Demonic Double Cross

  * * * * *

  “You sure about this?” West asked from behind the wheel of his enormous pickup truck, eloquently named ‘Road Killer.’

  Sitting in the passenger’s seat of the truck, trying to ignore the smell of spilt beer and cigarettes, I stared down at the briefcase in my lap and considered the question. Before I could take on the Daughters of All, I needed to keep my DNA from being linked to a murder. The extremes they have gone through to silence me told me this was a do-or-die situation. We could not coexist and I had grown rather fond of existing. They may have sucker punched me but I knew a thing or two about cheap shots and could dish it out as good as I could take it. But in order to take the fight to them, I would first need to buy some time.

  Literally.

  While being a wrongly accused murder suspect, I needed to throw the police off my scent. Unfortunately to do so, I needed some underhanded help and there was only one person I knew who could offer it on such short notice. It had been a difficult decision and one I was still wrestling with. That was how much I hated what I was about to do. I was actually ready to risk a prison sentence than deal with the one person who could stall the cops long enough for me to clear my good (figure of speech) name.

  So I swallowed what little pride I had and tried to convince myself I was doing what was best.

  It was nearing nightfall and I had spent the day hiding in the back of the Booze Bin, formulating a plan of attack. That was harder than you’d think because I was still convinced running was my best option. But if I fled now, I’d be forever linked to Iris Roth’s murder and therefore a fingerprint away from capital punishment for the rest of my life.

  That wasn’t my kind of life.

  But before I could wage war against a shadowy cult who had no qualms murdering a fifteen year old girl in cold blood, I needed some help. It was a kick in the teeth but my desperation was about to force me into an uneasy alliance. An alliance that might get me a bullet in my forehead before the Daughters of All could plant a knife in my back. Out of self-preservation I had taken a few precautions, namely enlisting the help of the Twins as well as Buggy, just in case things went sour.

  “No I’m not sure,” I admitted, opening up the door to the truck, “But it’s gotta be done. Give me half an hour. If you don’t hear from me by then, I’m not coming back.”

  “If we don’t hear from you by then,” Replied West, his grin widening to reveal pearly teeth, “Me n’ Kurt will come and get ya. Or at least grab yer corpse.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure whether to be comforted or worried about how eager the Twins were for violence to break out. Either way, at least I had some muscle in my corner. After exiting the vehicle I headed down the sloped path to an old but sturdy building that overlooked one of the piers, each step bringing me closer to the enemy I hoped to turn into a partner.

  It was funny but despite my situation, my thoughts drifted to Fiona. Usually at moments like this my survival instincts would have dominated my mind. Every thought would (should!) have been centered around some contingency or escape plan. But no…it was a shocking epiphany to discover I was just as worried for Fiona’s safety as my own.

  If whoever framed me could target Fiona, what hope did she have?

  Concerns for my client’s safety had plagued me throughout the day, like an itch you couldn’t scratch and tried your best to ignore. I had immediately called her after hanging up with Buggy, praying she was like most young people and too busy to flip on the news. Every fifteen minutes a sketch of my face would appear as a “person of interest” in a homicide investigation.

  My conversation with Fiona was brief. After my attack last night, she was planning on calling in sick from work and lock herself in her bedroom until further notice. A rookie mistake. I told her under no circumstances was she supposed to be alone and that a busy workplace was exactly what she needed. I instructed her to stick to crowded areas and to go everywhere with at least two or more friends. Experience told me hit men (and I assumed even fanatical cult assassins) wouldn’t be too privy on offing someone in a public place.

  I had even offered to have Kurt look after her but she promptly refused.

  Despite knowing that at this moment, Fiona was waiting tables in some upscale eatery, I was still worried. The fact that I was worried for someone other than myself made me even more unnerved than I already was. To ease some of uncharacteristic concern over Fiona’s safety, I made sure Buggy would check in on her from time to time via the security system installed at her workplace.

  Focus!

  Fiona was safe.

  I wasn’t good to anyone dead or imprisoned so I needed to focus on my situation.

