The Lucifer Messiah (2 page)

“Well gentlemen? Shall I assume from your less-than-joyous demeanor that you have returned from the night's errand with my wishes unfulfilled?” he asked.

His words were spoken with uncommonly perfect enunciation, distinctly more refined than any other local hood, or even his own usual diction. The three of them, two the illiterate sons of Italian immigrants, and the third a native of Palermo, stared back at him in silence. It was a reaction that Calabrese had produced often among his associates, as of late.

“C'mon, spit it out, Rocco, before I have ta smack ya. Is he alive? Is he dead? What?” the sprawling man demanded, his grammar shifting completely in an instant.

The three ignored the sudden change in syntax. Rocco responded accordingly.

“He got away. We hit 'em, I think. There was blood on the fence. I don't think he coulda got too far.”

Calabrese sighed, wiping tiny beads of sweat from his forehead. With a delicate manner, he let his other hand slip from the dancer's shoulder. A vaguely effeminate wave informed her that she was dismissed. Then, his eyes bulging, he turned to the other men. He spoke as if reading off a roster.

“Rocco. Gino. Vig. Where is the other I sent with you, Michael?”

There was a long, desperate pause before the large man called
the Vig
mustered the courage to speak.

“Mulcahy. He got loose. The new guy, he tried to stop 'em. The mick bastard killed him.”

Calabrese nodded.

“Would the two of you give us a few moments, please?” he asked, his tone clearly directed at the two men beside Rocco.

Rocco, as though he knew what such a suggestion meant, wasted no time in pleading.

Calabrese ignored him. His voice fell into a whisper, an almost reptilian hiss. Every sibilant syllable prickled Rocco's ears.

“We need a few moments alone Rocco,” he said.

The door closed with a thud.

Outside the office, Gino and the Vig shuffled toward the stairwell. But the hall was blocked. A tall man stood in their way. A stone-faced giant with reddish-brown skin and sharp features. They recognized him. Indian Joe was his name. He was the only Indian either man had ever seen, aside from the matinee. But his sight would have been striking to any men, if not for his height and his broad frame then for his hair alone. Black as pitch and board straight, it hung long to his waist, a natural contrast to his double-breasted silk suit.

That peculiarity might otherwise have made for an amusing novelty, if not for the man's entirely morbid reputation.

“Mr. Joseph. We was just leavin',” the Vig said, careful not to actually call him Indian Joe.

The Native-American nodded, though he remained silent as the two men cowered beneath him. The stories about Indian Joe well preceded him, both among those who worked for Salvatore Calabrese and among the rest of the local underworld denizens.

He had appeared at the big man's side three months back, without the benefit of anything resembling an explanation. Since that time, he was said to have cut the scalps from seven debtors of his employer, all left alive save for the last, whose heart the longhaired man was reputed to have eaten.

Gino and the Vig had no more than a moment to consider those gruesome rumors.

A scream peeled from behind the office door. Shrieking in deep, foul tones followed. Both men shuddered. Neither could manage a word from their lips. They stood paralyzed for several long minutes. They heard horrible sounds.

Howls. Cries. Pleas.

When it was done, and the screams had faded into whimpers and the whimpers into silence, Indian Joe motioned toward the stairs. All through the terrible moments, he had remained stoic, as though the savage sounds were of no concern. The two thugs quickly hustled away.

The Native-American entered the office without knocking. Calabrese greeted him warmly.

“Lycaon. Come in, I've been waiting for you.”

“Rocco?” the Indian asked.

The gangster shook his head, nothing more than the hint of smirk to suggest anything out of the ordinary. There was no sign of a struggle, or of a body. Indian Joe didn't seem to mind.

V
INCE
S
IOARIO DID NOT HEAR THE STATIC CRACKLING
from his radio. He was asleep, after a fashion. An empty whiskey bottle rested on his slowly heaving chest. Spread out across his dirty couch, in his dirty apartment, he only moved occasionally. Usually to settle his head or to scratch himself, which he did with his good arm, his right one, stained inky blue-black across the bicep. It was all that remained now of what had been, in his younger days, a tattoo of a woman poised over an anchor.

A crumpled mess of yesterday's
New York Herald-Tribune
lay scattered on his floor. He didn't even budge when a shrill ring echoed through the apartment.

A second ring followed. It lasted only half as long as the first. Eventually, the noise roused him, but only a little. He moved his head forward, just enough for his greasy bangs to slide down over his eyes.

Some minutes passed before the sounds of scratching and a knock emanated from the door. While the sound was louder, it had no more effect than the doorbell.

Then, the ringing began once more. Vince wriggled on his couch to ignore it. This time it did not cease so quickly. The noise continued, on and on, as though the bell had been stuck in place.

Finally, with a groan that was not unlike a sickly wheeze, he shook from sleep. His thick arms stretched upward and then outward as he got up from the sofa, tenuously at first. Barely balanced, one hand waving in front of him, he dragged himself across the room.

“Jesus!” he muttered, unfastening the chain lock. “I'm comin', I'm comin'. What do you think … ?”

His words ended as abruptly as the buzzing when he opened the door. Sean collapsed into his arms then and there, dropping his dented fedora and smearing warm blood across his chest.

Sean was bandaged and wrapped in a blanket, but his face was pale as he lay on Vince's couch. The apartment was dark now, shades drawn closed and only one lamp lit in the whole of the place. A glass of water in his hand, Vince knelt down beside his guest. As he did, the youth stirred. He winced and opened his eyes.

“Didn't expect you to wake up so fast. Have a sip,” Vince said, offering the glass.

