Cathedrals Of Sin

Cathedrals

of Sin

A Novel

John LeVatte

This ebook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cathedrals of Sin

All rights reserved.

Copyright 2012 by John LeVatte. Published by John LeVatte at Smashwords.

Cover Artwork Geoffrey White. Used by permission.

This e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

Special thanks to my wife Crystal and daughters Meredith and Bailey; without your support, this book would not have been possible.

For information about this and upcoming novels by John LeVatte, visit www.johnlevatte.com

ISBN: 978-0-9811405-1-3

For George, Bob and Willy

and all those taken too young in

an unfair and horrible way

I

Vengeance is mine, and recompense, for the time when their foot shall slip; for the day of their calamity is at hand, and their doom comes swiftly.

Deuteronomy 32:35

He’d been outside for hours waiting. The chill that had started in his spine was moving through his arms and legs, permeating every inch of his being. His toes felt like they weren’t there anymore—just chunks of formerly living flesh and bone. The shivering that had begun several hours ago now racked his entire body.

Though his flesh was giving into the cold, his mind, the perfection he’d created, stood strong. His concentration on the goal blocked the pain—the goal was everything. The cold was an annoyance, yes, but when he thought about it, he thought of it as the necessary price to be paid to do what he had to. He drew strength from the elements. He’d been born for his purpose.

The cold only served to remind him of the waiting he’d been doing forever, time spent completing what was necessary in order to do what was needed, without a trace, without anyone knowing he’d been there. He’d stood in the pouring rain, took shelter from pelting snow and ice, from tropical storms, and from everything in between. He’d trekked to the far reaches of the world and had been everywhere there was to be through the ages. He went where he was needed and right now, today, he was needed here.

As he stood across from the apartment building he’d been watching since the late afternoon sun gave way to the cold of the night, images of the past few weeks began to run and rerun in his mind. He’d been told, commanded actually, to come to this place, this time, to right an incredible wrong. When he arrived it hadn’t happened yet, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

The man, the sickness he was, was freed from what was a certain death sentence. It was part and parcel of the things that had brought the city to where it was—on the brink of total and complete oblivion. Their indifference to death and societal decay had created the circumstance for his arrival. It had drawn the attention of his Lord.

The worst in this society and its laws brought out the best in him. He was very good at his job, he was a professional in every sense of the word and, tonight, he would show the one he was here for just how good that was.

The air carried winter’s freezing scent with it as it passed across his face, whipping small particles of snow and ice against his skin. He stood there glancing from side to side taking in the eerie look of the street after dark. Lined along the left side of the avenue were a number of small shops and other specialty stores that catered to what was obviously an upscale and exclusive clientele. Expensive handbags and coffees could be purchased for the usual and extreme prices necessary for those with money to feel like they weren’t being fleeced.

The silence of the lightly falling snow was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a green and primer-covered car making its way from the left to the right side of the street. Two men were visible inside. Looks like they want to come and say hello, he said aloud, smiling slightly.

Hey man, the small and partially bearded passenger said as the car rolled to a stop in front of him. You know this is kind of a bad time of night for an asshole to be standing all by himself, alone, you know?

Laughing, the driver joined in. Yeah, you know my buddy here has got a point. Your kind of stupidity can be harmful to health, mainly yours, the man said, joining his friend in even louder laughter.

Within a couple of seconds their good time ended. The man in the passenger seat pulled a sawed-off shotgun from beneath him and pointed it directly at the person they figured was about to be their next robbery victim. They’d been across most of the west end of the city earlier in the evening and had robbed and assaulted more than a dozen people, including an elderly couple, a female jogger and two businessmen who were locking their store for the night.

Listen asshole, the driver said, my friend here is a real hothead and you need to know I can’t be responsible for what he does. In fact, I’ve watched him kill more people than I can count and each time I tried to settle him down and get him to listen to reason. But each time he just plain and simple don’t understand what I’m saying when he gets pissed, you know? So what we, that means you more than us, want to do here is make sure he don’t go off and, if you catch my meanin’, his gun don’t go off and splatter guts all over that fine leather coat you’re wearing. So this is the way it’s gonna go. You hand over the coat, your wallet and anything you got in them pockets of yours and we’ll just simply leave you to stand here with that stupid fucking grin on your face, the man said.

You heard my partner, didn’t ya? the man with the gun said. I ain’t all there in the head, you know what I mean? So fucking start taking off that coat, real slow like, and by the way, get that look off your face. Who does this guy think he is? the man said to his partner behind the wheel.

Come to think of it, I think what we’ve got here is a tough guy, Lou, the gunman said.

I think you might be right, Billy, the driver replied. Why don’t you jump out and show this dickhead what we do to tough guys.

Shotgun guy smiled broadly as he reached for the door handle. Slowly, cautiously, he pushed the car door open.

