Mission 02: Killer Wolf
They drove down the road in silence for a while. Down Lincoln Boulevard to Red Grave drive, out from the well-built hotel district to the industrial grounds and into the rural flats. It was late in the evening, with several individuals walking home from the evening mass at church. There had been a blood drive; kids and their parents flooded the place. They needed to get past the mob, out from this shitty little burgh to the clubs in downtown. Took the long way to avoid being seen. Boss knew what was up, told them to keep low and leave the car in a parking lot if they were going to come back to headquarters.
Been a good day until then, the stench of the dead a sore spot for the killer in red particularly.
Grue grumbled to himself. Fine way to pass the time. The crowds were resentful of a car trying to pass through; the street their plaything. He felt burnt out on nicotine, didn't need the one he was smoking, so he threw it out the window and rolled it up as the pious Christians gave him deplorable looks. He swallowed it with a grimace. First night on the job, not a pleasant one at that. He had one task, figure out who Urizen was. And at that, he knew a few other pricks had turned down the offer because the last three wound up dead, but Grue needed the money and he needed it bad. Just didn't think it'd take him here, babysitting a Manchild who couldn't sit still in his car. Made the shit that much worse to wade through. Dante turned the stereo on and up, blasting out Nu Metal Butt Rock crap.
"Will you leave the radio alone, please?" the man said, pushing the button off.
Dante flipped it back on a second later. "I need somethin' goin'."
Grue punched the knob back off and grumbled, "well I need nothin'. Leave it alone."
"Who died and made you Dad, huh?"
"It's my car, kid."
The man beside him scoffed and returned his gaze out to the sidewalk, glaring at unsuspecting, god-fearing mortals as they went on by slowly.
". . . So what do you do for fun?" the silver-maned hunter asked, bored out of his mind.
"Smoke, eat, work, sleep, repeat."
"That's not very fun."
"Fun don't enter the equation when you're on the job, kid."
"You know, that kid crap don't square with me, right?" Dante said. "You call me kid one more time and I'm gonna bust your head open on your steering wheel."
"I'm sure you will, kid," the man replied. Dante shook his head and chuckled.
"Oh, how did I ever get stuck with you?"
"Your Urizen psycho."
"Right, right," he said with a nonchalant wave of the hand. "The thing you don't believe we saw."
"Look, it ain't easy swallowin' this stuff. I get a call to investigate some down-and-out crooks' rival, I think it's the usual shady shit, not vampires and werewolves."
"Undead."
"Whatever," Grue replied. "I saw shit that should not be. You gotta understand a fella needs time to adapt."
"Yeah, I get ya partner."
"Do not call me that, kid."
"Why not, partner?" Dante grinned.
It was the detective's turn to laugh as they passed traffic, bemoaning his situation with a tired sigh at the end as he punched the speed and let the gas fly. Wasn't long before they met neon lights, and the red light burned in his brain. What sinful desires fulfilled. No time for the sleaze of back-alley small-timers, however. He was under the employ of the mob and at the reluctant insistence of his colleague, Grue drove in the order of his list of stops, the first being a nightclub; Love Planet. Horrid little place in the dead center of the cesspit. Pulled into the small parking lot outside Bullseye, the conjoined bar on the western side, and entered the place. Real smoker's haven, Grue thought. Cigars and cigarettes, bottles of whiskey. Brewer's choice.
Made their way through the crowded little room to the double doors in back that spoke of no entry, yet enter they did. And into another world they stepped.
Entering through the corner, Grue walked by a man sitting at a table with a needle in his arm, band tied tight around his bicep. Shit. That kinda place. He grew uncomfortable as the flapless Dante tread further into the filthy den, music blaring, intrepid as he was, unkillable as he seemed. The sheer decadence felt like blood from a tree, sap sticking to summer-weather skin in Arizona monsoon, dreadfully glued to the flesh and uncompromising. Traffic round the steps, second floor descending underground to the first, the basement room; a broiler for the sin. The gumshoe could've really used some of that whiskey about now.
And that's when he saw her.
Why Dante had brought him here.
On the center stage, grooving to the music in only her rhythmic way, stood a statuesque blonde; smut-ready, classy-made, darling-approved. She spun on the pole like a daydream, light as a feather, speedy as a cheetah on those heels, flexible as a rubber band with those legs. Black satin lingerie. Lord have mercy. What a pretty little number. And those eyes staring right at Dante told Grue all he needed to know. Lovers. She rolled her waist back and forth to the music, some god-awful song by Motley Crue, and collected another little tip from a greedy man drinking his health away in the front row as the music built to a finale, and she hoisted herself up atop the pole and flexed backwards, torso suspended in midair, naked chest flopping skyward for all the boys, arms out in a V. Mother of god.
Dante smirked and patted Grue on the shoulder. "Mine's much better than yours, partner."