  Once I reached the thick steel door to the squat building, I knocked three times and waited. The building was two stories high but its shabby condition made it look smaller on the account that it was slightly leaning to one side. Once upon a time this building had been home to a toy company and in pristine condition. The company would unload crate after crate of cheap toys from boats that would dock right in the pier directly behind the building. The first floor was factory like, where employees would inspect the merchandise, ensuring the toys were safe and packaged correctly. The second floor was nothing but small offices where the “brains” of the company would sit around on their asses.

  How do I know this? Well, I knew the guy who used to run the toy company. I also knew he had a bad habit of slipping cocaine into some dolls and then ship those across the country for a big payoff. It was terribly cliché and stupid which was why the idiot was busted for drug distribution.

  After the fall of the toy company, the building became vacant for a long time and fell into disrepair. Not uncommon in the rundown outskirts of the Docks. Just another structural corpse that realtors couldn’t pawn off on someone else. But don’t get the wrong idea. Fact is the heart of the Docks District was made up of legit companies and factories with hardworking, mostly honest people living the best they could near their workplaces.

  It was just that further you got from the center of the district, the rougher it got. The edges of the Docks were nearly lawless thanks to the constant coming and going of ships and their crews, the sheer volume of these seafaring travelers/criminals too much for the cops to handle. That’s why the outskirts were prime stomping grounds for gangs, squatters, pushers and the homeless.

  With this particular building being so far removed from polite (and police protected) society, it wasn’t any surprise that it had been purchased by the de-facto ruler of the Docks. He had turned the building into his criminal headquarters and personal clubhouse like some idiot mobster in a C-rated cop drama. Still, he was the man who I needed to see and the only man who could save my sorry hide.

  Of course I’m talking about Josef Zotkin, the city’s one and only crime boss.

  Despite needing his help, I was secretly wishing that Zotkin would have a heart attack after learning I was on his front porch. Steeling my nerves I pounded on the door again, getting tired of waiting. This time the enormous doors opened up, revealing a pig-faced Neanderthal in this month’s latest gang-banger gear. He made a ridiculous show of waving around the Uzi he carried, as if it were some sort of totem that proclaimed him important and not a complete idiot.

  “Get the fuck out of here!”

  “Listen shit for brains,” I snapped, assuming an air of authority, “If I were a cop I’d already have a SWAT Team out here because you have an illegal assault weapon in your fucking hand. Now shut up, stop thinking you’re doing dick for the hood and take me to your boss.”

  I unloaded my verbal assault against the doorman simply because I figured it would be the best way to make him believe I had some pull in these parts. In all honesty, if the imbecile plugged me and dumped my body into the river, Zotkin would reward him with two pounds of China white. Needless to say it took all of my nerve to keep my knees from shaking and pray that no one could detect the tremor in my voice.

  Lucky for me, Pig Face wa
s as dumb as he looked. His face went through a slideshow of emotion. First of course was anger, followed by confusion, then suspicion before settling on a scowl of contempt. His pea-sized brain figured only one of Zotkin’s business partners would have the stones to talk to an armed thug in such a manner.

  Even with him eating up my false authority, Pig Face’s eyes smoldered with hatred because the gun in his hand hadn’t bought him any respect. Turning his meaty back to me, Pig Face led me deeper into the poorly lit building. I followed him closely, one hand clutching the briefcase tightly and the other one in my pocket, running a finger over the handle of my switchblade for luck. I had no illusions of being able to hack and slash my way out of this building.

  If Zotkin wanted me dead, I was.

  The ground floor of the building, which had been the toy production line years back, was just a wall to wall cement area with a few support beams strewn about. Chairs, tables and a few radios littered the place, with several different thugs loafing around trying to out-peacock one another. They all wore the same clothing as Pig Face, colors and all, so I assumed they were all apart of some ragtag gang that Zotkin had under his thumb.

  I gotta hand it to Zotkin. He had the street trash dancing to his tune. Sure, all gangs had some sort of street pride and unity but nothing as solid as they would want you to believe. Everyone was willing to sell their street cred for the right price. Money, drugs and even something as petty as a promise of power could woo dozens upon dozen of thugs and thieves over to Zotkin’s employment. It seemed to me that the local gangs and street trash idolized Zotkin as if the ruski slob was some criminal mastermind. That’s what a poorly funded education system, loose gun laws and mafia movies creates: shock troops for some scumbag puppeteer who never had to leave his office.

