The Blue Blazes (9 page)

“This must be her last play,” the Boss says. “Last-ditch effort. And it’s a fucking doozy. I’m dying. And my only heir is…” His voice cracks. He looks away. “I need some air.” Haversham tries to hand him the oxygen mask but the Boss waves it away, says, “Leave the tank. I need some
real
air. You two. Come on. Let’s go outside.”

 

Outside, the Boss lights a cigarette. Takes a deep inhale. Coughs like he swallowed fiberglass insulation. But then the coughs abate.

“Haven’t smoked in fifteen fucking years,” the Boss says. “And tonight I had a nic-fit like you wouldn’t believe.” He looks up, scowls at Mookie and Werth. “What? Not like it’s going to give me
more
cancer, Christ.”

People pass by. A few stares reserved for this motley crew – giant dude, cancer man, crippled old goat. The Boss spits a nit of nicotine out of his mouth.

“You two are gonna handle this,” he says.

“We need
everybody
on this–” Werth starts to say, but Mookie interrupts:

“We can handle it.”

“This is about our
Southern
business,” the Boss says. That’s what he calls their dealings with the Deep Downstairs.
Southern business
. “She’s been coming at us from that end all year. And the shit that she did to Casimir’s body…” He coughs into a handkerchief which comes away flecked with red. “That’s ritual. You wanna just kill a guy, you shoot him in the head. This means something. Find her. Figure it out.”

“You got it,” Werth says.

“Done,” Mookie says, his blood gone to slush.

 

9

 

The Five Occulted Pigments: Cerulean, as discussed. Then: Vermilion, or the Red Rage; Viridian, the Green Grave; Ochre, the Golden Gate; and Caput Mortuum, the Violet Void – or simply, “The Dead Head”. Most claim that these are a myth, but I do not believe it so. I have heard the gobbos in their gutter-tongue – yes, I’ve learned some of their words and sounds and crass gesticulations – speak of the other Pigments in reverent tones. We will not find the other four here in the Shallows, I suspect. But rather, they must exist in the Fathomless Tangle – or below that, in the Ravenous Expanse.

– from the Journals of John Atticus Oakes, Cartographer of the Great Below

 

Outside the front door, Mookie starts to speak. But Werth pulls him away from the door and strides away. It’s a half-a-block up before Werth finally stops, steps into an alcove between two brownstones, and wheels on Mookie.

The old goat is seething. Caprine nostrils flaring.

“Werth–”

“Don’t you fuckin’ start, Mook.
Don’t
.”

“I didn’t know–”

“That was her, wasn’t it? At your place the other night. When I called, she was there.” Mookie gnaws a thumbnail, but Werth grabs the hand and yanks it out of Mookie’s mouth. “Look at me and don’t lie. Why’d she come see you?”

“She knew the Boss was sick.”

“What?”

“I dunno how. And then she said…”
Don’t tell him, he doesn’t need to know
. But Mookie hears the words coming out of his mouth: “Something was coming. Something… big. A game-changer.” He neglects to say
she
was the one who promised to change the game. He reserves that much loyalty for her.

Werth snarls. “Mookie. This whole thing,
this whole fucking thing
, is on you. I told you to deal with her. I gave you a good length of leash on this one, didn’t I? I didn’t tell Haversham or the Boss how you were connected to her. I didn’t go after her myself
even after the little cunt–
”

Mookie’s hand closes around Werth’s throat.

“–
shot me–
” Werth gurgles.

Mookie starts to squeeze.

The blood rushes to Werth’s head, stays there like he’s tying off a water balloon. Mookie feels something jabbing him in the ribs–

A .38 snubnose. Nickel-plated.

Mookie doesn’t care. Keeps squeezing.

Hammer back on the gun.
Click
.

“Say you’re sorry,” Mookie growls.

“Ggggfffuck you.” Then: “KkkaaaaI’ll shhhhooooot.”

“
Apologize
.”

The gun barrel digs harder between Mookie’s ribs. People are passing by, now – a Botoxed cougar with her boy-toy and her Yorkie, an old man with a newspaper under his arm. They see what’s going on and hurry past.

The gun presses harder. The sights biting into his side.

Finally, Werth says, “
Zzzhhhhsssoooorry.
”

Mookie lets go. The old goat takes in a big gulp of breath, quickly pockets the gun.

“You…”
Gasp, wheeze, cough
. “You fuckin’ asshole. Jesus, Mook.”

“You’re talking about my daughter.”

“Your daughter
shot
me. And now she’s gone and killed the Boss’s grandson.”

“No.” Mookie shakes his head like a man in denial. “She… she didn’t. That kid was mashed into the floor like a stepped-on banana. She’s just a little girl.”

“Maybe she had help.”

