Pawns
Opening Moves
Fucking whores. It could all be boiled down to the fucking whores. Everything. Air pollution. NAFTA. Parking tickets. Kids with cancer. His downstairs neighbor’s annoying yap-yap keeping him awake at night. In one way or another, they were all connected to ‘women of loose virtue’ as his mother had called them.
It had taken him quite a while to figure it out. He had no illusions about being a smart man, but he wasn’t dumb either. His whole life things just hadn’t gone his way. Other guys had jobs, girls, friends, nice cars.
Charlie Schmitz never had any of those. He’d been bullied as a kid till he started lifting weights. Things had seemed on the upswing, despite being kicked out of high school, till he was caught with the ‘roids. While in the pen he’d been punked out and gotten on meth. He came out with a bunch of scars, of all kinds, unable to find a job.
He’d never known his dad, and his mom was all he had. If not for her, he would have been homeless a long time ago.
Not just homeless, dead. He would have died, no doubt.
She’d forced him to get off the drugs. She’d harped away at Mr. Chin till he finally hired Charlie as a grocery bagger. She’d insisted he stay away from his old friends with their wicked ways.
Life should have gotten better. He’d even started going to church with his mom, mainly to ‘meet some nice people’ as she said. He’d tried out, and failed of course, for the choir. That was probably his own fault, one of the few losses in his life that couldn’t be traced back to the fucking whores. He had a shit singing voice, and knew it. Too squeaky. At Pelican Bay his nickname had been ‘Mouse’.
The years went on though, and no great career materialized for him. He was promoted to delivery, but it still paid poorly. No girlfriend: women seemed repulsed at his overtures. No pals to chum around with. The old bitch (‘old woman, she’s just a mean, old woman, don’t call her a bitch’ he continuously had to remind himself) at the DMV continuously failed him, to the point where he just said to hell with it and drove ma’s old Lincoln without a licensee.
On his mother’s deathbed, she had given him the answer to all his life’s troubles. Had she known all along? He could never be sure.
Stroking his cheek with her frail, liver spotted hand, a cigarette dangling between parched lips, she had unwittingly removed the scales from his eyes.
“Be a good boy, Charlie. Stay away from girls. They’ll just get you in trouble.”
Those were her last words, or at least the last he could understand. She’d coughed up a bunch of phlegm after that, stroked out once again, and a few days later she died.
Two people were at her bedside when she passed. Charlie was one.
Pretty Nurse Hayes was the other.
Pretty Nurse Hayes.
Well, not so pretty anymore. Not after all these years.
It had taken Charlie a while to do it. Too soon after ma’s death and he’d be an obvious suspect. He bid his time, watching TV shows about crime detectives and how they figured out who whacked who. Everyone was always talking up books, but he’d learned a lot sitting on his mom’s old couch, watching the tube. The movies could help sometimes, only he didn’t like how in almost all of them the ex cons were these bad guys who hurt innocent people for the hell of it.
HE was an ex con, and he didn’t do evil things. He did good things.
Good things like ridding the world of devious little bitches, slaying the FW army, one high-heeled cunt at a time.
And tonight, his good works list was about to be increased by one.
This one was what you would call….what was the word? Ironic? He’d been watching Channel 5, yet another detective show, and had meant to turn it off at the credits. Only the battery on the remote had died, or it was a sign from God more likely, and there she was: Tara O’Neill, Channel 5′s Ten O’clock News anchorwoman.
With one look, he knew she was in the FW’s ranks. Her white blouse was open a little, just enough to make ya wonder what she’d look like with some more buttons loosened. Her hair was blond, a really good, if not universal, indicator that a woman was a fucking whore. She was decked out with earrings, a necklace.
Lipstick.
It was that bright red, made-for-cock sucking red lipstick that sealed the deal for Charlie.
Her voice was kinda deep, throaty. He bet she moaned a lot as she was fucking up some innocent guy’s life while he put his pee pee in her hoo hoo.
Oh yeah, this bitch had to go.
That’d been three months ago. He’d put the time to good use. It took a few tries but he finally followed her home one night. Lock-picked his way into her house while she way away, made a copy of her spare key. Learned her routine, where she went, who she saw, what she did.
All people had routines, and she was no exception.
It hadn’t even been a challenge, really. That black whore he’d eliminated down in Crescent District a while back, she’d been much more challenging, what with her multiple baby daddies and pimps and addictions. Always on the move.
Tara O’Neill was really pretty hum-drum in comparison.
You’d expect people on the TV to lead more interesting lives, but sadly Charlie learned this was not true. They still shit and pissed and farted and bathed like the rest of humanity.
