Chapter 2.....so far
07:49 Mar 06 2009
Times Read: 734
The Red Stone was located in the centre of the Scrub, or as Abelo put it;
“Right in the fucking heart of my fucking city.”
Abelo was about 6’4, albino white and weighed in at close to 400lbs. He looked like an over-grown milk-fed sumo wrestler. He had been a pirate off the coast of South Africa for years during the Apartheid. However, he had been a real pirate, not the kind of pirate from Peter Pan, or any golden age Hollywood movie staring Errol Flynn. Abelo was the kind of pirate that would target lone vessels out at sea, shoot the crew in the back of the head and dump their corpses overboard. He was also the kind of pirate that didn’t have shipmates, or crew; Abelo had slaves. Ridge had asked him why, if he hated blacks so much why crew his ship with them, and even now hire them in the Red Stone bar. The answer hadn’t surprised Ridge, what had surprised him was that Abelo had given his answer loudly, and in front of a bar full of paying customers.
“My friend, the only reason I worked with those Kaffirs is that I could do anything I wanted to them and not feel guilty about it.”
He had held dominion over a contingent of thirty men, this number was prone to fluctuate as he often would maintain obedience by sacrificing a man to the sea if he felt the men were too long without action. He was as much a bigot as he was a man, if not more so. It was hard to believe he managed to contain so much hatred, even with such a big frame.
Now he ran The Red Stone with the same attitude he had held back during the Apartheid. He relied on fear and superstition to get his way and his staff were little more than slaves. In the years he had operated the Red Stone he hadn’t hired a single new employee, in fact many of those who worked there had held the job since the place opened. Abelo was quick to anger but he was far from being simple minded enough to allow an employee to leave over a trivial matter such as showing up late for a shift. Abelo prided himself on his ability to keep secrets, so if any employee screwed up he wasn’t fired or docked a weeks wage. He was made an example of. In the Scrub a job was a job, even if you had to work for a racist, albino gorilla like Abelo and many of those he employed shared his beliefs in the occult, a fact that Abelo exploited at every opportunity. He would often hold elaborate ritualistic ceremonies if an employee needed to be disciplined or if he felt the staff needed to be reminded who was boss. These could range anywhere from having a simple effigy of the employee being hoisted up into the rafters accompanied by low, frantic, rhythmic chanting; or to the more extreme rituals that gave the bar its name.
Ridge didn’t have to like him, but he did have to acknowledge that there were very few people as well versed in the ways of the Scrub religious practices. Abelo was also the only one willing to work with Ridge with this much influence. Abelo threw his bar rag over his shoulder and starred at Ridge.
“You say you want me to look at your matches yah.”
Ridge held out the case. Abelo raised an eyebrow and looked at Ridge, as if expecting spring-loaded snakes to come flying out.
“Look like matches to me my friend, why you gotta go wasting my time?”
Ridge pulled the spent match out of the case and rolled it between his fingers under Abelos nose. Abelo was about to push Ridges hand away but something in Ridges expression made him pause.
“You really serious yah, okay okay fine. You just let me have a closer look yah.”
Abelo plucked the match from Ridges extended fingers and squinted.
He was about to speak when something on the match caught his eye.
“Ridge, you let me see those fresh matches.”
Ridge held the case forward. Abelo reached in and pulled a match out from the centre. Abelo placed the match against the edge of his tooth and flicked. The match flashed into flame and Abelo pinched it out. He watched the smoke closely.
“Place the case on the bar.”
Ridge slid the case into the centre of the bar and watched. Abelo pull a second match. Abelo struck the match and dropped it into the case, the matches flared and spluttered the flame licked upwards before burning itself out.
Ridge looked at pile of blackened wood.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find those matches, you know I hate that safety strike shit.”
Abelo held a hand up and whispered.
“Watch.”
Ridge watched the smouldering matches, the yellow smoke was thicker now that all the matches had been lit. But now that he looked closer Ridge noticed that between the yellow and blue smoke there was a thin line of red.
“You see those lines in the smoke, the yellow and red.”
Ridge nodded.
“I see them, but what does it do.”
Abelo dropped his rag over the expiring matches.
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean nothing, nobody would bother to break into my office just to play with magic powder and coloured lights.”
Abelo removed the rag and rummaged through the burnt remains. He picked out three separate spent matches and lined them up on the bar.
“You see these matches yah, and you saw the three colours of smoke. On their own they do nothing. You need to combine all three to get the effect and you need, build up the powders in your target.” He said, nudging the matches with his fingers.
“Okay, but what do they do, what was the point of lacing my matches?” Asked Ridge.
Abelo tapped at his temple.
“Think, is that really the question you want to be asking me? Don’t you want to know who did it?”
“I know who did it, what I don’t know is what they were trying to do,” said Ridge.
“You already know who did it?” asked Abelo, obviously expecting that to be the reason Ridge had come to him.
“Yeah I know who, I just don’t know why, she seemed to really want my help.”
Abelo’s face spread outwards slowly as his mammoth cheeks slid into a smile.
“Ahhhh, so you met her then.”
“Met who exactly.”
“Mamma Lapore,” said Abelo.
“Mamma?” asked Ridge.
“I recognize quality work when I see it, and there are very few people capable of work like this other than myself.” Said Abelo, making no effort to mask his pride.
Ridge tipped out the rest of the burnt matches and closed the case.
“Well I am familiar with the Lapore name, but the only Lapore’s I know don’t strike me as Mamma.” He said sliding the match case back into his pocket.
“Is there anyone else that could have made that powder?”
Abelo flicked his rag back onto his shoulder and rubbed his chin.
“Like I said this isn’t beginner stuff, there aren’t many up to making this complex a solution. There are only so many places in the city that sell the ingredients.”
