Night Call Read online

  “Don’t sweat it, Allen,” Sinclair said over the loudspeaker. “We’ll only be in the air for a few minutes, just until we get close to the docks. Then you’re going to have to jump out. Not from high in the air — maybe a few inches from the ground.”

  “How’s she doing?” I called out, hopeful my voice was being caught by the carriage microphones. “Sounds rough around the edges, though I have a lot less experience in the air than you do.”

  “She’s an older model,” he responded, “but the blades spin, which is all we really need, eh? At least the Black Hat topped the fuel cell up beforehand, else we’d be in a jam.”

  “Well, if we do need to find a place to refuel, we can always get the metal man to do it, right, Al?”

  I gave Allen a quick knock on the shoulder, which led to a ringing hand that would probably bruise quite badly in the coming days. Allen continued to sit in a silent panic, unaware of its grip strength on the seat’s handles.

  Toby was in the back of the Rotorbird setting up the Thompson from the steel case it had lugged up the stairs. It had put these weapons together so often that it was second nature, which unfortunately meant that it was going to talk to us while it prepared for the raid.

  “So, boys, how goes your little ragtag partnership? Can’t be too bad, seeing as Elias hasn’t dumped you past 90th yet for ‘insubordination.’”

  “Does he do that frequently, Toby?” Allen asked, momentarily forgetting about its discomfort.

  “Toby, don’t you dare —”

  “Shit, yeah, he does!”

  There was a hint of laughter being repressed in the little wire voice box hanging where Toby’s mouth should be.

  “Past three partners he’s had — human and Automatic — have been sent on a fool’s errand up there while he disappeared without a trace, leaving them to wander around. Then he wrote them up and demanded they be removed from his watch.”

  “I suspect that this hasn’t occurred to me due to the high calibre of my assistance. Or possibly because I could find my way back to his abode if he attempted to dispose of me.”

  Was that a hint of worry in Allen’s voice? No, I must have be imagining it.

  “Either way, that’s how he does it, regardless of who you are. People who know him know he doesn’t like 90th, and that’s why he leaves them there — because someone else will pick them up.”

  “I’m right here, you two.” I had to butt in, lest I hear about this all night. What a rat bastard Toby was. But I couldn’t help but smile.

  “You see, Allen?” Toby continued. “That’s the smug face he makes whenever he has a bluff and people are falling for it. He’s a terrible poker player. Too bad the other humans at the table are just as garbage as he is, which is why they never call the bluff.”

  “Sinclair ain’t too bad, but his bluffs are more obvious than mine,” I said. “How many times have we heard the silver gun story from ’28?”

  Toby knew exactly what I meant and chuckled to itself at the remark. “Shit, don’t mention that story.” It tried sitting back, its metal plates scraping against the carriage’s interior. “Next time I hear about that time he led an investigation, I’ll toss myself off the top of the new Control Point … after I get paid, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  We banked right and were able to get a glimpse of Lower Manhattan out of the window in front of us. The bulbs on the Plate shone down on the city streets below.

  “So, Toby, how’s GE been treating you? You’re working on a Control Point, right? I never thought you’d be there; figured you’d be in Jersey or somewhere else.”

  “So did I. Those goddamn politicians pushing Second Prohibition made everyone outside of Manhattan a nervous wreck when it comes to machines, so it’s ‘get the Green-eye’ or you’re out of a job. Thinking is an ability I enjoy having. The only place that takes Blue-eyes is GE, and they needed a crew to build the Control Point for their Plate expansion. And hell, if it keeps up, I’ll have enough cash to buy a bigger place than any white-collar Green-eye ever could. Maybe it’ll even be enough to keep me from falling apart, Automatic parts ain’t cheap, after all.”

  “Sounds lucrative. For now, at least. But, you’ve got to miss the Force a little? Something about the garbage pay, terrible hours, and smell of death in this city made it so appealing.”

  “I guess. I did run a few ops on my own, and it was exhilarating having a squad of rookies shooting up a speakeasy with me during a raid. ’Course, I went in first, since bullets need more oomph to hurt me. But, hey, we got the memories, and mine aren’t going nowhere.” Toby sat back as it clipped the barrel into the base of the gun. Though it couldn’t smile, a look very close to satisfaction spread over its metal face.

