Pete Ivy sat on a crate chewing on a toothpick and nodded. “Yeah. You’ll show Carmine that attempting to call your bluff will be a complete waste of time.”

Delgado collected his dropped gun, loaded the other –illiciting a grimace from the other men– and pulled his jacket off the back of a chair. “I’m going out there.” He gestured with his free hand at the warehouse door. “And I’m going to put a hole in every man between me and Carmine.” He slung the jacket over his shoulder and tipped his hat forward to block the rain and opened the big double doors on the warehouse. Pete and Gilder shrugged and loaded their Thompsons.

Delgado took a step out into the rain and then stumbled back into the warehouse when a rifle round ripped into his abdomen. Pete jumped into the car and moved in front of the fallen man while Gilder scooped up their fallen leader and tossed him into the back. Pete piloted the vehicle out into the pissing storm and drove wild, turning and twisting the car to dodge any incoming rounds. Shots plinked off the hood and the doors as Gilder tried to contain the blood gushing out of Delgado.

Pete kept the accelerator down and the car hydroplaned through a few empty streets. Every shadow was an assassin, every pile of trash an ambush. Gilder tore up Delgado’s shirt and examined the wound. Delgado kicked and screamed, “Oh God, oh God, oh God, I don’t want to fucking die!” Gilder was compelled to slug the man. The gut wound was extremely shallow, all the blood was strictly surface. A bleeding grazer, maybe half an inch into the tissue, if that. Gilder slugged Delgado again and Delgado kicked violently into the seat. Pete lurched forward from the blow and over-corrected on the slimy road, flipping the rig down a short hill.

The three men climbed out of the car. Bruises and scrapes nothing in comparison to their shattered pride and tattered confidence.

Pete pulled his gun from the car and wrapped it in his jacket. “I quit,” he said and walked into an alley. Gilder followed suit leaving Delgado bleeding in the street.

“If that’s the way you want it! Sure. Fine. I can take a hint,” said Delgado.

Again, he didn’t mean it.

“For the Shogun!” yelled SS. He had been yelling it all tour, nobody knew what it meant but it certainly carried well through the shattering air. We each tossed two smoke bombs and tour into the three story house with a couple of rounds from our rifles. We fired in bursts two to three shots, fall back behind the wooden fences and fire again. Young Donny and Biggy T were hopefully lighting the place on fire from behind. No way to tell from here.

SS’s gun jammed so I fired a few rounds and ran to his position to fire a few more. “Get a move on. Your going to ruin it,” I said.

“Dammit, Hank. Gun’s jammed. Filthy Germans must piss in the street or something. This mud is vile.”

“Cram it SS, just get the damn thing working before you get us all killed.” I fired another few and rand back to my position. I reloaded and fired again, relieved to hear the report from SS’s gun echoing along with mine. The smoke from our bombs was starting to clear and I could see Germans streaming out the front to take cover amongst debris. They opened fire from the roof and forward windows as well. “Keep your head down!” I called to SS.

It was too late. He poked up from cover to fire and got cut down by three shots. Duck opened fire from the hill and I made a break for SS. He didn’t even have time for last words. I took his ammo and his slung his rifle over my shoulder. I could see gunfire ripping up the side of the hill and fired another salvo to cover Duck.

I didn’t know where Young Donny and Biggy T were, but something seemed wrong. The Germans should have been more panicked, scattered. I fired several bursts from SS’s rifle and it jammed again. “Pissing German mud!” I dove for the ground and wallowed in that sallow slop. The smoke had all but cleared but it was a dreary day and everything was the same dull gray. Maybe they wouldn’t see me.

Duck stopped firing from the hill. Reloading, retreating? Dead? I couldn’t tell. I crawled on my belly to the side of the barracks and cut down two more Germans as they pointed at the hill. I ran around the back and saw two more standing over the bodies of Young Donny and Biggy T. I cut them down as well.

I grabbed the fire packs and lit the damn place up. I watched the front door and shot every last bastard that tried to escape.

Long after the structure was nothing but embers our backup finally drove in. Three jeeps and a compliment of twenty men.

“You’re late,” I replied bitterly.