Ridge looked up,
“Solution? I thought it was a powder.”
“It only dries into a powder, it’s liquid as you mix it.” Said Abelo.
“How fast does it dry?” asked Ridge, drawing the silver case from his pocket again.
Abelo thought for a second.
“It depends, it dries faster the purer the mix. But if I had to guess I’d say no more than twenty seconds, unless you try pouring it onto the skin of the victim. It can’t penetrate the skin.”
Ridge unscrewed the lid of the case and looked inside. Had it taken him more than twenty seconds to get to his office after closing the outer door? The powder spilled on the desk pointed to someone being rushed, but Abelo had said the powder started as a liquid. It was just as likely the trail had been a result of someone pouring the liquid out of a vial with no lip, or maybe it had run out the bottom of the case across the table, he didn’t know if it was waterproof. Ridge held out his hand, his eyes fixed on the case.
“Pass me a bottle of something.”
Abelo looked back at the row of bottles hanging from the racks.
“This isn’t a charity Ridge, you gonna pay me?”
“Sure, whatever you want, just hand me a bottle of something cheap.” Said Ridge.
Abelo reached back and pulled a bottle of clear liquid from the rack, the label on the bottle had faded years ago. He smeared a sticky mix of dust and grime across the bottle as he ran a finger over the emblem on the neck of the bottle.
“On second thoughts you’d b doing me a favour drinking this stuff, been here years. Nobody appreciates a good cane liquor in this fucking country.”
Ridge took the bottle and unscrewed the cap. He sniffed at the open bottle and coughed. He could feel the fumes from the bottle working their way up his nose, behind his eyes and down his throat. Ridge held the bottle at arms reach and poured a good measure of the now caustic liquid into the case and waited. The air above the case vibrated as the liquid came into contact with the silver, the fumes clearly visible now. After a second Ridge lowered his eye line and watched as bubbles started to form at the bottom of the case. A small droplet of the liquor was forming along one of the seams at the foot of the case. The droplet wobbled as it doubled in size until the outer layer touched the surface of the bar where it suddenly collapsed in on itself and ran a snaking line across the bar heading straight for Ridge. Abelo’s stinking bar rag landed an inch from Ridges nose a second before the stream reached the edge of the bar.
“So what my friend, you can’t go swimming with your matches in your pocket. You going pay me for that booze you wasting yah?”
Ridge lifted the rag and poured the contents of the matchbox out onto the bar. Placing a twenty down over the spilled liquor Ridge walked to the door. Outside rain clouds were moving across the sky, Ridge hiked his collar and stepped out into the downpour.
The rain was coming down hard but Ridge ducked into a sheltered area under the wooden stairway behind the Red Stone. Running a hand through his hair Ridge looked out into the rain. The majority of the buildings in this area where either abandoned or condemned, most were made of brick but a few, like the Red Stone were built before the turn of the century and were constructed from wood. It spoke to the character of the Scrub that of the few buildings in the area that were still open for business none of them were made of brick. The Scrub mentality thrived on tradition and what had come before. Most of the city was restored after a fire which had spread from the wharf into what was now the 33. The fire had started on a transport ship which was docked in the wharf area. The ship had been set alight after the ships captain had failed to make a payment to a Scrub Cleric. The captain had agreed to smuggle in contraband spices and slaves for the cleric, however the day of the fire he had been searched coming into the harbour. Instead of risk being found out the captain had ordered the slaves thrown overboard, many of whom were still drugged and bound when they entered the water. The Cleric had intended his head Cheval to send a message to the captain by setting fire to the ship while the captain was ashore. Unbeknownst to the Cleric the ships captain was also smuggling black powder for one of his rivals. Once the fire had reached the secreted cargo hold the resulting explosion had turned the ship to splinters, the crew along with it and flattened every building within a half mile radius. The remaining buildings had only served to spread the fire further inland. Three days later most of the Scrub had been reduced to ash, the death toll had reached into triple digits and what was now the 33 was nothing but a charred ruin. The modern incarnation of the city had been born that day with the 33 being rebuilt in the latest style, with the latest materials where as the Scrub was left to piece itself back together using whatever timber was left intact after the fire. Looking around now, the Scrub was in no better condition. There were several cars abandoned on both sides of the street, their wheels long since salvaged only to be burnt in the many street fires the local homeless would crowd around on days like this. Many of the storefront windows had been smashed in and boarded up. The few remaining stores which were open for business had fitted their windows and doors with solid iron bars. The majority of these stores were simple corner stores, selling the necessities of life, a few survived by supplying cheap booze and cigarettes. Ridge tightened his coat and drew his head down into his shoulders before stepping out into the rain again. With his head held at an angle against the rain Ridge ran across the street, side stepping several potholes and finally stooping in under a tattered store awning. Ridge pushed back against the iron bars the doors rusted hinges fighting to remain closed.
Inside the bell above the door gave a feeble clank as the hinges forced the door closed. Behind the counter a young black woman raised her head from her magazine and looked Ridge up and down before returning to her page. Ridge ran his hand through his hair again, flicking the droplets to the floor. The stores floor was lined with sticky green plastic tiles some of which were curled and peeling. The only sounds audible in the store were of the girl tapping a long painted fingernail against the counter in time to the hum and buzz of the florescent lights and the rain hitting the window. Ridge walked towards the counter, noticing that many of the shelves were left empty. The only shelves being restocked contained readymade foods and a few household necessities, even most of the freezers were bare, with a single refrigerated case holding a small soppy of Tv dinners. Behind the counter however there were row upon row of cigarettes, with at least twenty different brands represented. The same was true of the alcohol. The glass counter top allowed a view of several different sizes of liquor bottles. Ridge leaned in over the counter and coughed. The girl rolled her eyes and closed her magazine, sliding a thin metal nail file between the pages to mark her place.
