.

Brood of a New Age

54.

Walter Miller felt at some hours more than others that he was aging rapidly. For example, at night when he had to pee almost every hour because his prostate was probably the size of an orange by now. And on a rainy night like this, it was even more frequent with the background music. Walter heaved himself to the edge of the bed and looked at his digital alarm clock. Just before five. Soon it would be dawn. His night was over. He was an early riser anyway because of his kiosk. He closed his booth over the midday lull and could then take an hour's nap at home, but he wouldn't be able to keep that up for long anyway.

Only three more years he said to himself again, got up and wandered without turning on any light, yawning and scratching his butt through his fine rib underpants into the bathroom. The rain - even though it was the warm season - not only crept into his bones but even seemed to seep into the walls of his house, into the wallpaper of his apartment. It smelled everywhere of summer rain, of damp clothes, a little musty and on the verge of becoming sporic. Also in the semi-darkness of the bathroom he did his business. Who saw so badly like him and knew anyway where everything stood and lay, needed no light source. Sometimes he felt like a bat. Or like a gargoyle, which also felt quite at home in the dark. He washed his hands and face and shuffled into his living room, which included an open kitchenette. He turned on his old coffee maker, which he had prepared the night before, and was about to return to his bedroom to get dressed and his glasses when someone in the room cleared his throat, causing Miller to whirl around, startled.

"Who!" he gasped. It was dark, he saw nothing but a bluish glow from the window. But there was someone!

There in his television chair, someone was moving.

"Hello Miller," he heard a voice so unusual and distinctive that he could immediately place it.

"What?"

"Don't panic, Miller. It's all good. Don't piss yourself," said the smoky voice that you almost wanted to lay into but that somehow sounded sinister. Even more so because this person was now sitting here in his apartment. Simply because he was so perplexed - and also afraid - Miller stated the obvious as if it were still questionable.

"Mister ... Dante? Is that you?" The human looked to the open window, which he didn't really see was open but through which he could hear a car driving by on a rain-soaked road just now so clearly that there was no doubt about it.

"You broke in here?"

"That's right. Pretty wet out there, isn't it? Nobody would chase a dog out in this weather," said the city's worst bagman as if he were making petty small talk. But Miller now knew that Dante had probably never been a bagman, had just led him around by the nose that night, but still- now this ... this fraud was sitting here in his apartment, had broken in and was now up to something with him! Nobody broke in somewhere when he just wanted to bring flowers. God, what had he gotten himself into, Walter thought in panic, wanting to get out of this situation somehow so he could call the police.

"I-I can't see you? Can I get my glasses out of the bedroom," he asked cautiously and as little in panic as possible.

"Sure thing, Miller. Knock yourself out."

Walter turned around, walked with jelly legs into the hallway where he turned on the light and then into his bedroom, turned on the light there as well and got his glasses. Briefly, he wondered if he should barricade himself in his bedroom. But for how long? His phone was out in the hall. How could he call for help? As quietly as he could, he walked back into his hallway, out of sight from the living room. He took the receiver from the cradle, held it to his ear - and realized that the phone was dead. With a racing heart, he looked behind the small telephone - where the cable lay visibly cut. The large water stains there on the floor were another sign that Dante had probably broken in through the window and that no cute little mouse had gnawed through the cable.

Miller almost let out a horrified squeak. He felt like the mouse in the trap himself. Okay. The door. That was one possibility. Mister Dante was certainly faster than he was but if Miller made it out and screamed real loud, neighbors would surely come out to help him. Or not because this was fucking New York and everyone was just minding their own fucking business. Still, Walter crept to his apartment door and saw that the doorknob had been removed. Also gone was his key, which always stuck there. For sure the door would be locked!

Walter wanted to cry most of all. With gangsters coming to his booth - he could halfway handle that. But not having someone break into his apartment, his safe-space, and probably kill him. As if the devil smelled that Miller was about to shit himself, Dante called out from the living room. Not maliciously, not amused but just giving a fact and inviting him in with it.

"I've got your key right here."

Walter Miller exhaled shakily. There was no way around Mister Dante. He came slowly back into living room, felt for the light switch next to the door frame and pushed it. The light remained out. Even after moving the switch back and forth several times, it remained dark.

"I screwed the light bulb out of the overhead lamp," Dante explained calmly.

"What, why?" said Miller, sounding as shrill as a man in his sixties shouldn't. Even Mister Dante's calmness didn't change that.

"Honestly to spare your heart, Miller. You already look like you're about to keel over. It's for your own good. I wanted you to be calm before you saw me. So, sit down." Even with the dim light from the hallway, Miller barely saw the person in his recliner. Mister Dante remained a gray-red shadow, now gesturing to one of his chairs at the small dining table.