He stood watching as the shotgun led the man from the car. One movement, two movements; the time was right.

With lightening speed, he grabbed the end of the gun and slammed the steel against shotgun guy’s face. As the gunman crumpled back into his seat, their almost-victim spun himself with incredible agility into the back and directly behind the men who’d only moments ago planned on robbing him, or worse.

This is a bit of a turn of fortune, wouldn’t you say? he said icily to the two who were now his captors. As he drew a massive, gleaming blade from the inside pocket of the leather coat he was wearing and placed it at the throat of the man at the wheel, he placed the shotgun barrel at the temple of the now shivering would-be gunman. Now, whatever shall I do to put things right again and return myself to the calm serenity I was enjoying before you two decided you were enough to take me?

Listen man, it’s obvious we fucked up here, the driver said. So, why don’t we all stay calm and when we’re all relaxed like, we’ll take a look in the trunk. We’ve got something in there you might want, something that might go a long way to making this thing right.

And what would that be? he said, already guessing the answer.

Take that blade from my throat and we can show you right quick, the driver said.

I don’t think I’m ready to leave you two just yet, he said. Why don’t you just tell me what you have in the trunk and I can decide if it is something I would want, he said, slowly pressing the blade against the driver’s throat.

Okay, okay, I can see you are a very serious kind of guy, the driver said, lifting his head up and backward to move it as far as possible from the steely sharpness of the blade edge.

Earlier tonight my partner and me took a jogger. She’s a real piece of ass if you know what I mean. She’s in the trunk right now. We had been saving her for later, when we return to our, uh, our house, the man said, now smiling and starting to giggle just a little.

The man with the shotgun still burrowed into his temple began to laugh out loud while rubbing the crotch of his pants at the same time.

Show me, he spat, unable to hide his contempt for the two idiots who’d obviously been enjoying their own two-man crime spree. He wanted to kill the two of them right there but knew he would need to be patient. They didn’t know it, but their time was coming as quickly and surely as the winter, which seemed to be unsure when to unleash its full fury on the city.

He swallowed hard as he made the decision to take the two to the trunk to see whether the woman was alive or dead. He lowered the shotgun and took the driver out his side of the car first and with the gun still on his partner, he ordered him to join them as he moved the driver closer to the back of the car.

Okay, hold on to your dick because you, my friend, are in for a real treat, the driver said, putting a key into the trunk lock. With a quick turn to the right the latch released and the trunk lid sprang open.

The light on the street wasn’t good, but he could clearly see her lying there, arms and legs bound tightly. She was about twenty five or thirty and she was terrified. She was trying to cry beneath the gag that held her mouth open in an unnatural, almost horrific position. Her teeth were covered in blood from where the two men had obviously beaten her into submission before tossing her into the trunk. The bindings on her wrists had begun to cut into her flesh and thin lines of blood ran steadily into her hands. The jogging pants she’d been wearing had been torn slightly where the two had seemingly attempted to examine their merchandise.

What did I tell ya? the driver said. You take her and you can have at her all night for all we care. We don’t need to see her or you ever again and if you knew us you’d know there would be no problems of a retribution nature stemming from whatever you do to her, he said.

Yeah, me and my partner don’t give a shit what happens to her or you, shotgun guy said. Now are we all friends here? If so, why don’t you lower that splatter gun and we’ll just disappear into the night.

I am afraid that would be too simple, he told them, trying to suppress the urge to kill them right then and there.

Nah, it ain’t nothin' at all, the driver said. You just need to understand a little something more about us that we forgot to mention earlier, he added.

Pray, what is that? Are you about to tell me that you are also the mayor of this city, a city that at one time enjoyed the description of community? Because if that is the surprise you are holding back, it wouldn’t surprise me, honestly, he said, allowing an evil and hate-filled grin to take its full effect on the killers who were, without knowing it, negotiating the end of their very existence.

No, no, nothin’ like that, the driver said. My partner just means that we have connections in this town with the people that run things. There is a group, a formal institution to be more on the correctness side of things, who look after people like us, people who provide them with a certain service. In fact, you wouldn’t be wrong to say they own this city and everyone and everything in it.

What my partner is trying to say, shotgun guy added, is that we’re protected from the law. In fact, not to put too fine a point on things, the law can’t touch us. Our people wouldn’t allow it, the man said, trying to turn his head enough to get a better look at the man holding the extremely large blade to his partner’s throat.

Further, my friend, the driver continued, above and beyond the group that is really in charge of this town, we ourselves are part of another, closer group. We’ve been called a lot of things, but to me, none of that horseshit matters. We are the Family. Maybe you’ve heard of us? the driver asked, his earlier cockiness and bravado returning to his voice.