Mason’s job was cub at the city desk. If something spontaneously popped up anywhere in The City it was Mason’s job to know about it five minutes before it happened. And he was more than good at it. Suspiciously better than anyone else in the office. Anyone else who had ever worked at The Monitor in its proud 130 year history.

Friday, a call came in talking of activity in Old City. Mason was out the door the moment the location was named pausing only to collect his coat and snap his fingers at the smallest photographer sitting in the pen. They walked to the destination. Taking side streets and back alleys. The photographer lagging behind as the terrain became cluttered. Mason grew impatient and spurred the whelp of a lad along with a quick story of King Ralph.

They emerged from a side alley to see a cluster of fire trucks around the stairs of the Second Precinct. The oldest still functioning headquarters of law and order in The City. While most of it had been converted to offices for politically minded sergeants and captains to squabble at the heels of the commandant, the bottom two floors contained the men of the organized crime division, Mason explained to the photographer. The two closed in on the steps where a ring of cops were establishing a perimeter around two bodies lying on the steps.

Mason jabbed the photographer and whispered instructions, a how-to of poking the scene for information without getting his camera smashed like a lolly. Mason himself fought forward to identify the bodies.

His charge up the hill was interrupted by the sudden appearance of Jimmy Dollar. The inexplicably upscale named fox-hound of The City’s finest. Known in some circles as a media consultant others as a handler, he was a shit-eating grin billowing out of an expensive suit. “Mason Mason Mason. Always the first to arrive, never the first to leave, always on the case, never misses a shot of the face.” Jimmy motioned and two officers grabbed the diminutive photographer and hauled him over to a car. “That’s that. Mason. I’ll give you the professional courtesy of walking to that car instead of being dragged.”

Mason frowned. “What’s with the strong arm tactic, Jimmy?”

Jimmy sharpened his nails with a file and made an expansive gesture of the scene. “New policy, Mason, press tents, media blackouts, releases. You will get briefed with all of the other reporters all at the same time in a little place we have set up a block from here. Reporters outside of the designated areas are arrest on site.”

Mason nodded in cadence with Jimmy’s fat lips and took mental pictures of the two bodies barely eight feet away. “We won’t stand for it, Jimmy. We’ll find the news and we’ll report it. All of it.”

Jimmy smirked. “I’m sure you will Mason. And the headlines will read ‘Reporters do what Jimmy Says’ from paper to paper all day long. Now move.”

Mason walked to the car and got in. A uniform drove he and his photographer a block away to the press tent and let them out. The moment they were out of the car mason hailed a taxi.

“Come along,” he said to the photographer, “Its time we hit the tombs and figure out why the letter Z was carved into both of those bodies five times.”

The Machine. A dark green muscle car with all the trimming. Raised back end, scooped wheel-wells on the front for greater turning radius, air intake on the hood for the engine, and a ballast system in the trunk that let Tony shift the weight of the car as he cornered. Tony saw the car at a trade show. Saved for two years to pick it up aftermarket. A burned out jalopy then. Rusted and damaged from a garage fire. Took him another year of wages and sweat to shape it, to refine it like a sculptor at a block of marble.

Beck Stevens leaned against The Machine and sneered down his stub of a nose at me. “You challenging me? Here? On my own turf?” I nodded in the quiet dark of 124th Avenue under that streetlight that buzzed and blinked like a mad hornet. “Your dumber than you look kid. Nobody can beat me on these streets. Not even that deadstiff brother of yours.” My hand instinctively curled into a fist at the mention of Tony, but I kept my gaze firm.

“Yeah, Beck. I’m calling you out. Two laps around. Winner takes all.”

Beck laughed, coldly. His boys echoing his sick taunt a moment later and thumping at the roofs of their cars. In total there were eight members of the Southies. And there was just me. My car wasn’t spectacular, a beat up derby car I lifted from a junkyard and tuned just enough to get it running. I called it The Creep. Took me six months of practice to work up the nerve. To perfect my technique. To come out here and challenge Beck and get Tony’s car back.

Beck slapped a hard fist against the side of The Machine. “Alright, alright. You want a race Pratt? I’ll give you a race. We do three laps. Up around Deckard, over to Lee’s, and under the Nolan.

