The Curse Servant (The Dark Choir Book 2) (37 page)

I looked up around me, and realized I was passing beneath the University of Maryland Baltimore campus. This was Ches’ turf, her destination after work. It was remarkable how we even found one another. It was mostly by virtue of my location. Had the bus line dropped her off two blocks away, she may have taken a job in some Cuban deli or a packaging plant. Instead, she found the bus stop two blocks from my house, so she took a job at my café. Well, it used to be my café. It was just a place now.

Both McHenry and Curtis the Toad Face were correct about one thing. I was still an outsider in this city. Part of me felt smug owning those properties. They granted me a sense of ownership, not only of the real estate, but of the city. But the truth was I had lived here for a decade, and never walked anywhere. I only ever drove. I only wanted to be somewhere; I never wanted to go there. I had hidden in the Club, retreated to the Swains’ in Frederick, bunkered down in self-storages and basements to perform my craft. For all of my secret knowledge, I lacked a meaningful understanding of Baltimore itself. As I walked into downtown, I regretted that ignorance profoundly.

Ten or so blocks into my sojourn, I hooked a right and paused beneath the Belvedere Hotel. My stomach dropped when I realized where I was. Not seven months ago, I had witnessed a suicide here. A man had jumped in front of a bus. He was a desperate man who had sold his soul, and couldn’t see any point in continuing this life. Just beyond this hateful patch of asphalt lay a dark alley, threading down the shadow of the Belvedere. I stepped slowly down this alley, sidestepping a few dumpsters, checking for potential muggers behind each. When I finally stopped, I stood at the top of a flight of stairs leading down to a basement door.

This had been Osterhaus’s office. For years this had been the destination for people out of luck and out of options, willing to sell their soul for two years’ comfort. I had ended that, and not well. Osterhaus was dead, and the souls he had collected were now in the hands of foreign mystics. I remained the last man standing, sans one soul. The “For Lease” sign screwed to the door gave me at least a flutter of satisfaction, but ultimately the affair was a failure.

And here I stood, on the precipice once again, wondering if I would fail. This time there was so much more at stake.

The shadows in the alley were scurrying into my periphery. I stepped back out onto Light Street, and looked up and down the avenue. I spotted a bar two doors down. Rich red carpentry adorned the front with leaded glass windows. It exuded Old World charm, and that simply called to me. I had spent enough time in old London pubs during my time studying under Emil. This was precisely what I needed.

I stepped inside the bar, which was largely empty. The elderly gentleman behind the bar gave me a tired nod, and I elected to sit right up front. Out of habit, I checked the taps in case this place had something approximating a decent English bitter. Alas, I found little more than the usual bland American lagers, so I ordered a Scotch.

The old man poured me two fingers of rail Scotch, and I tried to be cordial as he set it in front of me.

I gave him a nod as I pointed to the ornate woodcarvings adorning his backbar. “Gorgeous place you have here.”

He shrugged. “Like it?”

“I do. Nice, dark. Comfortable.”

“You’d be the only one.”

“Business slow?”

He pulled a stool from under the bar and settled his frame onto it. “Slow for five years, since they fixed the harbor.”

“Shame. If I worked downtown I’d probably be here every afternoon.”

“Want to buy it?”

I smiled and took a sip. When he kept staring at me, I realized he was serious. “Buy it?”

“Been on the market for years. No one’s biting.”

“Tempting, but I’m not really the management type.”

He smiled and folded his hands.

I muscled through the cheap Scotch as I turned on the stool. The line of booths along the side wall made for cozy little conversation pits. The row of leaded glass windows sent prismatic light glittering along the manicured ceiling tiles. The whole place smelled of wood soap and leather.

I ordered another, this time specifying a reasonable single malt. A couple businessmen stepped into the bar and grabbed one of the booths. They hunkered down over a couple beers and pulled out some paperwork to argue about. They must have been regulars, as the old man just brought them their drinks without their asking. I imagined what the energy of the place would have felt like with a dozen more regulars colluding over beer and whiskey.

I wasn’t seriously considering this.

Really.

The sun began to set, and I took my leave of the place just as the old man lit a few tabletop candles for guests who would probably never arrive. The pall of resignation hung on his shoulders, sad and lonely as he went through the motions. Either the Scotch or the look on his face as I stepped out of the bar dropped drowsiness on me like a warm blanket.

I walked back home beneath the streetlights and illuminated signs of the city, hustling quicker past the unlit blocks. When I reached the MLK, the sun had long set behind Shipley Hill, though a splash of orange in the sky remained as stars made their appearances. I took in the view for one brief moment of peace before my phone rang.

“Hello?”

“What do think, mate?”

“Carmody?”

“How’s our schedule lookin’? Am I on the block yet, or do I have some time to win you over?”

“Look, I don’t have a lot of options here.”

“Oh, right. You’re the one who wasn’t given any options. I almost forgot.”

