The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (17 page)

“It came from the river,” Norbeck said.

Queen gave Adry a soft kick at his head. “Is there a rear exit?” the detective asked sharply.

Adry peeked between his hands at Queen. “Yes! Yes! The back room has a door. But you have to get past those screaming whores.”

Queen nodded grimly. “Fire a couple of shots out there, Chris. Show ‘im we mean business. I’m gonna bust this door down.”

Norbeck gave a furtive wink and threw a heavy can of coffee through the window, expanding the hole into a chasm. He jumped up and pulled his trigger, aiming at the piles of garbage fluttering in the frozen wind. Queen stood and smashed his shoulder against the door, easily breaking it, and stepped through. His heart was pounding as he scanned the dark little room. Then he felt the intense pain of something smashing into his back. He staggered to a knee, but threw himself around and caught the board with his hand before it came down onto him again. Staring at him through the darkness was a stunningly pretty young girl, with blazing brown eyes, dark brown hair, and an acorn-shaped face. Her lip was curled like a cornered cur’s might be, teeth ready to tear his throat into pieces. He tried to yank the board from her miniature hand, but she was deceptively strong, and tried to pry it from his, too. Their fury was equal, but he was stronger. He twisted the plank from her grasp, throwing it against the wall. The girl stepped back, eyes seething and scouring the room for anything else she might turn into a weapon.

“I need to leave from the back,” he huffed.

“You shot at us!” she shrieked, moving towards a figure in the corner. It was another girl, who had a look of absolute horror screwed onto her face. They clung to each other, dressed in meager men’s nightshirts, probably Adry’s, pushing themselves back against the wall, so frantic and fearful that their bodies rose up inches from the strain.

Queen felt a stab of sympathy for them, and suddenly forgave the wild one for the throbbing pain where her blow had landed. “It was Pock,” he said in a low voice. “Dander’s henchman. He’s been watching this place, and now, for whatever reason, he wants to kill you, or me, or all of us. I’m going to go get him.”

They stared at him with eyes that looked pasted open, unblinking and unmoving. He unlatched the lock on the rear door, slowly pushing it open. A cascade of light came pouring in, and he saw their faces better. The girl he had tussled with was definitely beautiful, and the new light gave her an angelic sheen, highlighting a pair of lips that were delicate and full. The other girl was homelier, with a pointed witch’s nose and a slight overbite, and she was far from smiling now. Queen figured she might be a little more becoming in a happier moment.

“If you want to live, don’t leave this place. Hide yourselves. I’m a Minneapolis police detective, and I have a partner in front. We’re going to take you somewhere safe.” The girl with the pretty face blinked once, in the barest acknowledgement. He paused, straightened his tie a little, and stared at them as they stared back.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” Their tear-stained faces calmed, but their breasts heaved with emotion under their thin garments. The silent girl in the corner was shuddering. What the hell else am I supposed to say? Queen realized his shoe was untied so he bent over, fumbling with the shoelaces before pulling them tight. Finished, he stood up, awkwardly tipped his hat and turned for the door.

“Wait!” the fiery, lovely girl cried. He turned back to her.

“It was
him
. Pock killed Maisy.” Her face was hard and resolute.

“And you saw it? Are you absolutely sure, miss?”

“I’m sure. She tried to get away and he shot her. On the fence. I saw everything from my window.”

He stood silent for a moment, searching for the truth in her eyes. Finally, he gave a brief nod and ran out.

CHAPTER 6

T
HE MEN IN BLUE HAD FINALLY
seen fit to release him, and the time was right. Idle talk filled the crowded cell, and while he never, ever partook in conversation with grown men unless necessary, he liked to absorb information in his own way. Word had spread quickly about the goings-on in the wretched whore-mongers’ house in Hell’s Half Acre. He gleaned from his cellmates’ banter that the bastard pimp had been captured and was being held now, just above them, with possible murder charges under way. That meant his prushun was free and roaming the thoroughfares, and he knew it was the opportune time to act. By divine luck a guard had arrived that night to release him, leaving him free to complete his task.

The dirty ragged men had parted from his way like the waves of the Red Sea as he strolled out into freedom. A policeman had given him back his haversack, which he now wore strapped close to his body. The breeze was bitingly cold, but he needed the sensation to feel alive. Very few things awoke his senses like the weather did. It could blast the internal rot away with a single gust and make him feel pure and young. The sharp wind made his manhood flow strong and thick.

He’d known for weeks where his prushun lay, but it had disappeared now, which meant more difficulty for him than he wanted, but he wasn’t worried. Death and birth were natural cycles, and though he had to end the life of the first, it would make way for the blossom of new innocence, which he needed close to him, to cradle, and to live.

His destination this morning was the depot, and he walked with long strides, ignoring those he shared the sidewalks with. Occasionally someone would take pity on him, as he trudged down the road, offering him a ride on the back of their wagon, but he always preferred to walk. Things with hooves and wheels put him on edge. They took away his control, and above all else, he despised losing control. There was rarely anywhere so important he needed to be that would require him to use anything but his own two legs. In rare situations, he’d take a train with the other tramps, but always picked a place close to a door or between boxcars. He needed to get off in his own time, as he saw fit. He’d heard stories of hoboes getting locked in cars and trapped for days, and this was a fate he wanted no part of.

As he marched toward the depot, he took a piece of candy from his bag and sucked on it. It was a chocolate bon-bon, not his favorite, but it was sweet, and most importantly gave him a surge of fire through his body. The sugar crystallized his mind into sharp clarity, which he needed to complete his sacrifice. The manna of babes had to flow within his veins to accomplish the inevitable, sacred act.