I slid over the lumpy hood of The Creep and fired the ignition from outside the car. “You’re on, Beck.”

We lined up under the 124th street light. Standard rules, race started when the light blinked three times. Up and around through Deckard, a street known for its posh luxuries and ample police presence, over to Lee’s where a stray bullet could end your race and your life, and under the Nolan Tunnel, which took you by the pier where DeBrano’s ghost is supposed to haunt the wharf. A tricky route and one that made Beck’s boys stand solemnly at the sides of the road with looks of fear and unease.

The streetlight buzzed and blinked until it blinked three times fast. And it was on. The tires of The Creep squealed and left a plume of smoke wafting behind as I pushed the machine beyond the redline. It sputtered and rattled and backfired like a cannon. The Southies’ fear turned to laughter and Beck and The Machine gained an instant lead.

We raced through the dark streets of The City. A dystopian nightmare made of concrete and steel. Shadows and lights fought for purchase around every corner and the buildings wept stained tears of dirty runoff. The Machine was as mean as ever, even without Tony at the helm she tore through the streets whipping around corners and firing through straightaways like a devil born of The City itself.

There was no way I could catch it. Even with a hack like Beck at the wheel there was no way. But that wasn’t the point. Beck was a cocky son of a bitch. He had been playing like he was a big shot with the Southies since before he killed Tony. But he was a small guppy in a pond filled with sharks.

We shot through Deckard and hit the straightaway to Lee’s. Ten miles of road you couldn’t squeeze through walking during the day but at night it was a tunnel of darkness pitched between the stone guardians of skyscrapers. I hit the nitrous switch and heard The Creep cry for mercy. Nitrous was illegal under the code of street racing. Dangerous and unpredictable. But this wasn’t an honor race. This was about revenge.

I pulled up alongside The Machine and saw Beck sneering and yelling at me. I shot in front of him and pulled The Creep into a sideways. Beck slowed to a stop and hopped out. “What were you thinking? Huh? Little shit Pratt. You thought you could pull something like that and still walk away?”

I sat on the hood of The Creep with my hands tucked under my legs. “No. I figured you would be too stupid and greedy and full of your self to resist gloating. That you would quit the moment you thought you had won and tell the world about it. And that you wouldn’t know where you were when you did it.”

Beck stopped walking forward and looked around. He had picked the route, he had chosen to go by Lee’s to frighten me. But he had more to fear from the place. So much more. He was shot six times before he hit the ground. I dragged the body over into The Creep and turned the nitrous tank back on. I nodded into the darkness.

I loaded into The Machine and drove away. I didn’t so much as glance at the mirror when the explosion took Beck and The Creep to Hell.

She carried a rucksack with too-thin shoulder straps that she could feel cutting into her not an hour outside of town. It contained two sets of clothes, a sleeping bag, two loaves of bread, a block of cheese, two bounds of jerky, a book about edible plants, and an umbrella. She walked along the road with a spring in her step that was gradually unwinding until she was left with a steady plod. Her feet were holding up so far, her years of walking and love of sensible shoes were paying off as her cross country trek began. She was naive and she knew it. But she was filled with a hope. And hope would have to compensate for everything else she was lacking.

She moved close to the tracks as she saw that the train was coming out from The City and headed into the wider world. She had heard of boxcar hopping but had no idea what a boxcar was or how one managed to get on to such a thing. But she was determined to leave and the train was the fastest way she could find.

The train pushed past her and car after car passed by as she contemplated the problem.

“Hey! Hey! Pretty girl. You want to ride?” she heard over the clang and clank of the train. She turned around and saw a figure waving from an open door in a car. She nodded and started to yell a reply when the figure was already nearly past her. The figure leaned down and extended a hand as she shot past and Maggie was amazed at how the small older woman could be so strong. Her grip was iron and Maggie was hoisted on board in one quick pull.

“Welcome aboard,” the small woman said with an expansive gesture. She was grey at the temple but the sun set her auburn hair on fire, making her look like she had a smoldering campfire on top of her head. She carried a banjo slung along her back and a small bag rested on the floor of the car behind her. She was five foot tall at best with a plucky demeanor and a broad smile. “Name’s Vintage Oatmeal, this your first time out on your own?”