“From who?”

“Maybe from
you
.”

Mookie feels like he’s been shot in the heart. “You… you know I’d never–”

With a roll of his eyes Werth says, “Yeah, yeah, you’re loyal, I know. You’re like a dumb dog. I know you didn’t do this. But it sure matches your… style of doing business.”

“He seemed like an all right kid.”

“Well, now he’s dead thanks to
your
kid. Don’t gimme that look. Let’s say she
didn’t
do it. Doesn’t matter. We’re on the hook for this. Because if we don’t find her? They’re gonna send someone else. Maybe they already have. Like those two thugs, Spall and Lutkevich.”

Those assholes. Two of the Organization’s killers. But they’re not precision men. They’re messy. Spray-and-pray types. They don’t do sniper rifles – they do a hand grenade chucked into an open room, even if that open room is a church or a pre-school.

“I’ll find her,” Mookie says.

“
We’ll
find her. Split up.”

“Don’t kill her.”

“That’s what’s gotta be done, Mook. It’s time.”

“Just… bring her in. To me. Let me deal with her.” A voice asks:
can you do it? Can you kill your own daughter?
He knows he can’t. He’s had the chance. But something has to be done. Another voice:
She didn’t do this. Bad as she is, she didn’t do this…
“You owe me that much. I’ve done the work. I’m good.”

“Owe you. Yeah. Fine. I’ll call you if I find her. And if you find her? I wanna know about it. You hear me?” Mookie nods. “Don’t fuck this up, Pearl. Even those big motherfucking shoulders of yours may not be able to hold the weight of all this.”

 

Mookie heads toward the subway, hands shaking. Trying to picture Nora doing what she did – envisioning her smashing Casimir Zoladski’s head into the floor, cutting open his shirt, slicing into his back. Then the rite with the marigolds, the chocolate, the liquor.

Doesn’t add up. Can’t be her. She’s not that strong. She’s a little thing. A fraction of his size – if he’s the whiskey bottle, she’s the shot glass. The strength it would take to pulp the kid’s face against that marble, it’d have to be – well, either him or a Trogbody, because those rock-bodied sonofabitches are strong. Even someone burning the Blue Blazes candle at both ends would have a hard time making that kind of a mess. So Mookie decides. No. His daughter is not a murderer.

But Werth’s right. Everyone else is going to think it’s her.

And if they find out she’s his daughter, they’re going to think he helped.

As he walks, Mookie’s thinking about where to go, how to find Nora.
Persephone
. He hates that name.
Daddy-o
. That’s what she called him, wasn’t it? Back there at the bar. That means she really has been hanging out with the Get-Em-Girls.

So that’s the first place he needs to look.

Which means–

It’s then that Mookie sees something as he heads back past the Boss’ place.

A Lexus. The color of liquid pearl. It sits, parked across the street.

It’s dark out but there’s a streetlight above–

And in that car, Mookie sees a familiar face. The man from this morning. Candlefly, that’s what Haversham called him. The one traveling with the Snakeface.

Correction: the Snakeface
killer
.

Killer. Assassin. Like so many Snakefaces. Seducers of mind, body, soul.

Life-eaters, all of them.

Casimir was at that meeting.

Mookie feels his fists ball up and he steps into the street – a coming taxi honks its horn at him and slams on the brakes, but Mookie doesn’t give a shit. As he passes, he punches out one of the cab’s headlights and keeps walking, bits of clear plastic falling off his knuckles.

Suddenly the Lexus lurches forward, headlights flicking on – it zips out of the parking space into the street. It takes off, and Mookie gives stomping chase. Behind him, the cab driver is out of the car – a fat white guy with flabby jowls. He’s flailing his hands and yelling and pointing at the front of the car, but Mookie doesn’t care. He just skids to a halt, watching the red demon eyes of the Lexus taillights turn the corner at Park and disappear.

“You better run,” he says.
And if I find out that you had anything to do with Casimir’s murder, I’m going to punch you into a greasy pudding.
 

 

Karyn’s isn’t called Karyn’s, though that’s how Mookie thinks of it. She calls her place “Mackie Messer’s” – but despite the name and how she looks it’s not particularly hip or upscale. It’s a butcher shop. Everything white. White counter, white floor. Glass case showing the cuts of the day. Couple meat scales. Grinders and other equipment in the back. Freezer, too. Basic stuff, but from that comes what Mookie considers to be the
real
magic: cuts of meat from heritage breeds of pig and cow, duck and chicken, some of which Karyn turns into charcuterie: sausage, salumi, lardo, pate, all crafted with an expert hand and an eerie patience. Karyn is cool like that.

