Dying Is My Business Read online

  Or maybe there were no answers.

  No, I couldn’t accept that. There had to be answers. They were waiting for me in a past I couldn’t remember. But every time I tried, every time I forced my mind to reach back beyond the previous year, I came up empty.

  I lay back on the bed, folding my arms under my head. I stared at the cracks in the ceiling and the cobwebs that gathered in the corners. I tried to put my thoughts in order so I could make sense out of them. So much was lost to me, but these, at least, were the things I knew to be true:

  One. I was a man. Okay, that one wasn’t too hard to figure out, but it was as good a place to start as any. Judging by my reflection, I was in my mid to late thirties, with dark eyes and dark hair, though that wasn’t much to go on. I’d spent hours memorizing my features, studying my hairline, the cut of my jaw and shape of my nose, every crease around my eyes and fold in my ears, but the truth was there was nothing distinctive about my appearance. I’d scoured my body for scars, tattoos, anything that might help someone identify me, but there weren’t any. It was frustrating, but not entirely surprising. If my body could heal bullet wounds then surgery scars, tattoos, or marks from childhood accidents weren’t likely to stick around either.

  Two. My amnesia was retrograde, a word I’d learned when I researched my condition on the free computers at the Brooklyn Public Library. It meant that I couldn’t remember who I was or where I lived, but I could still talk, tie my shoes, drive a car, feed myself. I also learned that the condition most likely stemmed from one of two possible causes, either brain damage or a mental defense mechanism against a traumatic event. So had I suffered a brain injury or seen something my mind couldn’t accept? There was no way to know. My memory, up until a year ago, was like a frustratingly blank piece of paper. Which brought me to the final item on the checklist of what I knew.

  Three. The brick wall. My earliest memory, and only a vague one at that. I remembered regaining consciousness lying on my back in front of a brick wall. I wasn’t sure how much I could trust that memory, since my mind was constantly trying to fill in the blanks with fabricated stories, but this one at least felt true. The wall in question seemed average, but there was something about it I still wasn’t sure if I’d really seen or only imagined. One of the bricks had a symbol scratched into it. In the fuzziness of my memory I thought it looked like an eye inside a circle. I remembered sparkles of light dancing along the wall and fading away like dying embers as I opened my eyes. I remembered a small, swirling wisp of smoke, as if someone had just put out a cigarette.

  I figured the brick wall probably belonged to an alley somewhere in the city, only I had no idea where. My next memory was of running down an empty street at night, lost and confused. I found a hospital, but without any ID and with no signs of physical trauma they turned me away. After that I camped on park benches and under bridges, rummaging through garbage cans for food and shooing away the rats that came too close at night. In the mornings I would move on, hoping to find someone or something that would remind me who I was. But all I found was Underwood.

  He’d been in one of his stash houses, off of an alley in Harlem, a small, concrete hut with a counterfeit Con Edison sign on the door to keep people out. I was ravenously hungry, and the smell of food lured me down the alley. The lights coming out of the hut’s windows had looked so warm that I couldn’t help myself. When I saw the door was slightly ajar I didn’t bother knocking, my hunger was too great. I just walked right in. They were all there, Tomo, Big Joe, Ford, Underwood, and the dark-haired woman, standing around a table loaded with stacks of cash and empty fast-food wrappers. The woman saw me first, her dark eyes widening with alarm. She didn’t say a word, but the look on her face was enough to alert the others. Tomo, Big Joe, and Ford turned on me with their guns drawn. Then I felt something hit me in the chest. That was the first time I died. The next thing I knew I was waking up in a Dumpster, my shirt riddled with bullet holes. Only I didn’t have any bullet holes in me anymore. As I crawled out, I stepped on something that crunched underfoot. I looked down and saw a shriveled, desiccated corpse lying beside the Dumpster. Ford. He’d been unlucky enough to get the order to carry my body out to the Dumpster, and being the closest living person had paid the price for it. Ford’s was the first life I stole. The first name on my list, and the reason Tomo and Big Joe wanted me dead. The three of them had been like brothers.