Oh merciful God, he thought, laying his eyes on a figure sitting on a bundle of newspapers. There is my divining rod, and it will show me the way. He watched and waited, focused on the figure’s movements, as it moved with its papers from person to person. Sometimes it took money and sometimes it spit on the heels of those who ignored it. It was much too old for him, he thought. He preferred the ones that shone of innocence, and this one, with its garish orange hair and spotted face, did nothing but provoke hatred in him. He could be patient, though, and continued to wait until the pile of papers began to disappear. Once they were gone, he knew he needed to act swiftly, and he placed another piece of candy into his mouth. This one had a strawberry filling, and he liked it much more than the last. As he sucked the last of the chocolate coating off his fingers, the figure began to move, and he did with it.

It jaunted down the avenue like a dirty little whore. He picked up his pace to make up the ground, watching for the perfect moment, when no one would see. For three blocks he followed, edging closer to it, but still kept back far enough to avoid notice. He examined the prints it left behind in the snow; toes curved in like a stunted pig, and tasted bile in his throat. These imperfections were created by God as evil on earth, but
he
was created by God as its antidote, and would scour its face clean at the proper time. He watched it bump into a man walking the opposite way, lifting the wallet from his pocket as smoothly and fluidly as fresh cream poured from a bucket. Half a block later, it turned into an alley, and the moment revealed itself.

When he rounded the corner, it was sitting on a crate, counting out money, the wallet already discarded on the ground. This appeared to be the only way into the alley; a fence blocked the other end. Another sign from the Lord.

Its face was concentrated on the bills laid out on its lap, and it cackled gleefully, full of its own putrid cleverness. The filthy harlot didn’t even look up at him until he stood by its side. His broad shoulders blocked most of the alley’s width, but it didn’t seem afraid.

“What the hell do you want?” it said with a sneer. “You’d best be off, trout-face, and staying away from me. My whole gang will be here soon. Let me alone and go bother someone else.”

“You took that man’s money, young chap,” he said with a smile. “Aren’t you old enough to do a day’s worth of honest work?”

“Look at you,” it taunted. “You’re a goddamn hobo. Don’t talk to me about real work ‘til you done some yerself. Run off, ‘fore the ‘Don’t Tell Gang’ come a-callin’ and you get the beating of your smelly ol’ life.”

“How old are you anyway?” the man asked. “You look to be no more than twelve.”

“You goddamn asshole!” it shouted, leaping up. “I’m seventeen years old. Old enough not to be scared of nothing, especially a rotten trampity-tramp like you.” It reached into its sock and retrieved a sharp little job-jab, brandishing it with a vicious smile. “I stuck a man straight through his wrist once when he tried to hit me. I brung this knife down faster than he could lay his blow.”

The man had had enough with the games. He swung his fist much, much faster than this whore had ever seen, and smashed it across the face, spraying teeth and blood into the brick wall. It went down in a whimpering heap, its face too heavy and cloudy to lift. It tried to talk but nothing coherent came out, except the gurgling of more blood, dribbling out like an invalid at a sanitarium dinner. It weakly waved its arms back, as though it were out for a morning swim, which made him feel uncomfortable to watch. So he leaned down and put his thick leg over it’s back and shoulders, pinning them to the ground. Closely, quietly, he whispered into its ear.

“The one called Ollie. Tell me where it is.” He pulled a rag out of his bag and pushed its mouth open, wiping blood and another tooth out. “Where?” he repeated.

“I d-don’t know,” the whore croaked, straining its head up to look the man in the eyes. “Never heard the name.”

“Listen to me. You look like a boy who knows all the other little boys in the neighborhood. This one is of particular importance to me. Do you want me to pull the nails from your fingers, one by one? Or cut your ass into pieces and cook them over a fire?”

It shook its head violently, and he could feel its body tremble under his weight. It was gasping for air, limp and battered by his threat. It seemed to contemplate its situation for a moment. He caught the strain and agony on its face as it struggled over what to do. Finally, it began to talk.

“He went with a police detective. They were gonna go find some girls. Down to the flats.” It groaned from his weight and made a feeble attempt to twist free, but they both knew it was useless. “You know about the flats?” it finally choked in a whisper.

The whore’s little job-jab was a few inches away from its hand, and he reached over to pick it up. He twirled it in his long fingers. It clicked against his uncut, broken nails.

“I know of the place,” he replied. He sighed inwardly, and felt a strange twang of melancholy ripple through him. It wasn’t supposed to be this easy. He had divine tools given to him by a vengeful God, and it felt shameful to use them with such laxity.

The grubby little pig opened its mouth, involuntarily because of the pressure, and the lines between its teeth were still stained with a thin red film. Its gaping mouth looked like a vile vessel for the anti-Christ’s dirty work. It made him sick with disgust to look at.

He laid the job-jab on the ground, and reached into his bag, withdrawing a claw hammer. Lovingly, he ran his fingers over the smooth wooden handle. A gift from his father when he was sixteen, and the only material memory of his childhood, it had seen him through long hours of day labor and soft nights of bliss with his pliant, lovely prushuns. The end was whittled to a sharp point, his own personal alteration.

He needed a test. A test of his transcendent gifts. He wrapped his hand around the hammer’s grip and held it over its writhing head. Whether it chose to cry or not was none of his concern, but only to rid the earth of one more open wound.