Uncertainly, Miller came into the room, feeling his way along the chairs until he could sit down.

"Do you remember when you first met me?"

"Well-of course. B-b-but it's not my fault you didn't take the money that day."

"It's not about the money."

"Oh? O-okay. The other bagman came two days later. He said he didn't know a Dante."

"He was right about that. He doesn't know me yet."

"I don't understand what this is about? I-are you going to kill me?"

"No. We're buddies," the gangster (or whatever he was) said.

Miller believed him for now. He had to believe him. Otherwise he'd get a panic attack right here and now because a strange guy - a criminal - had broken into his apartment.

"So. The night we met. And you remember not finding your glasses there?"

"Yeah. Sure."

"Well. I did. I took your glasses for the time being. And I let you find them again, too."

"What - really?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I needed answers and someone to talk to me. And you wouldn't have done that if you'd seen me." Since Dante hadn't moved an inch so far, and his voice didn't sound like what Miller imagined someone who was about to slit his throat would sound, Miller tried to loosen up. Small talk. Being friendly. Being casual - maybe even a little charming. Survival. It wasn't like Dante could hear his racing heart or smell his fear. The newspaper salesman smiled tensely. Something the wet burglar probably couldn't see at all.

"Why do you think that? I've been living in New York for 60 years. And I've had the newsstand for 35. I'm not as scared of mobsters as maybe I should be. No offense to you."

"No problem. But even though I'm a mobster, you still would have run screaming."

"You can't be that ugly."

"Oh, on the contrary. In fact, I think I'm quite handsome. Even more so next evening, when I have the nerve to redo my braid."

"Then what's the problem?"

"It's not my problem, it's everyone else's problem that I'm a gargoyle."

"A gargoyle?"

Walter gasped.

Then he laughed uncertainly. "Good joke. Love your sense of humor, Mister Dante."

"Thanks. But I wasn't joking. And I'm not messing with you either. Quite the opposite. You may feel honored that I'm telling you."

"Okay. You're a gargoyle. It's all good," Miller said with a grin.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Now convinced that the criminal also had a warped sense of humor, Miller nodded. You could tell by his counterpart's tone that he didn't believe him.

"Then ... can I turn the lights on now without you screaming and freaking out? Because I don't like it at all when people scream."

"Yes. I'm not going to scream. I've always wanted to see a gargoyle," Miller confirmed. The shadow reached to the side and pulled the chain of the floor lamp there with a click. Miller blinked at the person now bathed in yellow light, the Italo-mobster Mister Dante with narrowed eyes. Then he blinked again while opening his eyes wider. Then he toppled forward. How he was caught by Dante, he no longer realized.

.

Walter groaned and grabbed his head. Never again would he eat such greasy food so late. That and the gruesome grimace he had thought he saw in his kiosk window three weeks ago had given him horrible dreams tonight. He had even fallen asleep on his couch, which his back would make him pay for all day. Even his glasses were still in place.

"Are you going to be okay?" a voice asked, and automatically Miller answered.

"Sure."

Then he fixed his vision. In the light of his floor lamp, a gray-skinned gargoyle sat in his television chair - eating a sandwich!

Miller gawked at the strange delusion-the figure from his nightmare-with painfully widened eyes.

This seemed uncomfortable to the creature itself.

"Please don't gawk while I'm eating, Miller," he said in Mister Dante's melodious voice.

"Oh, sorry." The little newsman looked away- but right back at the creature as it spoke.

"I helped myself to a beer and made a sandwich while you were passed out. Had a rough night. It's okay, isn't it?"

"Off-off course."

The thing nodded and bit out a huge piece of the sandwich with its beak (it had a beak! Damn, that was a nightmare.) and chewed. There his pastrami disappeared. It had been expensive and he only treated himself to it every few weeks.

"Mhm, I poured you a coffee," the monster said, and by God Miller needed a good strong coffee. He reached for the cup of black brew from his machine. The coffee was still hot. He couldn't have been out for more than ten minutes. Walter couldn't stop his hands from shaking as he drank, which seemed to strike the creature in his chair negatively.

"Now - I told you I wasn't going to hurt you. If your nerves don't stop fluttering soon, we won't get over the conversation we need to have," he said reproachfully, letting his gaze flit to the window. "My time is limited, you know?"

Walter nodded and drank large gulps from the cup even though he burned his tongue at the same time. Within three minutes, the creature that was obviously a gargoyle AND obviously Mister Dante had devoured the sandwich and washed it down with one of his Budweisers.

"Can I have one of your smokes?" he then asked. Miller nodded again, whereupon the scarred gargoyle grabbed the pack on the coffee table and lit one. Dante had seen that he smoked when he visited his kiosk, after all. (Damn! He had had a GARGOYLE sitting in his booth for half an hour! He had talked to him like they were best friends!).

