Black and Orange (11 page)

Melissa stopped along the curb. There was something in her bookish face, a manner shadowed in her mousy hair, a light reflecting off her horn-rimmed spectacles. “This is the place? Sure you don’t want me to call some people in? It’s easy enough to get a few acolytes down here.”

“I don’t need acolytes,” he said, turning in his seat. “I have sleeping beauty here. Hey, Quintana! Wake up!”

Paul opened a blood shot eye and pushed up with one arm. “Time is it?”

“Time to get a move on,” said Cole. He stripped off his seatbelt. “You’re going to follow my lead. Remember what I showed you earlier.”

Paul rubbed his eyes. “Why are we here, again?”

Cole got out of the limo and ducked down a moment to wink at Melissa. She mustered a smile and he closed the door. Paul slid out of the back. His designer suit was mangled. Cole walked down an alley between a chain link fence and a thrashed tenement. Paul followed in step with him.

“This chapel reported a member gone missing,” Cole told him. “They believe the man is this year’s vessel for Chaplain Cloth.”

“Does Cloth surface this early?”

“Not usually, but we’re not taking their word on it either. This chapel in particular has sold information to the Nomads in the past. Nobody could prove it or they’d all be put out, but I have my suspicions about whether this latest news is a lure for more handouts. It’s their style and things could get heated.”

“Well it’s an honor to be at your side, Bishop.”

Cole couldn’t tell if Paul was being a smartass. He stopped at a decaying door and knocked two times. “You don’t have to call me Bishop anymore.”

“Splendid.” Paul pinched between his eyes and opened them wider, looking to wake himself up. He patted his jacket and his face went ashen. “Where’s—?”

“I left our pieces with Melissa.”

“What in the hell?”

Cole glared at him. “If we are worthy to the Church, we can stand on our own.”

“Are you kidding me? How stupid is that? Half of these chapels aren’t even legitimate.”

“Quintana,” Cole sighed. “We never stop testing ourselves. Always strong—”

The door cracked open and a
Glock
nuzzled its way through. “You Inner Circle?”

“And then some,” Paul spoke confidently. “Bishop
Szerszen
and Bishop Quintana.”

“Here for the
word
?”

Cole nodded and the door opened wider. The man shoved his gun into the back of his baggy jeans and offered a hand. “Brother Hector. Nice to meet you two.”

They both shook hands. Dry red spiders of marijuana cooked in Hector’s eyes. Several dark blue teardrops tattooed his cheek and there was old English calligraphy on his neck and chest.

“Who has information on the vessel?”

Hector controlled his laughter with a fist to his mouth and then waved for them to follow. “I’m sorry Bishops. I’m not feeling myself today. Come in, please.”

They walked down a hallway stripped of paint, carpet and character. The walls were a spray-paint mural but only some of the designs and names had relation to the Church of Midnight. Cole saw that the rest was rubbish. Through
doorless
doorways, he watched more miscreants sitting against walls, some behind sheets of cottony smoke and others gripping bongs or pipes. A skeletal white couple fucked at the end of an empty hallway, her bony legs in a V and his shadowy ass dunking, their breathing quickening as they reached where they needed to be. Paul studied them with some amusement before Cole bumped him to move on. These scenes made Cole too angry to think straight. He’d show them the way home. Why would
Sandeus
Pager allow this? It was so easy to send an Inner Circle down here to give the church a face. It was laziness. That’s what it was. As Archbishop, Cole would restore direction in these little chapels, or die trying.

“Where do you keep your Tomes?” he asked Hector. Paul simpered at the question.

“Somewhere around,” Hector answered quickly.

The Tomes were probably holding up a table with three legs somewhere,
thought Cole. Not a surprise. By the looks of things, the Tomes of Eternal Harvest would be lost on this lot anyway—and Cole had to change that too.

Hector sat at a picnic table on a folding chair. There was an intricate hookah on top of several stacks of pizza boxes. He shoved the mess to the side and pointed to a pair of folding chairs against the wall. Cole shook off the offer. “We’ll stand. You said you had information. Chaplain Cloth hasn’t contacted us yet. What makes you believe he took the body of one of your own?”