The graying detective grumbled and rolled his eyes as the crow erupted with pleasure at the performance. The woman released herself from the pose and gallivanted back off-stage behind the red curtain. Reluctantly, Grue followed the scarlet killer back behind the scenes, heavy bouncer blocking their path before Dante spoke their employer's name, and allowed them entry. The hunter clasped a handle on the dressing-room door and winked at his associate. The room was dim, save for the mirror. On the couch laid the woman of dreams, still topless, shoes thrown off, and waiting casually for the hunter, focused on a magazine.
She caught sight of Dante and beamed, "There you are."
"Evenin', babydoll."
"Who's this?"
Dante motioned at the old man and he grumbled, "I'm Grue."
"Patricia," she said back. "You can call me Trish for short. Pleasure to meet you."
"The pleasure's all mine, ma'am."
"Don't call me ma'am!" she chuckled lightly. Like eyesight to the blind.
She was a wonderful-looking thing, even under bad lighting. The stage did wonders for voluptuous assets, but the confines of a smaller back room gave Grue a generous look at that curvy figure, wispy-banged hair as golden-bright as lightning in a bottle, lips red as cherries, ocean blue eyes deep-set like the sea, and that pouty-look sexy as sex could be. Those strong-defined cheeks played well to the roundish shape of her face; chin soft; neck thicker than expected; she was almost perfect.
"So," she said to Dante. "You gonna stay, or are you just happy to see me?"
The hunter smiled and ran a hand through the side of his shaggy hair. "You know I got work, angel. Just stopped by."
"I know," she grinned.
They stared at each other, and Grue got the hint. He turned his back on the pair and left them to it. "Don't keep me here all night."
The door shut behind him, and she laughed.
"He's sharp!" Trish said. "Where'd you find him?"
"Ah," the killer sighed as he knelt down beside her sultry hips. "Boss threw him on Urizen's tail. Wants him to figure out who he is, where he's doing business, all that stuff. Sorry for bringin' him."
"Don't be, I like him," and she stroked his inner-thigh.
"Not as much as me, I hope."
She smirked and felt him grow, muttering in his ear, "Nobody does it better."
"That's what I like to hear . . ."
(*.*.*)
Grue's slumbering eyes peeked open when he heard the door finally open. Checked his watch. Two hours. Fuck me runnin', he thought. He ran his fingers through his sandy hair and exhaled deeply.
Dante stepped out and waved a hand. "Whew, now that's a pussy I love to pet."
"Charming," the tired gumshoe replied with a disgusted grumbled. "We good here?"
"I understand, you don't get laid very often, it's okay."
"Lay off him, babe," Trish's sultry voice said. She wrapped her arms around him from his back and tucked her face out to the side, telling Grue, "His time is just as valuable as yours."
The silver-haired man shook his head with a cheeky smile, and Grue just rubbed his eyes and yawned.
"You had your fun, what's next?" he said.
"Alright, alright," Dante admitted. He kissed Trish on the forehead and said goodbye. "Gotta stop at Nell's place, she said she had somethin' for me."
It was a tough break, but the hunter told him no lies. Not that he knew of. Drove off down the road, around the block and down two more, then pulled right into a small little alley. Backdoor inlets. Seemed like the right place. Grue looked out and scrutinized with his trained eye the signless door Dante casually knocked on as he killed the motor and determined they were mostly safe. Hell of a thing to get jumped in a place like this. Couldn't be too careful, he knew from experience. The drenched tar beneath his feet felt murky and unkempt, as though public service had purposely neglected it for some time. He couldn't lie. The entire city seemed completely neglected by the public sector for quite some time, old elaborate architecture or not.
The devilish man knocked till he got a reply, a smoke-addled voice finally screaming, "What the hell do you want!"
"Open up, it's your favorite enforcer."
The door quickly unsealed and swung back open. A middle-aged woman of a slender body, rifle in hand, appeared out of the warm hall.
"Dante," she said with a smile. "Come on in, I got those mods for ya."
Great, another personal stop. Grue only waited in suspense for how long this one would take. Mercifully, not too long. He stepped inside the building to witness a grunge-laden hallway that led them a foot or two towards a small studio office. She lit a cigarette from her pack and took a long puff as she slapped a fixture on the wall that triggered a mechanical lock, and the metal partition beside them abruptly rose into the foundations of the ceiling to reveal a freight-weight elevator kept hidden discreetly from the public eye; cops' primary infrastructure. Clever. They stepped inside the thing and she pushed another button that took them down, down, down, beneath the earth to a safe-haven where the genuine work got done.