Maggie nodded and clutched her bag. The train car was nothing more than two doors and a bunch of crates rattling like they were about to come apart. It seemed less glamorous then the films.

Noting her disapproval the smaller woman laughed and slapped her knee. “Not much to look at is it? You city girls. Don’t worry. In a couple of nights on the road and lying on the ground she’ll look like heaven to you.”

“How long have you been out and about?” Maggie said as she sat down and rummaged in her rucksack for some jerky. She offered some to Vintage Oatmeal as well.

“Thank you kindly. That is the attitude. Share and share alike. I’ve been traveling for nearly twenty years now. Since the time of the Depression.” Vintage Oatmeal leaned against the wall and kept an eye out the still open door.

“Where are you doing?”

“Wherever I’m needed. I travel with the night. Looking for what it has to show me. What about you little girl. Where are you running to or from?”

Maggie gnawed on the dried meat and considered. “My mother left a few years ago and my father is a beast. I thought maybe if I started walking I would find her soon enough.”

Vintage Oatmeal laughed. “Well, little miss, if you travel long enough you are very likely to find everyone. Eventually.”

And the train continued chugging on.

Sonny Black stared at the bathroom mirror and attempted to piece together what had happened in the last day.

It had started when he went for that job with Marty of Marty’s Deli. Some ad in the paper made it sound like the deal of the year. And apparently everyone got that message because they were stacked deep at the old brownstone listed in the advert. A dozen guys hanging out waiting their turns. Each of them was stocky, like Sonny. Square jaws and shoulders. Low center of gravity, not a one of them over five eight. When he met Marty he saw that his own shorter stature still towered over the small man. He played it cool, earnest. He needed the job and he could work hard.

He was hired on the spot.

He was given two addresses and an advance of thirty dollars for his first weeks pay. All in all, a good get.

The first took Sonny to a tailors down on Lisbon Avenue. A homely looking place with ethnic smelling foods sizzling in the upstairs apartment and an earnest looking girl watching the shop. He entered and presented the note given to him by Marty. The girl smiled and tossed her hair and handed over a brown package. Uniform for the job. Sonny pulled out some of the advance cash and waved it about idly. The girl smile broadened and she let out a breathy “No charge, paid for in advance.” He smiled back and handed her a bill. “Consider it a tip.”

She did. And she accepted his offer of a dinner. “Be back at eight, sugar,” he said.

The second address was the newest Marty’s Deli to spring up in the sprawl of the Old City. It was flanked by ritzy shops on a busy street. Sonny felt a spring of pride to be chosen for such a job. The foreman was a real wise-ass. Some stories about the walk-in being special ordered. Some rap about the problems getting it in. Sonny focused on the interior. A posh place with a big kitchen and a glimmering glass counter to display foods. The kind of place that Sonny could meet the right people and make the right connections.

Sonny headed home to stash his uniform and shop keys and readied himself for his date. His best shirt and the jacket his father had tearfully forced on him as he left the dreary Tennessee farm house behind. It was ragged and an appalling color, but it was the best he had for now, and if nothing else he could sob a little while talking about his father. Seal the deal, so to speak.

He arrived just before eight and saw that she was closing up. The lights upstairs were dim and the smells of food had faded. Mom and dad were probably elderly. Late daughter or the first grandchild. No matter, it meant he wouldn’t have to meet them at least for the day. She was striking in a smooth red dress that brought out her lips and set off her raven hair. “Its Sonny, by the way,” he said as they stepped out and she locked the shop. “Sonny Black.”

She took his arm and curtsied, “Ashley Bancroft.”

They talked about her origins on their way to a delivery she had to make. It was at a hotel and in the area of his new job so Sonny agreed in the hopes he would get to show off the new place for extra points. Ashley talked about home and the journey over. Something about a brother. Long story short she was new in the country but spoke perfect English from the nuns. God bless the nuns, Sonny thought.

