Empire State (4 page)

  But Rex's luck held. The bitch had taken a wrong turn down a dead alley. Rex smiled and stuck to the damp wall. Perfect.

  Although... Rex's smirk vanished. Shit. What if she had been looking for a quiet, empty spot to fight? No. She wasn't wearing the suit. Rex flexed his biceps under his trench coat. They were tight and he wasn't a small man. And without her fancy rockets and suit of armour she was a tiny broad. A tiny broad in high heels and a red dress.

  His smirk returned. Odd clothes to wear under the rocket armour. Rex laughed. Who knew what she got up to when off duty. Perhaps they
were
a set of working clothes. That wouldn't surprise him.

  Maybe she'd taken a knock to the head in the big fight and had concussion or some such, because coming back to the scene of the battle was a dumb move, lady, very dumb, especially after taking her helmet off in front of everyone. Now she was tottering around on those big heels, and she looked cold too, and frightened. But it was her. He'd taken a good, long look, imprinting her face in his memory. She was his meal ticket. He wasn't going to lose her now.

  Rex laughed. His head felt light. He peered down the alley, and saw she was still walking away, slower now. She seemed to be looking around, looking for a way out. This was it. He was about to "save" New York City, and after handing over the city's most wanted he'd have the mayor and police chief right in his pocket. McCabe would come
begging
and his illicit empire would be able to expand, unimpeded. With freedom to eliminate the competition, within a few months he'd be in control of the whole goddamn city. He could buy a new car and a new driver.

  He pinched the collar of his coat up, and pulled his hat back a little so the rim didn't obscure his vision. She was trapped like a rat.

  As he walked forward the clouds opened again, Mother Nature dumping her load on the already saturated city. He wondered how difficult it was going to be to kill a person with his bare hands. He'd shot people, of course, and in his younger days with McCabe he'd dealt out a variety of punishments with a selection of handheld weapons. But he was unarmed now. Jerome had insisted on being the triggerman and Rex had indulged him. He'd killed chickens and rabbits with nothing but his hands before, back on his uncle's farm upstate. He'd been a teenager and it was easy, and now he was twice the size and the bitch was tiny – a thin, fragile girl. He balled his wet fists, feeling the solidity of his knuckles under his tight skin. This was going to be a piece of cake.

  When the girl eventually stopped casing the alley and turned at the sound of Rex's footsteps, she actually looked relieved. Her shoulders slumped, and her chest heaved as if she exhaled a heavy sigh, which Rex couldn't hear past the steady patter of the rain. She took a few steps forwards and opened her arms out, like she was going to say something real important, and then stopped as she saw that Rex hadn't slowed. She stood for a second, her arms still sticking out sideways, and then took a step backwards. Her mouth pulled down at the corners and her lower lip quivered as she spoke.

  "Do you know the way back to Fifth and Soma? I'm not sure which way I've come. I just need to get home."

  Rex stopped, and held his arms straight against his sides. He tightened his fists, feeling the uneven trim of his nails dig into the fleshy pads at the base of each thumb. The rain skittered around the brim of his hat, and he could feel the liquid roll backwards as he tilted his head.

  He hadn't expected her to talk. He hadn't planned on her making any noise at all, as a matter of fact. Her face was small and while her mouth was wide, the palm of one of his large hands would practically cover her entire face.

  The girl took a half-step back again, getting both feet solidly underneath her. Her dress sure was damn short, and the heels were way too high. While it made her look taller and exaggerated the stretch of her legs, clutched together her knees were pushed forward like two ugly wrinkled grapefruit.

  "Please, I just need to get home," said the girl. She pushed her hair off her forehead with the heel of one hand, pulling the skin on her face tight as she did so. "Please, I have a headache, I just need to get home."