What I’m trying to tell you here friend is that it would be in your best interests to take this bitch and disappear into whatever place you came from. I couldn’t give you better advice if I were to take two weeks and try. So what do you say? the driver, clearly the smarter of the two, said.

What are your names? he said, willing himself with every ounce of his considerable strength not to lash out and kill them where they stood.

You want our names? shotgun guy said.

It is a simple request, something that even the likes of the two of you should understand, he said, ice joining the hatred in his voice.

I don’t think we need to go that far, do we? the driver said. After all, we know that we pushed our luck tonight and should have left you to yourself. We don’t want to know your name, so why would you want ours?

Because I will need to know by what names my Master will summon you, after he said, a maniacal look overtaking his facial features.

What do you mean, after? the driver said, inching his way backward and away from the glimmering blade.

After I have released this poor creature from your grasp and killed the two of you, of course, he said, smiling broadly and snickering slightly.

Both men looked at each other in complete shock and terror. For the first time since pulling up to the curb, they realized they were looking directly into the eyes of Hell; and there was no return, no way out.

Listen man, shotgun guy stammered, we’ve made you a real good proposition here, would it be so wrong to just take it and let us go?

Well, yes actually it would, he said, moving quickly behind the driver and drawing his blade slowly down the sideburn area on his face. As the knife moved further toward the driver’s jaw line, he turned the blade inward and pushed it firmly into the soft flesh and jugular vein of the man’s neck. Huge gushes of blood began to pour from the wound as the man tried to scream through the pain and shock of the cut.

Shotgun guy recoiled in horror as he watched the life drain from his partner’s eyes through the torrent of blood that continued to spew from his neck. He began to make a move, his only rational move, away from the one who’d just killed his partner and friend.

Don’t, he said, using the driver’s coat to wipe the dripping ooze of blood from his blade. Don’t make another move, or you will surely join your friend this night, he spat.

Fuck you, pard, shotgun guy said as he turned to run.

In an instant, he closed the distance between the now dead driver and his terrified partner and reached out to take the man by the collar.

For that decision alone, for your gall, as well as your cowardice, I should kill you now and send you to join your friend who will soon be with Them, he said, his face only inches away from shotgun guy, whose own face was a mask of sheer terror.

But I will let you live, not because I want to, but because you can be of service to me, he said.

Anything man, anything, just don’t kill me, okay, shotgun guy said, his eyes roaming between the assassin and the still-twitching body of his one-time partner.

During the next ten minutes shotgun guy stood and listened to his instructions, which included untying the jogger and removing her from the trunk. He replaced her with his now dead companion. After he finished he once again took hold of his unwilling apprentice.

Now, you will leave this place and you will drive directly to the nearest police station where you will pronounce your guilt for the murder of your friend. You will also say that you abducted a young girl who you later freed. I will leave it to her to decide if she wants to pursue the matter any further. Of me, you will remember that I gave you your life tonight. And for that you owe me. If any of your criminal masters ask, you will say only that there was a man who stopped your reign of terror and that he has come to end criminality, hatred and the fear that has been allowed to thrive here. Do you understand? he asked the still-trembling would-be killer.

Yeah man, yeah, shotgun guy said, wiping tears from his eyes.

Then go, and never let my eyes meet yours again. For on that day, you will surely leave behind all that you know for all that you do not want, he said. One last thing, he said, looking at shotgun guy with eyes that seemed to burn red like two glowing orbs. Should you choose to ignore my instructions, I will find you and you will pay dearly, do you understand me?

Yeah, yeah, straight to the cops, I got ya, I got ya man, shotgun guy said, a wet spot clearly visible at the groin of his denims.

Satisfied the man was sufficiently motivated, he pointed at the driver’s side of the car and told him to go.

Shotgun guy hurried around the side of the car and leaped inside. The car’s engine roared to life within seconds. And then he was gone.

With her bindings loosed, he could see the woman in her fullness. She stood beside him, feelings of dread and terror creeping further and further into her mind. She was terrified by the murder she’d just witnessed. But while she felt no sense of loss for the man who’d died, knowing her attackers would have surely killed her, she was incredibly uncertain about the motives of the man who now stood before her.

You have nothing to fear from me, he said to her, seeing the growing fear in her eyes—eyes that he’d seen before, so long ago now. Standing free of her bindings she looked just like her. The resemblance was incredible. He could not take his eyes away from hers.

I’m not afraid, she said, well not exactly, anyway, she added. I just need to know what you intend to do with me. I mean, can I go?

You have been through an ordeal tonight, something you should have never feared would happen to you in this or any other time, he said. There are a number of cuts on your face and hands and I am sure you are feeling battered elsewhere. Do you need the services of a physician?

