Authors: Anthony Francis
The Candlestick Apartment Complex was in the West End, an inaptly named area of Downtown Atlanta even closer to the heart of the city than I was in Little Five Points. Even at ten at night, a fair number of the homeless milled around, which made me uncomfortable, which itself made me
more
uncomfortable. At a traffic light, I took a moment to make myself actually look around me, and saw the area was quite nice, with clean sidewalks, beautiful trees, and friendly people. Maybe I’d have to turn in my liberal do-gooder card.
The Prius told me to turn, and I turned, crossing train tracks and ducking under bridges, winding through smaller and smaller side streets whose broken pavement made Moreland seem as smooth as Georgia’s gas-tax highways. Graffiti began making more than its usual token appearance, and the tags got more and more elaborate—some of them looking suspiciously familiar, not the tagger’s exactly, but something I’d seen before.
I sighed. Some of the graffiti was beautiful, but a lot of it was just crap. There were clearly masters trying to do larger pieces here, some of them quite clever, especially a guy who kept drawing a kind of subversive Mickey Mouse smoking a joint. But for every masterpiece there were a dozen ‘toy’ taggers throwing up scrawls and gang signs, sometimes right on top of the masterworks
, tsk tsk
. Made both the masterpieces and the tags look like junk. No, not junk—unsafe. Like the people who lived there didn’t take care of what they had.
And then I was there, pulling up at the gate of a World War II ammo dump converted into apartments that, until only a few months ago, had housed hundreds of people. A lighted sign that had clearly once read “Candlestick Apartment Complex” in warm inviting letters now had an amateurishly-made banner draped over it, trying to legally rebut that claim by screaming “CANDLESTICK WAREHOUSES” in bold block letters.
I drove up to the iron gate and found the keypad had been broken open and hotwired. There was a notice from the city, a “POSTED: NO TRESPASSING” sign, and haphazardly duct-taped atop it was a piece of cardboard shouting: “WE STILL LIVE HERE, ASS!”
I stared at it, wondering if I should bail. This was
not
how I lived my life. I mean, I know I’m tall, tattooed, and edgy; but I keep my nose squeaky clean, and that includes staying in
legal
housing. If the city really was rolling the landlord to rack up fines, squatting wouldn’t fix it. It was more likely to get everyone arrested for trespassing. And I was in enough trouble already.
Then I thought of Calaphase, and Revenance, and Demophage, and Lord Delancaster, and the three dead werekin at the werehouse whose names I never had the chance to learn. When had I started cutting slack to werekin that I no longer extended to humans? This was the only housing most of these people could afford. It was Ranger’s right to fight back if the city tried to screw her or her landlord—and I had to learn what Ranger knew.
I hit the red button, waited for the gate to creak open, and drove the blue bomb inside.
The Candlestick Apartment Complex was a maze of concrete canyons: long, barren lanes of pavement wedged between high white walls topped with black gutters. There were a few signs of graffiti, but many of the warehouse walls were recently whitewashed, and on a fair number of the older ones splashes of paint covered some of the tags.
So the residents were fighting it. Good. But I saw a few larger pieces untouched—not the magic tagger’s, but something else entirely: tall, narrow artworks covering the walls from top to bottom with designs that were both artistic and hauntingly familiar. So the residents
weren’t
whitewashing everything—they knew
what
to fight. Even better. I could learn from that.
I finally found unit A6 on a rollup door in the middle of one of the long canyons. I squeezed the blue bomb in between a rusty old van and a paint-covered pickup. Once out of the car, I started to notice more signs of life: bicycles, window boxes, cat food bowls.
From the unit to the right of A6 I could hear faint thumping music, and out front there was a shiny big-rimmed SUV painted with an ad for “Tha Peeplz Recordz.” In the unit opposite A6, the rollup door was up, and I saw a welder at work on a dented old VW bug, covering it with pointed metal leaves that made it look like a great big artichoke.
“Dakota Frost,” came a voice. I turned and saw Ranger leaning against a smaller door next to the rollup. Something kept scratching and bumping at it behind her, but she leaned harder, keeping it firmly closed. “Didn’t think you were going to make it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I said, and followed her inside.