Only the fucking whores probably did all that a lot more than real people. Charlie wasn’t sure on this, but it felt right as he examined it.
A smile spread across his huge, unshaven face. He had gained yet more enlightenment. It may not be much, but who knew? It might come in handy one day, make him better at sending whores to hell.
Or maybe not. Time would tell. Either way he felt smarter, and that was really all that mattered.
He looked down at the woman tied up on what used to be a kitchen table. Tara O’Neill was still unconscious. Sometimes he’d let them wake up on their own, it seemed the polite sort of thing mother would have approved of. But one of his favorite shows was coming on in an hour. He sure as hell wasn’t going to miss ‘Unsolved Homicides’ for this bitch.
He slapped her gently on the face. “Wakey wakey, Ms. O’Neill.”
Tara O’Neill opened her eyes slowly. What the hell had happened to her? Last thing she remembered was walking into her apartment after a session at the gym with her personal trainer, Sergie. Now she had a splitting headache and…couldn’t move her arms or legs.
‘Oh God, am I paralyzed?’ she thought in a panic. Distantly, she could hear someone talking, and then a sharp blow stung her cheek.
“Ms. O’Neill, some people have plans for later this evening. Would you please wake up?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry…”she muttered. She tried to focus and sit up. Her vision cleared a smidgen, but she still couldn’t move. She wasn’t paralyzed, there was something on her wrists and ankles holding her down.
“That’s quite all right.” Came the reply. A man’s voice, friendly and warm. “Take a few minutes. Compose yourself.”
Tara felt guilty. Obviously she had fallen, something had fallen on her head, whatever it was she was inconveniencing someone who was trying to help her. Was the man an EMT? Was she on a stretcher?
She heard the man start to hum.
Her eyes focused in on a brown wall. No, not a wall, a ceiling. She knew it was a ceiling because the paint and plaster were peeling, hanging by webby threads in some parts. Behind her and out of her line of sight a light bulb was swinging, she could tell by the way the shadows pranced around her, getting big, then small.
Big.
Small.
The back of her head felt like it’d been hit with a hammer. Slowly turning her head to the left she saw her left hand cuffed to a bolt that had been placed into the piece of wood she way laying on. Her head throbbing, she discovered the same with her right hand.
“Excuse me, where the fuck am I?” Tara demanded with as much indignation as her splitting headache would allow.
“No need to use profanity, Ms. O’Neill,” came the reply. “You’re in the basement of an abandoned tenement near Fisherman’s Wharf. If you listen, you can just hear the ocean. Isn’t that a nice, calming sound?”
A beefy, acne-pocked face loomed over hers from behind, upside down at this angle.
“Breathe in the relaxation, Ms. O’Neill,” suggested the man, closing his beady eyes and breathing in deeply though his nose to illustrate.
Had she been raped? She didn’t feel raped. She tried to look down at her clothes. Wrinkled, untucked, but still on. Her sports bra was still in one piece. She could see her running shoes.
She leaned her head back. It hurt too much to keep it lifted. Her heart began accelerating. Obviously she had not fallen.
‘Stay calm,’ she thought to herself.
The man was still breathing deeply, his smile getting wider.
‘You’ve been kidnapped, probably will get raped.’ Tara thought to herself. ‘You need to concentrate on surviving.’
“You have a nice smile.” She said in as friendly a tone as she could muster.
The man stopped his breathing exercise, his smile evaporated. He moved around the table to where she could see more than just his face. He was a big man. Not quite fat, not quite muscular. He looked vaguely familiar. She had seen him on the street somewhere. He wore a red sweater, blue jeans. He had a graying mustache and a receding hairline. He needed a shave.
With the exception of being a lunatic kidnapper and probable rapist, there was nothing especially remarkable about him. The acne scars stood out, but they weren’t hug. Mid to late forties, she’d guess.
He pressed his face close to hers, his eyebrows pinched. His breath smelled like tuna.
“Your tricks won’t work on me, lady.” He said through clinched teeth.
“I…I wasn’t trying…” Tara began.
The man abruptly straightened himself and walked off behind her and out of view. She heard something opening. A suitcase? Briefcase?
The next sound was much less ambiguous. A knife began to be sharpened.
Trying to sound calm Tara said “Please don’t hurt me. I’m pregnant.” She had learned somewhere that the pregnancy gambit could defuse potential rapists. While she was quickly upgrading this man in her mind from rapist to psycho, it was still a card worth playing.
“No. You’re not.” The man replied sternly.
“How do you know?” Tara asked. A bit of hysteria broke through, “Did God tell you?”