“I know you don’t have the skills to fix my problem, and I don’t have time for you to find a solution.”

“Yes, very nice. Shall we ask your friend, the deputy mayor, what he thinks about my skills?”

I blinked through the question before it dawned on me. “That was you?”

“Behold the power of information, chum. Information is my trade, and you backed me into a corner. I had to push back.”

I shook my head in bafflement. “You ruined an entire mayor’s race for this?”

“Yeah, fuckin’ right I did! It’s my life on the line, isn’t it?”

“You have dirt on everybody, why him? Why not me?”

“Because, you daft little terrier, I’m trying to save my life, not end it. I hit you, you hit me. Bang. Gone. See, here, I have your attention.”

“That, you do,” I snarled.

“And it doesn’t end with your government friend. You said it best. I’ve got dirt on every bloody body. Whose life do I have to ruin next? Or can we call a halt to all of this?”

“There’s dirt, and then there’s slander.”

“Oh, I don’t deal in falsehoods, mate. They’re dime-a-dozen. The only real value is in the bonafide, genuine choice cuts.”

I lowered my phone and stared out over the highway at the last full rays of daylight. I’m not one to judge one’s lifestyle choices, but Julian had lied to me.

I picked up the phone slowly to my face and stated, “Just remember. You started this.”

“Lake?”

“Goodbye, Carmody.”

“Lake. Lake!”

I hung up and crossed the highway with the light.

found a café not far from Light Street the next morning, and took a leisurely breakfast there of a bagel and quite a serviceable cappuccino. It was close enough to walk to Grey & Lisle, and left me with enough time to arrive early. I signed in at the front desk, took the elevator to the ninth floor, and signed in at yet another desk. Most of the offices behind the receptionist were dark. Sunday was clearly not a popular day to work in this office. Yet there came Ari, upright and confident. It was quite a switch from the last time I laid eyes on him.

“Good morning, Dorian.”

“Ari.”

He led me to his office, which was somewhat cozy and crammed with file boxes, but at least it wasn’t a cubicle. He pulled aside several stacks of papers to make room for me.

“So, what is it I can help you with?”

I set McHenry’s envelope on his desk and leaned back in my chair. “I own some rental properties, and I’m looking to sell them to my tenants.”

“I see. Your lease terms?”

“Month to month, mostly. The one still on contract is up at the end of the month.”

“You intend to give thirty days’ notice?”

“Yes, if needed.”

“It’s required by law.”

I leaned forward in my chair, trying not to bump my knee into his desk. “If they want to close, then they can move faster?”

“Naturally, but you’ll have to be careful not to imply any haste in their decision.”

“That’s not my intent.”

“Very well. What are the properties?”

I pulled some extra plot documents I had stuffed into McHenry’s envelope. I had purchased the properties for a steal back when I first moved to Baltimore. The entire area was slated for a major renewal at the time, and I was banking the property values would rise sharply. Then the urban renewal project hopped across the expressway, and my side of the street ended up with nothing. Ironic, now that I had a fat offer on the properties, and I was trying to sell them off quick.

Leibnitz reviewed my parcel info and nodded knowingly.

I set down the pamphlet Sullivan had given me and slid it forward. “There’s an assistance program available. My tenants aren’t exactly upper income. I’m hoping to steer them to a participating bank, get them a zero down mortgage.”

He took the pamphlet and smiled. “I wish every landowner was as courteous as you. I’m sure we can find several banks who offer a product that would work. However, by what you say and from what I glean from these street addresses, there may be an issue with the program.”

“What issue?”

“Fair market value for these properties might not be what you’re hoping for, and you’re not allowed to exceed market value if your tenants are going to be eligible.”

I chuckled. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“Well, our first order of business will be to ascertain the market value―”

“Got that covered.” I pulled McHenry’s paperwork out of the envelope and handed it to Leibnitz. He adjusted his glasses and reviewed the first few pages. I could tell when he hit the offer amount. His eyebrows lifted quickly toward the top of his head.

“I… I don’t understand.”

“I’m refusing this offer.”

He looked up at me in bewilderment. “How?”

“Fair question.” I tapped the first page again. “Double-check the buyer.”

He flipped to the front page, and dropped the paperwork on his desk. He pushed away in his chair, wheeling several inches on squeaky casters.

“Now you’re starting to see why I came in on a Sunday?”

“This offer would make you a millionaire.”

“I recognize that.”

“Well, what are you looking to sell for?”

“Far less. Probably an order of magnitude.”

“Mister Lake, this… this is simply insane. I’ll grant you, there may be some altruistic motive at play here, but you’re literally throwing away millions of dollars.”

“No, Ari. What I’m doing is rogering McHenry. You know who the man is, and so maybe you’ll understand it takes a small fortune in brass balls to put the screws to that guy.” I collected myself and changed the beat. “By the way, how’s Jacobs?”