  With Pig Face in the lead, we headed towards a spiraling stairwell that took us up to the second floor of the rundown building. Unlike the first floor, this one was a maze of vacant cubicles and empty offices. If I had to guess, only one of these offices were actually being used and that was most likely by Zotkin himself. Yet the crafty ruski didn’t let the space go to waste.

  Every office door was painted identically and each one had a golden “1” nailed to it. It was a crude but effective strategy; if any rival tried to take this place by force, Zotkin’s thugs would occupy as many of these offices as possible. This would force the assaulters to go room to room, office to office in search of Zotkin. With a fight waiting behind every door, the casualties of anyone trying to find the crime boss would be high.

  Despite the effectiveness of this defensive strategy, it was rendered useless with brain-dead foot soldiers like Pig Face here. He didn’t even ask for my name and he was now taking me straight to Zotkin. If I were a hit man, this would be a cake walk. Being led directly to the target, easily put a bullet in his brain and then escape through a window and vanish into the gloomy night.

  As my Uncle use to say, “Good help is hard to find and bad help will get you killed.”

  We wandered down the halls, taking a left here and a right there until we came to one unremarkable door. To the casual observer, this was just another one of the many identical doors but my eye for detail showed telltale signs that this door was far more important than the rest. While the golden doorknobs of the other offices had been dull, this one was gleaming thanks to all the greasy hands that gave it a twist day in and day out. The carpet beneath this door was a little more worn, hinting at more than occasional foot traffic. Oh and the door had a light shining underneath it, meaning that unlike the other offices, this one was occupied.

  My mouth seemed to dry as my worry and doubt amplified. I couldn’t have been any more out of my element other than being dropped butt-naked in the middle of the Antarctic with the goal of creating a four star hotel out of snow, ice, and penguin droppings. With my forte being deception, I was used to working with people who did not know me. They only met whatever facade I presented to them. Zotkin not only knew me but also the way I operated. On top of that, we had been clashing as professional criminals for years. Now here I was, in the belly of his criminal empire with an army of streetwise thugs who would be more than happy to kill me for nothing more than a few words of praise. Yeah…this was going to be an interesting evening. I just prayed I lived long enough to someday look back at this moment and laugh.

  Pig Face knocked on the door three times, then paused and knocked three more. A few muffled sounds of movement came from behind the door before it opened with a creak. An incredibly tall man, perhaps even a few inches taller than West, ducked out into the hallway and shut the door behind him. There was no trace of emotion in the tall man’s face. His blue eyes were completely devoid of feeling as well. There was no hint of cunning, animosity, or even intelligence in those eyes…they were just dull and chilling.

  Though I didn’t know the tall man’s name, it was painfully obvious he wasn’t some local thug brought in to grease the wheels of the operational meat grinder. No, this man was one of Zotkin’s few remaining loyalists from the Russian mob. A true entrepreneur of the seedy underbelly of society and probably the only lieutenant and enforcer the fat slob needed.

  “Weapons.” Tall Man announced, his voice just as emotionless as his countenance.

  “I have a switchblade in my pocket.” I replied, then held up the briefcase so he could see it, “And this is a proposal.”

  His icy eyes ran up and down my body several times, looking for any signs of concealed weapons. A pat down and frisk would have been more thorough but anyone this deep in enemy territory would certainly be packing noticeable firepower unless they were suicidal. I knew this and so did Tall Man, who was apparently convinced I was telling the truth. He opened the office door politely, indicating I should go in first. I did so but not before giving another grin to Pig Face, whose eyes still seemed to glow with hatred and embarrassment from our little talk down stairs. The thug turned his back to me and started down the hall, curses providing the backdrop for each step.

  Tall Man followed me inside, shutting the door behind us. The office I found myself in was comfortable but not overly so. A few chairs, a couple lamps, one or two pictures on the walls and then of course, a massive desk lacquered to perfection. The sweet scent of the oak desk did little to cover the stench of the man sitting behind it, however.

  Zotkin may have been quite the impressive figure in his youth but age had robbed him of any charisma. His unkempt, jet-black hair had become listless and laced with grey, which always seemed accented thanks to the snow-white stubble perpetually stuck to his face. His once solid body was now soft with muscle-turned-fat and his love for tight satin shirts leaving little to the imagination.