They arrived at the hotel and Sonny noticed that the bottom floor had a club attached. “We should catch a meal here,” he said. She nodded emphatically and they headed up to the fourth floor. A couple of toughs opened the door and asked for the ‘stuff’. Ashley handed over a black velvet bag she had been carrying and they closed the door abruptly. “Downstairs for dinner?” she said.

The meal was filling. Excellent service and more than a little class. Sonny found himself dropping his new job more than a few times, which seemed to keep the waitstaff nodding in awe throughout the meal. She spoke of her job and he countered with a story about ‘pa and the farm’ to keep the attention focused on himself.

The men from upstairs appeared as he was forking out dough from his wad to cover everything. They were upset. Something about missing merchandise. They grabbed the girl and Sonny leaped at the opportunity to play hero. He invited the men for a little chat outside and they were quick to do so.

Sonny’s bravado turned out to be a little less bite and a lot less bark than he had hoped for. It took only a few quick pistol whips and a he was down in the trash pile and they made away with the girl. Wounded pride and sudden fury powered him. He grabbed a lamp cord from the trash pile and used it to create a makeshift grapple and line. He secured the ladder for the fire escape and scurried to the fourth floor.

The sounds of Ashley crying and pleading to leaver her brother alone led him right to them. He came through the window swinging. One of the toughs lunged at him and he jumped out of the way in time for the poor bastard to go tumbling out the window and over the rail. The other one pulled his gun and prepared to fire. Sonny leaped over the bed, rage burning in his eyes. There was the sound of gunfire but he already had the man pushed into the door and the gun dislodged before he realized he couldn’t hear the girl screaming anymore.

He went for the gun and the man behind him strangled him up with the lamp cord grapnel. He blacked out.

Sonny Black stared into the mirror and remembered. There were no bodies in the room and only the bag of diamonds to hint at the truth of his memories. He scooped them up and headed out. Somewhere in the vastness of The City he needed to find Ashley Bancroft.

And get some answers.

Sonny Black stared at the bathroom mirror and attempted to piece together what had happened in the last day.

It had started at Marty’s place. Answering an add in the paper. “No experience required” it had said. No alarm bells rang and Sonny needed the money. He showed at the place and stood in line with a dozen other guys slowly shuffling through the warm spring morning into an unremarkable brownstone building. Marty turned out to be a short man with a few delis around town. He was looking to expand the business and was recruiting employees with a passion for doing things his way.

Sonny made the cut.

He was given two more addresses. One was a tailors that would provide him with a uniform, the second was the construction site of the new Marty’s Deli. He was given his first weeks pay of thirty dollars in advance.

The tailor was working in the back when Sonny arrived. The jangle of the bell on the door reminded him of a kitten playing. Lilting and small. A bright faced young woman greeted him. He handed over the claim slip Marty had provided and the bright faced woman handed him a small brown package. Itemized list on the outside listed an apron, trousers, hat, and two shirts. Sonny thanked the woman emphatically and tipped her a dollar. She was robust, flirty. And as he walked out she asked him when he was going to pick her up for dinner. He coughed a little and told her eight.

The construction site was nearly complete. A corner location near the center of the Old City. Ritzy clientele and a row of shops on either side meant for heavy traffic and demanding customers. Sonny got a tour from the foreman. “I’ve been working with Marty for ten years now. And this is the finest place we’ve built him yet. the walk in alone was ordered special and we had to practically take out walls in the neighboring shops to get it in. You could keep enough food in there to feed an army for a week.”

Sonny nodded at the incomprehensible slew of details the foreman provided and familiarized himself with the kitchen, freezer, counter, tables. He had not worked with food before. The menus listed dozens of things he had never seen or tasted.

He took the clothes and the shop key home and readied himself for his date with the tailor’s assistant. He put on his best shirt and the jacket his father had given him when he had left the family farm in Tennessee to find his place in The City. He showed up at the tailors a quarter to eight. She was closing up the place and smiled when she saw him entering.

“I’ve just got to do a quick delivery on the way, if you don’t mind,” she said. The air was cool but not cold and the street lights were coming on as the sun descended. The world around him glowed like an ember and he was amazed at how much life could turn on a day. “Of course,” he replied. She locked the shop and tucked a small black velvet bag under her arm.

