Birth of a Monster (9 page)

He noticed that while the hallway floor
was made of solid wood there was the unmistakable fuzz of carpet
visible underneath the door, which looked like it had a gap under
it just large enough to fit a candle.

Slowly but calmly, realizing he was at
risk of leaving himself in pitch black darkness against a possibly
armed adversary, he bent down and sent the candle rolling
underneath the door.

“HELL!” he heard a voice groan,
followed by rapidly moving footsteps in pursuit.

It was now or never.

Righty extended his sword, kicked in
the door, and barged in, making sure to pivot quickly to each side
to look for any nasty traps.

Chief Benson was stomping on the candle
like crazy while a frightened man hid all but his face underneath
the bedsheets.

“It’s not personal,” Righty said, as he
lopped the man’s head off with one quick stroke before grabbing the
chief by the back of his shirt.

Righty realized almost too late that
while the chief’s feet were busy tap-dancing on top of the candle
his hands held a cane that had a foot-long blade protruding from
it.

The moment the chief whirled around
with his cane, Righty quickly let go of the back of his shirt and
blocked the sweeping arc by pointing his sword perpendicularly
towards the ground.

The cane was cut in half, but Righty
would have preferred it not happen that way, since the bladed end
went flying off and made a nice cut on his back.

Keeping hold of his sword, Righty sent
his elbow crashing into the chief’s jaw, knocking him unconscious
instantly.

He kicked the headless corpse off the
bed, set the chief’s limp body on it, and then straddled him,
waiting for him to come to.

He compressed the sword to dagger size
and put it in his sleeve.

About twenty seconds later, he gave the
unconscious chief a couple good slaps to the face to speed up the
resuscitation process.

It seemed to work, though a
fastidious philosopher may have argued this was merely a case of
the
post hoc ergo propter hoc
logical fallacy.

Either way, Righty was now looking down
at a very awake, very captive audience of one.

“YOU?!!” said the chief in disbelief.
“I thought it was the feds, or maybe some of Sam’s old gang.
They’re not too happy, you know. They figured they were heirs to
Sam’s throne and thus to Sam’s empire. You’ve made a lot of
enemies.”

Righty listened intently, but it seemed
the chief was done talking.

“You said there were informants in my
gang. Who are they?!”

“Now that kind of information can be
had easily for a million falons a month, but instead you waltz in
here, kill my hired company, and knock the daylights out of
me!”

Righty looked at him steadily, waiting
for him to divulge more information.

“Heck, I don’t know their names. I had
my men on it. If you were to get off of me and show yourself to be
reasonable, I think I might be able to find some notes I keep with
that information,” the chief said, a sly look on his
face.

Feeling almost remorseful, Righty said,
“You know, chief, in another time, in another place, I feel we
would have had a very good working relationship. But there’s one
reason it can’t work.”

The chief’s eyes searched
his.

Righty bent down and whispered into his
ear, “I can’t do business with a cop who knows my real
name.”

“Richard Franklin Simmers. I found it
in thirty minutes at the boxing association,” the chief replied
calmly, not even trying to fool Righty with the lie that he had
been able to tame his curiosity.

“You were one hell of a
fighter, Righty.
Better
than Oscar Peters, in my opinion. Your body shots
were—”

Righty pulled out his dagger and sliced
the chief’s head off, tears streaming down his face. He knew that
if he had listened to even one more second he would have listened
to another minute. And if he had listened to another minute, he
would have cut a deal and let the chief live. And if he had let the
chief live, the chief would have disseminated his name to a dozen
crooked colleagues and possibly forwarded it to journalists as a
little insurance policy—if he hadn’t done so already.

And then one day Righty
would see his name on the front page of The Sivingdel Times
proclaiming him to be the city’s kingpin, to which the chief would
slyly state,
Don’t look at me—surely, you
didn’t think you could go unrecognized forever!
And then Righty’s chances of surviving long enough in this
sordid underworld to reach “the top” referred to by his
subconscious rock climbing coach would go from one in a hundred to
one in ten million.

The chief should have just kept that
card nice and close to his chest.

Righty checked his watch. It was only
9:20 p.m., but he felt like he had been in the house five hours,
and his welcome was already worn thin.

He began frantically searching the
room. He found the chief’s coat and searched the pockets
frantically. He extracted some papers and stuffed them into one of
his own pockets without even taking the time to read the material.
He grabbed the chief’s briefcase, opened it and saw it was filled
with papers, and decided it would be most efficient to take the
whole thing.

He then approached the chief’s desk and
opened it. It too was stuffed with papers.

Hurry it up, pal!
a not-so friendly inner voice told him.

He noticed the middle of the desk was
hollow to allow for plenty of sitting room. An idea came to mind.
He pulled out his sword and with two quick strokes hacked the
hollowed portion away, leaving just the two sides with the
drawers.

Feeling like the entire police
department was going to be storming the house at any moment, he
nearly fainted with terror as he gripped a lantern—which he had
taken from the room—with his teeth while he carried a stack of desk
drawers in each hand.

When he got to the base of the stairs,
he tripped, and in spite of his noblest efforts went crashing face
first towards the floor. He decided to let the drawers fall, while
he reached for the lantern with both hands, which he just barely
caught before it crashed to the floor. He landed on his left side,
and while it stung like hell, his adrenaline and terror forced him
to his feet immediately.