She looked at him for a moment, for the first time looking at him as more than the efficient killer she’d seen only moments ago. He was handsome, tall and broad. His face was youngish looking, but she could tell that he had more years behind him than in front. There was something about the way he was looking at her that made her feel uneasy and strangely attracted to him at the same time. His gaze was mesmerizing, intoxicating.

I’m not sure, she said, feeling silly at the girlish way she was approaching a discussion with the man. There was something about him, though, what it was, however, escaped her.

As she stood gazing into his eyes she felt her knees buckle and then the world went dark.

He too had been looking into her eyes as unconsciousness took her. He had to move quickly to reach her.

Unconscious from your ordeal, there is little doubt that you’ve been through a lot my darling Amanda, he said, his gaze immediately freezing on his face. He’d said her name, a name he hadn’t spoken in forever.

He stood holding her for a moment longer thinking about the mistake, the utterance of a name he now knew only in his dreams. He quickly chased the thoughts from his mind and began to decide on his next move. It was obvious she was in need of medical attention, and there was a hospital nearby. He had time to walk her there and return. His assignment wasn’t going anywhere, of that he was certain.

As he made his way back to his surveillance position, after leaving the woman just inside the hospital’s emergency room doors, he smiled at the turn of events which had forced him to intervene in a situation he’d neither wanted nor needed. He also thought about the woman, about his beloved Amanda and why he was here.

The fact that men were still able and willing to hurt and inflict incredible pain and injustice on each other was a fact which not only astounded him, but worked to loosen his grip on his own boundaries. The line between good and evil was sometimes blurred when he was doing his work. And he wondered if he wasn’t slowly becoming what he was sworn to fight.

As he continued to walk back to the avenue he’d been watching before the two assailants approached him, he slowly drove the negative thoughts of his own existence out of his mind. It was not his problem; it was the centuries-old replacement of good with evil, society with anarchy.

He knew that societies were wrong and that they had been wrong for a very long time. In his opinion the wrongness flowed from the surface, where everyday people trudged through their lives oblivious and unconcerned about their families, friends or anything of real value. They stumbled along as lifeless figures, zapped of any real emotion or devotion to their very common neighbors. The crushing weight of the average person’s life left them no time to care or take action against the other side of society—the seamy underbelly. There, crime and criminality ran rampant through and underneath the streets. Societies that once valued a balanced mixture of ingenuity, commerce and order were now nothing more than shadows of past glory as death and decay were allowed to replace community in most societal scenes. Naturally, and eventually, human indifference led to the destruction of the good that once inhabited the best places in man. This left the weakest and most vulnerable easy targets for the vicious monsters who were allowed to grow and prosper in the post-societal doom that had overtaken Earth.

He didn’t try to influence the thinking of the masses; their apathy was the cloak under which he could continue the good. The paradox was palpable. He knew it as the normal state of things. It made what he did make sense. Nobody could ever understand it, nobody would. He was a slave to the very people he now tried to protect at one point but that was a lifetime ago.

As he stood there, once more struggling to keep feeling in his body and stay the effects of the night, the lights went out in the apartment he was watching. It was the sign he’d been waiting for. He waited statue-stiff for another few minutes to be sure and then left his post and walked toward the building, feeling the blood returning to the extremities of his shivering body.

He stood in front of the large tower gazing upward, allowing the sense of purpose and righteousness to fill him and cement his already firm resolve. He was right. He was always right.

Traffic in the mostly upscale neighborhood had dwindled to just a very few cars every once in a long while. The cold kept the occasional dog walker inside on this night that was good. He didn’t need anyone happening upon him when he had finished his work. Nobody had ever seen him doing. They had only ever heard about it after.

He watched as more lights in the various apartments flickered and went out. It was late, but he knew the time was right. The scum that had raped and killed women and children was next. His time had come, and he would suffer his wrath and it would be Hell.

During his surveillance of the building he’d been able to slip in undetected on more than one occasion. He’d walked through the halls and on every floor without anyone noticing. He was impressive, tall and muscular with short cropped hair and a clean-shaven face. But just as he was spectacular, he was unspectacular; this was the illusion, the thing that allowed him to move freely, that made him the unseen, the thing he’d become.

After another couple of minutes and a few glances left and right for intruders, he quickly surveyed the entrance and made his way to the alley next to the building.

Following the cracked brick running along the side of the wall just above the rotting garbage containers, he counted in his head. When he’d reached the correct number, he slid out of his heavy leather cloak and began his preparations. He stepped through a tangle of garbage and sludge, ignoring the stench, and moved forward so that he was directly in front of the wall that would quickly become his entrance.

He stood motionless, glaring up at the sheer mountain-like face before him. Reaching forward, he placed his hands on the wall and rubbed the rough edges and contours of the brick. With his eyes closed, he solidified his grip and placed a foot on the wall and began to scale the building. Slowly and cautiously he made his way up. Every few feet he would stop and look around to see if anyone was in the alley that could see him and, naturally, ask what he was doing scaling a building face at this time of night. He saw nothing and calmed himself with the fact that even if someone walked directly beneath him they would never hear his silence or see him in the all-enveloping darkness.