  A silence rested in the cab of the Rotorbird as we all thought about the good times. Mine were crazy: drug busts, raids, heists. Hell, all of it had been exciting.

  But Allen had to break the silence with its insatiable hunger for information. “Did you lead operations, Detective Roche?”

  At this comment, Toby moved forward, its solid metallic eyebrows shooting up in surprise as it turned to face me. “You didn’t tell him? What the shit, man? That’s classic New York history and you didn’t tell him?”

  “It, Toby. Like you. It. Not he.”

  Ignoring my comment, Toby continued, half jumping in his excitement to fill in my partner. “Good ol’ Elias here ran more than a few ops — he ran the big one!”

  “Toby …”

  “You must’ve seen how the cops, and maybe some criminals, look at him. Haven’t you wondered why he’s such a big deal to people in these parts?”

  “Well, I’ve been curious, but I couldn’t find any reliable sources on the matter. Though I would prefer to be told by the detective personally.”

  I guessed I was stuck. Toby looked at me, eyebrows jumping up and down as if to say, Tell him!

  I reclined more into my seat. “A few years ago, back in 1928, I ran the Morello raid, which aimed to prevent Murder, Inc.’s expansion out of New York onto the mainland. Our best bet was to hit a shop in Hell’s Kitchen that was experiencing a large volume of cargo truck traffic. We got in, mopped up, and it didn’t do a lick of good. Morello and Luciano were both down. A new boss came into power and did something worse than expanding. He doubled the Mob’s efforts in New York, leading to the fucked little city we all live in. That’s the big one. Happy, Toby?”

  “You’re saying that you led the Morello case, Detective, and in doing so, caused the city to be in the state it currently is?”

  Allen seemed confused, but Toby wouldn’t let it slide and piped up before I could respond.

  “Hell, no! He is the Morello case. And it wasn’t just him that caused shit to spiral. Let’s be honest, he single-handedly stopped one of the biggest Mob wars in history and broke the Mob in two. He made it impossible for them to even think about expanding past the Hudson.”

  Silence again, and this one wasn’t at all nostalgic or comfortable. I looked out the window and saw the line of warehouses. Sinclair was skirting the edge of the bay to stay away from FBI-patrolled airspace. He was awful quiet up there, no doubt smart enough not to comment on this subject.

  “I killed Morello. My gun, his head. I ended it. That’s that. Ancient history. Drop it.”

  “That was outside the duties expected of you, Detective, and you would have been reprimanded.”

  Didn’t skip a beat, did it? Allen was all over the bureaucracy of any situation.

  “I would have been, if I’d stayed.”

  No one moved. Allen was obviously thinking of more questions to prod me with.

  “And the Mafia has yet to exact vengeance on you for killing their benefactor?” he finally asked.

  Too far, Allen. “They already did,” I said.

  Don’t. Don’t tell it. Just move on, I thought. “Toby, shut up and finish what you’re doing,” I said pre-emptively.

  There was silence in the aircr
aft once again, this one tenser than the last. I was not in the mood for any more questions from Allen. That didn’t stop it, however.

  “How many partners have you had before me, Detective?”

  Allen had just had to pipe up again. He couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut for ten goddamn seconds.

  It. Not he.

  Damn, now I was slipping. Probably because of that slip, I didn’t immediately chew Allen apart. I supposed it gave me a moment to compose myself. Allen had probably seen the look of rage on my face and had second thoughts.

  “Several,” I said

  “Is there an approximate number?”

  “Are you asking how many I’ve had, or how many were around enough for me to consider them a partner?”

  It hesitated before responding. “Both, I suppose.”

  “Ten, give or take, have tried accompanying me. Two were actual partners.”

  “When was the last time you had a legitimate accompaniment whom you considered your partner?”