He quickly opened up the desk drawers
and began retrieving the papers that had hopped out of the desk and
started stuffing them back into the drawers quicker than the
most-seasoned secretary.

He then sprinted back upstairs, grabbed
the briefcase, put the chief’s head inside a bag that he had
brought for the occasion, and went back downstairs.

He was about to open the door and
beseech Harold to get him the righteous hell out of there when
suddenly a terrifying drama unfolded in his imagination.

Detectives were poring over every
square inch of the home.

Find anything
yet?

Nothing major . . . oh,
wait, here’s a note tucked inside this drawer. It says, and I
quote, “If you find my head and my body have parted ways, look into
an ex-boxer named Richard Franklin Simmers, aka Righty Rick, aka
Mr. Brass, aka Public Menace No. 1, native of Ringsetter, current
kingpin of Sivingdel.”

Well, it may be a sick joke.
You know the chief was always messing around with us detectives,
but check it out anyway. There might be something there.

Sure thing, boss.

Righty didn’t need to watch any more of
this drama.

He saw a bookshelf in the
corner. He went and pushed it over on its side. Then, he picked up
a random book:
Brutality During the
Prohibition Wars
was its title.

Reluctantly, feeling like a guy who has
stopped to play pinochle with his pals during a high-stakes bank
heist, he went and added the book to one of the dresser
drawers.

He then picked up another book, but
refused himself the privilege of looking at its title for fear he
might still be there at dawn making choice selections from the
chief’s library, and tore open the pages and made a pile. He then
repeated this process with several other books, whose titles will
never be known.

He then went to the door, hauled the
desk drawers outside, and said in a loud whisper, “Be ready in
thirty seconds!”

He then went back inside the house and
hurled the lantern at the pile of books.

It bounced off
ineffectually.

Furious, he picked it up and sliced it
in two in midair while it descended upon the books.

WHOOSH!! an angry puff of fire rebuked
him.

He sprinted outside, holding only the
briefcase in one hand and a very grisly bag in the
other.

SARAH AND LLOYD’S HOME

A PLACE OF LOVE

Righty noticed the placard on the wall,
now that it was well-illumined, as he sprinted outside. He couldn’t
help but spare a thought as to whether Sarah was now resting
peacefully in a cemetery somewhere or obliviously at a late-night
game of bridge while Lloyd had made his home a place of a very
different kind of love.

Harold was sitting on top of the
awkward load, his massive talons grasping the content, and while
Righty’s mind may have been wandering his body was undeterred from
its destination.

He leapt on top of Harold, who didn’t
grouse about the awkward load one bit.

A minute later they were hundreds of
feet in the air, and the roaring inferno below looked only like a
piece of burning coal.

In spite of it seeming that a lifetime
had passed, it was only 9:40 p.m.

“Let’s go to the cabin,” Righty said.
“I’ll feel a lot calmer once I have these contents in a safe place.
If I’m a minute or two late, Tats can wait. He owes me!”

Chapter 19

As Righty flew down into Tats’ backyard
at around 11:00 p.m. he was in a mood to give orders and have them
promptly, and unquestioningly, followed. He was relieved to see
Tats waiting there all alone as requested.

“Evening,” Righty said, dismounting
from Harold, who then promptly disappeared into the shadows of
Tats’ spacious back yard.

“Evening, Mr. Brass,” Tats said,
apprehension, but not despair, clearly evident in his
voice.

“We’re in a real shit blizzard,” Righty
said, attempting a smile.

“Please, have a seat,” Tats
invited.

They both sat down next to a large
table outside.

They shared a long, somewhat
uncomfortable stare, each sizing the other up.

“I know you didn’t sell me out, Tats,”
Righty said, crisply and emphatically.

Tats looked visibly
relieved.

“And, I know the chief tried really
hard to get you to.”

Tats gulped, wondering how Righty
became aware of this information.

“I’m gonna need you to do a lot of
things for me, Tats. And they’re not all going to be easy.” Righty
studied Tats’ carefully, looking for any sign of
dissent.

“Mr. Brass, a man couldn’t be more in
another’s debt than I am in yours. If it weren’t for you, I’d still
be stuck in a damp cell expecting to spend the rest of my life
there. You say it; I do it.”

An unexpected excitement pulsed through
Righty’s veins. A man’s loyalty can’t be measured until adversity
arrives. And while Tats had stuck by him in some nasty fights,
Righty’s brief time in jail had made him aware of the truly
soul-crushing impact time spent in a dark cell could have on a man.
Thus, he had feared he would be hearing responses of a far more
equivocal nature.

Nonetheless, Righty’s eyes continued to
probe every square inch of Tats’ visage, searching for any hint of
insincerity.

“While I have no regrets for going to
jail and getting you out today,” Righty began, “I want you to
realize the immeasurable consequences that sole act had. My face
was seen by dozens of witnesses while I was being arrested. My
sketch is now inside the Sivingdel Police Station. I could be
looking at charges for multiple SISA violations, attempted bribery
of city law enforcement agents, attempted bribery of federal
agents, and running a criminal enterprise.