“Ramon freaked out! Thought he was on acid or something. Turning pale, screaming strange shit. Goofy fuckin’ guy.” Cole noted Hector’s wild hair and eyes made him look part rodent. Hector picked up a withered joint from a naked lady ashtray, lit the end and nursed at it. Cole had to fight the impulse to snatch it out of his mouth.

“Did this Ramon say where he was going?” Paul asked.

A pungent cloud flowed toward them. Cole had always favored the earthy smell but otherwise never touched the stuff.

Hector leaned on two chair legs and touched his head to the wall. “You said on the phone you’d discuss funding. You can see our chapel here, well, she could use some upgrading. Don’t you think?”

“This isn’t a negotiation. We came to visit fellow brothers and sisters in the name of the Archbishop. You’ll be paid an extra contribution for your assistance.” Cole pulled out an envelope from his inner pocket and tossed it across the table. Hector tore through the top of the envelope. He reached inside and frowned. “Hey, there’s like only five hundred dollars here.”

“There’s the two-fifty for your monthly and two-fifty for the information. I didn’t have to give you anything except your monthly, but I doubled it,” said Cole.

Hector slapped down the envelope. “Five hundred ain’t shit for Inner Circle, and you, I heard you’re one of the
bigshits
that goes out on the Hunt every Halloween—”

At least Hector knew about the Hunt.
That shouldn’t be so impressive
, thought Cole.

Paul stepped forward, taking the lead. “What does that have to do with your compensation?”

Hector narrowed his eyes. The tip of his tongue ran the length of his bruised lower lip. He didn’t seem to enjoy Quintana’s presence all that much. Cole could have smiled for that. “Your monthly dividend isn’t meant to support your chapel. You better start selling shit, not smoking it all.”

“Hey, I’m not for disrespect. I don’t give a fuck how big you think you are. This shit,
here
, is my chapel. It may not be all that, but I got more than twenty
jonesing
for a place. I deserve my share. I quit the LP-12.” He flashed a gang-sign. Cole couldn’t understand its symbolic logic.

“You’re free to disband. We don’t need leeches,” said Cole faintly.

Hector shook his head angrily. “Fuckin’ almost got my ass capped for
leavin
’ LP-12,
homie
. I gave up some real shit, lost one of my boys and now they’re sending some
pendejos
to deliver junk-drawer change. Fuck that shit. That ain’t fair. I had a feeling this would happen.”

“And I had a feeling you’d want more. But you’re not getting more, so tell us about Ramon.”

Paul glanced back. Cole had sensed it too. Someone filled the doorway behind them. It was a girl, about nineteen years old, pretty except for the pencil-line eyebrows and overcoat of facial powder. She pointed a
Glock
at them at a bizarre sideways angle. He’d love to see her try and fire it that way and dislocate a shoulder.

“This is the Inner Circle to pay for Ramon?” she asked. In a way Cole was relieved. Her voice was sober and sounded a few leagues deeper with the intelligence.

“Don’t say shit,” Hector ordered as he stood.

The Bishops of Midnight watched carefully and neither made a move. “We are part of something bigger,” Cole said. “You need to calm down, put those guns away and tell me where Ramon went. You want more money for your chapel, fine—we can send some tasks your way. But you have to deliver on them.”

Some eager faces bobbed in the hallway, some white, some black, some brown, all smiling for blood.

“Last chance, fellows.” Hector lifted a gun out of the back of his pants.

“We can help you clean this place up. It doesn’t just take money. It takes courage. You don’t want to kill us, Hector. Reducing our number doesn’t help anything.”

“Fuck that shit,” a bubble of spit popped on Hector’s lower lip.

Paul sighed and shook his head. He glanced accusingly at Cole before he bolted away with his head down. Cole’s leg flew out behind him and his foot planted in the girl’s ribcage. She pulled the trigger and the gun discharged into the ceiling. Some plaster fell and a cloud mushroomed up from the floor. She grasped her side and charged him. Paul grabbed her from behind, hauling her up. Hector tried to aim through the mess of struggling bodies.