  No longer was Zotkin a vicious fang of the underworld. He had been dulled by years of alcoholism, womanizing and other mindless self-indulgent pursuits. Yet he was doing something right. After all, he was the kingpin of organized crime in this city. If one would look into his stone-colored eyes (ignoring their general bloodshot state of course) they would see certain cunning there. It was as if Zotkin’s gaze broke everything down into risk and profit which allowed him to ferret out ways on capitalizing on every individual and every situation.

  I knew that in his eyes, I was an enormous risk. That suspicion was conformed when a shocked expression danced across his usually slack features.

  “Broker?!” Zotkin exclaimed, his voice flavored by rage as he shouted to Tall Man, “Whoever let him ins the building, kill!”

  Despite being in this country for so many years, Zotkin had a terrible habit of speaking in rough English when excited or angered. Even though it was a poorly formulated command, his lackey obeyed. Tall Man gave a brief nod and exited the room like a sentient statue. If I had thought that Pig Face was worth half a damn, I might have felt sorry for him.

  Though his lieutenant had left to take care of the offender, Zotkin was still well protected. Two bodyguards occupied the space behind their boss and a third stood just two yards to
the right of me. These bodyguards weren’t loyalists like Tall Man but they were professionals. They were calm and collected, each with a hand resting on the pistols at their hips.

  Apparently the order to have someone killed had a soothing effect on Zotkin because he visibly calmed down. Sure, he still wore a scowl which he focused on me but that was to be expected. I did my best to look brave, hoping the crime boss couldn’t see the sweat begin to bead on my forehead. Thanks to spending plenty of time cultivating rumors of my roguish adventures, my cowardice wasn’t a widely known fact. I was sure that Buggy and the Twins realized I was less than the dashing and brave cheat the rumors made me out to be but as far as Zotkin was concerned, I was headstrong, daring and courageous.

  That would work in my favor if I could play the part.

  “I’m surprised you are here, Broker.” Spat Zotkin, each word woven from pure contempt, “Every fifteen minutes the news has a sketch resembling you. They say you kill little girls.”

  I smiled stiffly, not at all surprised. It was Zotkin’s business to be informed of any and all activity in the Docks.

  “Actually,” I replied as if we were making small talk about the weather, “I am here because of that very issue.”

  Leaning back in his seat so his bulbous belly had more room to quiver, Zotkin fixed me with that scrutinizing gaze of his. I could feel myself being broken down into risk and profit by the crime boss. It was his nature to hear out every business proposal but that didn’t make Zotkin a living bargain bin that just anyone could make a deal with. I had to tread carefully and hope his greed overpowered his hatred of me.

  “You’re looking to make a deal?” Zotkin asked before bursting into a fit of laughter so great that his entire bulk began to jiggle, “Bwahahaha! Arthur Broker! Con artist extraordinaire, is coming to me for help?!”

  To their credit, the trio of bodyguards didn’t join in on their boss’s laughter like dimwitted yokels. No, they stood dangerously still, fixing me with their cold gazes as Zotkin continued his ridiculous laughter. Usually I might have taken some offense at being made sport of but in particular cases where I was out gunned, I took the insult in stride.

  “This is too good, yeah? You steal from me, you cheat my men and you tarnish my reputation!” Zotkin declared, all traces of mirth quickly replaced by cold ire, “Why don’t I shoot you now, huh? Why not kill you and be done with you?”

  As if the mention of murder was enough to bring him around, the office door opened and Tall Man stepped in, stoic as ever. The only difference was that this time, he had a 9mm automatic in his hand, complete with a suppressor. Usually I had no need to fear a death sentence from the ruski slob because he knew I was too well connected and killing people like me could turn into a massive headache of underworld politics. However, since I entered his territory, the unwritten rules of crime stated I was fair game and repercussions, if any, were void.

  “Three reasons.” I began casually, trying to ignore the fact whether I lived or died depended on this speech, “First is that if I don’t call the Twins in fifteen minutes, it’s officially open season on everyone in your employment.”

  A look of pure disgust screwed up Zotkin’s face. He was well aware of the Twins’ reputation and had no taste for it. In fact, he had even tried to recruit West and Kurt as enforcers once, showering them with expensive gifts. The Twins had taken offense at being considered nothing but common muscle and had destroyed Zotkin’s gifts for fun. When the offers turned into threats the Twins put the crime boss’ recruiter in the hospital with the words “Eat Dick” branded into his chest.

