Winter hit the metropolitan area just after the New Year. It didn’t bring the frosted, cosy feeling that I might have liked it to. I didn’t have a roaring fireplace; in fact there was little warmth other than the occasional baking heat that could be milked from my building’s aged radiator. I didn’t go out much; the snow put a damper on any notions I might have had to wander. What’s more, I feared that I already knew what was out there: Golems and Sirens. Nothing more.
There’s a cycle to life, a cruel twisting beast. The cycle starts with innocence, we all start with innocence. And it grabs you, you fall in love with life, lifted up by promises, set into the clouds with the entire lovely ball at your finger tips. The seduction is magical. Then one day, the magic ends. Jealousy, hatred, greed, want, rage-driven-by-lust, they screw or nail, shoot or stab, poison slowly or violently; their methods are as many and varied as they are themselves. But the end is always the same. The affair is over. The magic has gone. The sun has set. Say hello to disillusionment. You’ll know it when you meet it. It’s as low as life can be. The disillusionment fades but then the cycle is stuck. You can never be innocent again, nor should you wish to be, I’d rather bear my scars than deny their existence. Without some sort of rebirth, the cycle isn’t a cycle; it’s a slide that drops you off in Hell. But what is a man to do? His love affair with life has come to a standstill. He can’t be innocent, so what can he be? The disillusioned soul must decide, must choose.
It all happened so suddenly. I hadn’t worked, hadn’t interacted with people, well, besides the Internet. I was living a hermit’s life. George’s parting gift, that three grand, was almost gone. After rent and bills, no amount of solitude will make money stay in the bank. I was at the store. It all seems so cliché. We hadn’t seen each other in almost a year and a half. She was one of Nicole’s friends, we’d met at a party that Nicole had drug me to. Her name was Alexandra, though she insisted on being called “Lexi.” Bumping into her at the supermarket had set off a conversation. She asked me what I’d been up to, I told her living a life of adventure. We both laughed. Then, next, we both went to dinner. It was wonderful.
Old Sammy
Townsquare Shopping Centre
1235 AM EST
Jules simply couldn’t think of a better place to meet. He was on the East coast for Susan’s party and he’d stuck around for a few days longer on a hunch. The
Brian Corbin. Joanna. Those West coast twits might be buying into it, but not Jules. Sure. The connection was there. He’d heard the tape. Brian knew of “Joanna” but then he knew for the same reason that Jules did. They were in the same group; they were co-conspirators. Jules crushed the cigarette despite it only being half-smoked and as a fresh one rested between his lips he glared anxiously at his watch.
Nathan’s wheelchair rolled noiselessly. He passed almost as a ghost, drifting amongst the ultra-urbane underbelly of the Townsquare Beast. He arrived right on time, a quarter till one. Jules was leaning impatiently against a large cardboard box, a pile of half-smoked cigarettes on the ground beside him.
“What’s eating you, Jules? You’re looking like hell, a first for a Siren, I’m certain.” The Siren, who brought his cigarette away from his lips, greeted the barb with a weak smile. The burning ember lay cupped in his hand, dangling down, away from where it would do him any good.
“Where’s Sammy at, Nathan?”
“Why?” Nathan didn’t like the Siren’s tone, his posture. It drove the spike of mistrust into the crippled Golem.
“There’s a strong rumour circulating on the West coast, and it’s even reaching its way over here, that Brian Corbin is ‘Joanna’.”
“Is that even possible?”
“Yes. No. Were Joanna just to exist behind a mask of telecommunications, than yes. Sick old men do it to kids everyday on the Internet. Voices can be changed on the phone with the greatest of ease.” Jules pulled on that cigarette, knocking off the ash in a grey snow shower.
“But?”
“But,” Jules took Nathan’s cue. “But, ‘Joanna’ doesn’t just exist in that way. She met with George Pruent. Sammy was present. Frankly, Nathan, I need his help.”
It certainly wasn’t the train of events that Nathan Wilde had expected. The Golem’s white eyes, looked away, seemed to look inward for a moment as it was his turn for contemplation. Despite all of his preaching for peace, trust, unity, he was wondering just how much to trust the Siren with his only remaining friend.