  Rex moved his head and the water in the brim of his hat finally reached bursting point and trickled over the edge and down in front of his face. He was taking too long. He had to quit thinking about it, and quit letting her gas on, and just do it, now, or it would be too late. It was like anything important. There was a moment, a brief alignment of the stars when the time was right; when that happened, if you were in the right place at the right time with the right idea, you could do anything. That's what his uncle had always told him, up at the farm. Anybody can do anything. Don't think, do. Rex hissed a breath out between clenched teeth and took a step forward.

  The girl seemed to stagger backwards, now with both hands rubbing her forehead. When she looked up, her eyes seemed to spin a little. She looked like she was going to faint.

  "Please, Fifth and Soma, which way is it?"

  Rex clicked his tongue. "Don't know what you're talking about, lady. Ain't never heard of no Soma Street. You really are lost."

  Dammit! This was part of it, now he was sure. She was a goddamn supervillain, and even without the stupid rocket suit, she was dangerous. She was playing him. The confusion, the conversation, it was all an act.

  Don't think,
do.

  Rex pushed off from the ground with the toes of his right foot, moving at something between a jog and a fast walk. He raised his fists, and swung back, and the girl dropped her hands. Before he could get a hand over her mouth like he wanted, she screamed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 
 

 

 
 

"WHAT KIND OF A NAME," asked the man in the gas mask, "is 'Rad', anyway?"

  Rad shuffled on the alley floor a little, trying to get more comfortable, when more comfortable meant a rectangular brick digging into his back instead of a triangular one. It was wet, and Rad was sitting in a puddle. He half-wondered how much the cleaning bill would be for his one and only good suit.

  "'Rad' is my kind of name, is what," said Rad. He didn't bother looking up at his assailants. The masks and hats were a great disguise. Kooky. Instead he stared ahead and dabbed at his bottom lip with a bloody handkerchief.

  The first goon's shoes moved into Rad's field of vision, black wingtips shining wetly in the cast-off from the streetlamp just around the lip of the alley. The rain had collected in the punch pattern on the shoes and each step threw a fine spray, some of which collected in the man's pinstripe turn-ups. Rad figured it was all part of the disguise, the unfashionable shoes, the unfashionable suits, the unfashionable gas masks. The name of some annual affair near the end of the year that was all about ghosts and candy and weird costumes itched at the back of Rad's mind, but he couldn't remember what it was and the thought slipped away as he tried to grasp it.

  The goon bent down and the gas mask came into view. Two circular goggles in a rubber face, single soup-can canister bobbing over where the mouth would be. The goon's voice was clear as a whistle despite the business that sat between his lips and Rad's ears, but echoed in the soup can like it was coming out of a radio set.

  "What do you know about nineteen fifty?"

  Rad pulled the handkerchief away and looked at it, then moved his jaw like he was chewing toffee. His teeth were all there, so he was happy. A fat lip he could live with. What he really wanted was a drink, something strong that you couldn't buy, not legally anyway. He tongued the inside of his lip and the pepper-copper taste of blood filled his mouth again. That wasn't what he had in mind.

  "That's the second time you've asked me that, pal," said Rad. "And for the second time I'm gonna say I don't know about nineteen fifty. If you're looking for street directions, then there are nicer ways of going about it."

  The gas mask disappeared upwards and Rad shook his head. He felt his own fedora shift against the brick wall behind him. At least he'd kept that on during the fight.

  Not that it had been much of a fight. One minute he was walking down Fifth, next an arm pulled him out of the light and into the alley, and after just one question a one-two landed with some success on his face, and he was sitting on the floor with a bruised tailbone and a wet backside and a cheekbone that alternated between needle-pain and numbness.

  They weren't after money. Once on the ground, the first goon – a tall wide no-neck, who seemed to be doing everything for the entertainment of his thin friend who just stood and watched in silence behind his black goggles – grabbed his wallet, and together the four glass eyes stared at his ID for a while before the card and wallet were returned to Rad's inside coat pocket. This was no mugging. It was planned, calculated. They were professionals. The fist responsible for Rad's aching face was on the end of a trained arm, and the crazy get-up wasn't something you could pick up downtown. They'd collared Rad for nineteen hundred and fifty somethings. Nineteen fifty what? His office was 434 West Fourteenth Street, 5-A. His home was 5-B. Rad ran through addresses, locations, places that people in unfashionable suits and strange masks might have an interest in. No dice.

