Chapter 1
He took a long drag out of his cigarette, tapping the ashes on the side of his car while he drove along the main street of the city. In front of him lie cars full of men tormented by demons and possessed by sexual drives. As his arm hung haphazardly out of the window Spike smirked at the men in front of him, thinking of how pathetic they must be to solve their problems with fifty dollars and one hour in a hotel room with a professional prostitute. He could see them sitting by the bed telling the hired out, faceless whores their life stories or deep, theological reasoning. Their thesis's, their conclusions, their issues, would all be relieved from their own weak shoulders and placed onto the shoulders of the most destitute of people in the world.
Spike never approved of hookers; the women tried so hard just for fifty more dollars in their pockets and a further depletion of innocence. However, while in traffic, a guilty pang hit his side as he thought of the hired out whore that he would buy to pump for information. Looking at the selection, he spotted one not wearing a full mask of rogue and eyeliner. She had the outfit, with the tight leather shirt and plunging neckline, but her face was surprisingly only painted with lipstick and maybe mascara. Her naturally full eyelashes made it hard to tell. This prostitute clearly had something the others didn't, pride. No heckling or catcalls arose from her lips and she even appeared bored standing there on the sidewalk surrounded by the lowest creatures in existence. Her eyes were full of fire and life, she had not been reduced to this state, and rather it looked as if she chose her own profession.
As his car inched slowly closer to the woman he spotted, her purple eyes whirled onto his. Holding out a fifty-dollar bill, Spike waited to see if she would go for the bait.
Smirking, the woman snatched the bill from his fingers and stuffed it into her shirt. Looking him over, she rolled across the hood of his car and slid in through the open window of the passenger seat. Her agility caught him off guard, but Spike concealed his surprise with small effort.
"I'm Faye," the hooker said in a low, seductive voice. She bent down to tie her shoe revealing the entire preview seen by her shirt. "So where we goin'?" She asked, frowning that her shoe trick didn't work. Spike kept on staring straight ahead, smoking another cigarette. There was a hesitation in the talking, so Faye, growing frustrated attempted to talk again, "did you hear m-"
"I heard you. If you would just wait a second before talking maybe you could have heard the answer." Spike snapped, smashing his cigarette bud into the makeshift ashtray balancing on the dashboard. "We're going to New Haven Hotel on 32nd street."
"New Haven? That's a dangerous part of town," Faye meant to sound more concerned then enticed but her excitement had overcome her. Her client gave her a questioning look, and continued staring straight ahead. "Anyway, what's your name?"
"Why is that important? Are you going to add my name to your list or something?" His no tolerance for people in a profession such as Faye's was keeping his civility at bay.
"Actually, I do keep a running tally of my clients. You would be five hundred." Faye teased a little, playing with a lock of her raven black hair.
Spike sort of chuckled in spite of himself. "It's Spike," he replied with a smile.
"Spike. Hmm, sounds like a dog,"
Spike shrugged, he had been called worse before. Turning into the parking lot of New Haven he noticed a visible change in atmosphere. The main street felt like a highway, waiting in a line that never moved a noticeable feeling of rush hit the people driving. Yet on 32nd street, the ambiance was fear. On the corners lurked shadowy figures and the police sirens wailed on a constant high.
However, Spike instantly took a liking to the street and the blocks beyond it. In his traveling, he always felt most comfortable in the more dangerous places. His kind of people lived there, people who had been cast out of society or who had suffered incredible injustice in their lifetimes. Violence solved their past; it made their futures unstable and their present a remedy for the memories. By living in constant fear for their lives, those who lived in places like 32nd street managed to get by or else are shot. Desperation ruled all.
"So this is our hotel?" Asked Faye, her disdain apparent.
Spike grunted and climbed out, taking it all in. The ramshackle hotel would be the perfect home for him for a few weeks. Maybe even a month or however long it took him to grow tired of the town. Spike was a permanent drifter.