“I’ll talk to him.” As long as Nathan kept himself in the middle he was still in the loop. It was the loop that kept Nathan going.
The banks of the
Mathew Marques could be seen from a great distance as he made his way down the lonely riverside. His Italian leather shoes clicked against the cobblestones, as he too advanced with his hands thrust into the pockets of a dark overcoat. The wind seemed to whirl against the wordless meeting. Marques barely paused before the Duke, before his Duke. Rather, the Duke fell in beside Marques and the pair moved further into the city.
“56 rue Tiquetome.” The first words spoken between the pair were not to the Duke, but rather from Marques to the driver of a hailed cab. With the pair inside, the little sedan slipped off into the Parisian depths.
For those with the need to know and the resources to find out, near the men’s store, Anthony Peto, there is a small café, a café which is owned by and almost exclusively frequented by the Hatter’s Guild. This café, safe to assume one of dozens in the city, was the third one of its sort that the Duke had been brought to.
The interior was dark, musty, and had a strong scent of opium and incense. The handfuls of present Guild members were lounging about, some in soft chairs, others along settees, a few gathered about a large brass censer. A sharp faced fellow with long dark hair, small round glasses, and a beard stylish a century ago, removed his top hat and bid the Duke to enter.
“Come in. Come in. He motioned with a hand holding a milky white and green drink. His name was Hector.
The door was shut behind the Duke as he entered the room and it grew exponentially darker. The air inside quickly took on a stale taste, the taste of being trapped. The faint candles gave the room an even more morbid look.
His face deepened with shadows, Hector motioned for Danilo to take a seat opposite him. “Care for a drink?” Long fingers, thin, cruel, yet unarguably Siren, motioned towards a bottle. Danilo didn’t have to see the label to know it was Deva Absenta. Danilo was steel. Cold. Unprejudiced. Certain. His hand barely moved, motioning he’d abstain.
“Fine.” Hector acted a bit hurt, but he quickly overcame his feelings of rejection. “How goes your ‘enforced civility’?”
“It goes.”
“There are a few spots that it hasn’t neared yet.” Hector paused, and in that long second, he took a draw from his drink. Danilo didn’t speak. “The music industry. The literary world. We wish to ponder both of these.” Danilo didn’t blink despite the oily smoke that seemed to cloud the room. He could see where they were going with this. It was plain as day.
“And is it the Hatter’s Guild that recommends these?”
A flash of anger caught at Hector’s mouth. His lip curled up and a vicious tooth shown through. Danilo was beginning to feel light. The tooth, it seemed to haunt him.
“Yes. The Hatter’s Guild. Are you certain you won’t entertain a drink?”
“No. I’ve got a great deal of business to attend to. I actually must be leaving.” Danilo rose to his feet and set his deep crimson scarf about his neck.
“You’ve one more piece of business here.”
Danilo turned towards Hector’s voice, turned and inhaled. The smoke that was so thick along the low ceiling filled lungs that absolutely screamed for oxygen. Danilo’s legs seemed to turn to feathers.
“The one who calls herself ‘Joanna,’ find her.”
Danilo turned away from Hector’s order, turned still holding onto his steel. He slipped out into the Parisian evening. He’d been in that room for far longer than he’d intended to. It was almost
The apartment wasn’t large by any means, and calling it clean could be considered a lie, but the location was perfect and it was on the government’s tab.
“Fucking bureaucrats.” Ben Washkowiak apparently shared
“Easy Ben.”
“We know this guy is dirty. Why can’t we go over there now, kick his door in, grab the bastard and just get this done with? I mean, instead we’ve gone to all this trouble, spent all this fucking money, and now we’re going to sit here and watch every move he makes, hoping that he slips up, so we can run to some judge somewhere and then, hope he hasn’t ran?”
“Don’t you think it’s about lunch time?”
“Closer to beer-thirty.”
“Not on a stake out. You know the rules.