“Yes.” She said, making no attempt to hide her annoyance.
“Give me a carton of Camel, filtered.” Said Ridge wiping a hand across his chin.
The girl sighed and turned to the wall of cigarettes. Sliding the glass partition aside she reached in and took out a carton of cigarettes and dropped them onto the counter.
“That all?” said the girl starting to turn back to her magazine only to find that the cigarettes she dropped had hit the nail file losing her page.
“No actually, it isn’t, I also need a box of matches.” Said Ridge.
The girl reached into a small plastic jar beside the register and dropped a matchbook onto the counter.
“You don’t have any other matches?” asked Ridge
The placed a hand on her hip and pointed a neon purple, well manicured fingernail right between his eyes.
“Listen mister what the fuck does it matter what kind of matches they are, fire is fire.”
Ridge picked up the matchbook and tossed it back into the jar.
“I want the kind of matches you can strike anywhere, not this safety match crap.”
“Mister I ain’t getting paid to….” Suddenly there was a gust of air and a feeble tinny clang.
The girl stopped mid sentence and peered behind Ridge. Ridge turned to see a group of four youths standing in the doorway. They were dressed in the typical baggy jeans that the majority of the Scrub youth seemed to be drawn to and they all wore identical white t-shirts. Two of the group had shaved heads while a third wore a white woollen hat stretched tight over his head. The fourth wore a red bandana with the ragged edge of a scar just visible above his right eyebrow. All four of the thugs carried knives, three carried switch blades while the one in the bandana carried a long hunting knife. As Ridge watched the group he caught the flicker of movement in the corner of his eye. He turned back to the counter but the girl had made a break for the back room, Ridge caught her eye just as the door slammed shut. The look she gave Ridge was a cross between fear and pleading but mostly, it was fear. Just as he was about to turn back to the group the figure in the bandana spoke.
“Yeah that’s him, that old fucker there.”
Ridge pulled the carton of cigarettes towards him and turning to face the group slid it into his pocket.
“You sure that’s him, he don’t look like the photo she showed us.” Said the youth in the woollen hat.
The bandana pushed his way to the front of the group and pointed his blade at Ridge.
“Get that mother fucker.”
There was a moment of silence before the two thugs with the shaved heads dashed forward their blades out. Ridge reached out and grabbed the nearest thug by the shirt and spun him into the glass countertop, his own momentum driving his face through the glass plate. The second thug slashed wildly as Ridge turned to face him, his blade glancing off the thick leather collar of Ridges’ coat. Ridge grabbed the thugs outstretched wrist and stepped up and forward, driving the thug back against the sliding glass doors behind the counter. As the two struck the glass Ridge twisted hard until he felt the thugs wrist pop out of joint, forcing him to drop the knife. The thug screamed and with his free hand scrabbled at Ridges face trying to get a grip. Ridge grabbed at the flailing hand and drew it up and under the thugs chin before slamming him back against the glass plating again. This time the hinges buckled and the glass door slipped from its railings, spilling packets of cigarettes to the floor. The glass door fell to the ground, smashing into a several vicious looking shards that skidded across the floor. By this time the other two thugs had moved closer, circling around Ridge until he had one on either side of him. The thug in the woollen hat held his blade down low and close to his own body, he had obviously had some practice at this, he was trying to lure Ridge into range but keep him low. Trying to make Ridge an easy target. Ridge reached behind the thug at his feet who was now moaning and nursing his broken wrist, blood oozing from a deep wound in his shoulder where Ridge had driven him through the glass. Ridge looked to the reflection in the plate glass to his left and saw the white woollen hat bobbing closer. He fumbled in the unseen shelves behind the bleeding thug until his hand found something smooth and solid. Ridge threw himself backwards, scattering shards of glass across the plastic tiles as he slid across the floor. The thugs blade missed his ear by an inch before smashing into the glass panel, his arm disappearing up to his shoulder in the broken glass. The thugs face drained of colour as he withdrew his arm from the smashed case. There was a deep gash in his forearm running from his wrist up to his elbow. A large flap of meat hung loosely at the thugs wrist, the bones beneath visible for a second as a dull white line glistening in the florescent lighting before the swelling blood swallowed them. Before the thug could scream Ridge tightened his grip on the whiskey bottle in his hand and swung it in a wide ark, bringing it down across the side of the thugs head. The bottle connected with a blunt thunk, the impact knocking the thugs woollen hat askew so that it slipped to cover his eyes. Without a sound the thug slipped sideways, one unblinking, glassy eye starring upwards into the bright fluorescent lights. Ridge looked away from the still figure laying on the floor and turned his attention to the groups leader. The thug, who, now that Ridge had a second to look at him, couldn’t have been older than twenty.
“What do you want?” asked Ridge rising to his feet and breathing heavily.
The boy looked from his still moving companion, who was writhing on the floor and clutching at his arm, to the others. One was laying face down in a pool of blood, a large shard of glass from the smashed counter protruding from his neck, the other, who lay face up, had one eye hidden beneath his woollen hat, which now had a deep red patch spreading slowly across the white material.
“What?” said the boy, licking a bead of sweat from his lips.
“Who sent you, what do you want?” asked Ridge, taking a step forward.