  After that, Underwood knew someone like me could be useful. He took me off the streets, put a roof over my head, and filled my pockets with enough money to clothe myself and keep my belly full. He promised to help me find the answers if I worked for him in the meantime. He gave me hope. He gave me a purpose.

  The hope remained. But lately, ever since the crack house, I’d been wondering if the purpose was the right one.

  Four

  “Bennett’s people have control of a number of properties around the city, mostly warehouses and shipping piers. Whatever they can rent out fast and cheap or use for themselves as stash houses,” Underwood said. It was the next night, and we were sitting at the table in the main room of the fallout shelter. I’d changed into a fresh new shirt and burned the one Maddock had put a bullet hole in. I’d burned nine ruined shirts so far. I hoped I could get through tonight, at least, without ruining another one. When your life is this messed up, you keep your goals simple.

  The black door was closed. I wondered if Bennett had been released alive or if his bruised and beaten corpse lay on the other side of the door even now. I pictured the drain in the floor painted red with blood. I felt cold then, and turned away.

  The second gray door was open, revealing a small room that was the mirror image of my own, except without a bed. Instead, there was a couch, a couple of chairs, and a floor lamp. The dark-haired woman sat on the couch, staring blankly into space while Tomo sat on a chair across from her, keeping an eye on her. She would go catatonic like this on occasion. More than once I’d seen her sitting with her eyes open but completely unresponsive—lights on but nobody home. Sometimes it only lasted a few minutes, other times she didn’t seem to come back to herself for hours. I wondered if she was a junkie and Underwood was selling stolen goods on the black market to feed her habit. It didn’t strike me as a good use of his time or money, but maybe that was what love did to people. I wouldn’t know.

  Underwood continued talking, pulling my attention back to him. “Sometimes, when these properties sit empty, they get squatters. A certain object I’m looking for recently made an appearance at one of these properties, in the hands of some people who aren’t supposed to be there. I just didn’t know which property until I got it out of our good friend Bennett. This is where you need to go.”

  He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and passed it to me. Even his hand reeked of cologne. He’d written down an address, 49th and West Side Highway, and beneath it he’d scrawled a name, Balakier.

  “It’s a warehouse that used to belong to an import company, but it’s been abandoned for a few years now. The people who are squatting there have a wooden box in their possession. I’m told the box has an old metal crest on its lid. A couple of lions and a shield. That’s how you’ll recognize it. Get the box and bring it to me.”

  “How big is it?” I asked.

  “About the size of a suitcase, two feet long, a foot wide. It’s big, but it won’t be too heavy for you to carry.”

  “What’s in it?” I asked.

  “Just bring it to me. This one’s a game-changer, Trent. I already have a buyer lined up for it, one who’s willing to drop so much cash for it that I could own this town. So don’t worry about what’s in it, don’t open it, don’t mess with it, I don’t want you fucking it up. Don’t do anything with the box except bring it straight back here. Got it?”

  “Got it.” I put the paper with the address in my pocket and stood.

  “One more thing,” he added. “This won’t be a simple in-and-out job like the others. Whoever has the box won’t be stupid eno
ugh to leave it unguarded, and they’re not going to give it up without a fight. Things might get hairy, but if anyone can handle it, it’s you. That’s why I wanted you on this. You’re my go-to guy. I’m counting on you.”

  I nodded and pulled on my leather jacket. “Anything else I need to know?”

  “Yes,” Underwood said. He picked casually at his teeth with a fingernail. “Once you’ve taken the box from them, kill them. No survivors. I don’t want anyone left alive who can trace this back to me. There’s too much at stake.”

  My throat went tight.

  “Something wrong?” he asked. He must have noticed me tense up.

  “It’s just that you’ve never asked me to kill anyone before,” I said.

  He raised an eyebrow. “I don’t like having my orders questioned,” he said. “And I don’t like doing favors for someone who questions them. Is there going to be a problem?”