"Are you coming?" Faye called from the door of the hotel, eager to get her business over and done with.
The room, of course, was run down, with a broken mattress that squeaked under the slightest pressure and a bathroom stained with urine and grime. A florescent light swung down over the sink, and the faucet was leaking in a steady stream of drops. "Home sweet home," Sighed Spike, as he tossed his bag lightly on the bed. Faye arched her eyebrow at this move, and collapsed in the overstuffed chair by the sliding glass door. She let a cigarette thinking this guy was not going to get down to business until the end of the hour.
"So where's your life story?" She questioned listlessly, swinging, her legs over the arm of the chair and she exhaled smoke.
"I didn't hire you to tell you about my problems. I need information," Spike responded, sitting opposite her on the bed. His hands restlessly wrung themselves together over and over. His eyes, which she noticed were different colors, stared intensely at hers. There was no lust there, only neediness; he certainly wasn't like most customers, she thought to herself.
"What kind of information?" She returned quietly.
"You're familiar with the people around here? On 32nd street?" He asked feverently.
Faye paused, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Do you work for the police or something?"
Spike let out a bitter laugh, "Me?" He sobered up quickly. "No, I'm looking for Jet Black. He lives around this area. You wouldn't happen to know him would you?"
"It's your lucky day, Spike. Jet Black is most likely my most frequent customer." Answered Faye.
Spike bit his lip for a moment longer, and his hands began to wring themselves at a quicker pace. All he could think about was her.
A chance meeting in a dark hotel room had changed his existence from a lost soul to a seeker. In the night they spent talking, he developed a bond with the mysterious Julia that he had not ever felt before. Since that night, close to a year before, he had gone to every major city on the planet in search of his Julia. She was quiet about her past, but of her present she was fluent and detailed. The specifics had blurred into his memory, but her pleading helplessness had drawn him to her. Wherever she was, Julia was suffocating in a world she could not comprehend, much less survive in.
About two months ago, Spike had made a connection linking Julia to Jet Black. Jet ran an underground organization in Celerion, across the planet from where Spike was. Sucking it in, Spike gave up his life in Valin and headed from small town to small town making just enough money to go on. He hit a lucky break 177 miles outside of Celerion and finished his journey quickly.
An informant tipped him off about the use of prostitutes for information. "Get one that talks and you'll be set," the tired old man had warned Spike, before breaking off into hysterical, dry laughter.
"I could arrange a meeting between you two. I'll be seeing Jet tomorrow night,"offered Faye, in an effort to fill the silence.
"No, I can't wait. I have to go tonight," Spike insisted.
Faye began chuckling, "There's no way you can infiltrate Black's Ring. The cops have tried it for three years now. They'll never trust you,"
"Maybe so, but I can't sit on my ass and wait for Black to be served to me," His agitation caused him to stand up, and walk over to the window.
"All right, Black likes low places; you know bars and the works. If he's not passed out at Patrick's he's at some club with his pals. I suggest if he's not at Patrick's to leave him be. With his crowd, he could be a dangerous man to mess with." Said Faye calmly.
Spike took a deep breath and put his hand to his forehead. Faye watched him in fascination; this man had to be the most original person she had ever had the pleasure of doing business with.
"We have twenty minutes left, do you want to talk or..." Faye began cautiously, shifting positions to make her self look more appealing. Her pose had become a natural one, and a favorite of her regular customers. It worked its charm on Spike well, for he had been on the road for many weeks without so much as a tender touch.
While Faye began unbuttoning his shirt, he vowed that he would find Jet Black at all costs that night in order to see Julia by daybreak.
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Walking into Patrick's bar that night, Spike picked up on Jet Black's presence immediately. He was a grisly man with a metal arm, drinking alone at the end of the bar. By the looks of it, Jet's sorrows were immense, and his eligibility to hold liquor high. His line of shots ran half the counter. His beady black eyes whirled upon Spike. "Sit down, newbie. I'll buy you a drink,"
"That's okay, I can buy my own," Spike held a hand up to the gleeful bar tender who was already pouring a shot glass. Shrugging, the bar tender drank it himself and stood cleaning glasses, just as it was typically expected of a bar tender to do.
