Disclaimer:
Alexis Machine was originally the property of Shane Stevens (Dead City), before Stephen King borrowed him and his straight razor for The Dark Half. Now I'm borrowing him and said straight razor for a few chapters. Everyone else is mine, I think.
Machine lit a cigarette and leaned against the alley wall, waiting. He had been waiting for two hours, in the greasy drizzle, and was prepared to wait all night if necessary. He was thinking about doom again. It kept him warm.
A new city, a new hierarchy, a new organization, a new list of people to slice. The razor was heavy and promising in his pocket, freshly ground and stropped, waiting for something to cut. In an odd way, Machine found he felt even more attached to the razor now that it had tasted his own flesh; it was more a part of him than it had ever been. He smiled a thin, mirthless smile, the network of scars flexing a little. The razor had been part of Nonie Griffiths, too. Briefly.
Thunder muttered in the sky. In this city it always seemed to be raining, night and day, and clouds always covered what little sun filtered down into the canyons of its streets. It was Alexis Machine's favourite city so far, mostly because there were so many places for people to hide from him, and so many new ways of tracking them down. Because he always tracked them down. It was more amusing to see them realizing the ultimate nature of their own deaths if they'd truly believed they'd had a chance to get away from him. People never learned that Machine didn't give up, until it was too late for them to realize their own mistake.
He had underlings to do the waiting-in-dark-alleys now, but he preferred to do the job himself. Things like this were better taken care of in person.
He waited.
Lisa Vilotti hurried down French Street with her coat wrapped tightly around her, aware of the dead streetlights and their pools of shadow, aware of the fact that it was about two in the morning and she was walking—alone—in a part of the city even normal criminals spoke of in hushed tones. Just get me out of this, she thought desperately. Just get me home safe and I'll never do anything that stupid again, I promise, just please don't let me get raped or killed and I'll be good…
It hadn't been a good night for anyone. The trick had been turned, as it always was—that at least Lisa could count on—but the payoff had gone badly wrong. She had been told to fuck Harry Chang, then dope him and take back the money and the blow; the first part had gone off fine, but Chang hadn't even gotten woozy from the pills she'd dumped in his Courvoisier, and she couldn't have waited any longer; she knew Nick would be waiting for her, and if she didn't turn up, Nick would be sad. She didn't want Nick to be sad. Last time he'd needed cheering up he'd knocked out four of her teeth and given her a fractured collarbone. All she could hope for was his understanding—the pills hadn't worked, there had been nothing she could do, there was no way in hell she could have subdued Chang on her own—but Lisa was smart enough to know her chances were slim. I should just split, she thought miserably. Just hop a 'hound and get the fuck out of here, go to Nebraska or somewhere, maybe Utah—and never turn another goddam trick as long as I live.
Part of her almost believed she could make it. But Nick wouldn't have given up on her that easily. Nick liked to hang on to his belongings, no matter what.
Abruptly she stumbled, as one of her heels slipped into a vent in a manhole cover. She cursed, tears springing to her eyes with frustration and fear, and wrenched free of the hole; there was a nasty cracking noise, and the heel came free of her shoe entirely. She tottered backwards, trying to keep her balance on one six-inch spike, hands reaching out for support, and all her breath came out of her in one great soundless gasp as somebody's hand closed over her wrist and yanked her into an alleyway. This is it, this is it, I'm going to be raped and then I'm going to be killed and someone will find me tomorrow and probably puke and no one will have known my name, my real name, and I'll be buried in Potter's Field…
"Don't scream," said a man's voice, low and sharp. Something similarly sharp caressed the side of her throat. Lisa didn't dare swallow, breathing in tiny helpless lurches, her eyes wide in the darkness, trying to make out the features of the man who was about to kill her.
Something snapped.
"Why not?" she whispered. "You're going to cut me anyway, aren't you?"
The man said nothing. She could hear him breathing, slow, steady. Utterly calm. He had her up against the wall of the alley, his left hand clamping her wrist against the damp brick, his right hand keeping the sharp thing at her throat. He seemed to stand there for an inordinately long time before moving closer.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, at length.
The question seemed ridiculous. "W-walking home," Lisa told him, aware of the metal edge touching her neck in pulses, as the carotid artery swelled and faded with the beating of her heart.
"Home from where?" he demanded.
"A…a trick…why the fuck do you care? What are you doing here?" She was horrified to hear the words spoken in her own voice, without her consent. Her mouth apparently wanted her to be tortured before she was killed.
The man's hands tightened on her; she felt the bones of her wrist creak under the pressure. "What trick?"
"Harry Chang," she breathed. There was a moment in which she was sure the blade would move and slice and let out all of her blood in a warm and painless gout, but the man drew in a deep breath and let off the pressure on her wrist. The blade disappeared with a snap—Lisa caught a glimpse of pearl shining dully in the darkness, and realized the man had been holding an old-fashioned straight-razor to her neck—and he moved back, folding his arms. She remained exactly where she was, wondering what the hell he was about to do to her.
"Harry Chang," repeated the man.
"Yeah."
"You work for Falzone?"
"N-no…I don't know a Falzone…"
"You do now." She wished she could see his face, whoever he was. Her terror had become a dull cold ball in her belly, as if she had swallowed a quantity of lead shot. Sour adrenaline-tinged sweat moved on her forehead.
"Who are you?" she asked dully, as he took her wrist again in a clamp like iron.
"You don't need to know that right now," he told her. "Keep your mouth shut and come with me."
"My shoe," she said.
"I don't give a fuck about your shoe."
"I can't walk."
"I think you'll find you can walk just fine," said the man, and pulled her out of the alleyway into the street. Here, there was a dim glow of distant streetlamps, and as Lisa lurched forward with him, she saw his face for the first time, and the cold lead in her belly turned white-hot.
He was blonde, his hair damp and cut fairly short; his face might once had been handsome if someone hadn't carved it into strips. Red and white scars tugged at the skin, twisting his mouth, pulling the corner of one eye down. It looked like a Halloween mask—some child's nightmare come to life.
Even in the darkness she could see his eyes were brilliant sapphire blue.
"Come on," the man said roughly, and set off down the street, half-dragging her. Lisa kicked off her useless shoe, and then its mate, and stumbled to keep up. Mister Scarface had been right. She could walk just fine.