The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination (28 page)

He turned down Hanover Street, where the rising waters were licking at the sidewalk only a half a block away. That statue had a Dutch name. What was it? He was severely agitated by not being able to remember who that statue was. He’d cut through Hanover Square every day, back when he first came to New York, and had been on a first-name basis with that statue. He’d confided some very personal things to him. What was his name?

This troubling nostalgia for his bronze friend in the original colonial man-suit quickly became an unbearable obsession. He had to see him. To confess his sins to him. To tell him of his newfound commitment to . . . ? He wasn’t sure. He just didn’t want to be evil anymore.

There was a small stack-up of people at the iron gate that opened onto tiny Hanover Square, which was nestled between a dozen Wall Street skyscrapers. He drifted into the tide and let it steer him along and into the square. It was just as he remembered, but a horrific sense of loss seized him as he realized the statue was gone, and the square had become a food court. He’d never meet him again . . . what was his name!? It was driving him insane.

He stumbled into the center of the square, jostled by the hungry crowd. Four small benches were clustered around the old marble plinth, now absent of — what’s his name!?
God help me, I can’t remember his name.

He rubbed his hand over the marble plinth, as though he’d found the threshold to his new existence. He couldn’t tell if he were half-mad or half-dead. He climbed over the benches and onto the plinth with a deranged glare that scared everyone away. Then he saw it. A tarnished bronze plaque.

T
hat was it
! Abraham De Peyster! Abe! Uncle Abe! He remembered him now, exactly as he had been. An older man seated, brandishing the scepter of office, in a waist-length wig of astonishingly heavy curls. But for some crazy reason, he recalled with relish that Abraham De Peyster was not wearing a hat, but holding it in his lap, head buried in that massive wig. The relish quickly faded upon seeing a cheesy aluminum plaque beneath the bronze.

A fury boiled in him. But his rage was interrupted by someone tugging on his coat sleeve. He turned to see a blue-eyed black woman, about twenty years old, dressed appropriately for the weather, smiling a little too knowingly right at him. She was an obvious winner in the Manhattan beauty lottery. It took a moment to gather himself; he hadn’t met a young person in some time. What could she want?

Her adorable smile broadened and her eyes twinkled, as she said in an accusatory tone, “I like your . . . shoes.”

A calm struck him. His eyes softened hopefully. He put his hands on her shoulders, and pleaded, “I’m dead. I’m dead, aren’t I?”

M
ax slept in clammy fits
, pressing a fist to his stomach where Lily’s absence tormented most. He sat up many times and shook himself free of her, briefly, for she returned as soon as his head hit the pillow. His only relief would come in a deep sleep that arrived somewhere in the middle of the night. He dreamt he was back in the Peregrine, soaring over the city. MacIan was smiling at him, but maybe it was Fred. He couldn’t tell. They were eating peanut brittle, or was it oatmeal? It didn’t matter. It was a dream. But in the muddle of this dream something real was happening. He felt the covers lift with a bracing chill, then . . . something warm was pressing against his chest and a dazzlingly soft substance unlike anything he’d ever imagined caressed his bare legs.

His eyes were not yet open, but the smell of her enveloped him as she snuggled into the — big spoon. He could feel her shoulders and back melting into his thunderous chest. He wrapped her in his arms, tender skin on skin.

She pulled him tight around her. “I was scared,” she said. “And cold.”

He mumbled something even he didn’t understand.

She wriggled closer. His leg slid gently between her thighs. She did not protest, but stiffened enough to mark out the limit of her openness. He made a silly sound and rubbed his legs against hers in a deliberately warming way, yelping when his feet found hers. “Your toes are like ice.” He heard a velvety hum as her feet absorbed the warmth of his fiery hooves, his legs brushing against the backs of her thighs like bellows.

She adjusted his arms around her. A delicate breast settled on one forearm, her head upon the other. This was both satisfying and maddening. But he would settle for it, gladly. He’d assume the stoic high ground, having no other course he could bear.

Eventually he relaxed into the luxury of her warmth. Her scent. Her satiny hair tickling his nose. He felt the tip of her ear, cool and alive, and touched his lips to it. It evoked something from his childhood, something musical. He could feel her calming, burrowing further into his comfort. It was, all in all, about as pleasant a moment as he’d ever hoped for. And it was filled with wondrous promise.

He could feel the jagged corners of her life softening as she fell asleep. Much later he dozed off, despite all attempts to the contrary, and didn’t move again until she slid out from his arms and into the sunny atrium. He watched her skipping away, two alluring crescents peeking out from under the gauzy white blouse.

This image of her was now indelibly printed on his soul. Forever and forever, he would remember her like this any time he thought of her. He was filled with gratitude. She had given him something precious, something he hadn’t known he needed or wanted — someone to adore.

* * *

T
he Driver had had
a little sleepover, too, although savage by comparison. He was a so-so dancer, but his skills in the bedroom were legendary. Not a single woman who’d tasted them had forgotten. He was — The Dublin Swordsman. His dancing partner, if she hadn’t drunk a yeoman’s share of beer, would have lost ten pounds in the effort. He was generous and insatiable, and she was more than happy to slake him. They had perched on every outcropping that would allow for the act, and adjusted to every position she’d ever dreamed of, and then some. There was nothing too raunchy to try, and they tried all night.