“Yeah, QRF status, no alcohol, no straying for more than two hours, yada, yada, friggen yada.” Ben put both hands low on his hips and turned away from Bach; the team leader just let the sarcasm slide, he was used to it by now.
“Coffeepot’s here.” Smitty announced as he and Wetmore came in, Tim with the white coffeemaker and Denny with arms full of brown paper grocery bags.
“We see where your priorities are Timmy.” Ben turned back towards the doorway, once again facing everyone in the room.
“Hey, you wanna do a stakeout without coffee?”
“Easy, Smith.”
“I’m just saying…” Tim mumbled to himself as he set up the coffeepot.
“I haven’t checked it out yet, what do we got on this guy?” Denny Wetmore took to leaning against the table, his arms crossed across his chest.
“Not much. The guy’s never so much as had a speeding ticket. He went to college here,
“Price and Rudisill come on at
“They should. Ramos too.”
“Good, because I’m starved.”
“Denny and I found a really good dinner about two blocks from here.”
“They serve you vegetarians there?”
“Everyone’s gotta be cracking on the Jew.”
“They do. Smitty’s right though. It was pretty good.” Denny frowned indifferently and looked away. “I’m up for lunch myself actually.”
“Good. Think we can split for lunch, sir?” Ben looked over at Bach; the team leader’s handsome dark face pursed its lips and nodded.
“I think I can hold the fort down ‘till the
Ben, Tim, and Denny grabbed up long coats and slipped out into the Capital winter.
* * *
“Man, I forgot how much of a pain in the ass these six hour shifts can be.” Denny exhaled as he leaned back into the seat, his arm strung out onto the empty chair next to him.
“They’re only four during the night,” Timmy was quick to point out as he pushed a potato chunk about on his plate with a fork.
“Doesn’t seem like ‘only four.’ Jeez, I can’t remember the last fucking time I was on a stakeout feels like it’s been forever.” Ben grumbled out as he reached back and stretched, barely stifling a yawn.
“I know. Last night lasted forever. Too bad we didn’t have the wiretap on then. That guy had a pretty long phone call and I couldn’t really pick up who was on the other end with the audio scanner.”
“Think this guy’s got a chick?”
“If he does, I’m gonna kill myself. He doesn’t even leave the house.”
The other two laughed at Tim’s comment. Tim just sort of smiled.
“I dunno. If he doesn’t leave the house it seems like we’re going to be here forever before we get some reasonable suspicion.”
“Yeah.” Denny looked up a bit as his attention shifted to Ben. “I heard you go off on Bach about that, man. What brought that about?”
“Just frustrated I guess. This whole thing should be over and done with. Stupid red tape and rules get in the way and slow everything down.”
“You miss your girl don’t you?”
Ben looked at Tim with a hard glare, and then replied with heavy, blunt sarcasm.
“Yes…”
They all got a chuckle out the relative absurdity and Denny shifted, slouching and putting his hand on the side of forehead, his elbow on the table.
“I hear that. I haven’t seen mine in, damn, since we went to
“You guys can shut up now.” Tim, single at the moment, was not too into the whole significant other conversation.
Susan White didn’t want to go to this meeting. She didn’t want to know who was on the other side of that door. All too often Susan considered herself part of the
The room was relatively bright, it was sunny in the city and Susan had almost forgotten that this meeting room was in a corner office and flanked floor to ceiling in glass. The figure at the table sat silhouetted, backlit by that devastating light, but he didn’t sit for long. As the door opened and Susan, dressed nicely in a “Don’t Fuck With Me” suit, entered the room, the darkened figure came to his feet. Both of his hands rested on his hips. Susan was not amused.
“Susan White.” She held out her hand. Do not smack him. Keep your cool.
“Bernard Schrer.” His accent sounded German, perhaps Danish.
“Is this your first time in
“Yes. I’ve always wanted to come here.” His English was well enough, though Susan decided that he was definitely Danish.
“Well,” Susan couldn’t help it; he was in her territory. “Let me explain the ground rules of joining a major American corporation. You do what I say. You play by my rules.” She paused and watched for a reaction but the sun made Bernard look like stone.