  In the reflection of his black sunglasses, I saw myself shake my head.

  “Good. Now go bring me that box.” Underwood stood up from the table and started toward the other room, where the dark-haired woman sat staring into space.

  I rose and followed him. “Underwood, wait.”

  He turned to face me, impatient. “What is it now?”

  “Have you found anything new? About me, I mean?”

  His scowl became a grin. “You better believe it. And it’s big. All those inquiries I’ve been making have paid off in spades. Believe me, you’re going to be very happy with what I found.”

  “What is it? Tell me.”

  “All in due time,” he said. I stared eagerly at him, waiting for more, but he just smiled. “When the box is in my hands, and the ones you’ve taken it from are dead, then I’ll tell you everything you want to know.” He nodded toward the corridor that led to the exit. “Better get a move on, Trent. I don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  I felt like I was going to explode. I wanted to know now, but Underwood was already walking away. I wouldn’t get any more out of him. Biting back my frustration, I walked to the fallout shelter door. Big Joe was there, waiting like a doorman. He sneered at me. “What’s eating you?”

  “Nothing.”

  Big Joe pulled back the bolt on the door, unlocking it. “You be careful out there, T-Bag. Nobody lives forever. Not even a freakshow like you.”

  * * *

  I parked the Explorer on 49th Street between 11th Avenue and the West Side Highway, then walked the rest of the way. The nighttime chill had settled over the city, and I pulled my leather jacket close around me for warmth. The address Underwood had given me was a two-story brick building in an enclosed cul-de-sac on the other side of the highway, flanked on either side by piers that stretched out into the dark waters of the Hudson River. The walls of the cul-de-sac hid it from the streetlamps and the blinking lights of the piers’ freight cranes. And from witnesses. A faded sign on the building’s façade read BALAKIER IMPORT & EXPORT. I waited for a break in the West Side Highway’s traffic, then hurried across.

  The closer I got to the warehouse, the less I wanted to go inside. It felt like hundreds of tiny, imaginary hands pushing me back, trying to stop me. I didn’t like this job. A simple in-and-out collection was something I was used to, but this was a whole other ball game. It was enough to make me want to turn back. But Underwood had answers, finally. Answers I’d waited a year for, and if I wanted them I didn’t have a choice. I had to see this through.

  I crept around to the side of the building, keeping to the shadows as I slid my back along the graffiti-covered wall. There were four big windows on the first floor. Their glass panes had been smashed long ago. Now the windows were boarded from the inside with sheets of plywood. Light bled out through the corners of the boards and from under the wooden double doors in the middle of the wall. I pulled my gun. A muffled voice came from inside. I couldn’t tell what it was saying, but one thing was unmistakable. It was a woman’s voice.

  Damn. Underwood hadn’t told me who would be inside. On the drive over I’d imagined it would be men like Tomo and Big Joe, thugs who wouldn’t hesitate to shoot me dead if I didn’t shoot them first. But a woman?

  No survivors, that was what Underwood said. So be it, then. Whoever was in there probably had it coming anyway. I wasn’t about to let my first shot at getting some concrete answers slip through my fingers.

  I gripped the gun tighter and tried the handle on one of the doors. It was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped through.

  Inside, the warehouse was a single enormous open space. The hardwood floor was bare and scuffed. Two rows of thick, wooden floor-to-ceiling support beams spanned the room like carefully arranged dominoes. Saucer-shaped metal light fixtures hung on long chains from the ceiling—or what was left of the ceiling. There was a wide, gaping hole in it that looked like something heavy had broken through, and recently. The floor below was littered with debris, chunks of cement, and large pieces of wood and tar from the roof. Old wooden crates and heaps of broken, waterlogged furniture had been pushed against the walls in stacks, forming a makeshift circle around the center of the room. What I saw within that circle stopped me in my tracks.

  I noticed the woman first. She was short, not more than five feet tall, with long, thick black hair. She wore jeans and a bulky cargo vest over a plain long-sleeved shirt. She held a wooden staff horizontally in front of her with both hands in a defensive stance. Mounted at the end of the staff was what looked like a small black ball. Whoever she was, she didn’t see me. She was too focused on the six men in front of her.