  “Back in ’28, a little before Morello.” I had to give something like an actual answer, or else it would keep asking. “There’s a few things that … well, we don’t speak of much. We being the people I’m close to or who know me well. I suppose you don’t know any better, but some subjects are touchy. I don’t blame you — you’ll learn. I just want to give you a heads-up.”

  “Detective, are you quite all right?”

  Change the subject — don’t let it get under your skin.

  “Paddy! ETA?”

  “Five minutes before we’re in position to wreak some havoc. Get ready, everyone!”

  “Your friend Toby is taking an unusual amount of time preparing his weapon,” Allen commented.

  Toby looked up and gave us both a cold stare. “It’s called being thorough, and people who’ve worked with me know what that means.”

  “In what way?” Allen asked.

  “He’s been doing this for as long as I have.” It. Damn it. “Now lay off and get your head in the game. This won’t be a walk in the park.”

  CHAPTER 16

  THE ROTORBIRD BANKED to the right once more, our heading now the western docks as we skimmed over the bay. We had a picturesque view of Lower Manhattan’s skyline and the underside of the Upper City. The small staircases and catwalks of the Plate were more noticeable from here, with tiny people moving about on them, inspecting the area before the nighttime cycle began and the fluorescent bulbs were shut down. I checked my watch and saw that it was almost four.

  “Shit,” I said to myself. “We gotta hurry, not much time until the bulbs go out.”

  “What’s the hurry, Detective?” Allen asked.

  Toby butted in to answer the question. “Chelsea is Maranzano’s neighbourhood … old bastard. Of all the places we gotta go to find this Black Hat, we had to wind up in the Mob’s territory.”

  “Maranzano?”

  “Salvatore Maranzano, last big-name Italian mobster in the city,” I responded. “He’s old school, which means there ain’t much leeway for negotiating if we get found on his turf when night hits. But, at the same time, he respects the rules enough to wait until six before blowing our brains out.”

  Two hours wasn’t much time to clear a warehouse of illegal assets and crooked cops.

  Looking around the cabin, I wondered if we needed a more capable group than two men and two Automatics wielding a modified German pistol, an M1911, a standard .38 police pistol, and an outdated Tommy gun. Just as that thought passed through my head, I noticed a strange contraption hooked onto the wall of the cabin. Attached to a small pivoting arm was a triple-barrelled Suppression Rifle — or, as we called it, the Suppressor. To be honest, that name was one of the greatest euphemisms in the Force. It was really a vehicle-mounted rail gun and did little to “suppress” perps. Most Suppression Rifles had been built during the last years of the Great War, after scientists realized that Tesla Batteries could power more than just Manuals and Automatics.

  The weapon was hooked up to the fuel cells in the Rotorbird via several thick hoses connecting the bottom of the gun’s base to the wall of the Rotorbird. This posed a minor issue in using the weapon: any power bump it caused when firing could force the entire aircraft to plummet downward, jerk forward into a building, or any number of terrible manoeuvres that could kill us all if we weren’t in a stable position.

  “Paddy, you know there’s a Suppression Rifle in the back here?”

  “No shit, eh? Well, I have a feelin’ Allen would be sternly advisin’ you against using it, if it wasn’t shitting itself. So, when you use it, try and … miss.”

  “I wasn’t even thinking of aiming this at anyone. At least not intentionally.” I unhooked myself from the seat, grabbed the bulkhead, and reached for the rifle. The Rotorbird wasn’t the most stable platform for me to be standing up on. Upon inspection, I noticed foot hooks in the floor, which helped me keep my balance after I jammed my shoes into them. The aircraft banked once again, heading downward. We were closing on Chelsea Docks, and the tension was tangible.

  Grabbing a small rope on the top of the bulkhead, I lifted one foot from the floor and kicked a small pedal in the corner between the wall of the pilot’s cabin and the sliding door. The device released the lugs holding the door in place, the springs pulling the metal back quickly. With the door open and my feet anchored, I yanked the Suppression Rifle from its mounting. The swivelling arm bore the weapon’s weight as I pushed the barrel outside the aircraft. I grasped the two handles at the Rifle’s base, feeling the size of its triggers.

  “This fucker is big. You think you can keep us from dying if I use this?”