The boy suddenly regained control of his senses, his grip tightened around the handle of his knife and he took a step forward. Before Ridge could say anything further the boy was charging forward. Ridge ducked under a wild slash aimed for his throat but before he could grab the thugs arm he had reversed the blade in his hand and was bringing the point of the blade back towards Ridges chest. Ridge grabbed the thugs wrist with both hands and once he had a secure grip allowed himself to fall backwards, using his weight to pull the thug off balance. The two fell back, their feet becoming entangled in the limbs of one of the dead. Ridge and the boy struggled to maintain their balance but then the boy stood in the pool of blood which had formed beside the fallen thugs mangled arm. The two finally overbalanced and the boy fell to the floor. As he fell he grabbed the tail of Ridges coat and pulled. Ridge fought to keep his ground while reaching a hand into his inside pocket. The boy gave one last tug and Ridges coat slipped from his shoulders. The coat fell to the floor and Ridge stumbled back into the shelves. The boy struggled to free himself from Ridges coat and finally got to his feet. Ridge had landed on his knees with his head resting against the edge of the shelf, one arm lay at his side, the other was hidden among crushed boxes of macaroni and cheese and baby formula. The injured thug laying behind the counter was trying to get to his feet, his injured arm held close to his chest.
“Fuck this shit Raymond, lets bail.” He whimpered as he staggered for the door.
The boy with the Bandana was finally on his feet and he pointed his blade at the fleeing thug.
“If you go out that fucking door you know what she’ll do to you, to your mom.”
The thug paused in the doorway and looked back, his gaze took in the scattered shelves, the two bodies laying in congealing pools of blood and Raymond. He was hunched over, bloodstained and breathing hard but he was on his feet and he still had his weapon. Then there was Ridge. The thug at the door looked from Ridge to the corpses of his friends and then back to Raymond, he then turned slowly to look at the doorway. He stood there for a few seconds before releasing the door.
“Ok Ray, but finish this guy fast, I don’t care what that demon bitch wanted, he fucked up my arm, I can’t feel nothing in my arm now.” Said the thug, his voice hoarse with pain.
Raymond pointed the blade back to Ridge.
“I own this guy, he ain’t got nowhere to go.”
Raymond walked over to Ridge and grabbed a handful of his hair. Raymond jerked Ridges head back and held it against his exposed neck.
“Just fucking do it already.” Said the thug by the door.
“I still have to deliver her message.” Said Raymond, bending down.
“You hear me old man?” said Raymond inches away from Ridges ear.
When he received no answer he jerked Ridges head back further.
“I said…..”
Suddenly Ridge’s arm which had been hidden among the boxes exploded outwards, the cashiers nail file held in his fist. Raymond’s eyes went wide as Ridge drove the nail file into his throat. Ridge twisted the file, Raymond’s arm jerked, dropping the knife to the floor. Raymond slid backwards his mouth opening and closing, but the most he could manage was a gurgle. Raymond clawed at the file still stuck in his neck with one hand while blood bubbled from the wound in his throat. His other hand reached up to his bandana. Convulsing, he tore the bandana from his head revealing a series of scars running from just above his eyebrow up through his close cut hair. There was a total of five scars which ran from the centre of his scalp down to his forehead before converging into a mass of scar tissue just above his eye. Raymond's eyelids fluttered as he slumped back onto the floor, the hand attempting to staunch his bleeding slowing before finally falling to the floor. Ridge laced his bloodstained fingers around the handle of Raymond's hunting knife before slowly rising to his feet.
“Don’t move.” Said Ridge to the one remaining thug who was struggling to open the door.
The thug looked back over his shoulder and redoubled his efforts as Ridge started to walk towards him but the blood on his fingers coupled with his broken wrist meant he couldn’t get a good grip on the handle. Ridge closed in on the thug and drove his fist into the small of his back. The blow brought the thug to his knees, his good arm still making a desperate attempt to open the door.
Chapter 1.
07:48 Mar 06 2009
Times Read: 736
Ridge nodded to the security guard monitoring the screens in the booth by the door. He had just handed in a dossier to some rich media mogul, complete with photographs which proved that his twenty-seven year old wife was not only screwing around on him, but she was doing it with three other men and doing it on film. The fat bastard had just smiled and handed him his check, he hadn’t so much as flinch when Ridge had handed him the photographs. The job had earned him $10,000. The standard $1000 a day and a bonus $9000, to make it an even ten G’s, and of course, to buy his silence. The photographs were evidence enough to guarantee a cheap divorce, but that would never happen. It would be cheaper to pay the bitch a settlement, even if it ran into the millions. The bad publicity alone would cost the empire tens of millions. Easier and cheaper just to pay the bitch off and have her killed. He had turned down that part of the job, but he didn’t doubt she would be dead before weeks end. Odds-on the Rent-a-Cop by the main entrance would do it for a few hundred pegged onto his paycheck. He’d do it, she’d be dead and then someone else would get tapped for the murder. It didn’t matter who, just so long as someone took the fall. Ridge fingered the envelope hidden in the lining of his coat, he had copies of some of the more graphic photographs just in case they got the bright idea to tip him for the murder. The fact that he had all but sentenced that woman to death didn’t bother him, she wasn’t worth the guilt. What bothered him was what would happen after her death. The money she could have received from the divorce would no doubt be donated to some children’s charity. Donated by the man that paid a measly few hundred to have her killed and they would both appear as saints. Everyone would overlook who owned the charity. It would be under the Italian leather wing-tips of the 33 building, almost everything was on this side of the city.