The sun had come up hours ago, but the Driver could only lie there waiting for his strength to return, listening to her snore. It was so obnoxious it made him laugh. He plucked his phone from the nightstand, for the third time, and checked to see if Boyne had called. Nothing. Something wasn’t right.

He would be fifty on his next birthday, but didn’t look half that, and his libido had not diminished one jot. He attributed his youthfulness to a shamelessly incalculable number of satisfied partners. Generosity is the fountain of youth. He slapped the sheets covering what he hoped to be a voluptuous arse, and said, “Mornin’, me lovely.”

She didn’t move, but stopped snoring, for a few seconds.

He gathered his clothes from the floor and the chandelier. A quick shower and he’d be off to find Boyne. She could sleep in; it was her hotel room. Déjà vu! This room was awfully familiar. He had quarters of his own at a lavish barracks a few blocks away, but he used it mostly for storage. On the rare occasion he didn’t find a lover for the night, he would stay there, but considered it a loss.

He showered and dressed, pangs of uncertainty hastening his step. He left the bathroom intent upon finding Boyne. Unfortunately, as he returned to the room she was on the house-phone. “How do you want your eggs?” she asked in a wifely tone he found irresistible.

“Scrambled, fried ’taters — two beers,” he answered with a salacious grin.

She purred facetiously, “Well, you can’t drink all day, unless you start in the morning.”

They shared a wink.

She ordered enough food to satisfy a small army, but fumbled the phone trying to hang up. One of her ample breasts popped out from the sheets she held around her with an alluring modesty.

The Driver returned her embarrassed demure with a dirty grin, pulled his zipper down, leaned into the bed and ran his tongue across her expectant nipple.

“Dessert first. Aye?”

C
assandra was delighted
to see an ever growing number of beefy NPF officers file into the Bedford Barracks. She was a big hit with the men, and savvy enough to know how to get things done. Soon, all the handyman stuff that had been put off for years was getting done.

Commander Konopasek was hiding in the gun locker. He had not yet come to terms with the unholy pact he’d made with Admiral Carson. His loyalties were now in play. The obligations of these contradictory oaths weighed on him like a skunk hat. He couldn’t show himself, not as long as he had two faces. Cassandra would know what to do.

He gathered up all his strength, stormed out of the gun locker and bumped into a group of men. “Cassandra?” They nodded toward the squad room where he found her standing on a desk, her new laptop in hand, directing the show. She acknowledged his arrival with a gesture signaling patience. He watched her closely. She was in her element. As demands increased, so did her resolve and energy. She thrived on chaos.

From across the hall he heard, “Commander?” It was Admiral Carson. “Sorry for all this confusion. I didn’t realize we were so many.” He was lying — they both knew and didn’t care.

“What are we gearing up for?”

“I wish I could be more definite, but there’s a glitch in the plan right now. We’re undergoing some . . . revisions.”

“A glitch? Revisions?”

“Yes. I, and the rest of the Officer Corps, want to attack New York, now. Today. But the brainiacs who started all this, the Tuke people, are dead set against it.”

Commander Konopasek began to shrink away, turning tapioca gray in the process.

“Whatever is decided,” said Admiral Carson, “I cannot over-emphasize the importance of your contributions . . .”

“But, but,” stammered Commander Konopasek. “An attack? On New York. Our own city?”

“This is where things have been headed since the 1980s. Either we live as economic slaves, or we revolt. There’s no alternative.”

“There are always alternatives. We’re smarter now.”

“You sound just like Tuke,” said the Admiral.

Commander Konopasek felt the dam break. “If you empty that scum-bucket in New York, what are you going to put in its place? Tuke?”

“No. He says it won’t be necessary.”

Commander Konopasek’s face grew pensive. “Tuke doesn’t want anyone to take over! Am I right?”

Admiral Carson arched his eyebrows. “You got it. I don’t understand . . .”

“I do understand. Finally. Tuke explained it me, but I just got it now. So I must insist,” he said in a striking tone that shocked even him. “I insist that you stand down and wait until Tuke has resolved this issue. We will accommodate you as best we can until that resolution is made. I respectfully insist. I cannot explain, but this must be Tuke’s call.”

Admiral Carson was flabbergasted. He would never have imagined the accommodating old man standing up like this.

“OK, Commander. Maybe you’re right. Time will tell. But we can’t keep all these men bottled up for long.”

“They’re your men, Admiral; I’ll rely on you to keep things on an even keel.”

Commander Konopasek bowed off, smartly. Proudly. But when he turned, there stood Cassandra.

“Commander? I hear they are going to attack New York? That’s crazy.”

Commander Konopasek snapped out of his tortured indecisiveness and spoke in a voice as noble as it was calm. “Fuck these people. Fuck those twatwaffles in New York. Fuck everybody. Nothing happens until I talk to Levi Tuke.”