A6 was a deceptively long warehouse, easily five or six times as deep as it was wide, that someone had converted into multi-level lofts. The upper lofts were apartments and artists’ studios, Ranger explained; the bottom had been an art gallery.
Now, however, the maze of white walls of the gallery was filled with sleeping bags and piles of cardboard boxes—a makeshift refugee camp for the evicted apartment dwellers who were the Candlestick Twenty. There were actually almost a hundred holdouts in the complex, but the only ones that the media cared about were the ones Ranger had taken in.
The strange scratching noise proved to be a giant galumphing dog, which immediately started scrabbling around us on the cement floor trying to lick us to death. Waving us off, Ranger collared the slobbering menace and dragged it barking (playfully) back to her upstairs apartment while she barked (
not
playfully) into her cell phone. When she returned, snapping the phone shut, her face was red and her hands were shaking.
“That call was
another
hundred bucks down the drain,” she said. “I
hate
lawyers.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “But you didn’t call me here for legal advice.”
“No,” she admitted, drawing me behind a few makeshift walls into a kitchen near the front end of the gallery. While I leaned against the kitchen table, she pulled a few glasses out of the sink, rinsed them cursorily and poured a couple of Cokes.
“Thanks,” I said, staring at the smudged glass skeptically.
“All this started,” Ranger said, drinking from the glass as if the germs from the skanky sink wouldn’t kill her, “when we had a fire and the city did an inspection. But all this shit is thick World War II concrete. We never
had
fires until the graffiti showed up.”
“Damnit,” I said. “That’s consistent. Can you show me the latest tags?”
“I didn’t see this one, but I’ve called the guys who did—speak of the devils.”
My eyebrows raised as Keif and Drive walked past the kitchen window. Moments later there was a knock on the outer door. “Hey Ranger,” Keif’s voice called. “Let us in!”
“Speak of the devils, indeed,” I said.
The four of us sat down in the kitchen. Drive started going over a map of the facility while Keif and I stared at each other across the table, me with my arms folded, him scowling at me from beneath his crown of dreadlocks, hands clasped tightly on the table.
It was entirely too suspicious that Keif and Drive hit it big just when magic graffiti began spreading over Atlanta, that their marks had showed up on the tagger’s playground, and that now here they were again. And while Drive was blathering on about the Vaiian significance of this and the Niivan significance of that and his theory that the tag placement itself was a kind of graphomancy, Keif was actively sweating under my gaze.
You didn’t need Sherlock Holmes to put two and two together. Keif was involved, in which case he was probably the one that tagged the building that burned, and would never fess up. Or … something else was bothering him.
“I’m not here to finger you guys, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I said, eyes fixed straight on Keif, who glanced away guiltily. “I’m not a rat. I walk the Edge. Your secrets are safe with me. But I have to know
everything
, Keif. I need what you learned from the tagger.”
Drive abruptly stopped and stared at Keif. After a moment, Keif sighed.
“Look, we call ourselves
writers
, not taggers—but yeah, I know the guy,” Keif said. “Not personally, but from his pieces. Super technique, great caricaturist, but he switched up, doesn’t do figures or signature tags anymore. Back when he did, he did these fat-hat little devils and signed them Streetscribe, written with X-R-Y not S-C-R-I—”
“That’s the guy,” I said. “Go on.”
“He’s got himself a three man crew now, from the looks of it,” Keif said. “An apprentice and a toy—no, that’s harsh. The
senior
apprentice just copies, but he’s got real skill with a can. The
junior
apprentice is still real sloppy, lots of drips, but he’s got a flair for new designs.”
“The two-and-a-half Siths theory again,” I said, and Keif grinned. “But what about you? What have you learned from him?”
“Look, I’ve never met him, or any of his crew,” Keif said, smile fading. “Not that I’d know if I had. But … you asked what my secret was earlier. I use walls that have mold, just like the Streetscribe, but that’s not all of it. I’ve been biting his designs.”
“Aha!” Drive said. At my baffled look, Drive explained. “Keif means he’s been reverse-engineering the Streetscribe’s pieces. You sly dog, I’ve been wondering where you’ve been getting some of your better circuits.”