The delivery was at a hotel with a restaurant and bar. They made their way up to the fourth floor guided by a helpful valet and she presented the bag to two rough looking men inside. They grunted a response and she bade them a hasty goodbye. “The place downstairs looks nice, lets go there,” he heard himself say.

She agreed.

They ate together in the cheery decor of the hotel restaurant and she talked about her work as a seamstress and her apprenticeship to the old world tailor. He spoke of Tennessee and the homespun wisdom of his father.

The men from the fourth floor appeared as they shared a slice of pie. They were angry. Confrontational. The girl was frightened. Sonny stepped in front of her and addressed the men with the iron his father had instilled in him to have when defending a woman. The two men took him outside and beat him nearly senseless. They took the girl. There was something wrong with the bag. Something important.

Sonny picked himself up and used the cord of a broken lamp he found in a dumpster to hook the fire escape ladder. He made his way to the fourth floor. The curtains were drawn but he followed the sounds of a woman crying until he found the right window. He busted through and attacked. He tossed the man on the right out of the window he had entered from. There was a dull thud at the end of the screaming.

The one on the right pulled a gun. There was a shot. There was a scream from the girl. He scuffled with the remaining man and the gun went under the bed. He reached for it. He could feel the lamp cord being wrapped around him. He blacked out.

Sonny Black stared into the mirror and remembered. There were no bodies in the room and only the bag of diamonds to hint at the truth of his memories. He scooped them up and headed out. Somewhere in the vastness of The City he needed to find Ashley Bancroft.

And get some answers.

Kurt Orson emptied his revolver into the target down range. He dropped the smoking gun to the table with a clatter and bit down on his right hand until it bled. Anything to stop the tremors. He wheeled the target back to himself and stared darkly at the page. He had managed to nick the target in the left leg with one of his twelve shots.

Sergeant Holbrook came down into the range with that stuffed with matzo attitude. Cheeks like a chipmunk that tossed out words like he was spitting crumbs, jagged and off-the-mark. “Orson! You have a case. Get upstairs and wait for word from the feds.”

Orson crumbled up the target and shoved it into the pocket of his coat hanging on a hook nearby. He turned to the sergeant and leaned against the wall, flicked open his revolver and started carefully shoving bullets into the cylinder. Each load pushed out the empty shell with a clatter on the floor. He looked at Holbrook evenly as he worked. Staring down the taller man with an iron gaze that had earned him more than a few collars in the interrogation room. “I’ll get to it.”

“Now!”

Orson slapped the cylinder shut and slung his coat over his shoulder. “Sure thing boss. Right on it.” He holstered his weapon and pushed roughly past Holbrook. Upstairs in the bullpen the noise was light as it was Sunday and most of the officers were family men. Orson nodded at the rookies and a few of the widowers scattered around the room. Keeping busy and trying to earn their chops. The real work horses of any force.

There were men in the sergeants office. Orson plunked his coat onto his desk and poked at the file waiting for him there with his shoe. Not too thick, but not a light read. Something complicated that was fresh. He looked across to the empty desk touching his and sighed. Three years since his partner had bit the end of his service piece and no clue why. Three years of working the beat without so much as a chuckle from the stiffs he was forced to endure. And of course the new guy was always married. Always clashing on some level. Never the man Tim had been.

Sergeant Holbrook came up and went to his office. There were words between him and the three men standing inside. At length Holbrook called to him from the door, “Orson! Get in here.”

Orson gathered the file and his coat and walked into the office. One of the feds was sitting on the desk while the other two stared out into the bullpen. They had all the official earmarks of a group of professional paper-jockeys. Orson could smell it on them like cheap cologne. “What’s the plan, Sarge?”

The man sitting on the desk smiled in an impish way and held up a hand to silence Holbrook. “We have a case for you Detective Orson. Deep cover. Something you are going to like. Something you are going to do as a favor for your country.”

“And why am I going to do that?”

The man smiled broader and put it down simply, “Because, Kurt. If you do this we’ll tell you what really happened to Tim Sturges.”

Orson bit down on his lip and flexed his trembling right hand. “I’m in.”