The sooner he got back to Scrub Town the better, the money there was just as bloody, if not more so, but at least the money didn’t pretend to be clean. You knew where you stood in the Scrub, and more often than not you knew when someone was coming for you. If someone wanted you dead they walked up to you with a blade, not a smile. Sometimes there were shootings, non-locals usually, most of the Scrub handled their business up close and personal; blades were personal. That was why Ridge carried a .45 . Blades were scary but they weren’t very practical. Ridge understood the mentality of the Scrub, they wanted to look you in the eyes as you died. It was all tied into the local Juju, a mix of early Vundun and a form of Eastern-European Demonology. Most of the big players in the Scrub claimed to be some form of Cleric, or Farseer. For the most part they were just small time hoods. It was all crowd-control of course, keep the population scared of you and they did what you wanted, if they didn’t then the Cleric sent some Voodoo after you. Ridge had no interest in stealing an enemy’s soul, dead was dead as far as he was concerned. He didn’t openly fight the Clerics, he still had to work and live out of the Scrub, but he didn’t buy into it and they left him alone, alone enough that he could do business without paying protection. Occasionally they would approach him to track someone down for them. Once he’d asked why they didn’t just use magic to find them and he’d been told that “not everything in magic, could be fought with magic”. Ridge had taken the job and found the guy, an end of the pier bookie that had skipped town with a week’s takings. The fact that he had been dead when Ridge found him was of no interest to the Cleric that had employed him. He’d been told to just report the location and leave. Don’t stay to watch, just leave. The rumour around the Scrub was that it had been a zombie that had taken the money and left, and he was only playing dead when Ridge had found him. No-one could play dead like a zombie. The Cleric had supposedly eaten his soul for the betrayal. He’d seen the corpse, the bookie had been shot twice through the heart, not a very magical way to kill a zombie. Ridge did most of his business in the Scrub, but every now and then the money of the 33 came in handy. It wasn’t cheap to operate out of the Scrub. You had to pay up with the right people. Ridge still didn’t have to pay protection but every lead you got didn’t come without a payment. If it did you’d have to pay for it later, sometimes with more than money, and that’s where the Clerics came in. But as bad as it was, it was home.
Ridge paused in the lobby of the building and looked back at the listing boards. 33 floors of legitimate business, 33 floors of shady business and the last 33 floors were the Elite of the 33. Three sets of 33, it was almost as if it was planned that way, it was the perfect model for the city. A third of the people, always on the bottom worked hard and legal. The third above them owned most of everything and skimmed off the top, nothing too illegal, but not clean. The final third however, the ones that ran things, they were the ones that owned those that owned the city, they were the ones to be careful of. They were the ones that hired people like Ridge. Placing a cigarette between his teeth Ridge turned and walked towards the floor to ceiling plate glass doors. Outside it was raining hard, the water was obscuring most of what was going on, but still visible was a small group of people huddled together in a door way, an orange glow illuminating their faces. Ridge turned back into the building. No smoking signs were posted along the edges of the lobby. Ridge laughed to himself , it said something about the mentality of the 33 that the signs were polished marble and gold-embossed, yet the man that had handed him his check had been sucking on an eighty-dollar cigar. No law was too important for it to be beyond the pockets of the 33. Ridge struck a match with his thumbnail and inhaled. He watched the flame dancing between his fingers. It was getting harder to find the kind of matches that didn’t require the box to light, every one was a thing to be treasured. As the flame neared his fingers Ridge closed his eyes. Holding the match tightly between his fingers he inhaled slowly. Resting his back against one of the many no smoking signs Ridge opened an eye and looked to the security booth. They wouldn’t hassle him, they knew who Ridge was working for. The match finally burned down to his nail. Ridge waited a few more seconds before he killed it. Outside the points of light huddled together trying to escape from the rain, several rotated towards the lobby, their glowing eyes visible behind the flowing glass, behind them. The few faces visible appeared as gaunt, hollow-eyed skeletons, their features shifting and warping in time with the falling water. Ridge turned to face the window. Reaching inside his coat pocket he pulled out the pack of cigarettes, the points of light following his every move. Ridge held the dying cigarette between his fingers, a fresh one between his teeth. The rain didn’t show any signs of slowing and he wasn’t in any hurry, maybe he could finish this pack before he had to go out into the rain to get his car.
An hour later and Ridge pulled up behind his building in the Scrub. Something was drawing a crowd. Mostly just average Scrubs, but he noticed the crowd thinned around the middle. Obviously a Cheval had claimed ownership of the find. Ridge stepped from his car and turned to face the crowd, leaning against his door. The crowd was about twenty strong, most of its basics were civilians, about fifteen in all. The last five comprised of the Cheval and his muscle. Ridge strode towards the crowd. As he got closer he could see the Cheval sitting in the front seat of a convertible one arm hanging over the side, three of his thugs sitting in the back watching the crowd. Their blades were out, that was never a good sign. On the plus side the Cheval was only Ánibal. As Ridge drew closer Ánibal looked up, a slow, lazy smile spreading across his face.
“Hey Ridge, you like the new wheels?”
He spoke with a slow, deliberate drawl, his face set in a confident grin. He was obviously enjoying his conquest.
“Very 33 Ánibal. Who did you have to cut to get the claim?”
Ridge smiled to himself as he saw the confidence slip from Ánibal’s face. He had never liked the fact that Ridge knew his real name, and he really didn’t like the fact that he didn’t know how Ridge had found out. He had been born Aníbal Cole, and had been going by Cole ever since 10th grade when someone had dared to call him Annabelle. Ánibal had smashed a bottle in the kid’s face. No action was taken by the school or the child’s parents. Ánibal was the son of the Cleric that had all but owned the Scrub fifty years ago. Now the best Ánibal could manage was a hired blade.
“Fuck you Ridge. I didn’t have to cut no-one, found it square.”
Ridge raised an eyebrow, and nodded towards the steering wheel.
“So why is there blood on the dashboard?”
Ánibal’s eyes flicked to the Italian leather, apparently he hadn’t noticed the blood before now. He stiffened behind the wheel, his shoulders pressed hard against the seat, trying to get away from the blood without loosing face. In the Scrub blood had power, Ánibal didn’t.
“Hey man, I told you. I found it square, was like this when I found it.”
