The Damascus Chronicles (2 page)

“Thanks,” replied the man. “So tell me what’s your name?”

“Serena Bellmont,” said the girl.

“Sounds sexy,” replied the man.

“You’re sweet!” replied Serena.

“The name is Damascus,” replied the man.

“What kind of name is that?” Serena replied. “You can call me Michael,” replied Damascus. “Where are we going?” asked Serena.

“My place. You’ll be safe there; the neighborhood is so dangerous not even the cops would think of going there,” replied Michael. “Thanks, I feel safe already!” said Serena. Michael chuckled softly as they headed down through the dimly-lit alleys to his pad. Michael drove the bike to an underground garage deep below an old abandoned three level theater/apartment building at Otis Way, a neighborhood that had long seen better days. The wind blew a warm breeze into the dusty summer night; Michael opened the front door with his key and the two headed up the old wooden stairs, creaking as they went. The lock of door released as Michael turned another key.

They entered a richly furnished apartment, red silk curtains shot through with golden brocade, mahogany wood tables and fine oak chairs, a black suede couch, and a stylized glass coffee table. On the end tables were Italian murano glass lamps with fine brass trim. A silver chandelier illuminated the room with light and a charming fireplace was faced with rich red brick. The walls of the apartment were draped in antique Lebanese tapestries alongside beautiful paintings with the flare of Tunisia. A red stained glass hookah stood in the center of the room next to a fine mahogany wood humidor. A small, elegant bar stocked with expensive liquor and fine European wine stood against one of the walls.

“Interesting vintage. You have fine taste I see,” said an astonished Serena. “I have to admit I’m quite impressed, I expected it to be…different.”

“I get by well. It helps to compensate for living in a bad neighborhood filled with crackheads and drug dealers,” replied Michael. “Here, come into the bathroom, I’ll patch that up quick.”

Serena followed her host to the bathroom to dress her wound. “You know, I’m actually surprised that you didn’t freak out back there, when you saw me kill those guys at the penthouse,” Michael mused.

“Spilled blood doesn’t bother me. I grew up seeing soldiers killed every day as a child. That’s what you get when you’re put to work as a child solider in a socialist country.”

“You’re kidding!” Michael was astounded.

“No that was home; bloodshed, vodka, and week-old cabbage and potatoes for dinner. Looking up into the sky after sunset seeing the stars above, it’s just another day in the killing fields.” Serena lit up a cigarette and exhaled a thick puff of smoke.

“A hell of a life,” said Michael.

“It’s life,” agreed Serena.

”Here you go, better now?” asked Michael, as he finished cleaning and bandaging her wound.

“Yes, thank you.”

“You can lay low here for a while until the heat blows over. I think you’ll find yourself to be comfortable here. The bedroom is across the hall,” said Michael as the two walked back into the living room.

“That’s very kind of you,” said Serena, “and surprising for someone who just killed twelve mobsters back there.”

“Just cleaning up the streets, I call it. Besides, scumbags like that deserved what they got,” said Michael.

“Trigger happy, huh?” giggled Serena.

“You could call it that.”

“So let me guess – you’re a cleaner,” said Serena.

“On occasion,” Michael replied, as he removed a bottle of wine from the bar cabinet.

“Red wine, my dear, or white?”

“Red, please.”

Michael poured her a glass and his guest reclined on his posh couch, sipping her wine. “Speaking of which, you didn’t do too bad yourself back at Scarfo’s penthouse. Where did you learn to shoot like that? questioned Michael.

“My father was a skilled sniper in the KGB. He taught me everything. Also, my mother was a radio operator who taught me how to decode messages. Sometimes I would sit next to her when she tapped out on the telegraph. She was killed when I was eleven in a fire fight in Moscow,” replied Serena sadly.

“I’m sorry,” said Michael.

“When I came to America I chose to do something less noticeable …” continued Serena.

“Thus choosing the way of the professional thief,” interrupted Michael.

“I take what I want, when I want, where I want, and it pays better too,” responded Serena with a smile. “What about you, what’s your story?”

“Just an average citizen providing the citizens of this scum-filled town with an unnecessary public service. Why do you care?” snapped Michael.

“Just wondering that’s all.”

“Why?” Michael persisted.

“Because I’m curious, and you are more than you seem to be,” replied Serena, eyeing a picture frame sitting next to the lamp. She picked it up and asked, “Who is this?”

“That’s my sister, Katrina. She’s dead,”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s okay, I guess I’m still trying to move on,” Michael replied.

“What happened to her?” asked Serena.

“Forget about it!” said Michael. “It’s getting late, why don’t you get some sleep, you could use it to rest that arm of yours. I’m catching some shuteye.” He crashed on the suede couch.

“All right, goodnight,” replied Serena, to Michael as she went into the bedroom for the night.

A couple of hours went by and the old antique clock on the fireplace mantle struck two am. Michael began to toss and turn in his sleep. He woke up and was surprised to find Serena lying next to him, looking at him with her beautiful green eyes.

“AHHH!” “What don’t do that!” said Michael, half asleep.

Serena just giggled. “Sorry. I couldn’t sleep and I felt lonely, so I hope you didn’t mind me being next to you. You sleep so beautifully,” said Serena.

“Just don’t do that again. You scared the hell out of me, damn,” Michael replied.

Serena climbed on top of him, and slowly lowered her lovely head to his, kissing him passionately with her scarlet lips. She unbuttoned his shirt and pants, and feeling her hot breath steaming on his neck and the sweet perfumed scent of her jet-black long hair, he unzipped her bra. They made love, kissing passionately, each moment passing in mutual ecstasy and lust.