“Let me explain to you what I am here for.”
“You’re already stepping in the wrong direction,” Susan was quick to cut him off. This Siren was angry. “You’re in ‘my’ company now. You do as I say or I fire you.” Bernard shifted as if he was going to speak again. Susan didn’t let him. “You’re all alone here. Fuck with me and you’ve got no one to watch your back.” She was burning any bridges she might have had in the
He was a Siren who screamed
“Mathew. Please show Mr. Schrer to his office.” As her finger let go of the button and the circuit clicked closed, Susan smiled at Bernard. “I hope you enjoy your time here. Americans aren’t all bad. You just have to learn your place, start at the ground up.” Susan was having one of those days.
Sammy looked at the clock and then at the television and completed his visual circuit with his eyes landing once again on the phone. It was Friday night. Was she going to be free? Things had seemed to go well enough the other night when they had had dinner and they’d talked a handful of times since then. Lord, don’t let me blow this. She should be off by now. She had to be. Sammy reached for the phone and with his throat dry, choked; he dialled and then placed the phone to his ear. It was ringing, her phone was ringing. On the third ring it was picked up.
“Hello?” The voice was sweet, southern, a
“Lexi?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“It’s Sammy, Samuel Banks.”
“Oh, hey Sammy. How are you?” Her voice drove him nuts, he could feel his pulse starting to fluctuate.
“I’m good. Hey, are you busy tonight?”
“I-,” Sammy prayed while she paused, he offered God anything for her to be free. “Actually, I think I am.” Sammy’s heart leaped into his throat. “Do you want to do something? It’s Friday night isn’t it?”
* * *
“Kill yourself Tim. He’s got a girl.” Denny tossed Smitty a grin as he turned away from the audio/visual centre.
“Fuck you Denny.”
There was a slight bit of snickering but Bach ceased that with a wave of his hand. This could be important. His man was about to move.
“…Great. I’ll hop on the red line and meet you there.”
There it was, a plan of action. Old Sammy had said it himself.
“Wake everyone up. I need four to go to
Ramos, Washkowiak, Price, and Rudisill were being sent ahead to
“Keep the fort down.”
“Let’s do this shit. See you in
It was another four and a half minutes before Samuel Banks came out the front door.
* * *
Sammy was rushing as fast as he could about his tiny apartment. He’d been dressed for hours now, but he still double checked everything, even making sure that he had forty dollars in cash on him and a Metro card with at least ten on it. He was going to be damn near broke after this. With a final splash of cologne he was out the door and into the cold metropolitan night.
The subway wasn’t far from here, two blocks up, one block over and that would put him on the Blue Line. From there it wasn’t but a stop to the Red and then he was basically there. Sammy cut up the street, his hands deep in the pockets of an old wool great coat his footsteps quick, decided, and with a joy that was not even attempted to be masked.
The suspect, Sammy, was moving at a near run, and that was going to make inconspicuously following him a chore. Why didn’t we get a dog for something like this? Walking a dog would be a viable cover. There wasn’t much traffic out, it was Friday evening, but Bach didn’t like to rely on that, he didn’t like uncertainty. Damn it was cold, Bach could see his breath and was aware of how quick his footsteps sounded as they echoed back off of the leaning brick facades of the urban landscape.
The subway station was bright. It was a haven of flickering fluorescent lighting down a long escalator. It was cold down there, but Sammy wasn’t noticing that yet, perhaps it was the slight sting of his cologne that kept him warm, perhaps it was the thoughts of going out tonight. He was completely oblivious as he slid his metro card into the turnstile and hurried down towards the tracks. Bach loomed behind him. The tall black man was keeping his distance, trying not to alert his quarry but he didn’t want to seem obvious, and yet it was so palpable.