And when he took one step, he met screaming barrels. Boards of guns hung casually arranged on the walls of the place, a spacious miniature warehouse built underground into the foundations of the place. It looked old, very old. All magazines from the models on display had been removed and unchambered for safety reasons. Pretty nice numbers. He counted as much as twenty on one wall. The shop was about fifty feet in diameter, various contraptions and work desks littering the floor space as they went, serious firepower and violent machines informing Grue the lady knew pain. The place smelled of old books and mustard gas. Supposed that was the metalworking, she had on a dress shirt and slacks with a leather smock-of-an-apron that gave good resistance to some pretty gnarly scorch marks, but the brute force of welding was not her primary talent. No, that was the precision of modulation. It was an art-form to this woman; he knew.
Looked like she hadn't seen the sun in a year now that he got a proper look at the broad, her thin face peppered with stringy blonde locks that hung from a mop she called hair.
Benches surrounded them at all walls, below the models, and tools and kits strewn about with pieces and other tinkerings. Almost like a lab dedicated to warfare. She led them to one particular bench in a far corner, where she grasped two barrel extensions, one black and the other gun-metal gray, modelled on and chambered for the Smith & Wesson M1911, what Grue discovered to be the killer's personal weapon of choice.
"Here, new parts," she said. "They damn well better work this time, kiddo."
The man chuckled. Didn't mind it when she called him that, it seemed. "Thank ya kindly, ma'am."
First time Grue saw him act polite.
"What's wrong with the old ones," the gumshoe prodded as he saw Dante and Nell fiddle about with his twin pistols.
"You new?" the woman asked, not bothering to look up from Dante's hand as she swapped out the parts, smoke billowing from her nostrils in Dante's face as she chomped the cigarette filter from the corner of her mouth.
"Yeah," Dante replied, wiping away the toxic fumes. "Boss wanted—"
"I asked him, kiddo," she smirked.
Grue chuckled as Dante sarcastically scowled. He dug her vibe. "Yeah, I'm new. Boss wanted some digging done on some cat named 'Urizen.' Think it's Polish or something."
"Hell if I know," she replied. "You liking it so far?"
"Well enough, I suppose. Just been at it with the kid playin' driver now."
She laughed as she began working on the other pistol, glancing up at him. "Wouldn't be the first time. What's your name?"
"Grue."
"I'm Nell. Nell Goldstein."
"Pleasure to meet you, ma'am."
"So," she said. "The kid likes to fire fast. He comes here, I make everything work like he wants. The standard barrel extensions started jamming because he fires even faster than when he started. These attach to the underside and screw on, but I've redesigned them to take as much force as possible on the frame, turn a lightweight frame to a heavyweight one. So that's what's wrong with the old parts. You ever need any work done on that python you got hidden in your right-breast holster; and you're not on the other side; come 'round here, I'll see what I can do for ya, capiche?"
"Sounds good," the man replied with a warm smile.
"Ugh, get a room," the scarlet killer said.
She snapped the barrel module closed on Dante's finger and it snagged his skin. He pulled out, blood-blister on his finger.
"Ouch," he said. Wouldn't last long.
"Still a smartass after all these years, heh." She shook her head and finished the adjustments on his weapons of choice.
"You know it," he said. "I like to think it adds to my charm."
"You like to think a lot o' things, don't ya kid? Go on, get outta here."
"Love ya, Nell. Stay peppy."
She merely gave a salute as she wandered back to a nearby bench and sat with a rolling chair she grabbed nearby, tinkering about with a rifle scope.
They left outta there, Grue regarding the woman a quaint company he'd like to see more of. They could probably share stories of many an old time, though Grue wasn't so old as he looked. He still felt it. Hard lines in his face would've told you that rugged mug would've been an aging movie star's had his luck not worn so thin. Still, he thought of Nell as someone he could be friendly with, the fair miss a damn fine drinking pal, and someone to come to should he ever have needed a need for heavier artillery. All that talking got him parched for the stuff again. He took out and lit another stick, cool taste on his tongue, carcinogens through his lips and throat. Good puff.
"Where next, kid?"
"D'ya have to smoke so much, partner?"
"Why, you don't?"
"Not anymore. Shit's bad for you."
"Yes, thank god you've told me," the gumshoe mocked. "This twenty-year habit would've almost killed me."
"Hardy-har-har," Dante scoffed. "Next up's a contact on the force, if you wanna know. Nice likable fella, works Vice."
"Alright . . . why the hell am I meeting with a Vice cop?"
"Urizen's got hands in the drug trade. New product's moving through, good shit. Figured you could glean some stuff out of what he knows."
"That makes a surprising amount of sense."
"Called in the meeting with him for about—" and he grabbed Grue's wrist and looked at the watch. "Mmmmmm fifteen minutes from now."
The detective grumbled and yanked his hand free. "Alright, fine. Where at?"
"Back at Bullseye's. Meeting him in the back alley, out of sight, outta mind, you dig?"
"I dig."
Small smirks exchanged, and they stepped out of the elevator. Got in his car, left.