Hands trembling slightly, Sean took a long drink. He finished and exhaled a deep, but clearly painful sigh. Still he said nothing.

“What? Do I gotta say something now? How's about a ‘thanks,' huh?” Vince said with a sneer as he got up from his knee.

Sean smiled.

“Thanks.”

Vince paced, his hands clasped behind his back. Though the whiskey still stung his temples, concern tensed his face. When he spoke, his words were direct, and as clear as if he were sober.

“That's it? No
Hey Vince, thanks for fixin' me up
or
Hey, Vince ol' buddy, sorry for bargin' in on you and spillin' my guts all over the place?”

Sean did not seem the least bit moved by his host's ire. Again, he replied simply.

“I said thanks.”

Vince made his way over to the front of the couch. A chuckle grew up in his belly. His look of sarcasm melted into a grin. He pulled a chair to the side of the couch, spun it around backward and sat himself down bow-legged.

“I gotta hand it to you. You're a piece of work. Man, is that really you? I still can't square myself with it. Sean Mulcahy, on my goddamn couch. Bleeding like a stuck pig, no less.”

“Sorry about that, old buddy.”

“I'll bet. I'd ask you where the hell you've been, but you don't look like you're in any shape to tell me a story.”

“I know, long time, huh? I meant to write,” Sean managed, still wincing and still obviously in pain.

“Yeah, sure.”

Mulcahy laughed and guzzled the last of the water. Vince ran his hands through his tangled black hair, that suspicious smile still spread across his face. Then, the young man breathed heavily, and passed out again.

Vince grabbed a pack of Lucky Strikes from the floor, snapped a match and lit his last cigarette. He tossed the empty pack away blindly and reached for the phone on his bureau.

He paused before picking up the receiver. Partly because he wasn't sure if he remembered the number, and partly because he wasn't sure he could make the call even if the digits came to him.

The phone rang three times on the other end before a lady's voice answered through a yawn. Vince's eyes shut for a long moment. He swallowed hard before speaking.

“Maggie? It's Vince. Get outta bed, I got someone here who needs to see you … don't ask, you wouldn't believe me if I told you.”

M
IST CLOUDED THE EARLY MORNING, AND THERE WERE
few people about on the streets of Lower Manhattan. A hard autumn frost had swept in over the night. Not many souls had chosen to brave the cold in the opening hours of a November day.

Argus and Arachne moved through the dew-spotted fog slowly. They owned the empty sidewalk, a small frame beside a large one, a tiny hand held in the grasp of one much bigger.

From the opposite direction, Irene Cahill, a woman of fifty-three years, approached the silent pair. A baker's wife, she'd risen hours before the sun. For her, as it had been almost every day since her marriage, first light signaled her first break from the ovens.

Kerchief tied hastily around her hair, and a wool shawl held about her arms, she breathed in the chill and strolled at a leisurely pace. It was quiet, as though the fog had smothered the normal rustles and shuffles of a New York morning.

The mismatched pair was not at first visible, cloaked by the whitish haze. But soon enough they emerged, and she was able to discern their features.

Arachne was the taller, still a girl really, with long blond hair that rested over her shoulders. From her unblemished face, silky white with lips of pink, Irene guessed her to be no more than eighteen. Her dress was mostly hidden by a long, black raincoat. To Irene's eye she was likely married, judging by her companion.

The boy Argus who bounded along beside her brought an immediate smile to Irene's face. He was tiny, no more than four or five, a toddler really. But he was dressed in the smartest little suit, a shiny black tie set against an equally small white button-down shirt, all tucked behind an embroidered maroon vest. On his little torso and legs, he wore the most elegant matching pinstriped jacket and slacks. There was a white carnation that looked uncommonly huge pinned to his lapel.

Just about the cutest thing Irene had ever seen, and she didn't mind saying so, either.

“What an adorable little one you have Miss!” she gushed as soon as she was within a few feet of them. “Why, he's just like a teensy little doll, he's so precious.”

The young girl simply sighed. She did not respond, except to shrug as the baker's wife knelt down before the youngster.

“Well! Aren't you just the cutest thing? What's your name?” Irene asked in her best baby-talk voice.

Argus, his chubby cheeks red from the cold, did not
reply at once. As Irene busied herself fussing gently over his lapels, he trained his eyes directly at hers. Something about them, the uncommon hint of crimson in the pupils, maybe, was distinctly un-childlike.

“I'll thank you to refrain from fiddling with my jacket,” he said, in a voice colored by a weird, indeterminate accent.

Irene's hands dropped from the lapels. Her mouth and eyes widened.

“As for my name, I doubt whether you'd seriously be interested in learning it were I not presented to you in such an unfortunately juvenile form.”

Irene stammered. She glanced up at Arachne. A scowl greeted her.

“Now, if you are quite finished admiring my tailor's handiwork, expensive though it is, I'll thank you to step aside, for we really must be on our way,” the strange child said.

Irene, dumbfounded, did just as the boy requested. Without even a second glance, both he and Arachne continued walking.

The mist soon reclaimed them from her sight.

“Was that necessary? You could have humored her. She'd have been none the wiser,” the blonde asked her tiny companion.

“My patience wears thin Arachne, and we've no time for distractions this morning. In any case, I'll be free of this puerile coil soon enough,” the boy answered.

“Not a moment too soon, I'd imagine,” she replied. “But it will be remembered, certainly. And I can always say that I tended to the wizened Argus when he was just a
little child.”

They both laughed, though he couldn't help but frown as he did.