"Light one up, too. You need it," said Dante and Walter grabbed one out of reflex, put it in his mouth and only then realized that he didn't have a lighter (he was still in his underwear and the gargoyle was wearing far more than he was - even though he was dripping wet and soaking his chair as well). Before Walter could hope to get away from the gray monster in search of a lighter, Dante leaned forward, the open Zippo with the burning flame in his hand. A hand with claws. This gesture was frighteningly familiar to any smoker. The gesture of a similar addict who understood what was needed. Walter leaned forward with his heart pounding, the cigarette in his mouth, and held the quivering tip into the flame while he puffed to make the tobacco glow. Then he leaned back - without anything bad happening - as did the helpful (yet at the same time quite parasitic) gargoyle. Dante let the Zippo snap shut and took a drag on his own cigarette, as did Walter. There was nothing better than fighting madness with familiar routines and flooding the body with an old favorite addictive substance.

Dante seemed to feel the same way.

"I really had a shitty night," he said, which was obviously an invitation for conversation.

For the first time since Walter had first heard the former shadow in his apartment, he felt collected enough not to stutter or fear for his life. His voice-though nervous, sounded composed.

"'So-what are you doing here? At my place?"

"Escorted you home after my visit to your kiosk. That's how I knew where you lived. I wouldn't have gotten into your place if I didn't have to." Again, Mister Dante looked at the window.

"What-what have you been up to these past few weeks?"

"This and that. Been hanging out. And trying out what I want to do here. Kind of a self-discovery phase, inner peace my way and all."

The gargoyle smirked and shrugged. He was SO monstrous- and so human at the same time. That was ... worrisome. Walter Miller had never tried to think much about the Quarrymen or gargoyles, had tried to tune them out like the end-of-the-world stories and the conspiracy nuts who stood on the side of the road with their `Doomsday is near` signs. And now this urban legend come true was sitting across from him. Although ... Mister Dante was no American legend. He believed him when he said he had only been in town a few weeks. No human could fake such a strong accent. No gargoyle, Miller corrected himself. No gargoyle could fake an accent like that.

"Have you found any other gargoyles? That's why you questioned me back then, isn't it?"

The gargoyle nodded and blew smoke into the air. It really was like Miller was sitting with one of his buddies.

"I found them. Wasn't my cup of tea. Think now, I should go back to my roots. And that's why I'm here."

Totally out of context Miller let out a nervous shrill laugh that included traces of insanity.

"Don't freak out, Miller."

"I'm not freaking out. I really don't. Just never thought I'd be sitting across from a gargoyle."

"Do you need a beer?"

"Not this early in the morning. But thanks," Miller said even though this was his apartment, and his beer.

"We didn't finish our conversation last time, I noticed," Dante said.

"Yeah?"

"We hadn't gotten to Dracon yet."

"Dracon?"

"That was the name of the Italian-born crime boss, right?"

"Yes. That's right. The one whose associate I thought you were."

"Right. Now I need the info about him. But probably not tonight. My time is running out."

For the first time Walter noticed that Dante looked tired even if he didn't know what the gray scarred gargoyle looked like otherwise. And pretty disheveled he looked too with that wild hair and ripped jeans. He glanced at the window again and, with a sort of worried sigh, brushed a strand of his shaggy hair behind a pointed ear in which a diamond earring shone. For the first time, Walter could scrape together enough brains to remember one of the rumors about gargoyles.

"The sun's about to come up," he said.

"Yes. I can feel it in my bones."

"Where ... where will you petrify?" inquired Walter, but somehow the creature's smirk answered his question.

"Oh."

"That room there behind the door will do for me," Dante said. With a horrified look, Miller jumped to his feet as Dante stood up as well.

"Behind that door is my son's room! He only uses it sometimes on weekends now. Otherwise, he lives in a dorm."

"Well perfect." Dante stretched and several bones in his spine and wings cracked. It had never been a coat. It had never been a cape. It was a piece of himself.

"Are you sure this is okay?" said Walter hurriedly as he followed him. His words meant nothing but that he was not okay (not okay at all!) with a gargoyle petrified in his home. But he didn't dare to say that and Dante didn't seem to understand or ignore the hint. He walked into the half-tidy room, which still looked like it belonged to an eighteen-year-old, with posters on the wall, old sneakers in the corner, and so on. Dante seemed to be checking the window lock and pulled the white curtains closed. "I won't bother you during the day for obvious reasons, Miller. I'll be better tomorrow night. We can talk then."

"Mister Dante?"

"What, Miller?" The gargoyle was facing him now- not an arm's length away, looking at him with a sullen look that made Walter feel kind of small. Gangsters had that look. Uncertainly, he rubbed his hands together, feeling like a tardy protection money payer. Still, he had to ask.