The cold slipped over Bach’s shoulders like the creeping skeletal hands of Death. He patted himself down and looked around mutely. He didn’t have a metro card on him. Looking up he saw with fear the flickering lights along the tracks below. A train was coming. The westbound train was coming. Ahead of him, Sammy’s head was disappearing slowly, gradually, smoothly down the escalator. Time, as the cliché goes, was of the essence. Bach had to act. Strong hands met the cold steel of the turnstile and Bach leaped over it. From inside her booth, the Metro attendant violently disagreed with his actions. Bach pulled a clear wallet from inside his coat.
“Federal Agent.” He mouthed the words at the attendant, though it didn’t seem to do much to calm her, and he waved the badge all along. Trying as best he could not to run, but doing his damnedest to keep his eye on the suspect, Warren Bach took the escalator two steps at a time. The westbound train was stopped dead and the suspect had entered it. Second car. Bach hurried, keeping an eye on that car. The seconds seemed to drip by. This guy was good. He had planned this perfectly. Bach wasn’t going to make it. One hand reached for his radio as the other reached, stretched for the door. There he was, there was the one they call “Old Sammy.”
Sammy had seen the guy rushing towards the train. He didn’t think anyone should have to wait for the next train on a Friday night. Sammy’s mood was dominated by the impending date, just a drink, nothing to serious, but it was with Lexi. That made all the difference in the world. It was with Lexi. That word kept repeating in his mind. Lexi…Lexi…Lexi…
The suspect’s hand caught the door and Bach was able to get on the train.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
* * *
Nathan Wilde wasn’t a Golem who was prone to react to gut instinct. He was a thinker. He lived by reason. Tonight though, tonight something was the matter and it was ticking in his stomach with such conviction that he couldn’t let it go.
“I need to talk to Sammy anyway.” The words might have been a cover, Nathan knew that you tell most lies to yourself, but they were comforting now. Whatever gets you to sleep at night. It was a business phrase, generally it related to lies told to live with actions that no man could be proud of, but now it was fitting. Nathan was bothered. Nathan wheeled himself down the street, it was quiet and he was going to have to go in the back of the building, which meant that he would have to take the long way around. He’d better be right about this, damn his gut feelings, damn that moral compass.
“Who’s the guy in the wheelchair?” Tim was paused at the monitor, his cup of coffee resting comfortably in his hand.
“Dunno. Take his picture so we can get an I.D. on him.”
“Got that and video. Wait. He’s stopping.”
Nathan could feel it, that sick feeling in his stomach had suddenly gotten much worse. This wasn’t right. He’d had this feeling before, when he’d been set up by Pruent, and once before that, a rainy night in
“Do you think that was important?”
“It was hard to tell behind those sunglasses, but I think he looked directly at us.” Denny turned towards the printer where the photo was coming up.
“Weird.”
* * *
The bar was wonderfully smoky, not that Sammy smoked, but right now his arm could have been on fire and he wouldn’t have minded. Her hair was short, almost conservative and what could have been expected in the
“You owe me, I broke a date with my girlfriends for this.”
“Oh? What exactly do I owe you?” Sammy asked as he slid onto the stool.
“At least another drink and a movie.”
“Alright, but since I’m paying, I’m picking.”
“But, if it’s bad. I’ll never forgive you.”
“I’d expect no less. What are you having to drink?”
Location Undisclosed
George Pruent had been hiding out for sometime now. He wasn’t sure that even the Golem Elders knew where he was. He hoped they didn’t. George Pruent wasn’t on anyone’s good list: not the Golems’, not the Sirens’, not the FBI’s. How did they find out about him? George was too spaced to know. How long had he been lying low for now? How much longer did he have to go? He wasn’t risking too much now. He’d fallen back onto a bank account that he’d been squirreling away for years now. It was a strictly numbers only account, and not even the Golem Council knew about it. Nathan had one, George was certain of that, and he was fairly certain that everyone who played this game did as well. But money wasn’t what he had on his mind now, no, money was one thing that George Pruent didn’t have to worry about. George Pruent was going through something similar to cabin fever. He was alone in the world, imprisoned in his own dreary
The message was short; the message was simple. All it said was, “I need your help,” and was signed Jules McCleary.