As he made his way ever higher up the side of the building, he began thinking about this assignment, special work according to the Oracle. He knew what he had to do. It would be pleasant work very messy, but pleasant.

After only a few minutes, he arrived at the place he had marked through his surveillance. He scurried across the outer wall face and ran his hand along the locked edge of the window. As his hand passed over the mechanism, the lock clicked, allowing the window to spring open slightly. Using both hands and steadying himself with his feet, he pried the window open and climbed inside.

He peered along the walls of the dimly lit corridor allowing his eyes to adjust to the light. He could hear various sounds coming from the apartments in front of him, but there was nobody in his way. After another couple of minutes he stood up and stepped out of the waiting area.

Walking slowly along the hallway he reached out occasionally to run his hands along the drab wallpaper, a design someone had obviously thought was appropriate to combine with the incredible rent charged by the building’s owners. It was a gold-green pattern of swirls and contours that reminded him of something he’d seen a long time ago. The act of touching the walls, the paper, smelling the various recipes being prepared for late-night snacks or next-day meals made it all real. It made him ‘feel’ the building and get his head right for what he was about to do. Was that a correct way of looking at it? No, it was more than that. Feeling the surroundings and drinking in the atmosphere was more than important. It allowed him to get in touch with the time he was in, feel the work, feel his purpose and know who he was.

There were only a few apartments ahead of him and then he would be there. He couldn’t wait to see the one he was here for.

The assignment came to him—as they always had—from his master.

In his dreams, he was led through a dense fog by the cloaked figure who talked to him in a way he could never describe and never forget. The voice, chilling and terrifying, but somehow soothing and caring at the same time, told him an injustice was happening and, once again, his services were needed. The figure would put a bony-fingered hand on his shoulder as it led him deeper into Its chamber.

When he woke from the dreams he could usually still smell the musty, sweet smell of the room. He remembered the teachings and could hear the voice and feel the terror of looking at Its face. And although he felt safe while with the apparition, he knew he was insignificant in Its presence. He asked only the most necessary questions. He did not ask why, he did not question the teaching, he only listened and promised to complete the work he’d been given. He knew well it was not Hell he would visit after indecision or failure. It would mean a never-ending existence in the Void, the great blackness, the nothingness over which It ruled. It was His domain, the place from which He drew His power and it was the place where no sane man would ever want to be sent.

A door closing inside one of the many apartments brought him back to the here and now. He stood confused for only a moment as he refocused his eyes and let his mind return him to why he was there. As his senses returned, he took a moment to check his tools. Finding they were there, he began to once again make his way down the hallway to apartment 713.

As he walked, however, he could not shake the feeling that the work he was about to do would be very different from anything he’d done in his past. What lay ahead for him as he moved toward completing his goal of ending the life of one so unworthy of it? He could not worry about it now but.

Within a few seconds he arrived at the door he was looking for. He stood there for a moment and listened. There was a television playing loudly inside, which was the usual sound coming from the dead man’s home. The picture box was always on, whether he was asleep or not, and it was always loud.

There were several locks on the door that would need to be removed before he could enter. Closing his eyes, he ran his hand along the side of the door. As his hand passed over the locks inside, he could hear each one unlock. He turned the door knob gently to the left and pushed inside. He could smell the stench of his prey. He could smell the impending fear and he could smell the blood that would soon be spilled. He bared his teeth and smiled a broad smile as he walked into the apartment.

Hello Rufus, it is I; I am here.

II

He needed to push the engine and really give it a workout; that was what his mechanic had told him. To much carbon on those plugs, Mr. Wainright, you have to keep it cleaned out. Don’t be afraid of her, push the throttle all the way open and hold her there for at least a few miles every week, Eddie the grease monkey had said.

Eddie was a magician when it came to tuning and maintaining engines—any kind of engine. He was not only a legend for his uncanny, almost otherworldly knowledge of the mechanics of combustion, he had ensured his legacy as a beer-swilling tough guy would continue long after his death after he reportedly consumed more than thirty-five pints of beer in one sitting, and lived.

He had been taking his boat ‘Times for a Ride’ out for a cruise every morning at sunrise since he’d purchased it back in the spring. And as he pushed the throttle more and more open, smiling as the eight-cylinder big block growled louder and louder with every inch, he felt the stress instantly release. He was free, this was freedom. If he was in some long canal or river that led to the sea, he knew he would just keep right on going, stopping when he reached some watery paradise.