“What I taught you!” Cole yelled back.

It was already happening. Paul’s fingers sizzled against the girl’s porcelain neck. Hector fired a shot as Paul fell to the ground with the girl in his hold. The bullet caromed off an exposed plumbing fixture in the hallway and plugged a reedy guy in a wife beater. Another shot fired as Cole spun around and clutched Hector’s wrist. At the pressure the gun popped out Hector’s hand.

“Back me up!” Hector wailed. The hallway ambled with confusion around the two quickly dead bodies and broiling flesh. Hector’s eyes widened. “Back me up!”

With a desperate scream the girl twisted around and snapped Paul’s head back with an elbow. He let her go reflexively and put his hand to his jaw. Curdled skin fell from her neck as she scrambled into the hallway. “What did he do to me?” she pled out to everybody and nobody. “What the fuck did he do?”

Cole felt his own gun slide out of his hip holster. He flung Hector around for a shield. A young man, high school aged, had Cole’s gun drawn. The gun was too heavy for the teen to steady, so it wobbled right to left. Thick beads of sweat pushed out of the teen’s forehead and at the prickly base of a premature mustache.

Paul tried to stand. The wagging barrel pointed his way. Cole shook his head. “Stay there.”

“You asshole, you said you didn’t bring a piece,” Paul complained.

The gun returned to Cole and the kid spoke firmly, “Let my brother go now.”

“Shoot him,
Chuy
! Shoot his ugly ass!” shouted Hector.

“Put the gun down and step into the hall with the others,” Cole ordered. “We didn’t come here for this, brothers.”

Chuy
blinked at the sweat in his eyes.

“Do as I say!”

“Fuck that
Chuy
! Dome this motherfucker!
Acábalo
!
Acábalo
!”

Cole had no choice. Some people wanted fear. Only fear. It was the truest language they spoke. He put his hand at the back of Hector’s neck and gripped. The marrow blossoms in Cole’s chest filled with life from the Old Domain. His bones chilled with their power and he immediately felt every atom in Hector’s neck.

From the ground Paul Quintana watched, sharing an understanding of the wonder.

“You shouldn’t have trades guns with the Nomads,” whispered Cole.

“Fuck you. That’s
Ebay
shit—” Hector’s tongue stopped and dropped to the side of his mouth as his nerves went limp. Bubbling pockets undulated from the interior of the skull to the surface until Hector’s head was crawling in its own juices. Hair sizzled away like ignited fiber optics. His eyeballs twisted in their housings and evaporated and all bone structure lost integrity before tucking inward. The flesh, spinal cord and esophagus tore away from the vanishing head with a sucking sound. The head was gone.

The hallway thundered with the sounds of retreating shoes and echoing shouts.
Chuy
dropped Cole’s gun and backed away, mouth overflowing with shock. Paul took the gun quickly and trained it on the hallway.

Several blisters popped in Cole’s face, leaving behind bleeding coin shapes, currency exchanged for such power, not the first he’d spent in his long tenure as a Bishop. He dropped Hector’s body with a twinge of regret. The headless form hit the folding table and sent it screeching sideways.
Chuy
stared at his brother and whispered something in Spanish, and repeated it several times.

~ * ~

The unnamed forest outside
Strath
had always been famed for its monstrous scarlet trees that reached skyward. I’ve never been there myself, but on my travels I have read that in the springtime the
Church
of
Morning
have orgies beneath the canopies of parasol flowers and sacrifice jackrabbits in the russet shadows from the translucent red leaves. Things are supposedly lovely in that forest. Once again, this is from my limited knowledge of that region.

Even with that limitation in mind, it must have come as a quite a shock when a pilgrim spotted a human head lying sideways in the dirt, mouth unhinged and eyes still glowing white. Particles of foreign red flesh dotted the face like hives.

Hector Gonzalez had put eyes upon the Old Domain. Cole
Szerszen
had granted him this privilege, if only for a few seconds.