* * *

C
amille rolled
around her queen size bed, mid-morning sunlight beating against her window. She felt rested, despite having fallen asleep in the tub like a drunken sow, and this MacIan connection had put her in an interesting mood. She hadn’t committed to anything publicly; the thing so far was only in her head. She could laugh it off, if it didn’t go her way. She’d be right back where she started from, right here. Or, she’d be right here with him.

The phone rang. She wrapped the sheets around her and raised it to her ear.

“I hate to bother you, dear,” said Cassandra, “but we need to get in touch with Levi Tuke. There’s a situation here and MacIan has the mobile that’s connected to him. Can you help us out?”

“I’m in contact with them all the time now.”

“When can you do that, honey? We’re under the gun here.”

“Oh! Right now. Call ya back.”

“Thank you, thank you. Wouldn’t ask if wasn’t important.”

“Happy to help.”

She flipped open her computer and saw dozens of notifications, progress monitors and search prompts roaring like a Black-Monday stock-ticker.

She clicked on the screen and MISH popped up.

“Camille,” she said, “looks like you got some sleep.”

“Just got a call from the lady at the Bedford Barracks, Cassandra. They need to talk to Levi Tuke; it’s an emergency.”

“That’s Commander Konopasek’s Barracks,” said MISH, uncharacteristically stone-faced.

“And MacIan.”

“Tell Cassandra to call back in fifteen minutes.”

Camille was stunned. “Is that it?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Camille watched the screen go black and hit redial. Cassandra picked up, and Camille filled her in and vouched for her connection, MISH. She thought MISH might even be Tuke, or some mumbo-crypto version thereof.

“Hope you’re right, honey. It’s like D-Day here.”

They hung up and Camille ran to change her clothes. She’d seen a judgmental twinge in MISH’s face. If she was right about that, MISH could not be Levi Tuke. Only a woman could send that message.

But the second she drifted beyond the present, MacIan was there, like a chalk outline on the floor.

* * *

I
’m getting old
,
thought the Driver, once he realized it was nearly noon. He never slept in, often skipping sleep for days. He checked his phone. Nothing? That was truly puzzling, but he shook it off. Boyne was getting old, too.

He could hear his dance partner in the shower humming the old R&B tune, “I Only Have Eyes for You.” Normally he’d slip out right here, but sleep had dulled his flight response. He fell back into the tangle of sheets and pillows, dreaming of lunch. He awoke moments later when she asked if he was hungry. He peeled the sheets back and beat a quick tattoo on his tummy. “Me stomach tinks me troat’s been cut.”

“Poor baby,” she said. “Let’s get dressed and go down for something — extreme.” She aimed an ATM card at him.

He took that to mean, ‘before we come back up here for an encore’. “I’m all fucked-out, me lovely. But a mighty fête could be the cure. I know just the place.”

She laughed and flung her hair about, catching it in the towel. “Driver? How’d you get that crooked nose?”

He scrubbed his head furiously with all ten fingers. “It was me big mouth what broke this snozz.”

She was enjoying the atmosphere of danger. The very thing she’d never been allowed. The Driver’s strikingly gnarled face, gentlemanly manner, that brogue . . . and he could dance. If one night was all she could get, she’d take it.

It took a while for her to get ready, affording him a few catnaps. At the final moment he jumped to his feet, yanked on his clothes, and held open the door looking as disheveled as their unmade bed.

The restaurant was near the administration building and he intended to combine a hearty meal, on her dime, and a check on the transporter. They came to Gatekeeper Square, where she was very impressed, then turned down Hibernia Boulevard arm in arm — his ersatz wife for an hour or two more. It was afternoon and progress was slow and meandering. She was distracted by each and every new thing in all those new windows along the way. He guessed by her raving product reviews that she was from one of the lesser walled cities. But he was sure about one thing: she had not come to buy, she had come to — spend!

“Driver?” she said. “My father could help you with that nose. The snozz thing.”

“And a helluva thing it is. What’s his line?”

“Cosmetic surgery. Of course!”

“Thank ya, no. It’s part of my boyish charm. Evidence of an ill-spent yoot.”

“Driver? What’s your real name?”

“I only know how to say it in Irish. It’d make your delicate ears bleed.” He could see his transporter in the near distance. “Only my enemies call me by that name.”

“Oh?” She sounded intrigued. There had to be someone, somewhere, who wanted to kill him. “It’s not good to have enemies.”

“It is, if they’re the right enemies.” They laughed, but the Driver felt something was very wrong. With each stop, he grew more anxious. She noticed and surrendered her window shopping. They were about a block away when he realized the six or seven mangy curs he’d seen last night were now a dozen or more, and all jumping up on the transporter and screeching like hyenas. These dogs were ever-present communal pets. The Driver knew each one. But they seemed intent upon getting at something inside. The stench of death filled his twisted nose. He broke away at full gallop.

By the time she caught up, he’d torn open the door and was twirling in agonized circles, holding his head and whimpering uncontrollably. Blood dripped from the open door and Efryn Boyne sat pinned to his seat in a hideous clot.

She let go a banshee’s wail as the Driver crumpled to his knees and pounded his head on the pavement, screaming . . .

“No no no . . . ”