Back in realityville, the local boating season was late but the snow and cold were still just making nightly appearances, meaning his post-dawn boating excursions were still possible and sensible. He realized the day would come soon, however, when he would have to take her out of the water for the season. He was dreading it, though.

As he brought her closer to the shoreline and eventually to the dock, he thought for a moment about immediately re-boarding and heading back out onto the lake for a day of slow cruising.

He’d been out late the night before with the gang from the Times who’d insisted he join them at Pop’s place after his six-month investigative piece on Joe Taggart wrapped with the local mobster’s sentencing to thirty years in the city’s Dartmoor Prison. And while he deserved a break, he decided against it, instead finishing the tying and re-fastening of the boat’s covers before walking the long dock back to his half-ton truck and the rat race of journalistic excellence he ruled, rather than served.

When he arrived home, he showered and made his way to the kitchen and preparations for the morning wake up. The early morning ritual included four eggs, Tabasco, plenty of salt, pepper and crushed ice. He stood leaning against the counter and downed the mixture in three large gulps. As the ingredients mixed and sped toward his stomach he steadied himself for the landing—that moment when everything touched down, giving him an instant feeling of total satiety and momentary nausea.

He felt the morning concoction make its landing as he reached for one of the notebooks he’d used the day before, before the party, to lay out his day.

He had an interview at city hall with the mayor and certain members of his self-serving council who he hoped to corner on a wide array of issues the other media in town were ignoring. He hadn’t done as much as he should have on the stories, one of which was the Family, an ultra-psychotic band of misfits led by a man named Rufus McVeety. Wainright had been chasing him for years, doing everything he could to see the deranged psycho and his gang of rapists and murderers go to prison, any prison, for a very long time. Up to this point he’d managed to annoy McVeety and his criminal masters, bringing some unwanted attention to McVeety’s many criminal enterprises, but not much more.

His interviews were scheduled for just before lunch. The rest of his day looked pretty routine, which was a good thing considering the fact he didn’t really feel all that well after last night’s alcohol-soaked celebration at Pop’s.

As he made his way out of the kitchen, he began to think once again about playing hooky. His thoughts on the subject remained the same, however. Damn your sensible, responsible nature, Max, he said aloud as he began to firm up a plan to, at the very least, arrive late, perhaps very late to the Times Building and his position as the paper’s, and the city’s, most famous crime writer and columnist.

He continued to walk and think about the next few hours of his life and was very close to convincing himself that he would take a few hours for himself when his front door exploded with a sound too loud for the early morning silence he’d been enjoying just moments ago. It was, he knew, the loudest knock known to mankind and could only be the all-too-frequent-intrusions of the super’s wife, Agnes Boldt.

He stood there pondering Agnes as still as a statue for a moment. It was quiet at the door, giving him the all too optimistic thought that perhaps if he just stood still for a moment longer she would just go away. Of course, this was Agnes Boldt—a merciful end to her incessant investigations and intrusions was never in the cards. Today, it seemed, would be no exception.

The second brain-exploding knock came along with the familiar Mr. Wainright, are you there, I really need to talk to you about some repairs we’re making today.

Ah, fuck, he said, reaching for the door knob and turning it slowly. What do I care about repairs as long as she isn’t asking me to make them myself, he muttered as the door swung open to reveal the early morning Agnes Boldt, complete with pink, fuzzy, opened housecoat, slippers and a cup of coffee in one hand, and a large, filter-less cigarette in the other. Under the housecoat was the familiar nighty, which featured a duck in housecoat and slippers, cup of coffee and cigarette in its bill with the words ‘I don’t do mornings’ emblazoned across the front. Actually, Wainright thought for a moment that if you put a duck’s bill on old Agnes, she would be wearing her double.

She took a long drag from her cigarette and let out a long exhale in Wainright’s direction.

Oh, hello Max, how are you today? she said, raising the cigarette for another lung-filling puff.

I’m fine, Agnes. What is this about construction today?

Not construction, Max, just a little maintenance to the heating system, she said. Your electricity will be interrupted for about three hours this afternoon so if you have anything on a timer or plugged in to charge you should keep this in mind. Also, I imagine your alarm clock timer will need to be reset or you won’t get up for work tomorrow, she said, letting out that nasally, irritating giggle of hers.

I really don’t have anything of great importance that your work will affect, he said, beginning to close the door, But thanks for the notice, Agnes.

That’s no problem at all, Max. You know Tim and I have a special place in our hearts for you. You are kind of special because you have been with us the longest of any of our clients.

Agnes liked to refer to the renters as clients. Wainright thought it added to her self-absorbed feelings of being more than just the wife of a building superintendent. Wainright was sure that in her mind she was some kind of aristocratic feudal lady. He didn’t care, as long as it meant the rent would stay around the same area.

We also, Tim and I, that is, think it’s important to give our clients this kind of personal treatment. Of course, we could hire someone to do these notices for us, but we think its better this way.

