancy, too. But a man can stay quiet only so
long.

Nineteen-ninety-three, and there was sex in
the White House, a thriving economy, terrorism a thing of the past.
People in California were willing to spend on luxury recreation. My
philosophy as a businessman was, “Give them what they want.”
Nothing illegal, mind you, not at first anyway, just a higher level
of service than most people were used to, and the highest level for
those who expected it. It’s the little things that make a
difference, and that reflects directly upon the tip.

Simple things, like spending the money for
some quality suits, then keeping them crisp and dry-cleaned. Making
sure you were always freshly showered, shaved and lightly cologned
before picking up a client. Seems obvious, right? But I can’t tell
you how many drivers I knew who showed up for a run looking and
smelling like slobs, then drove away sour with a bare minimum tip.
I don’t believe in bare minimums. I believe in excess. Other things
you might assume drivers would do (and you’d be wrong) included
punctuality, I’m talking ten minutes early punctuality. Having your
routes mapped out in advance, or at least a current map in the
front seat (remember, this is pre-GPS.) A clean car, inside and
out, with ice in the bucket and the glasses sparkling. It’s where I
learned how to open wine bottles and champagne – though I did pop a
bride in the eye with a cork before I learned to wrap the champagne
bottle with a linen napkin. She and the groom laughed it off, thank
God, but I never made that mistake again. I learned how to pin
flowers to lapels, to carry a lint roller for young gentlemen
picking up prom dates or nervous executives heading into meetings.
I knew how to give twenty dollar handshakes to maître’ d’s and bell
captains, valets and bouncers to ensure my clients got into
“impossible” places. It was worth it, because they were always so
impressed they upped the tip
and
covered the twenty. I gave
them the full treatment, what they’d always dreamed a chauffeur
was, and they ate it up. Lots of guys didn’t. They didn’t make
shit.

For the up-scale clients, I really turned it
on. Figuring out what they wanted most was a ticket to cash, so I
became a student of attitude. Some celebs just wanted quiet, others
wanted a slow drive with the window down so people could see them.
Some wanted conversation, others flattery. I had rich bitches who
wanted to be followed through stores by a well-dressed, obedient
servant in black leather driving gloves. There were executives who
wanted to look like they had a bodyguard, someone imposing, and
six-foot-four in a double-breasted dark suit, reflective shades and
no smile fit that nicely. I had an earpiece like the Secret Service
use that I would wear just to complete the look. The wire went to
nothing, I tucked it in an inside jacket pocket. A few contracted
for an actual bodyguard, and they got it. I had my concealed
weapons permit for California (what a bitch it was to get that
thing!) and I carried a 9mm Beretta all the time, whether it was an
executive protection gig or not. It wasn’t for them – I wasn’t
taking a bullet for anyone – it was to keep me safe. Limos did, and
still do, a big cash business, and they draw attention. Sometimes
from rip-offs, more often from nuts. The point is, everyone got
what they wanted.

And everybody paid.

At the time, an eight-seater stretch ran you
sixty-five an hour, and I saw fifteen-percent of that. It was crap,
but it was there to satisfy Uncle Sam. The real money came from
tips, and side deals worked out with the owner or client, all of it
under the table. If a client specifically requested me, I earned an
extra fifteen-percent of the run (the reason I
always
sent a
polite thank-you card to every client.) An executive protection
contract was all mine, and I charged one-twenty-five an hour with a
four hour minimum. If I was on an overnight run, the client had to
cover a room, a hundred dollars in expenses, and give me a minimum
of eight hours down time. That was to satisfy D.O.T. requirements,
but I functioned well on five hours sleep. And then there were the
tips, the real cream.

A limo contract informed the client they
were expected to give the driver twenty-percent of the total cost
as a gratuity. My first year I saw a lot of twenty-percent and
under, and even got stiffed a few times. It forced me to learn and
adapt to their needs. After that, I never saw twenty again. And I
was meticulously honest in recording time and paying the owner
exactly what he was entitled to from the run, no playing games.
Again, you might expect that, but again you’d be wrong. Drivers
shave time and juggle numbers and screw owners every chance they
get, and owners know it. When they find one who plays it straight,
and gets rave reviews from clients? Well, guess who gets the wine
country tours and who gets stuck with the airport runs?

That isn’t to say I didn’t do my share of
those, along with weddings, the staples of the limo business. But I
made my money off the longer, service-oriented gigs; proms, San
Francisco night tours, bachelor and bachelorette nights, dinner and
theatre evenings, executive outings. Let me tell you, there’s money
to be made on an eight hour run through the Napa Valley with a
carload of ladies, especially when the wine relaxes inhibitions and
loosens pocketbooks. Why do you think the booze is free at casino
tables? It loosens thighs, too, and sex plays a part in this story
as well, but maybe not how you think.