The golden rays of the early morning sun began to shine through the curtains and onto the two lovers asleep in each other’s arms. Serena woke and dressed quickly, for she knew that she must escape the rays of the sun from touching her vampiric skin. She vanished from the room, but not before leaving her new lover a note that she would return to him.

A strange vortex of blues, reds, and greens surrealistically pulled Michael in, floating and falling through a strange portal of the past. The day became night, and he found himself in a home with European flare; black marble tile floors, white marble pillars that stretched down an endless hall that was lined with a burgundy carpet trimmed in gold. As Michael approached a great marble door, he saw a ghoulish sight. The white walls began to bleed streams of blood and the twisted statues on the wall seemed to come alive. They looked at Michael with their eyes glaring a hideous green, while some stuck out their tongues with a serpentine look. A woman screamed in terror and the room filled with the sounds of gunshots blasting through the thick trails of smoke released by the emptying gun barrels, the shell casings falling to the ground in slow motion. An old man appeared, wearing a fine suit of aristocratic appeal and European cut, a boa constrictor crawling up his hand that quickly turned into a pipe. A sinister seal tattooed on his right hand appeared in a twisted veil of darkness. The old man started to speak, but silence was all that Michael heard as the dark figure disappeared. The monolithic doors opened, revealing a man clothed in a deep navy suit, his eyes covered by a white mask, his hair golden blonde like the morning sunrise. He held a pistol aimed at a lovely woman dressed in an aquamarine dress. Her right side gushed blood as the man in blue fired three shots, blowing bullet holes through his innocent victim. Her blood spurted out on the white wooden walls of the old study and she fell to the ground dead, her blue eyes open and her body limp. Michael looked up at the killer’s left hand to see a gold ring that bore a strange insignia. Then, he felt the flash of a ghastly red, the hot light of terror. ”Katrina!!!” Michael screamed as he woke up in deep horror, disorientated and perspiring heavily, rivers of sweat running down his forehead. “Katrina,” he whispered softly. Shaken and disturbed, Michael walked into the bathroom, staring into the sink and mirror while splashing water on his face to cool the fire that had been burning his blood with fear. Lighting a cigarette, he sat down on the edge of the bathtub and gazed out at the nighttime metropolis of Sin City. He took a long drag and let the smoke flow out as he released his thoughts. Coming out of the bathroom, Michael got dressed, putting on his black leather jacket, black silk tie, red dress shirt, and black suit pants with belt. He pulled on a pair of black leather boots. His mind raced with thoughts of the last 24 hours. “Yeah, it’s been a hell of a day.”

Michael noticed the note that Serena left him on the coffee table. He smiled a little after reading it, then headed out the front door. He checked his cell phone, noticing a message to meet Jackie at Marty’s Lounge down on 26
^th
street. Lighting up another cigarette with an old pack of matches he had in his pocket, Michael strolled down the street, the sirens of police cars rolling mingling with the sounds of the happy drunks walking along the dark boulevard. The street corners were decorated with lovely girls, the local denizens of 26
^th
street showing off their nightly for-sale flesh to easy customers. On the other side of the street was an open alley where street people warmed themselves over trashcan fires.

A few local street punks stepped in Michael’s way. One of the big ones wore a red spiked Mohawk and was dressed in black jeans and a chain covered T-shirt. He started getting cocky. “Hey, buddy! This is our street.”

“I don’t see your name on it, pal,” replied Michael gruffly.

“Hey Joey, this guy’s looking for trouble,” said one of the other punks.

“I think we should give it to him,” said another punk, laughing at Michael.

“Get him!” yelled the big punk.

Michael cross-kicked the big one, knocking him down hard and breaking his two front teeth. A skinny punk wrapped his chain around Michael’s neck but Michael reversed the attack, throwing the guy down and breaking his right leg. “Fuck!” squealed the skinny punk in pain.

“Okay smart guy! Die!” screamed the big punk.

Michael whipped out his switchblade and back flipped behind his big opponent, holding the razor-sharp blade next to his throat. “Back off creep! Or I slit your throat!”

“Okay, okay man! We were just joking, don’t need to get serious,” whined the big punk.

“Come around here again bothering innocent people, and if I see you guys, I’ll rip out your guts and make you swallow your own spleen. Now get out of here!” raged Michael.

“No problem man, we’re going!” they all said, backing away slowly.

Michael released his grip from his captive; the street punks took off running up the street like little cowards. “Damn punks!” Michael said to himself. He brushed off his jacket and continued on to Marty’s Lounge. He stepped through the door and at the back of the dark, candle-lit bar, seated in a red booth, was a young man in his mid twenties, dressed in a black sports coat and tan pants, with slick black hair and light brown eyes. He signaled Michael to come over to the booth. “Hey Mikey!” called the young man happily.

“Jackie! How’s my little kid brother been doing?” Michael asked as the two hugged.

Jackie Santerini was the inside guy, the wise ass, the hot headed kid with a love for shooting first and asking questions later, the guy that would make you laugh then kill you laughing, the trickster at heart. “I’m good, man,” replied Jackie. “What kept you?”

“I had to deal with a few pricks that came my way,” replied Michael.

“That’s my brother, always looking for a fight!” said Jackie.

“Better to finish a fight when someone else starts one!” Michael said in return.

“What are we standing up for, please sit down. Hey Marty!” Jackie called over to the bartender, who was cleaning a glass. “One screwdriver and a dry vodka martini, secret agent style, for my friend here!”

“Yeah sure!” said Marty in return as he quickly mixed the drinks.

“Here you go boys, take it easy tonight, okay?” said the pretty waitress as she handed over their drinks.

“Thanks honey,” said Michael, grinning slightly as he slipped her a five-dollar bill.

“So tell me, what happened to you, you were supposed take care of that thing with Franco Scarfo?” Jackie was serious.