Keif looked away. I stared at him. He was still acting like he had something to hide, but for the life of me I couldn’t see why he’d want to hide studying the tags. Or maybe it wasn’t something wrong from his perspective—the Streetscribe was a killer, after all.
“So why is that a secret?” I said. “You afraid copying his art will piss him off?”
“Copying?” Drive said. “Circuits are one thing, but don’t tell me you’re a cribber—”
“I’m
not
cribbing his art,” Keif insisted, staring at the table. “I’m not! I’m biting his
designs
—a
lot
of other magical writers are too—but I am
not
ripping off his
art!
I want to make a name for
myself
. I can’t do that if I’m spending
my
time throwing up
his
pieces. Streetscribe and I are both representational artists—artists!—with our own styles. I do-not-crib!”
I stared at him. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe he wasn’t a cribber. Maybe he was as artistic as he claimed. But he still looked embarrassed—and he’d just admitted that he and the Streetscribe were competing for the same walls. I decided to toss a line out and see if he bit.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You’re not above whitewashing his tags if he’s taken prime wall space. You’re both targeting special surfaces for your largest tags, and he’s nailed all of the best ones first. And since you can’t ink magic directly over magic … you’re wiping his out.”
Keif let out his breath in a sharp hiss, but he didn’t deny it.
No one said anything. After a moment, Drive stood up. “A crossout is one thing, but an actual whitewash? What were you hoping to do, learn his tricks, wipe out all the evidence and take credit for them as your own? Man, that’s low,” he said, and stalked out of the room.
Keif glared up from his clenched hands. “Happy now, Nancy Drew?”
“I prefer Encyclopedia Brown,” I replied, “but if you’d just been up front about what you knew, then I wouldn’t have had to expose you.”
“Why the hell are you butting into this?” Keif said. “Why can’t you let it alone?”
“
You
popped up when this started going down, and I had to know why,” I said. “And now I know—he’s a giant, and you’re standing on his shoulders, using his work as your canvas.”
“Who cares?” Keif said. “That’s how graffiti works. You don’t build your own damn buildings to mark, you mark what’s already there. Who cares if I’m doing it atop his shit?”
“I told you his shit killed one of my friends, right?” I said. “Did I tell you the total body count is nearing twenty, including two close friends, one of them
more
than close?”
Ranger went pale and put her Coke down. “Is that what went down last night?”
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “Almost got killed, but I made it. My … friend wasn’t so lucky.”
“Aw, shit, man, why are you doin’ this to me?” Keif said, staring up at no-one in particular. “This was a good gig—”
“You kill anybody?” I interjected.
“What? What? No!” Keif said, raising his hands. “My tags don’t have that kind of juice.”
“Then I don’t need to tell anyone anything,” I said. “I can keep this quiet, but I’ve
got to know how the graffiti works
. Looking at images has helped, but both me and my graphomancer are stumped. It crucifies vampires, tears up werewolves, and can catch buildings on fire even after you paint it over. It can create wide area effects, like wind. It can be triggered remotely—it’s powered from an external source. Tattoo magic can’t beat it. I need to know how to short-circuit it, before the tagger snaps his fingers and sets half Atlanta ablaze.”
Keif was silent for a second, eyes scanning the air.
“How many tags are there in the Candlesticks?” Ranger asked abruptly.
“I get it, I get it,” Keif said. “I’m thinking. To answer Dakota’s question, Streetscribe’s blackbook, his library of designs, is very complex. I don’t fully get it. But there are some base patterns that serve as conduits of power. Call them spreading throwups, doorway tags, and octopus roses. Those last ones are his real masterpieces, and they’re the most dangerous.”
“
Thank
you,” I said. “But how do you use his magic if you don’t understand it?”
“I’m a leech,” Keif said bitterly. “Normally, you can’t write magic over complex magic unless you know it inside out. But remember you said you already knew whitewashing doesn’t destroy the magic? So I whitewash the underlying tag to lock it down, then lay down new circuits on the same lines to power my own designs.”