Wainright did his best to keep a straight face when he replied that all the clients certainly appreciated her and Tim’s personal touch.

O.K. dear, I won’t keep you any longer. But while I have you here, oh shit, here it comes, Wainright thought, have you given any more thought to a piece on Tim? You remember the story idea he had about a simple city resident trying to build a little something for himself while trying to help our community and its people at the same time?

Usually Wainright could come up with the answer quickly and to the delight of whomever he was lying to. But today, he just wanted to get to the couch and the stack of morning editions he read religiously from front to back every morning. He wanted to be alone with his morning ritual and Agnes was interrupting it. In his haste, the best he could come up with was a lie about a story meeting later in the day with his editor at which he would bring up Tim’s idea.

Right after he told his lie, however, he realized he had brushed her off with that one last week. He guessed it was the reason old Agnes looked a lot less than impressed and resembled someone who’d just had a pickle stuffed up her ass after he laid it on her again.

Alright Max, good luck at your meeting. You know it would mean a lot to Tim if you could do something like this for him.

I’ll put in the plug for the story. But as I told you before, I am a crime writer and columnist at the paper, so I probably wouldn’t write the article. It would be someone else who might not understand Tim’s situation, with a ladder-climbing, skank, socialite-wannabe bitch for a wife, Wainright wanted to say.

Tim knows you will do your best, Max, Agnes replied. And I am sure Tim would see his way to lowering your client payments (rent in Agnes-speak) for you.

Well you know lower client payments would be a bonus for me, Wainright said, truly starting to enjoy, as he usually did, the references to what Tim/Agnes would like.

If you manage to interest your people in the story let me, or sorry, let Tim know right away. We will want to make sure he is dressed in his Sunday best when he meets with the writer and the photographer. There would be a photographer right, Max? Agnes asked.

With his longing for peace and quiet reaching Olympian heights, Max answered yes. In reality, he would have told her just about anything to get her to go away.

She thanked Wainright only somewhat politely, and mercifully said goodbye.

He closed the door, secured the latch and began making his way, once again, back down the hall to his waiting newspapers and his very inexpensive, yet incredibly comfortable couch. It was his favorite place to read. It was also the warmest room in the apartment and with the colder weather here and his need to satisfy his daily hunger for the news of the world—or at least the city—tearing at him; he wanted to move once and not have to move again for the rest of the morning, at least.

He slid onto the couch, grabbed the first paper in the pile and stretched his long legs to their full length and began to read.

After devouring the first, completely and totally disgusted with the lacklustre coverage its editors and reporters had given to some very important issues, he closed his eyes and began to think seriously about calling King Shit Bob Reynolds, city editor and the longest-serving hard ass at the paper, to let him know that he’d be off for the day when the next panic of the early day hit.

Just as he was coming up with the many reasons why he deserved a late start or an early beginning to tomorrow, the phone rang, loudly. Any other day it would have sounded like a phone ringing, but today it sounded more like a repeating rifle rattling off its shells inside his head. Each pulse of the ringer set off an explosion in his brain worse than when Tim/Agnes visited earlier.

His first thought was to ignore the damned thing. His phone rang all the time—day and night. If it wasn’t people phoning to give him tips—he had a pretty good city network of scumbags, thieves and others who, together with his trusty scanner, kept him in the loop of crime and degradation in the city almost as it happened—it was someone looking to get drunk or rich on the Times.

After the second ring sent a shockwave through his brain, from the frontal lobe to the lower cerebellum, he got pissed off and tore the receiver from its cradle.

Whoever this is better have a damned good reason for calling me this early in the morning, he yelled into the phone.

Whoa, it’s far too early for you to be in that foul of a mood, young man, but with you I guess anything’s possible.

It was the voice of King Shit Reynolds. Was this some kind of weird telepathic thing? At first he thought, what luck, now he didn’t have to phone him, he could just tell him now he was looking for a little time to gather his grey matter again. Then, he got annoyed. He was annoyed because he’d spent countless hours with Reynolds during the last several months briefing and re-briefing him on every aspect of the Taggart case. It had brought the two closer to each other than either of them would ever admit to, but it had also strained what was up to that point a respectful, yet tenuous relationship. And now that Taggart was finished, the fact he was getting a 7 a.m. phone call from his boss simply enraged him.

I’m not late, why I’m pissed off is none of your business and I will see you in a few hours, goodbye, Wainright replied.

Hang up that phone and my next call is to your best friend with the greatest story of this young but extremely cold winter, King Shit said with more than a little cockiness in his voice.

