Greg Gifune: Kingdom of Shadows

“Everything I know. Everything you need to know. All the proof I got from Poindexter.” He checked the door once, then again just a second or two later. “They’re after me, man, and they know I’m trying to pass the information to you. Once they know you got it, they’re gonna come after you, too.”

“Why are you giving this to me, why not one of the others?”

Snow shrugged. “Carbone’s dead. Nauls is a retard. Landon’s an asshole, and Starker—shit—that boy’s stone psycho. Whatever Hell them motherfuckers are burning in they deserve.”

“I’m not so sure anybody deserves to burn in Hell.”

“Makes sense if you’re the one burning.”

Rooster slid the key to the edge of the table then pocketed it. “You know where any of them are?”

“Last I heard Nauls and Landon were still in the city and still in the life. Starker supposedly caught his old lady banging some guy. Put a .38 in her pussy and pulled the trigger, then he beat the dude into a coma, ripped his junk off and stuffed it so far up his ass they had to do surgery to get the shit out. Couple days later they both died. Starker got away. Word was he headed down to Mexico or some shit.”

“They ever catch him?”

“Don’t know.” He wiped the tears from his eyes then killed his beer. “Don’t care.”

“What happened to us that night, Snow?”

“Go open that locker.”

“Why don’t you just tell me?”

Snow smiled, but it was the smile of the damned. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I did.”

“Try me.”

“You got to see for yourself.”

Across the barroom, the restroom door opened with a scraping sound and Rooster saw the same man exit, wander back to the bar and return to the stool he’d vacated moments before. As the door slowly swung shut, he saw a moist and filthy tile floor littered with scraps of toilet paper and trash, and something else moving along the wet tiles toward the toilet stalls on the back wall of the bathroom. Like the severed appendage from some scale-covered creature, it slithered about in a snakelike motion, revealing a pale tentacle several inches thick and at least three feet long. Rooster sat up straighter, squinting through the shadows in an attempt to bring the thing into focus, but the door had closed. He glanced at Snow, who hadn’t seen it but looked as if he had. Rooster turned away, hopeful he might be able to obliterate what he’d just seen and knew to be impossible, but when he returned his gaze to the bar he saw the man grinning at him with malicious glee. Both he and the bartender began to laugh.

Rooster shuddered. “We need to get outta here.”

“Don’t matter for me no more.”

Rooster reached across the table, took hold of Snow’s wrist. It was cold as ice. He let go. “I’m not leaving you here, man.”

“I’m already dead. Been dead and buried for years.” Snow’s eyes suddenly looked empty, even more hopeless than before. “And so have you.”

He’d stood in the bus terminal for more than an hour. There was no sign of the Crown Vic or anyone following him on foot, but Rooster couldn’t shake the feeling he’d been tailed. So he stayed put, watched and waited.

People came and went, maintenance workers and ticket agents busied themselves with various duties, an occasional policeman drifted through, and a handful of homeless people sat in corners or, like many of the waiting passengers, occupied one of the numerous plastic chairs bolted to the floor in clusters and rows throughout the station.

The entire place smelled like a combination of filthy socks, urine and body odor, all of it made more oppressive by smothering bursts of forced hot air from an archaic heating system set far too high.

Directly across from the wall Rooster was leaned against stood a bank of lockers. He’d been fingering the key in his pocket since he arrived, and though he’d yet to approach it, he’d already zeroed in on the appropriate locker. He still couldn’t be certain he wanted to know what was waiting for him behind that little metal door. His life was complicated and confused enough. Did he really need to up the ante? Then again, could he afford not to? Snow had assured him the answers to his torment could be found within and he had no reason to doubt him. Even if it was a Pandora’s Box (and Rooster was certain it would be), how could he not open it?

Fuck it.

Pushing away from the wall, Rooster walked toward the lockers, casually sliding his hand from his pocket and holding the key down by his thigh.

They’re after me, man.

No one seemed to notice as he closed on the locker, pushed the key into the slot then pulled the latch.

And they know I’m trying to pass the information to you.

Rooster swung open the door, saw a black leather briefcase inside.

Once they know you got it, they’re gonna come after you, too.

Heart racing, he reached inside, yanked it free and walked away, leaving the locker open and the key still in the lock.

Moving through the sliding front doors and into the cold but fresh air, Rooster hurried down the block and slipped into the first alley he came to, using it to cut through to the next busy street, where he disappeared into the flow of the crowd on the nearest sidewalk.

Night fell across the city as darkness swept through him, awakening demons eager to tear at a soul already in ruin.

The fires of Hell burned on.

He’d always felt relatively safe at the apartment. Now he wasn’t so sure. As he’d crossed town he noticed no tails, but knew he was being watched. Even when he’d hurried across the courtyard and into the projects, the area cold and empty but for one lone child sitting on a stoop a few buildings down, he still felt an overwhelming sense that someone was following him. Once inside he bolted the apartment door, pulled the shades on the windows then set the briefcase on the kitchen table. He remained still and quiet a moment, listening. Some distant sounds from neighboring units bled through the thin walls and the building settled and creaked against the increasing wind, but he could discern nothing out of the ordinary. Next he returned to the windows facing the street and courtyard, spending a few seconds at each one, pulling back the shades enough to peek out and inspect the area for intruders, strange cars or individuals. Nothing.

Rooster checked his watch. Gaby wouldn’t get home from work for about another hour. He’d have the place to himself for a while. With only a small hanging light in the kitchen illuminating the area, he grabbed a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and poured a shot. As the booze burned then warmed him, he pulled up a chair and sat at the table, eyeing the briefcase as if he expected it to do something other than sit there like the inanimate object it was. A basic black leather model, it had only one main zippered compartment and no markings or personalized indications of any kind. He looked at his hands. Still shaking. For Christ’s sake, he thought. Get a grip . Back in the day he’d been known for his remarkable cool in the face of danger. Hadn’t he? Like so much else it was lost in a dark sea of partial memories, fractured dreams and uncertain yesterdays.

He pounded down another mouthful of whiskey then held the empty shot glass out before him until he’d willed the trembling to stop. Hand finally steady, or at least reasonably close, he put the glass aside, unzipped the briefcase and reached inside. His hand returned holding a large manila folder held shut by two thick rubber bands. The only other item in the briefcase was a hardcover book. Rooster placed both on the table before him, quickly inspected the briefcase to make certain he’d gotten everything then put it on the floor by his feet.