(*.*.*)
The ten-minute drive felt refreshing after all that nonsense. Dante directed the man to a backstreet next to the bar, in the dark beyond sight of patrons and addicts. Couldn't risk some hopped-up informant seeing anything while tweaked out, lest the boss break their heads open with a pipe. Not that it would kill Dante. Not much could. That blood-blister certainly couldn't, not that it was there anymore. Devil's blood had its perks. He liked these barrel modules. They fit well in his holsters and looked slick for a killer's beastly strengths. Not as slick as the man they were due to meet, the Bowery Boys' best contact on the police force, a veteran of the Vice squad, sitting there in darkness, headlights off, car hidden to the side in an abandoned nook of space nobody paid any mind to.
And they pulled up, car lights off, dimming the near-pitch black alleyway to a crisp, perfect dark. Slowly approaching till he pulled to a stop, Grue lowered his window to see a dark-skinned man with a bandana over his head, grizzled beard and leather jacket signaling weathered experience, though his this face seemed indeterminate in the shadow.
"Hey, you the new guy?"
"Yeah that's me," Grue said.
"He's a good driver," Dante said from the passenger's seat.
"Dante," the man said. "You got it?"
"Yep," the hunter said and produced a blood-stained bag. "Here you are."
He held it out, leaning over Grue to hand the bag to the man, Grue grumbling, waiting for the stupidity to be through with.
The man took the bag and scrutinized the contents thoroughly. All the bills there.
He turned his head back at the two and smiled those bright teeth, "my nigga."
"I got you, man," the hunter said and smiled back.
The man nodded his head back at the devil as he sat back in his chair and awaited the transaction. From the glove compartment, the cop retrieved a brown paper package — illicit brick of shit it was — and tossed it in past a perplexed Grue to the scarlet killer, who caught the package without hesitation.
Dante smirked, "thank ya brother."
Grue glared at the brick in Dante's hand. The shape of that was awfully familiar. He couldn't figure out why.
"So, brotha Dante here tells me y'all got some questions?" the cop began. "Whassup?"
"Uh yeah," the gumshoe said as he looked back. "On the tail of that big new kingpin, Urizen. You know anything about him?"
"Nah, man," the officer said with a shake of his head. "Nobody knows dick about him. He's some kinda freaky ghost shit," and he looked around to ensure they were still safe. "I tell you one thing though, ain't nobody's shit ever been as pure as his. I've seen a lot of strains come and go, but nothing touches this new stuff. Boys in my squad call it Lucifuge on account of the red tint. It's not some nasty shit, man. Came outta nowhere, suddenly the streets are full of it, gets you high like nothin' else."
"Red tint?" Grue asked, eyebrow raised. "What kind of drug is it?"
"Shit dawg, what'd you think it was?" the cop told him plainly.
"I've never heard of red coke before," Grue scoffed at the insinuation.
The man laughed, barely controlling himself, "Shit man, you know what kinda times we livin' in, I'm surprised we ain't got nothin' that'll make you glow in the dark yet."
"Strange times, I get it," Grue grumbled. "What else do we know about Urizen? Any kind of background, anything we know about him aside from the weird shit?"
"The only thing anybody knows about him is that we don't got anything on him. We got no date-of-birth, no motives, no associates, no patterns, all we have is the name and the drug. Lucifuge moves in and out of streets and neighborhoods like ice through water, it's hot fire fo the homeless, the middle class, the rich elite, it doesn't matter who; you get a taste of it, you get hooked on it. And that's good or bad depending how you think."
Grue glanced back at Dante, still holding that same brick in his hand protectively, like a killer wolf fierce of the scarlet murder, and it clicked in his head.
"You fall on the business side of this trade, perchance?"
The cop looked at him stoically for a time, his eyes unchanging before his stern mouth broke to a grin and he chuckled, "what's good for him is good for the Bowery Boys."
Grue grumbled to himself and sighed, exasperated. He put his head back against the seat and stared at the ceiling.
"Hey, what's your name?" the officer asked.
Grue looked back at him and shrugged, "name's Grue."
"'Grue,' huh? Nice to rap whitcha. I'm Officer Yawners," the man said and handed the gumshoe one of his cards. The card read his full name, 'Demetrius Yawners.'
"Good to meet you, sir."
Yawners laughed, "y'all formal up in here, huh?"
"It's—it's an old habit. Sorry."
"Nah, no worries, brotha. I'll see you guys later, aight? You hang loose."
And that was that.
No leads. Frustrating.
"I need food," the gumshoe said, time well-past reasonable.
"Boss is waiting downtown at Ruth's Chris, order yourself a steak."
"Is it gonna be free?"
"Got you covered partner, I'll talk to the boss."
"Much obliged, kid."
And they drove off for downtown, wondering what next life might bring to them. More than likely more of the same.
To Be Continued