  They had their backs to me so that all I saw was their long, slate-gray trench coats. They didn’t have any weapons that I could see. They advanced on the woman, forcing her back toward the crates behind her, penning her in. Six big men against one small woman. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, but I didn’t like those odds. It was clear from the look on her face that she didn’t either.

  I raised my gun and took a cautious step closer. My foot accidentally kicked a small chip of fallen cement and sent it skittering loudly across the floor.

  Shit.

  The six men stopped moving. Their trench coats split apart down the middle and blossomed out to their sides. Too late I realized they weren’t trench coats at all.

  They were wings.

  All six of them spun on me. I’d expected to see the scowling, beefy faces of mob enforcers, but these weren’t men. They weren’t even human. Their faces were gray, craggy, and elongated like the snouts of hairless dogs. They had long pointed ears, short stubby horns that sprouted from their brows, and black, deep-set eyes that fixed me with a glare that said I was about to become dinner. One look at their wide, tusked mouths and ivory dagger teeth and I was sure there was room enough on the menu for me and the woman both.

  Too shocked to move, I blinked instead, which wasn’t much help.

  The woman saw me then, and shouted, “Run!”

  The winged creatures shrieked, a sound as loud and piercing as a siren. They launched themselves into the air, wings flapping, and as they came at me I had just enough time to wonder what the hell I’d walked in on.

  Five

  I forced my arms to lift the gun and take aim at the flying creatures. I was still stunned at the impossibility of what I was seeing, but somehow I managed to pull the trigger four times in rapid succession. The nine-millimeter slugs slammed into the chest and face of the creature at the head of the pack, only to ricochet off its skin. It paused in midair, surprised but not hurt, then continued toward me with the others. The beat of their huge, gray, batlike wings created drafts strong enough to stir the dust and debris on the floor.

  Whatever these things were, bullets couldn’t kill them. And bullets were all I had. I was screwed.

  I ran for the warehouse door, but one of them dropped down in front of it, blocking my exit. It had a withered yellow eye that looked like an old wound from some long-ago fight. I skidded to a halt, pointing the gun at it out of blind inst
inct, but Yellow Eye just chittered at me. These things weren’t scared of guns.

  While I was distracted, another one rammed me from behind, knocking me to the floor. Its claws felt like razors slashing through the back of my leather coat, through my shirt, and into my skin. I gritted my teeth against the pain and rolled over. The flayed, bleeding skin on my back burned where it touched the hard, filthy warehouse floor.

  The creature landed on me with its full weight, pinning me to the floor. It brought its face closer, near enough for me to see the Y-shaped scar on its cheek, and to get a whiff of its earthy, abattoir odor. Scarface sniffed me like it was checking the bouquet of a vintage wine. Then it recoiled, not liking what it smelled.

  “You don’t smell so great yourself, you ugly son of a bitch,” I said.

  Scarface opened its wide, toothy maw in an angry roar. I swung my gun up, jammed the barrel between its jaws, and pulled the trigger. The muzzle flash lit up the cavernous interior of its mouth, illuminating a field of small, nubby teeth that lined the inside of its cheeks. Scarface unfurled its wings and flew back up to the ceiling, coughing and gagging on the gunsmoke but otherwise unharmed. Damn, what did it take to kill these things?

  More to the point, what the hell were they?

  I wondered for a moment if this might all just be in my head. As an explanation, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility. I’d read somewhere that if the human brain went without sleep for ten days it started to hallucinate. Twenty days and it bordered on insanity. I hadn’t slept in a year. Prior to that I couldn’t be sure, but it was possible I’d never slept in my entire life. Maybe it was finally catching up with me. How insane would a man have to be after a lifetime of sleep deprivation?

  But the scratches in my back felt real enough. No hallucination could be that excruciating. As impossible as it seemed, this was really happening.