  Zotkin and I had little doubt that the Twins would make good on their promise of destruction and violence. More than likely West and Kurt would make a game of burning down Zotkin’s properties, scaring off business associates and killing several head gangsters. This would weaken Zotkin’s position on the streets and thus his criminal empire as a whole.

  Still, the question hung in the air: Was my death worth all this havoc?

  “Secondly…” I continued on, stepping forward towards the desk.

  I almost pissed myself seeing the three bodyguards raise their weapons in unison but I didn’t hear the crack of gunfire nor feel any bullets tear into my flesh. Zotkin waved his hand and the bodyguards lowered their guns. Though I couldn’t see him, I was sure Tall Man still had me in his sights.

  Dropping the briefcase on the desk, I popped it open and then spun it around so Zotkin could see it. Ten thousand dollars, cash, rested inside the briefcase. It was an astounding amount of money for Buggy to lend me on a second’s notice but like I said, he was a millionaire who lived off five dollar pizza and store-brand soda.

  The greed was apparent in Zotkin’s eyes as he ran his fingers over a bundle of bills. Sure, the ruski slob had this entire city in the palm of his hand but avarice was always a driving force for men like him. A slow, twisted smile spread across his lips as he closed the suitcase and drummed his fingers over its cheap casing.

  “Interesting,” Zotkin said shrewdly, “But I hope your third reason is better. The way I see it, killing you and taking this money would be worth all the trouble it brings me, yeah?”

  That much was true but like any good conman I had saved the best for last.

  “Reason three,” I spouted off, inspecting my fingernails to amplify the false appearance of security, “Is that I didn’t kill that girl and you know it. This means whoever is setting me up is good. Damn good.”

  All the smugness exited Zotkin along with a wheezing cough. I had just played my trump card which left the crime boss scowling even more deeply than before. I wasted no time driving my point home.

  “I was investigating a local cult called the Daughters of All and so far everything has been one giant clusterfuck.” I explained, then began to gingerly bend the truth, “The fifteen year old girl they found murdered had been an informant for me. The cult killed her and framed me to take the fall.”

  Zotkin listened with what could only be described as vague interest. I had to remind myself that this particular man had spent his youth maiming, murdering, and feeding people into wood-chippers. Now middle-aged, he spent day in and day out with a variety of whores between bouts of racketeering and forcing street trash into press gangs. The murder of a fifteen year old girl hardly provoked any response from the crime boss.

  “My heart bleeds for you.” Lied Zotkin, “But I fail to see why I should help you, money or no money.”

  “What do you know about the Daughters of All?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest and giving him a challenging look, “Be honest. These fanatics are cropping up in your own backyard and I bet you have nothing on them.”

  It was a pathetic attempt at fishing for information but I just so happened to be that desperate. Despite being a shrewd businessman when it came to crime and contracts, Zotkin’s strength had never laid in word games or verbal fencing. He was used to giving orders and having them followed to the letter. Another advantage for me to capitalize on and increase my chances of survival.

  “The cult has been around for a little while, a few years maybe. Made the news a few times, mostly angry parents thinking they…hmm, what is da phrase…be bad influence?” Zotkin replied, reaching into his desk and pulling out a single cigar. A bodyguard leaned forward, snipping off the end and lighting it for him, “They are a curiosity to me. Some say they are child snatchers but not connected to any slavers I know. They are just some…freak? Freak worshipers, yes?”

  Reading Zotkin’s body language was no easy task thanks to the fact most of his bulk jiggled at the slightest exertion. Still Zotkin had puffed up like a toad as he tried to sound well informed on the subject of the cult. It was a load of horse shit. If Zotkin had even bothered doing any research on the Daughters of All it was probably just reading about them in the newspaper while he was on the crapper. The rest was all educated guesses.

  “Well some of that might be true,” I continued tactfully, though in truth all I wa
nted to do is call him on this bluff just out of spite, “But we both know they are more than that. No one in this city, not even you, could have set me up so well without having some major connections.”

  That was both an insult and the truth. Zotkin scowled even more until his fat face seemed ready to implode on itself. Perfect. Now that he had swallowed the hook it was time to garnish this tale with some half-lies and see just how much help I could coax from the ruski slob.