‘Oh fuck, why did I bring up God?’ Tara berated herself. No telling how that would go over.
“Don’t be blasphemous, Ms. O’Neil. I know you’re not pregnant because, despite having sex two weeks ago with Roger Foster, the pregnancy test in your bathroom’s trash can was negative.”
Tara was stunned. Who was this guy? How did he know these things?
Big shadow.
Little shadow.
The light stopped moving.
The man appeared before her again. He had made a makeshift raincoat out of a garbage bags, though the collar of his red sweater still peeked through. In his hand was not the biggest knife Tara O’Neill had ever seen in her twenty-six years, but it certainly felt like it at the moment.
Tara screamed.
The man rolled his eyes up, annoyed.
“Yeah, I go through the trouble of following you, learning all about you, kidnapping you, moving you to this dump…but I didn’t figure on you screaming. Undoubtedly the numerous people within earshot that I didn’t account for are going to coming running to your rescue any second.”
The man looked down at Tara disapprovingly.
“Would you at least give me some credit?” He asked. “Some appreciation for my troubles would be nice. I realize that may seem a lot to ask for, considering our relationship at the moment, but…”
The man’s voice trailed off, heavy with expectation.
“Thank you?” Asked Tara, bewildered.
The man just shook his head. Wrong answer.
“It’s OK. It’s a thankless job.” He held the knife up to the light, examining the edge’s keenness, and Tara stifled the impulse to scream again.
#
John Moor leaned against the alley wall, smoking his third cigarette in the past half hour. He looked at his watch once again: 11:57. Only three more minutes to go, and no White in sight. This was going to be easy.
He pulled the wrinkled picture out of his overcoat pocket and looked at it under the dim moonlight. Appeared to be a mugshot. Not a handsome man, not even close.
“Hello, Charlie Schmitz.” John said to the photograph. “You are one miserable bastard.”
He pocketed the picture just as a woman’s scream rose up from the delapidated basement apartment below him.
He checked the time: still 11:57.
Should he get involved? The girl really wasn’t his business. By the rules he couldn’t send Charlie Schmitz to his final reward till the stroke of midnight. He certainly wouldn’t get any extra pay for saving her. It might even be counter to the wishes of The Fates, and he sure as hell didn’t want to piss them off. At least from what he’d heard.
Then again, maybe it didn’t matter. Perhaps it was the girl’s destiny to be saved by him.
The only thing John Moor knew for sure was that sometimes this job confused the shit out of him.
The sound of a knife being sharpened made it’s way to his ears.
“Fuck it.” He said.
Dropping the cigarette he crushed it with the sole of his black, steel toed workboot and drew his sword from it’s back sheathe.
Sighing, still exhaling smoke, he began down the stairs, not trying to be silent.
#
Charlie was just getting ready to start on the woman when he heard heavy footsteps coming down to the apartment. The rotten boards creaked with each of the intruder’s movements. Tara heard them as well.
“Oh my God, oh my God, help!” She screamed in terror. Her captor had just placed the knife against her nose, apparently that would be the starting point, when they both heard the person on the stairs.
With a swing of his giant fist Charlie struck Tara on the left temple and saw the light leave her eyes. Just because he was now getting aggravated he also slammed his fist into her face. As he turned to greet the intruder, the door leading to the street above slowly swung open. A dark haired man with a five-o’clock shadow stuck his head in.
“Hey,” said the man casually, “could I interest you in some magazine subscriptions?”
Charlie stared at him dumbfounded.
The man entered the room lightly, like he was afraid he might set off a bomb. He was dressed all in black. Black boots, black jeans, black tee shirt, black overcoat. What got Charlie’s attention the most, however, was the black longsword the man held in his left hand. It had to be at least four feet long, the metal a deep, endless ebony. Some runes in the blade seemed to be shimmering, pulsating an almost neon white.
“I’m…..busy.” Charlie stammered, unable to process the stranger’s request. “You should leave, this doesn’t concern you,” he added.
The man looked at his watch, then back up at Charlie.
“Hey, you’re Charlie Schmitz, right?” The man asked, his face brightening as if in recognition.
“Yeah, what’s it to you?” He asked menacingly.
“It’s me, Paulie! From the neighborhood!” The stranger replied, motioning with his free hand to his chest. “I grew up just down the street from you.”
“I don’t know you from Adam, Mister.” Said Charlie. From the small of his back he pulled out a snug nosed revolver and leveled it at John. “What I do know is that you just seriously messed up. Drop the carving knife, buddy.”
John looked at the sword like he had not noticed it till now.
“This? Oh it’s just a prop, Charlie. I’m an extra on a movie set. Making a little extra cash, ya know? Selling magazines door-to-door isn’t exactly covering all my bills.”
