I stepped toward him. He retreated.
I reached for the rookie's name. It wasn't hard to find — old Mike here was shouting to him at the top of his imaginary lungs. I said, "C'mon, Owen, it's me — why don't you put that thing down, and we'll walk out of this together."
"But you — you attacked us!"
"I'm sorry. I wigged. I thought they were behind us. This is all just a big misunderstanding."
Owen looked incredulous. "You wigged?"
"That's right."
"You wigged and took out your team?"
"Look, it was an accident. I said I was sorry." Again I stepped closer. This time, he didn't back away. "Just put down the gun. I mean, you're not really going to shoot me…"
I took another step, made a play for the gun. Owen screamed and backed away.
The last thing I remembered was a flash of white light, and the thunder of gunfire.
And then falling.
And then nothing.
10
"All right, Mike. Why don't you walk me through this again?"
I was sitting chained to a table in a Tenth Precinct interrogation room. The fluorescent light overhead was making my head throb, and my chest was fucking killing me. Of course, it could've been worse — the way that rookie's hands were shaking, I'm lucky he didn't put a bullet in my head instead of my vest.
"I've been through this all a dozen times, lieu," I said, affecting a tone of weary resignation. "When we took the door, the room was quiet. I entered first. The gas was so thick, I couldn't see a goddamn thing. Something musta gone weird with my earpiece, 'cause I swore I heard movement behind me. I thought we'd been outflanked, and I panicked."
"You panicked."
"That's right."
The lieutenant gave me a look like I was something unpleasant he'd just stepped in. We'd been going around like this for hours, he and I. At first, I figured I could wait him out — after all, this particular meatsuit was a cop in good standing; they had no reason to suspect he was involved. But as the night wore on, it seemed less and less like they were just gonna cut me loose. Of course, I could've just pulled a little body-swap and left poor Mike sitting here while I walked right out the front door, but that plan came with a big fucking catch. See, a demon takes a body for a ride, all the vessel's left with is a blur of disconnected fragments and images; the demon's thoughts remain occluded. Me? I don't have that kind of power. Just one more reason I prefer the dead: I jump ship now and Mike starts singing. They'd mostly think he'd gone off his nut, I'm sure, but they'd probably send a couple cruisers to the park regardless. My guess is they'd have Kate in custody before I could get within ten blocks of her. So for now, at least, there was nothing I could do but wait.
"Listen, Flynn, I want to believe you, but honestly, I don't know what the fuck to think. I got a kid out there who swears up and down you turned around and popped your team just as cool as can be. I got a body on the scene that matches the description of the perp who marched the MacNeil girl out of the hospital two days ago, and I got a coroner who tells me he collected the same body damn near a week ago from the same goddamn apartment. I got a little girl who butchered her goddamn family slipping past the best-trained unit in the country. And in the middle of it all, I've got you, telling me it was all just a big fucking misunderstanding."
"So where does that leave us?" I said.
The lieutenant rubbed absently at the back of his neck, a pained look playing across his face. "I don't have a fucking clue. And I hope to God this shakes out your way, Mike, but until I get some answers, I'm afraid you ain't going anywhere."
The thing about a deal with the devil is you don't always know you've made one till it's too late. I'd like to think I didn't. Then again, looking back, I'm not sure knowing would've changed a thing.
I found Johnnie Morhaim on the corner of Franklin Avenue and Van Buren Street, shooting craps out on the sidewalk with a pack of drunks and kids. Every town's got a guy like Johnnie Morhaim: quick to smile with a temper to match, Johnnie had a hand in every bum racket and crooked deal from Edgewater to Rockaway Beach. I'd met him a few months before, when Elizabeth and I had just moved to New Brighton; he'd been putting a crew together for some job or another, and he'd heard I needed work. It didn't take me too much poking around to find I didn't want the kind of work he was offering, but he never seemed to get the message — every week or so he'd happen by and ask me how the hunt was going. Maybe I should've caught the twinkle in his eye, the swagger in his step when he stopped by. Maybe I should've realized the guy had juice, and if he wanted to keep me desperate, all he had to do was put out the word and not a soul in town would hire me. Maybe I should've seen the setup for what it was, but I swear to God I didn't. Nope, instead I cursed my lousy luck and hobbled my way right back to Johnnie, just like he knew I would.
Johnnie scooped the dice up off the sidewalk amidst a chorus of shouts and jeers, pausing just long enough to take a swig from the bottle of rye that sat brown-bagged between his knees. If anybody else saw him swap the dice for a pair within the bag, they sure as hell didn't let on.
"Johnnie," I called, "you got a minute?"
He never even looked at me. "Can it wait?"
"Not long."
He tossed the dice across the sun-bleached sidewalk. The crowd erupted. "Elevens again, boys! Guess today's my lucky day!" Johnnie snatched up the loaded dice and pocketed them in one swift motion. Another pull off the bottle and the straight dice came back out to play. He handed them to a kid on his right and rose stiffly to his feet. "Your roll, sport — me and Sammy got some business to discuss. And don't think I won't be back for my money, hear?"
We strolled down the street a ways, Johnnie strutting along like he owned the whole damn town, me limping just a couple steps behind. He fetched a cigarette from behind his ear and struck a match; I tapped a fresh one from my pack and lit it as well. "So, Sammy," he said, smiling, "any luck on the job front?"
"That's kind of why I'm here."
"Yeah? You reconsider my proposition?"
"I'm coming around."
"That girl of yours — how's she feelin'?"
There was no point lying — the answer was written all over my face. "Not good. Something's gotta give, and quick. You said you know a guy could use a little help?"
"That's right," Johnnie said. "He's gonna hafta meet you first, of course. A nice, upstanding fella like you is just the kind a guy he's lookin' for, though, so you don't got nothin' to worry about. Your old lady's gonna be just fine — you wait and see."
"Set up the meeting — I'll be there. Just tell me where and when."
For a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of black fire dancing in his eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it appeared. "All right, Sammy," he said, extending his hand to me. It hung in the air between us for a moment, and then I took it. His grip was cold and hard as stone. Johnnie shook my hand like we'd just concluded some high-powered business meeting, no trace of humor or irony in his eyes. "Looks like you got yourself a deal."
It turns out when was 3pm Tuesday. Where was Mulgheney's, a tacky little gin joint on the Upper East Side, just a block north of Midtown. Mulgheney's was the kind of place that sprung up three to a block across the whole city in the years after Repeal, all chrome and neon and drunken good cheer. Problem was, at Mulgheney's, the chrome was just a touch too gaudy, and the neon lights a hair too bright, their harsh glare revealing that what appeared to be drunken good cheer was a perhaps a little desperate, painted-on. The cumulative effect was a place too classy for the guys who worked the loading docks across the street, and too coarse for the moneyed set that populated the surrounding blocks. All of which sounded just about right for a cohort of Johnnie's.