Ánibal was the Cheval for one of the Scrubs’ many Clerics, a hired goon, someone that would break someone’s legs simply because he was told to. If he had been a real threat he wouldn’t just be someone’s stooge. Ridge reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, then he reached lower for a match. Ridge shook the packet and then looked down. The rain had stopped just as he had finished his second smoke back in the 33, there were now three left in the pack. The match flared in the darkness between Ridge’s cupped fingers. Speaking with the cigarette between his teeth Ridge bent towards the match.
“What say your old man if he saw you up for a car?”
Ánibal’s face went blank, his father had been a threat, the Hougan for the Scrubs, the head Cleric. He would have run the entire Scrub underground and Ánibal would most likely be sitting in some high-class suite near the 33, not sprawled across the front seat of a blood stained, stolen Cadillac. If he had been alive. As it was now the Cadillac was the best Ánibal could do.
“Watch your mouth Ridge, I told you, found it square, you don’t got nothing on me.” Ánibal’s thugs moved through the crowd either side of Ridge. It was all for show, Ánibal wouldn’t move on Ridge. Not outside his own building, he was too far from home. It was a show for the hangers-on. They got the point. The crowd evaporated, leaving Ridge and Ánibal alone, except for the thugs.
“Ok, we’re alone, you can drop the act. Who’s wheels?”
Ánibal slumped behind the wheel, his fingers loosening their grip on the leather. He turned his head to look at Ridge.
“I don’t know, someone told me it was here, I came to have a look.”
Ridge rolled the dead match between his fingertips before placing it back into his pocket.
“How long has it been here? It wasn’t here when I left last night.”
Ánibal shifted his grip on the wheel.
“Look Ridge, I told you. I don’t know any more than you, I got here ten minutes before you showed up.”
Ánibal sat behind the wheel, arms rigid and head down. Ridge had the upper hand, but Ánibal still had his thugs and he may just be desperate enough to try something.
Ridge took a drag on the cigarette, burning it down to the filter.
“Okay,” he said as he exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his smile.
“Okay. Maybe you should take the car and get that blood cleaned before it stains the leather.”
Ánibal glared at Ridge, the leather creaking under his fingers, before reaching down for the ignition.
“You’re a dead man Ridge.”
Two of his thugs jumped into the back seat. The other two moving to stand between Ridge and the car. Ridge dropped his cigarette and ground his foot into the cement. Looking up from the damp filter under his shoe, he watched the last thug climb into the back seat.
“Save your threats, Ánibal.”
Ánibal looked up, the confidence had returned to his voice,
“Oh, it’s not a threat Ridge, it’s a guarantee.”
Ánibal slammed his foot down on the accelerator. The tyres screeched and echoed around the empty lot as Ánibal spun the car out into the street. Maybe he had taken a risk goading Ánibal like that. As the last sounds of Ánibal’s conquest faded into the unseen Scrub, a few heavy drops landed on Ridge’s shoulder, the rain obviously hadn’t finished with the city yet. It could never clean the streets, but at least some of the bloodstains would have faded.
Ridge forced the door open. Once inside the hallway he kicked a pile of yellowing newspapers into the corner where the rain had come in through a cracked window. Hey, this was the Scrub, if you wanted doors that didn’t stick and roofs that didn’t leak you lived somewhere else. Ridge looked from the pile of wet papers to the dust on his hands. Maybe he had been in the 33 too long, for a second the dust almost bothered him. Everything in the hall was coated with a layer of dust, hell, everything in the Scrub was covered in some kind of dirt, even the people. The only thing outside of his office that Ridge ever bothered to clean was his door, complete with frosted glass inlay. He had laughed when he first installed the door, it all felt too cliché. But he had removed the door and didn’t get a single job for a month. Apparently people didn’t want to hire someone without the trademark frosted door. He had resisted putting his name or a magnifying glass on the door. It would seem like he was trying too hard. Ridge started the long walk towards his office. Half way to his door he stopped. There were some marks in the dust. Another reason Ridge didn’t bother to clean the hallway, it was cheaper than a security system. Ridge froze. His footprints from earlier were scuffed, as if someone had tried to erase some footprints which had overlapped with his. Ridge hadn’t asked Ánibal why he was in this part of the Scrub, more specifically why he was this close to Ridge’s building. Ridge looked back, there was the remnants of a circular indentation on the rotted wood by the door, the kind of mark made by expensive high heeled shoes and an unfamiliarity with the signs of damp rot. Now that he knew to look for them, Ridge could see the little indentations in the dust appearing at regular intervals down the hallway. More concerning were the footprints that had followed the indentations, they were obviously made by someone who knew enough to follow the path Ridge usually followed to his office. Stick to the left side of the hall until you reach the junction box, then change to the right side of the hallway. Old wiring didn’t mix well with leaky windows. If only they had known that Ridge was a size eleven. The person that made this second set of footprints was close to a size ten, to anyone else the footprints would have looked all but identical, but not just anyone could live in this part of the Scrub. Ridge survived here because he was careful. Whoever it was, they were professional enough to make an attempt at covering their tracks, so they must have heard him force the door open, but that didn’t mean that they knew it was him. Silently Ridge cursed Ánibal, and drawing the envelope from inside his coat he walked up to his door. He could hear someone sorting through the contents of one of his shelves. Suddenly there was a flare of light through the frosted glass. Whoever was looking over the place had just found his matches, and it was getting so hard to find them. Ducking back from the window Ridge slid the envelope under the door and waited. Inside there was the sound of a chair creaking, someone had noticed the envelope. Ridge eased his back against the wall, keeping a hand on the doorknob. Someone was walking forwards to pick up the envelope, in a few seconds they would be close enough to the door. The footsteps stopped and Ridge made his move. He turned the doorknob and rose to his feet moving forward into his office, his free hand drawing his .45. The young woman on the other side of the door stood in the middle of the office, her eyes fixed on Ridge’s gun. By her feet the smiling face of a young, soon to be dead woman stared upwards. As the rest of the photographs slipped from the envelope the young woman looked from the .45 pointed at her heart to the photographs at her feet, their sordid tableau spreading out across the floor.