"Aren't you afraid I'll turn you in to the Quarrymen? Castaway has offered a reward for a captured gargoyle."

The gray non-human grinned - a sight Miller would take to his nightmares.

"How much is the reward?" he asked as if he wasn't even involved or - even crazier - was considering turning himself in if it was enough money.

"It-it's a million, I think."

"Oh. That's quite a bit of dough. I don't think I can compete with that. Well, then I guess you're going to extradite my statue, aren't you?"

"What? Me, shall I?" asked Miller uncertainly. Dante had sounded as if he should - as if he could. Was he allowed? A million. That was enough to retire on. To buy a beach house in Florida. Warm weather. Good for his bones. Or was that just a test? Was he just failing some sick sadistic gargoyle test?

"I-I would never turn you in," Miller whispered. "We-we're friends, aren't we?"

He nearly toppled forward as Mister Dante patted him on the back. "That's a good attitude to have. After all ... I didn't come from Italy alone. You remember that red face you saw in your window when I was in your kiosk?"

Walter felt all the color drain from his face. Dante seemed amused by this, and his sinister laughter triggered heart palpitations in the man again. "I would never threaten a friend. But the others know where I intend to spend the day. One gargoyle you would turn in - but a dozen others would hunt you. And a skinned Miller, cut into strips and eaten, wouldn't be able to do anything with the million either. Wouldn't he?"

"No! No, of course not."

Dante patted him patronizingly on the cheek like a Mafia godfather. Miller stiffened under the touch of the strangely smooth yet leathery skin.

"Wonderful. I'm glad we understand each other. So. I trust that no scratch will get on my statue. And you trust my word of honor that you'll stay alive. Sounds great, doesn't it?"

"Yes- yes of course."

"Good, I'll see you again tomorrow night at sunset. And then you will tell me everything about the Dracon Syndicate. All the stores he visits, runs or milks, his other sources of income, his associates, his family. Everything. And where I can find stores and businesses of his biggest adversaries you will tell me too. If you can find photos of the gangster bosses and their most important people, that would be excellent - but I also take detailed descriptions. Feel free to make lists during the day so you don't forget anything. Buy me one of those cameras that takes instant pictures."

The gargoyle's stare was almost challenging. Thus Miller was forced to obey as if the gargoyle were his boss. Yet he had the kiosk only because he had somehow wanted to be his own boss.

"Well- of course, Mister Dante. But if you don't mind me asking-" he said quietly.

"Sure. You can ask me anything."

"What's all this for?"

Dante chuckled and narrowed his eyes, smiling. "Let's just say it's a mix of hunting and courtship. The bride just doesn't know about her good fortune yet."

"Uhhh."

"You don't have to understand, Miller. Just play along. It won't be to your disadvantage in the end. I don't forget who's been good to me. My father taught me that. Now get out of here. And don't you dare take pictures while I'm asleep. I'll get angry. "

"I would never do that!"

Dante finally stepped back from him and wandered to a corner of the room next to the bed, where he crouched into a wide-legged position.

Now both human and gargoyle looked toward the window through whose opaque but bright curtains the graying morning could already be seen.

"And Miller?" said his new housemate.

"Yes?"

The gargoyle smiled broadly again, showing more fangs than Miller had ever wanted to see.

"I like my eggs hard-boiled. Three minutes. Real butter, mirabelle plums or peach jam. By that I mean jam, not jelly. Whole wheat toast, not that soggy white shit you Americans get into and I just had to eat. And most importantly- real cappuccino - and hot. Now sleep tight."

Before Miller could answer the sun had risen and in front of him squatted only a statue with a belligerent pose. Even Mister Dante's clothes were petrified.

Walter Miller dropped onto his son's bed with trembling legs.

"This-this can't be happening," he muttered.

Hesitantly, he reached out, tapping the statue on the head.

Just stone. But real. Not a dream.

For minutes, Miller stared at the figure. Would he really wake up at sunset? Even petrified, Mister Dante looked grim. Grim and absolutely capable of killing him with those fangs and claws.

Should he ... one of his neighbors was with the Quarrymen. It would be so easy now to walk across the hall, knock and show him the statue. And how much he could use the million. But Miller was hanging onto his life even more.

He finally managed to get up, leave the room and go to his desk in the living room, where he looked for a writing pad and pen. He needed to write lists. Lists of everything he knew about Dracon and the other gangsters. And a shopping list. And last but not least a note, which he could stick on his kiosk window, that he had closed his store today because of illness. He would need the whole day to comply with the requests/demands of the nesting creature. But it was vital, after all.

It must be indecent how much fun I had writing this chapter! xDDD

Dante is the world's biggest moocher. And at the same time so threatening and friendly all in one. I feel sorry for Miller.

Thanks for reading, Q.T.