  “My informant, before she was murdered, told me that the Daughters of All were a front for a drug cartel. They recruit youngsters, turning them into life long customers and drug mules.” I told Zotkin which may well have been the truth. It certainly seemed plausible enough and that was all I needed, “But since they claim to be a religion, they are able to keep off the radar by being dismissed as crazies. Sure they might not be any threat now…but in five years? Ten?”

  If Zotkin knew one thing, it was that the little problems can balloon out of control quickly. For example, I had been a little problem. In his eyes, I was just some cheat who had more moxie than most of my career-kin. But over the years I’d managed to grow from a pain in the ass to an actual competitor in the criminal underworld.

  Yes, the ruski slob knew that minor problems were never minor if left unchecked.

  “They would pay tribute like the rest of the pushers,” Zotkin growled, making a steeple with his fingers like some penny-comic villain, “If not, they would risk war. That is game my men are good at.”

  Of that I had no doubt. In a city this size there were always gang-related territory squabbles, mostly just some new bloods trying to defy Zotkin’s monopoly on crime. But no matter how violent the struggle became the end result was always the same. Zotkin and his well oiled organization always came out on top. Violence, it seemed, ran through the crime boss’ Russians veins as strongly as his love for borsch.

  There was only one problem with street war in Zotkin’s mind: It was expensive.

  “I can save you all that trouble,” I cut in, before Zotkin got too comfortable with the idea of butchering a cult whose ranks were mostly filled with adolescent girls, “But I am not going to be put into any FBI database for the murder of some girl. You help me out and I’ll take down these freaks myself.”

  Scratching at the stubble on his many chins, Zotkin began sizing up my offer. I could only imagine what kind of twisted train of thought plowed through his mind as he tried to find the most profitable position with the least amount of effort.

  “What do you propose?” He asked as if we were discussing the cost of a used car.

  “You get a patsy to take the heat,” I explained, my heart rate accelerating as this ridiculously desperate plan began to take root, “That’ll throw off whoever set me up. They’re trying a more direct approach to get rid of me and when they do, I’ll be ready for them.”

  “How so?” Zotkin demanded, “You think I’d let you and the Twins go around shooting up my territory?!”

  “I was thinking a more subtle approach.” I replied hastily, too hastily for my liking but, once again, I was desperate, “This cult must have skeletons in their closet. I either find who really murdered that girl or get some solid evidence on their drug connection. After that I’ll turn my findings over to the press or the police. Hell, I’d be a hero!”

  “Or…” Zotkin mused.

  My heart skipped a beat as I waited for the crime boss to turn down my proposal and kill me.

  “…We could be the heroes.” The ruski slob continued, indicating to Tall Man and his bodyguards, “You get us the location of their warehouses and trade interests. We move in and take their product before handing them over to the police. We turn a profit and look like gang-busters!”

  Clever bastard, I had to give him that. Since I was so familiar with the criminal element, I could already see Zotkin’s plan in motion. I go through the dangers of ferreting out this cult and then he sends in his troops along with a few dirty cops. The troops would mop up any resistance and take whatever was of value from the Daughters of All. Then the crooked flatfoots would come up with some bullshit story painting Zotkin as the hero who tipped them off about the cult’s drug trade. The profit that the ruski slob would reap should be massive if the Daughters of All were as heavy into the drug peddling business as I suspected.

  “Do we have a deal?” I asked, feeling sweat trickle down the back of my neck.

  Zotkin slipped the briefcase underneath his desk before standing up (a symphony of squeaks and grunts came from his chair as he did so) and thrust out a meaty hand to my chest.

  “We have deal.” Zotkin concurred, smiling like a cat who had just received a warm saucer of milk, “But remember, Broker. If you cross me…”

  “No worries.” I assured the crime boss as I shook his hand, “Just make sure your patsy looks like me. Oh and he needs to keep his mouth shut or else I won’t be able to holdup my end of the bargain.”

  Tall Man stepped forward and put a heavy hand on my shoulder, guiding me firmly towards the exit.

  “Do not fear, Broker.” Zotkin assured me as I left his office, “One of my men will confess to the murder and play the role perfectly. Or he will die.”