*********
Ridge placed his .45 in the drawer and settled back into his chair. The woman sitting on the opposite side of the desk was watching his every move.
“I’m sorry about that, but I wasn’t expecting company.”
Ridge tried to smile, but her eyes were still glazed over, a veil of tears threatening to fall. “It’s okay Mr. West, my sister doesn’t like guns, that’s all.”
Ridge looked to the figure tucked away in the corner, sitting with one foot dangling over his knee, a lit cigar in his hand, as if sitting in his favourite chair. He had introduced himself as Lapore.
“Who does Mr. Lapore. But are you sure you have come to the right place? You know I’m not directly involved in the Cleric Business.”
The shadow of Lapore leaned forward, placing interlocked fingers on his knee. The glow of the cigar clenched in his teeth reflecting in his eyes.
“But that is why we came to you, we do not want to draw any unnecessary attention. Keep it between the family, and yourself of course.”
Ridge glanced back at the woman. If they really were brother and sister, Lapore didn’t seem to think much of having a gun pointed at his sister.
“Okay, I’m listening.”
Lapore settled back into the chair,
“Okay Lenore, you may tell your story to Mr. West.”
At this, some life seemed to flow back into the woman's eyes. However before she got to her story she caught the look on Ridge’s face.
“Is there a problem Mr. West?”
Her voice was hollow, dead. It was a stark contrast to her porcelain skin that, although pale, was obviously alive and now that she was addressing him. Ridge could see that there was something behind those eyes that had not been there before she had spoken.
“Oh no, Ms. Lapore, please continue.”
Lenore’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes, Mr. West, my name is Lenore Lapore. I see you find it as amusing as my brother does. However what he didn’t tell you is that Lenore is my middle name. My real name is Rose, short for Rosaline.”
She paused as if the name was supposed to have some meaning to him. When it was obvious that Ridge was going to offer no further comment she continued.
“Rosaline, the woman that Romeo dismissed so as to follow Juliet, another fact that my brother will never let me forget.”
She looked back over her shoulder as she spoke and Ridge could imagine how many times this conversation had been played out between rival siblings. Mr. Lapore’s voice could be heard from the shadows.
“Ever to play the part Lenore, and the wish to be the Jilted lover, nevermore.”
As Ridge watched a smile snaked its way across Lenore’s pale features, her lips contorted into the kind of smile that held back years of resentment towards an older brother that had delighted in the torment of the younger and weaker around him.
“As you can tell Mr. West, my brother is well versed in my suffering and savours a fresh audience, such as yourself, to recite it to.”
Ridge looked to Mr. Lapore. He simply smiled and mimicked a bow from his sitting position, a hand rolling forward towards his audience, the cigar smoke somersaulting through his fingers.
“Well perhaps if you told me why you came here I would better understand his cryptic taunting.”
Lenore turned to face forwards once again, her hands resting in her lap. The veil of tears had again returned to her eyes but it had not managed to extinguish the look of disdain she had showed him earlier.
“We, I, am here to ask you to help in locating someone close to the family, close to me.” She lifted a slim hand to her face as if to wiped away a tear, but she merely brushed aside a stray hair.
“Three days ago my fiancée went missing, we were supposed to be married today. And before you say anything, yes we have contacted the police, but only with the report of a disappearance, we did not supply them with the Lapore name.”
Ridge looked back to the brother. He was running a finger along the arm of his chair and flicking away imagined particles of dust, obviously he was not concerned for the fate of his sisters’ fiancée.
“Well, there is not much I can do for you that the police can’t, Ms. Lapore, they have resources that I simply don’t have access to.”
Before Ridge could say more Lenore stood and emptied her purse onto his desk. Ridge looked at the pile of neatly wrapped bills that were now tumbling towards him.
“Ms. Lapore, it is not simply an issue of money.” But before he could finish his sentence Lenore cut across him with a scathing laugh.
“Not a matter of money, Mr. West? If there is one thing we know about you it is that it’s always a matter of money.”
Ridge leaned back in his chair as she continued.
“We know why you chose to work out of the Scrub even though you think those of us that follow its ways are stupid. You were not simply chosen at random, we came to you for a reason.”
Ridge sat back in silence. Moments before, this woman had been on the verge of tears, a meek, helpless porcelain doll. Now she stood before him and the blaze that had been behind her eyes was spreading throughout her entire body. Her pale skin now glowed in the dim light. She stood looking down at him, her lips a sneer of contempt, her slender figure was poised, something had risen up within her and she was directing it all at Ridge. Before she could say anything more, a tanned hand was placed on her shoulder and was guiding her back into her chair, and the fervour she had gathered was ebbing away.
“My sister and I have come to you for help Mr. West, not to attack you. Whether you choose to accept our offer or not, all we can hope to do is convince you of our need.” Ridge reached into the drawer, aware that Lenore’s eyes, although not as bright as they had been, were following his hand, and there was now a new look behind those eyes, fear. Ridge took out the packet of cigarettes and patted a pocket for a match. Ridge knocked aside the stack of money as he reached for the silver case that held his matches. Lapore chuckled as Ridge exhumed a spent match from the case.
“I am sorry Mr. West. but I seem to have left my lighter in the car.”
Ridge dropped the match into an ashtray.
“It’s not a problem,”
He placed the match against the edge of the desk and looked at Mr. Lapore.
“Besides, didn’t you know that a cigar is always best lit with a match instead of a lighter?”