  “Depends on how patient you are. I’ll radio over and tell ya when we’re good to fire. I’ve been through too much for you, of all people, to kill me, El!”

  “The War and the Force … seems to me we’ve been cheating death for far too long.”

  I got a laugh from Sinclair at that last comment. We dipped down again. The sinking feeling lurched through me once more. Anticipation and excitement kept my feet pinned and my knuckles white as I gripped the rifle with sweaty palms.

  “This would be considered excessive force, Elias. Is it really necessary for us to use a weapon of this calibre? No pun intended.”

  I could barely pick up its rattling voice through the howls of the wind and the engines, but I’d heard it call me Elias, not Detective Roche. I smiled. Either it had been a slip of the tongue, or Allen was growing more confident.

  “Firstly: we were given free ROE from Robins, and I plan on exercising those rules however I choose. Secondly: I’m glad you’re finally learning some humour. Trust me when I say that it helps to cope with a job like this.” I laughed, and Allen looked more uncomfortable than usual.

  “Detective, this could be extremely dangerous for your well-being. The percentage of your body that is exposed while you operate the weapon carries a high risk of fatality, or at least injury.”

  “High risk, high reward, Allen. Keep your head down until we need to disembark.” It planted itself back into the seat, gripping the handles tighter. “And I promise I won’t try to kill anyone. I really will try.” I meant it, but if anyone got in the way of a blind shot, it was their own fault. “Fly me over to the side of the warehouse, Paddy! No reason to use the front door.”

  “Detective!” Allen nearly stood in its little seat. “You can’t possibly be thinking about firing a rifle of this size for the arbitrary reason of making an entrance.”

  I gestured to the weapon. “You expect me not to use the big goddamn gun? What other suggestions do you have?”

  “We can have Sergeant Sinclair bring us near the docks, then disembark and use the front door.”

  Toby and I looked at each other, letting a silence hang in the air. “Load the gun, Roche,” Toby said.

  I pulled back the bolt and loaded three 30mm solid rods into the rifle’s breech. A thunk followed, along with the sharp whine of electric energy.

 
; “Mark to fire in thirty seconds, El,” Sinclair barked over the amplifier.

  “And what if we fire at the wrong warehouse, Detective?” Allen asked again.

  “I guess we’ll pop the top off every one until we get it right,” I said with a smirk.

  “Now I remember why I never went on raids with you,” Sinclair said.

  “I mean, they’re all connected,” I said, quoting him. “If this one doesn’t have what we need, the others will!”

  The Rotorbird’s propellers caused water to splash up across the bottom of the open door, soaking my shoes and slacks. Mist covered the floor by the door, and my shoes lost some traction, but thankfully the anchors kept me from falling into the bay.

  The aircraft hung in the air outside the edge of the southernmost warehouse, adjacent to the river. To the right was 11th Avenue, full of cars minding their own business. The last thing those drivers would want to trouble themselves with was why a Rotorbird was aiming an onboard weapon at a supposedly abandoned warehouse. We were so close that I could see through the dirty glass panes of the building. I spotted at least a dozen people moving about inside. The faces turned toward the window, indicating that they’d either seen or heard us.

  Sinclair called to me on the loudspeaker, “Don’t kill us, Roche. Fire!”

  I leaned into the weapon as I placed both index fingers on the red triggers. The Rotorbird jerked as the rifle shot shells at the glass panes.

  Normal rifle rounds would have passed through glass, cracking the surface but leaving the glass mostly intact. Not these rounds. Three solid cylinders of metal flew forward with barely a whisper. The brick wall and attached windows shattered and flew into the warehouse. The rods went through the concrete floor, burying themselves deep into the earth.

  No doubt Allen had been appalled that I was willing to fire such a weapon without being 100 percent sure there were criminals on the other side of the wall. But now that the inside of the warehouse was visible, the sight of wooden crates and metal bits strewn about gave weight to my decision, no matter how reckless it was. I couldn’t imagine how the metal man would have reacted to all the other shit I’d done over the past four years. At least there were no civilians in the way this time. I had enough time to load another triplet of rounds in preparation to fire.