Charlie pulled back the hammer on the gun. The sound echoed across the dingy, threadbare walls.
“I’m not kidding. Drop it now or I shoot.”
John smiled at him and made a shrugging motion.
“I really wish I could, Charlie. I can’t.”
“What do you mean, ‘can’t'? You got a death wish? You think I’m pulling your chain, pal?”
The man raised his right palm up in deference.
“No, no. You’re serious, I get it. But check this out…”
The man dropped the sword to the ground. It lay there less than a second before it began to tremble. As if pulled by strings, it defied gravity and flew back into the man’s hand.
“Neat magic trick, huh Charlie? Now, can I tell you about the great deal going on with Entertainment Weekly for special subscribers such as yourself?” Asked the man with a smile.
Charlie couldn’t believe his eyes. Or ears.
“I’m not one who cares to engage in profanity, Sir,” Charlie began, “but fuck this shit.”
A hole opened up in the stranger’s tee shirt, followed a microsecond later by a thunderclap that made Charlie’s ears ring. Blood began to spurt out of the open wound. The stranger looked down incredulously at the hole, then back at Charlie in disbelief.
Charlie shot him in the chest two more times, a double tap, and finally the dark haired man collapsed.
“What a Chatty Cathy.” Charlie muttered to himself, trying to regain his nerve.
Would anyone have heard the gunshots, Charlie wondered? In this part of town, not likely. Even if they did, the San Delores finest weren’t known for responding to calls coming from this part of town with much urgency.
Time enough to finish this bitch up, anyhow. He turned once more to the tied up Tara O’Neil. He’d have to quicken the pace a bit if he was going to catch his show on time. He really hated having to watch something without seeing the beginning. Maybe he should get a TiVo?
Something to ponder later.
He’d still cut off the nose, he kept those as his trophies. After that he’d just gut this slut, though. It wouldn’t be his finest work, but sometimes artistry had to take a back seat to speed.
Placing the smoking gun on the table, he stroked the knife up and down the bridge of the woman’s nose, trying to find the perfect spot to begin. He’d botched this before, mostly at the start of his career, and as a result some of his prizes were little more than mangled globs of flesh and cartillage. This part of the job, at least, was worth measuring twice.
His watch beeped, signaling the hour.
“Man, I just bought this tee shirt, too.” Came the stranger’s voice.
Charlie spun around, but the man was already standing a mere arm’s length from him.
“I mean seriously, bro. Do you know how much these things cost nowadays?” The man asked, sounding irritated. He pinched a bit of fabric right above one of the blood soaked bullet holes. “One hundred percent cotton, Charlie. Pre shrunk. Fade resistant.”
Adrenaline vomiting into his veins, Charlie made a grab for the gun. The stranger’s right hand shot out like a cobra, grabbing Charlie’s left wrist. To Charlie it felt like he had been caught in a vice.
The man gave a slight twist and the bones in Charlie’s hand grinded into splinters. Charlie raised up his head and let out a howl of pain and terror.
The cobra vice on his wrist was removed.
Even though the man was much smaller than him, maybe 5’8” or so, the stranger had no problem with picking Charlie up by his throat and holding him aloft in the air. His feet could just barely touch the ground. He gasped for breath.
“You’ve been a bad, bad boy, Charlie.” The man said disapprovingly.
With a push the man sent Charlie hurling ass over head through the air. He smashed back first into a wall, the sheetrock caving in around his form. Charlie’s ass hit the ground.
The man strode towards Charlie, seeming in no hurry.
“Ok….” gasped Charlie, “OK….I’ll buy a magazine.”
The man paused a moment. His face took on a bittersweet smile.
“Hate to break it to you, but I’m not really in the magazine business.” The man sad with a hint of sadness.
Charlie nodded dumbly, licked at the blood coming out his nose.
“Please…have mercy on me,” Charlie begged, slowly outstretching his arms to the man.
“Sorry, Charlie. Not in the mercy business, either.” With that the man grabbed the hilt with both hands and plunged the sword into Charlie’s chest. It pierced Charlie’s heart sinking, into the rotting wall behind him like a knife through soup.
Charlie issued a ragged gasp, a bloody bubble forming over the top of his mouth. The man twisted the sword ninety degrees and then pulled it out. Charlie’s chest made a gurglie sucking sound as the blade exited. His eyes rolling into the back of his head, Charlie slumped over, dead. The ivory sigils on John’s sword flared up for a brief moment, then died back down.