"I like you, newbie. Most of the guys in here wouldn't refuse a drink from an old drunken fool. Hit me again," he directed, with a sudden urgentness in his voice.
"Are you sure you want that?" Questioned Spike, reaching for the glass, before Jet's fingers could grasp around them.
Jet grew serious, and through his blood shot eyes Spike sensed a deep guilt, and allowed Jet to take the glass. "Of course I want it." He grumbled as another dark shot disappeared into his mouth. Shaking his head a little, Jet peered over at the new comer again. Even in his liquored haze, Jet picked up on something in the man's appearance that struck a chord deep within himself. This man could be trusted, yet the newcomer possessed slyness, a mandatory skill for a mobster to have. "What's your name newbie?" Jet mumbled, curious to get to know Spike.
The newbie hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether or not to blow him off, like he had done Faye. Yet he needed to get to this man to see Julia, being unnamed wouldn't aid that at all. "Spike," he answered confidently, sitting beside him.
"Spike, eh? I like it; it suits you well," returned Jet. Indeed, he thought, this man could not have any other name. "Mine's Jet,"
"I know," Spike replied, "I came here to find you,"
Jet looked surprised and a little dumbfounded, "What do you want with me?"
"I have a business proposition for y-." Spike began, but Jet cut him off.
"Please, save it. I'm in no state to talk business. I'm going home, now. You can talk business to Vicious, if you want."
Spike frowned a little, but accepted the invitation willingly. Each lumbering step he took with Jet that short walk from the bar to Jet's home brought him closer to Julia.
Finally, Black went up a set of stone stairs to a rather luxurious apartment building. It was odd to see a little green garden out in front, and polished door knobs on the red door. If he had to choose Jet's home, Spike could not have ever picked this one. Going inside, Jet called out for his associate, Vicious to come down. Instantly, a lanky blond man appeared at the top of the stairs. His ice blue eyes whirled coldly to Spike's, showing his obvious distrust.
"Who is this?" Vicious questioned Jet; unable to control his fury at Jet's bringing a stranger home.
"This is Spike; he has a proposition for us. I want you to hear him out," Jet demanded, stumbling down the hall and into a room. Alone with Vicious, Spike's good humor diminished and he became ill at ease.
"The office is up here," Vicious announced coldly.
Slowly, Spike ascended the stairs, careful to look as if he were in a hurry to get there. The office was a small one, with two chairs, and a desk in between. Vicious sat shuffling papers as Spike came in.
"What do you want with Jet?" Vicious demanded, searching Spike's countenance for signs of weakness. To his dismay he found none.
"I have a proposition for you," began Spike.
"I don't want to hear it right now; I want to know what you want with Jet," Vicious snapped.
"If you think I'm trying to catch him or something, you're wrong. I'm no cop," Spike returned, growing impatient.
Vicious sat unaffected, acting as if Spike had never responded. "That's what they all say. Jet's too damn gullible. Four times he has led a cop right home. We have moved often because of it. Each week it seems we'll have to pack and go on."
Spike pulled from his pocket a warrant for his own arrest. He had pulled it off a cop in Valin before he left. "I'm no damn cop," he replied forcefully, handing the paper to Vicious.
Vicious did not touch the paper, but analyzed it for authencity. "Very well," he answered, through gritted teeth. Spike followed his gaze at it moved suddenly to the door. The cold glare disappeared from his eyes and a faint trace of warmth replaced it.
"Jet says that he wishes to see you downstairs, Vicious," a familiar voice said, but to Spike's ears, the voice sang. Turning, he at last beheld Julia.
Her astonishment, though clearly trying to be masked, was evident. "Hello Spike," she whispered softly.