When he opened the door, Chris Mazzucchelli greeted him with a smile and a raised eyebrow.
“Hey,” Joey said, faking pleasure and surprise. “Chris! How you doin’?”
“Fine, Joey. And you?” Mazzuccheli asked, walking into the apartment. “The wrists still bothering you?”
“They still hurt a little sometimes. The scar tissue’s all messed up with the nerves. But you know how it is.”
Mazzucchelli smiled and nodded to the door. Joey closed it, apologizing with a gesture. The apartment looked like hell and smelled like a cheap bar. He wished he’d gotten around to washing the dishes last night. It just didn’t look professional the way they were all stacked up in the sink. Mazzucchelli walked into the living room but didn’t sit. Joey stood respectfully back, crossing his arms and scratching absently at the recent pink flesh the size of a quarter on his right forearm.
“You’re not still on the pain stuff,” Mazzucchelli said.
“Nah. Not for weeks. Just some aspirin sometimes.”
“Good. I have a job for you, Joey.”
Joey tried to pull himself up a little taller and deepened his scowl, just so as Mazzucchelli knew he was taking it seriously.
“Someone interrupted a negotiation last night. They killed some of our men and the jokers we were doing business with. They also took the merchandise we were picking up and the money we’d taken to pay for it. Half a million dollar, untraceable, and suitcase of heroin.”
“Ah,” Joey said, nodding.
“You understand?”
“Sure,” he said shrugging. “Find ’em. Kill ’em. Get the stuff back.”
“How about you start with just looking around. Once we find it, we can worry about killing people.”
“Just look around. Check.”
“You’ve been out of action for a while, Joey. You think you’re up for this?”
“No trouble. None at all.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear. I’ll have Lapierre get in touch with you and…”
“Ah, c’mon boss. I don’t need some smart-ass college fucker hanging off of me. I got sources. I can do this.”
“You want to take this one by yourself?”
“Yeah. Look, if I find something, I’ll let you know. Don’t worry about before. The thing with Chrysalis and the arrow guy, that was a one-time thing. Never happen again.”
Mazzucchelli paused, then walked over and clapped him on the shoulder. “It’s good to have you back, Joey.”
“Thanks, boss.”
“Show some respect for yourself. Clean the place.”
“I will, boss.”
Mazzucchelli went out, closing the door behind him. Joey lumbered back to the couch and sat down heavily. He dug his hand into the cushions and came out with the rattling bottle of darvon. He popped two of the great big hot pink capsules into his hand even though his arms weren’t really aching much and swallowed them dry.
The pills seemed to lodge about halfway down his throat.
It just wasn’t starting off to be a good day.
The Crystal Palace always looked worse in the daylight. Darkness and neon suited it better. Demise slouched across the empty lot beside it, Phan Lo two steps behind him and to his left. The day was overcast, but Phan wore dark Blues Brothers sunglasses all the same.
“Danny Mao was pretty pissed off, eh?”
“It’s fine,” Demise said. “I told him it was your fault.”
Phan went silent for a moment, only the sound of their footsteps over the constant murmur of the city.
“You’re fucking with me, right?” Phan said.
“Look,” Demise said, sighing, “let’s just get the shit back and then it won’t matter what I said.”
Demise reached the service entrance and pushed his way into the darkness. The storeroom was filled with kegs of beer and crates and boxes of harder liquor. A violet-skinned joker with a wattle like a rooster bent over a wooden crate of wine bottles, counting on his fingers. When he looked up, his eyes met Demise’s briefly and a shock of pain appeared in the joker’s face, the wattle shriveling and turning gray at the edges.
“We need to talk to Chrysalis,” Demise said.
The joker turned and ran back into the building. Phan Lo strode forward and barked his shin on a crate.
“Take the shades off,” Demise said. “You look like an idiot.”
“Nah, man. I like ’em.”
“Look, I promise not to kill you…”
“What do you want?” a man’s voice demanded. Sascha, eyeless and frowning, walked toward them. Demise grimaced. Sascha always gave him the creeps.
“Where’s Chrysalis?”
“ India, I think,” Sascha said.
“Fuck, that’s right. She’s on that thing with Tachyon and the senator, isn’t she.”
“What do you want, Spector?” Sascha asked again.
“What does anyone ever want from Chrysalis? We need some information. And we can pay for it.”
Sascha’s expression seemed to change. He nodded.
“There’s about to be someone trying to unload about twenty-five pounds of uncut white heroin at fire-sale prices.”
“And you’re looking to buy?”
“No. We just need to talk with the seller.”
“Since when are you working with the Fist?”
“Ran into the Sleeper a while back. He pointed out they might be hiring. The seller I’m looking for is an independent, though,” he said. “Anything the Mafia’s going to get pissed about has already happened. You’ll be out of the crossfire.”
“Leave a number,” Sascha said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
Demise took a card out of his pocket and placed it silently on a wine rack, then nodded to Phan Lo and headed back out. A thin, cold rain misted down, and Demise turned his collar up against it.
“You must really hate that guy,” Phan said. “He’d be a pain in the ass for you to kill. You’d actually have to shoot him.”
“I’d manage.”
“All right now,” Father Henry said. “I just want you to listen here. Let me know what you think.”
The church was empty except for the two of them. Quasiman sat in the first pew, his misshapen back making him look like he was praying. Father Henry, leaning against the altar, cleared his throat, pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, and read from his notebook.