She’s so cool, in fact, that when Mookie calls her at 2:30 in the morning, she’s still awake. “Making a brine,” she says. And the good news is, she’s in the Chelsea shop, not in the bigger Park Slope venue.

He asks her if he can stop by. She says yeah.

He hates that he needs her for this, but he does.

Subway, then. To Chelsea. To Mackie Messer’s.

Karyn lets Mookie in. She’s a sight for sore eyes. White apron flecked with red hanging over a black bra. Pale skin inked with the sigils of a cook’s life: a skull with a knife in its teeth on the back of her neck, a garlic bulb on the left shoulder, a giant pig’s head with an apple in its mouth (and a worm poking out of the apple) covering the right shoulder all the way down to the bicep. Black punky hair in a red handkerchief.

Lipstick the color of wet cherries.

She’s beautiful to him. Not in
that
way. She’s gay as the day is blue – or as she puts it, “Queer as a three-dollar bill” – and he knows she’d never go for him. But she’s got power. Strength. Knowledge. A confidence mitigated by an uninterrupted calm.
An even keel
.

“You’re my fuckin’ hero,” he says.

“Hey, Mook.”

They hug. He about crushes her. She gives as good as she gets.

Into the back. She pulls up a metal stool. The smell here is killing him in the best way possible. The iron tang of blood. The sweet odor of raw pork. Spices, too: garlic and cumin, rosemary and sage. He can feel the hunger in his
teeth
.

Bang. She drops a wooden cutting board in front of him.

On it? Meat.

She taps each as she tells him what it is: “Culatello with melon. Iberian chorizo from acorn-fed pigs. Cocoa nib and cayenne salami. And that last one that looks like an apostrophe, that’s smoked jowl roll. Fried up in a cast iron pan.”

“You have a gift.”

“No such thing. I love what I do and I do what I love.”

He has no answer for that because he’s already plucking the chorizo from the plate and laying it on his tongue like a communion wafer. Even before his teeth cut the meat he tastes the oil coming off the sausage, oil that brings heat and spice.

“Fuck,” he says, breathing out of his nose as he chews. Eyes closed.

“Good, right?”

“Good doesn’t
begin
to scratch the paint.”

She blushes. “Anyway. How’s tricks, Mook?”

“Shitty.” Here, then, the vibe of the confessional. She doesn’t know what he does. Not exactly. She doesn’t know what goes on beneath the streets of the city – and, sadly, often upon those streets. She’s one of the Blind – the scales of ignorance blissfully closing over her eyes. And good for her. Mookie wouldn’t wish the truth on someone like Karyn. Just the same, she lets him talk. He keeps it vague. She probably knows something’s up with him – thinks, correctly so, that he’s a made man in some way. The depths, however, remain hidden. “I got problems.”

She pulls up a stool. Elbows down on the table, chin in a cradle of knuckles. “Talk while you eat.”

“Work and family. Those two things…” He punches his two fists together. Sounds like two steaks slapping. “They’re crashing. Into one another.”

“Your daughter?”

“Getting ornery.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“You still in touch with her mother?”

“Eh.” Translation:
nope
. “Been awhile. A long while. She doesn’t want nothin’ to do with me.”

“Can’t she help get the girl under control?”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“Worth a shot.”

He thinks but does not say: it’s gone too far for that.

But still – maybe Karyn’s onto something. Maybe Jess knows something about where Nora is. Or isn’t. Call her, you big dummy.

“You’re a smart kid,” he says.

“My father’s a clinical psychologist. My mother, a copyright lawyer. Two smarts don’t make a dumb.”

“I’m a thug and my ex-wife used to be a night nurse at a drug clinic. What’s that tell you?”

“Tells me you got trouble on your hands.” Karyn winks, nudges the cutting board closer. “Eat, you big bastard.”

Eat. Yes. More heat. Cocoa nib and cayenne salumi. The round edges of unsweet chocolate. The fire from the pepper. The unctuous
slightly-off
taste of the meat.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. Kind of an
nnnnggguuuuhhh
.

It’s time. He doesn’t want it to be, but it has to be.

An attempt at a clumsy diversion: “You still dating, uhh, what’s her name?”

“Lulu?”

“Yeah. Lulu.”

“Yeah. Louisa’s good, she’s good. Better than all the previous girls added up.”

“The last one was a little crazy.”

“The last
five
were a
lot
crazy. And Lulu’s crazy, too, but… hey, so am I. My crazy and her crazy play well together. Run with scissors down the hall.” She smiles. “She’s learning the trade. She might work here soon.”

“That mean she’s giving up the… roller derby thing?”

“She loves that too much. The Girls are her family.”

The Girls
. “Her gang.”

Karyn’s face falls. “I know.” Now it’s her turn to change the subject. “You need to get yourself a girl, Mook.”