The sun was streaming through the long vertical blinds and painted a strange set of shadows across Brian Corbin’s bedroom. He didn’t want to face the light. His pulse was weak. His body was sluggish. And be damned if he didn’t have a headache. It was all too much. Joanna. He hated the name. Joanna. He hated the rumours. Joanna. He hated the lies. His room was a wreck. He was a train wreck. This was destroying him. He’d never been that good at these games. He never really knew the rules, they were there and they’d change. He was too blunt. Brash. And now this. It didn’t make sense. He knew that. Joanna was a woman. Anyone who had been in on the little conspiracy knew that. Trapped. Brian Corbin was now trapped. He’d reached too far and fallen short, he’d fallen far, he was still falling. How hard would hitting the bottom be? All he ever wanted to do was get things right.
The self-loathing and pity permeated the room with the sickly sweet scent of the hung-over Siren. He lay on his bed half in and half out of a sheet. He was in sad shape. Brian Corbin needed a shower and a shave, someone to pick him up and drag him from the horrid rumours that had buried him. Siren’s take rumours to heart. They were caged wolves and they were looking for their scapegoat. Joanna had done this to them. Joanna had Ken Morrison killed. Joanna was the cause of “enforced civility.” Joanna was the enemy. And they thought he was she. He was she. It was absurd. But that didn’t mean they didn’t believe it. Oh they believed it. The death threats had been rolling in for a few days now, and they were getting more and more blunt.
At first he had attempted to just blow it all off. It was nothing. It was bullshit. How could he be Joanna? And then he’d tried to educate people, the little that he could explain. Joanna was a woman. How did he know? And then the knowledge of the conspiracy, the catch 22 of the situation stopped his argument in its tracks. Because we were co-conspirators? That would go over like a lead balloon. And that’s where the frustration came in. Brian had locked himself in his room for days now. The rest of the world could off and die. It would make his life easier. But that didn’t stop the threats. That flood was coming and Brian was wondering if he could still swim in anything save alcohol.
“Lunch’s over boys. Now it’s time to get down to business.” Bach had his no-nonsense tie on. He loomed over the table in the tiny apartment, loomed over a spread of photos and blueprints. The eyes of the entire team locked on him. “We’ve been staking this guy out for a long time and what do we have?”
Bach’s question was met with silent stares from around the table.
“Not a goddamn thing.” Bach paused and turned away from the table. With his back to his team he continued to speak. “We know this guy has a girlfriend. We checked her out. She has to be the most perfect person in this city. She doesn’t lie. She doesn’t cheat. She gives to charity and is honest on her taxes. We’ve seen people come and go to this guy’s building, but no one ever goes to his apartment. He never leaves except to see his girlfriend. And who the hell is this guy in the wheelchair?”
“He’s a friggen’ ghost.” The voice drifted from over Bach’s shoulder. It sounded like Ben.
“That’s not going to cut it. I want a name. People just don’t show up on the face of the planet like that. Check Interpol. Call the Mossad. Call whomever you need to. Get an ID on this guy.”
In the back of the room the telephone rang and the lights on the recorder flickered to life. Sammy was getting a call.
“Sammy?”
“Na-,”
“Don’t use my name. Don’t even say a word.” There was a pause on the line and then the unnamed caller continued. “I’m sure that you’ve attempted to trace this call by now and I wish you luck on that. But aside from that I want to answers. Why are you staking out Samuel Banks’ apartment?” Sammy scoffed on his end of the line. He’d been holding back but the moment caught him.
“Staking out?”
“Sammy, please. This is to the F.B.I., we need to arrange a meeting.”
Bach’s hand grabbed the phone from the base. He hadn’t realized that he’d gone over to the phone. The realization of the absolute absurdity of the situation had left him in a daze.
“Who is this?” Bach’s voice sounded distant, removed, and brutally foreign as he forced his way into the phone conversation.
“I’m the man in the wheelchair. Now your turn, who is this?”
“Special Agent Warren Bach, F.B.I.”
The click told Bach that the man in the wheelchair was gone.
“Hello?” Sammy’s voice echoed into nothingness as Bach placed the handset back onto the cradle. “Hello?”
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