Wainright thought about hanging up just to show the King he controlled neither the entire universe, nor Max Wainright, but that cockiness it intrigued him. What the hell was he up to? Whatever else he was, King Shit was a newsman. He knew a good news story when he saw one and fought the good fight for editorial each time the advertising-publishing types wanted to increase the ed-ad mix to the delight of the bean counters and to the detriment of editorial. Wainright knew King Shit was different from most editors in the journalistic world because he knew that the news in newspapers meant news and not advertising with a few current events thrown haphazardly around it. He also knew the King would call Artie Heimer—the biggest nerd, geek-shit on the planet. Artie was under the sad impression there was a rivalry between the two of them. Wainright knew there wasn’t. But the King kept the threat of giving stories to Artie over his head just to keep him in line. Wainright hated it, but it was effective. Each time he mentioned Artie’s name, Wainright would flinch and feel that scratching nails on blackboard sound of irritation in his head.

You have two minutes to tell me what you’re up to, then I hang up and call The News for a job, which is something I should have done years ago. Wainright said.

You will never leave The Times, Wainright. You will be here, like me, until you die of old age with nothing to show for your life but a few awards and a blown-out liver, the King said.

You now have one minute, thirty seconds, Wainright said as he slunk further down on the couch while reaching for newspaper number three.

The thing of it is, the King said almost tentatively, there’s been a murder.

So what, there are murders in this city every day, why is this one so special?

You have just put your finger on it. Damn, you are good my boy, he said.

A minute ago you were just pissing me off, now you’re really starting to annoy me, Wainright answered. What the hell are you talking about? Better yet, I don’t give a shit; call Artie, better known to the world as your shadow. Call that boot-licking, ass kissing, pimply faced geek and see if I give a shit!

O.K., O.K., just settle down for a minute. You know I could hand this to Artie and he would take it and do a respectable job with it. But this is something I think needs more than just reporting, it needs some looking into, the King said with a decidedly different tone. Come on, Wainright, just let me pass along what I know right now, which isn’t much I might add.

To be honest Bob, I got in a little late last night. I just got off the boat, had a run in with Agnes and really want to spend some downtime with my papers. Added to all of that is the fact that I’m trying to get my head out of my ass, Wainright said, I’m just now starting to feel the effects of last night’s post-Taggart shindig at Pop’s.

And this is supposed to do what for me exactly? Am I supposed to be impressed, or am I supposed to feel sorry for you? Are you a newsman or aren’t you? Maybe I’m wasting your time and mine. You go back to your papers and let me deal with this myself, Reynolds said, knowing fully what the comment would do to his star reporter.

Alright, alright, give me the damn facts and let me get back to the relaxed and tranquil experience I was almost having this morning, Wainright said.

Sorry, that’s not the deal with this one, Max. You have to sit up right now and listen because this is bigger than you and it is definitely bigger than me, this paper, and maybe even the city, I’m sad to say. Don’t ask me why I know this, but it’s just the way this one went down. It feels like something that’s going to be around for awhile and I need your usual attention and commitment to this one, the King said with that serious tone Wainright immediately associated with a real news story.

Do I have your word that after I give you the skinny on this one that you’ll get yourself together within moments of hanging up the phone? the King asked somewhat more gently now.

Yes. You have my word, Wainright said.

First things first, King said. How’s your stomach?

Ah, what the hell, Reynolds, do you want x-rays too? Wainright asked.

No, but when you get where I am going to send you, you will need a strong stomach and maybe one of those airline barf bags.

Tell me, tell me the story and give me the details right now, King! Do it right now, do you understand the concept of right now? Do it now before I end this conversation with my resignation! Wainright yelled.

Jesus Christ, I’m just trying to prepare you a little bit, show some gratitude, Reynolds said with what Wainright thought was an almost caring, fatherly tone.

Alright, if you think you’re ready, here goes. But I am going to warn you, Wainright, I doubt if anything you’ve covered will prepare you for this, King Shit Reynolds said.

He was right.

III

The King started out by telling Wainright he had received a call from Sergeant William Wiltsie just moments before he made the call to him. The good Sergeant could usually be counted on to reach out to one or the other of them when something big was going down; and this was very big.

According to Wiltsie, there had indeed been a murder, but nothing like he had ever seen in his twenty-three years on the force. Apparently sometime during the early hours of the morning, someone had taken one of the city’s most infamous, most unsavoury characters and used his insides to redecorate the walls of a West Side apartment. The body was found after a neighbor complained to the superintendent about weird noises coming from inside the victim’s apartment.

The police were called after the super entered, concerned that the tenant might have had some misfortune befall him. He was right. According to neighbors, the super exited much quicker than he had entered yelling murder, murder, murder as he ran down the hallway.

Police and forensic units sealed the building tight shortly after arriving, with no one allowed to enter or exit. The apartment and the entire building were considered one big crime scene.

Now let me tell ya what Wiltsie told me, and by the way, hang on to your cookies, Reynolds