  A hand under the armpit and Rad was on his feet again. The thin goon had his hands in his pockets and still hadn't moved. No-neck let go of Rad and pushed him against the wall, stepped back, and pulled a gun out of the holster underneath his trench coat. The alley was dark, but the streetlight was enough to glint off a buckle and a shiny leather strap before the trench coat was closed again. Body holster. Rad had always wanted one because it was professional, but professional was expensive and it would have meant attention from the city, and he tried to avoid that most times.

  The goon cocked the gun and then cocked his head to the side, like he was expecting something. Rad's eyes flicked from the rubber face to the gun and back, and he thought he got the point. The gun was a revolver, but the barrel was wide, as wide as the soup-can respirator but a little longer, like a gun for flares or something. Whatever it shot, Rad thought it would probably do the job given the hot end was being held six inches in front of his face.

  "Rad Bradley." There was a click from behind the gas mask and then a pause, like the goon was thinking something over. His friend still hadn't moved. Rad wondered if he was awake in there.

  Rad licked his split lip again. "You seem to have a real problem with my name."

  The gun's barrel crept forward an eighth of an inch. Rad kept his eyes on the glass portholes in the mask.

  "You must be from the other side of town," Rad continued. "You want directions to nineteen fifty-something avenue, why not ask a cop? There are plenty down on Fifth." He flicked his head towards the glowing opening of the alley. People walked by in the rain, the bright light of the main thoroughfare rendering the alley and the goons and the gun being pointed at the private detective completely invisible.

  Something blue and vaporous began curling out of the barrel. It made Rad's nose itch and he wondered what it was, given that the gun hadn't been fired yet. Over the goon's shoulder he saw the thin, silent partner suddenly fidget and turn to the right, looking deeper into the alley while his hands stayed in his pockets.

  The soup can in front of Rad's face wobbled as the goon with the gun titled his own head slightly in the same direction. His voice was hollow, flat, metallic.

  "What's wrong?"

  The alley was quiet, and Rad could hear the other goon's sharp intake of breath amplified by the echo chamber of his gas mask. Something else followed the gasp, the start of a shout, or maybe a warning, but it was cut off in mid-flow. A moment later the thin goon was on the alley floor, not far from where Rad had originally fallen, enveloped in something large and black and smooth.

  No-neck spun the strange gun around a clean arc, bringing it to bear on his fallen comrade and whatever was on him.

  "Grieves? Can you hear me?" was all he managed to say – before a gloved hand rocketed up, from the black mass on the alley floor, and caught the goon with the gun just under the chin. There was a gurgle but the gas mask held firm, although its wearer was lifted a clear foot into the air and held there by one hell of a strong arm.

  Rad backed himself along the rough brick of the wall, trying to keep his not insubstantial frame away from the new, violent arrival. The floored goon stayed floored, mask at a slight angle. Unconscious. The second recovered from his shock at being held up in the air with his legs swinging and lifted the fat-barrelled gun towards the face of his attacker. The trigger tightened and more of the blue smoke escaped the barrel, but it was knocked up and back by the free hand of the newcomer. There was a crack and the large gun arced towards Rad, bouncing off the wall. More sounds came from behind the soup can, a cry of surprise or pain, and then maybe something that was either an insult or a plea for help – Rad couldn't quite tell which, the goon was being strangled, after all – and then the attacker let go.

  The goon dropped to his feet, then his knees buckled and he toppled sideways. He lay there, clutching his nonexistent neck with both hands, head bobbing and wobbling the respirator as he desperately sucked city air past the filter.