Leaning over Charlie, John ripped off the trash bags and used Charlie’s shirt to clean the blade. He checked the wallet: two twenties and some ones, which he took. In the pants pocket a cell phone that he also reallocated for his own use.
Behind him, the woman tied to the table gasped for air like she had just surfaced from a deep dive. John walked over to her.
Tara looked up at him through clouded eyes. Charlie’s punch had burst some of the blood vessels around her retinas. She mumbled something inconprehensable. From the way her jaw was swelling up, John imagined it was broke.
Moving around the table he pulled out the U-bolts with ease. When Tara tried to sit up he gently put a hand to her chest and motioned her back down.
“Be cool. Don’t try and move. An ambulance is on the way.”
Tara, in shock, nodded.
John walked away, resheathing his weapon. He looked at his watch: 12:03. The Rubicon would just now be opening up, and he needed a drink.
Climbing back up the stairs and crossing the litter-strewn street, he pulled out Charlie’s cell phone and dialed 911.
“There’s a woman whos’ just been attacked in the cellar apartment at 42nd and Temple Street. She’ll need a doctor.”
Before the dispatcher could respond John closed the phone and crushed it in his fist, letting the pieces fall to the ground. He did not break stride.
#
One block over sat his motorcycle. If anyone else had left a nice bike like his alone in this part of town for an hour, it’d be gone. Just like John, though, people seemed not to notice it unless he wanted them to. He thought of it as his ‘cloaking device’, though that wasn’t truly accurate. People could still see the motorcycle, or John, even when he was ‘cloaked’. They just didn’t register it unless they were in danger of interacting with him.
It wasn’t a switch he turned on or off, exactly. It was more a way of walking, of moving, of hiding in plain sight. Park the bike just so and no one would bother it. Not for days. Surround yourself in the crowd while walking at a certain pace and no one would even look at him. He could even walk down a street, all by his lonesome, and someone looking out a window wouldn’t set gaze upon him, even if he stopped and stared right up at them.
It was one of the Gifts he had been given when he…changed. One of many. The sword came with the job, too. He never tired of looking at it. It was one epic, bad ass piece of workmanship. Not that he actually thought human hands had anything to do with it’s creation.
He was just about to kick start the bike when a cab pulled up behind him. He got out of the saddle and waited.
A moment later the local White stepped out. Leaning into the driver’s door, she said something to the cabbie through his cracked window and he left. Calmly, not in any hurry.
‘Probably doesn’t even know he had a fare.’ Thought John to himself.
White strode up to within ten paces of him. Behind her short blond hair John could see the hilt of her sword. She was looking hot tonight. White go-go boots, white lace stockings, a white body dress and matching trenchcoat. Her purse had some black buttons, but other than that the ensemble was homogenous.
John gave her a shit eating grin.
White stomped her foot in frustration.
“Not again. Not again, damnit!” She said in exasperation.
“What, you really want us to fight?” John asked playfully.
She ignored the question.
“Bloody hell, John,” she said, her native English accent getting thicker, “I’ve got bills to pay, too. I’m barely getting by on my stipend. You’ve beaten me to the last three.”
John shrugged.
“Not really my problem, princess. You get the same info I do. In this case, more.”
She seemed stung.
“You know the dreams don’t help.” She said poutily.
John was getting irritated. This new White seemed OK, at least she wasn’t always making him draw his sword like her predecessor had done, but he was supposed to feel guilty for being good at his job?
“Look, maybe you’ll get the next one. We’re going to have to fight eventually, but not tonight, OK?” John asked with as much kindness as he could fake.
Princess looked dubious.
“I’ll buy you a drink at The Rubicon, Morgan. You wouldn’t have been doing the world any favors by keeping this guy alive, anyhow.”
Morgan considered her possibilites while John waited expectantly.
Finally she decided she didn’t much feel like taking on this Black right now. Not till she learned more about him. He was a bit small in size, but looks could be deciving, especially in their line of work. No telling how old he really was. The White she replaced had been in this city a long time, had saved a lot of souls. More than likely she was chatting with the man who had killed him.
“Two drinks,” she finally answered, “and I’ll tell you what the dreams showed me.”
“Deal.” John replied as he remounted his steel horse. “Meet you at the Rubi.”
“Not gonna give me a lift?” Asked Morgan peevishly.
John smiled.
“Hey, you seem cool enough, but no way am I leaving my back open to ya.”
With that he kick started his Harley and took off in the direction opposite her.
Morgan looked up and down the street. She could hear sirens approaching. With a sigh of resignation she began to walk, unseen, towards the nearest subway terminal.
“Utter bastard Blackie.” She said beneath her breath. Her feet were already aching in protest at the long walk ahead.
#
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