“Some of the new ways are better than the old ways,” said Lapore, shrugging.
“As I was telling your sister, it is not simply a matter of money. I just don’t have the same resources the police would to investigate a disappearance. I don’t have the man power to do searches. Of course, if you were to tell me why you couldn’t trust the police with your name and the details of the case,”
Lapore’s eyes reflected the glow as Ridge struck the match against the desk.
“Maybe we could come to an agreement.”
Lapore’s grip visibly tightened on his cigar. Lenore simply stared at the match in Ridge’s fingers. Ridge knew why they had come here. He was a guy that worked out of Scrub Town, a guy that worked for the highest bidder, someone that didn’t file a lot of paperwork and ask his clients too many questions. Most importantly a guy that worked in the areas the police couldn’t or wouldn’t.
“Very well Mr. West, but I must ask you to keep what you are about to hear between us, it is after all family business.”
*********
Ridge stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray, a fresh line of smoke faltered, then spun to join with the several others snaking their way up from the remains of the previous seven cigarettes. The last thirty minutes had been a recital of lineage, each branch of the family tree budding off to form vines of enemies and secrets, each twisting around the other until the entire family were rivals. Ridge rubbed the bridge of his nose and grimaced towards the lights above.
“Okay, so what you are telling me is that there are people out there with a reason to hurt you, but with no reason to hurt your sisters fiancée, other than to watch your reaction.”
Lapore, who had finally introduced himself through the family lineage as Hector Lapore, the eldest son in one of the Scrubs’ oldest families, had started to pace the office as the family line became more and more tangled with that of its own enemies. He was obviously making an effort to recite the lineage in as favourable a way as possible, making sure to polish the proper ancestors while tarnishing the ones who had fallen out of favour with the family. Some were due to poor choice in marriage, but most were simply loosing the power struggle to an adversary. Or a relative. As for Lenore, she had taken Hectors’ place in the shadows, she was watching her brothers pacing. Her perfect stillness and porcelain skin gave the impression of a doll, sitting silently in the gloom, her eyes catching the reflection of the dim lighting, two perfect spheres of light following his every move. The only evidence that there was more to her then her eyes was the slight curve
to the shadows. The movement of her every breath made her seem more alive, yet her faceted stare made her seem unearthly. Ridge was still looking into the shadows when her stare slowly drifted until it was directed at him. At first she didn’t seem to notice their exchange, her eyes hidden in the darkness seemed to stare right through Ridge. However as soon as it became clear to Hector, her eyes softened and her lips parted in a slight smile.
“It would seem that Mr. West is just as interested in your lineage as I am.”
Hector stopped his pacing and turned to face Ridge.
“I am telling you information that you may well find useful if you accept our assignment, and yet you are day dreaming and ogling my sister.”
Lenore’s hands snaked around Hectors shoulders as she came to stand behind him. Ridge looked back to the empty corner, he hadn’t noticed her move. As she spoke her figure emerged from the darkness, the shadows seeming to flow around her as they retreated back to the gloom. A sultry smile still lingering on her lips she turned to Ridge.
“Now now brother, Mr. West had a busy night, judging from those photographs.”
She spoke slowly, every word spoken with the intent to caress.
“Besides, he knows it all already, couldn’t you see it in his eyes? He was simply humouring you.”
Hector obviously had been too engrossed in his account of the family history to notice that Ridge had spent much of the time blowing smoke rings and playing with his spent matches.
“I wouldn’t say I knew it all, but no-one can work out of the Scrub without hearing the name Lapore. Besides, I didn’t want to interrupt.”
Before Hector could respond, Lenore had moved from behind him and was drawing an envelope of her own.
“All the information you could possibly need is in here, along with contact details for myself and for my brother.”
Ridge leaned back in his chair, the match falling from between his fingers as he took the envelope.
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
Lenore smiled as she turned to leave.
“But it is only a matter of time Mr. West. Do not fool yourself, we both know more than we are letting on. You know my family better than you wish us to know, and in turn we know that you do not have that high a price.”
With that she was gone, Hector simply looked after her but did not make a move to follow.
“I assume we will be hearing from you soon Mr. West, now if you’ll excuse me, I have business of another sort to attend to.”
Ridge watched Lenore as she waited by the door, until Hector came up behind her and forced the door open. She looked back, once, but not at Ridge. Ridge looked to the envelope in his hand. Beneath it lay the scattered pile of bills that Lenore had dumped onto the table. Something told Ridge that the money was Hectors idea, while it was Lenore that had suggested they bring the envelope. Ridge sat down and pushed the money to one side before opening the envelope. Inside Ridge found a list of names and addresses, many of them located in the Scrub along with one or two from the 33. Most of them were unknown to Ridge. There were some that everyone in the city recognised, including the man Ridge had given the original copy of the envelope, which still lay on the chair where Hector had flicked through it while waiting for Lenore calm down. Ridge had made a point of counting them as Hector paced the office, it wasn’t unusual of the families of the Scrub to use blackmail to get what they wanted. If there was one thing they were quicker to resort to than their Voodoo mumbo-jumbo it was good old fashioned blackmail. After all, it was a popularity contest. The family that controlled the largest number of followers had control of the Scrub, and there was always a need for front line eyes and ears. The only reason the Clerics stopped approaching Ridge for information on their rivals was that Ridge had told them he wouldn’t take sides and he didn’t take bribes. Everything was above board and legal, and most importantly expensive. Ridge knew he was pricing himself out of their game, but it was the easiest way to stay out of the
crossfire and off their target lists. He had managed until now to avoid the larger families, but Lenore was right, Ridge couldn’t turn down this job. Most of the missing person cases related to the Scrub families turned out to be inside jobs. The rival families would announce their targets, make it public knowledge so that it was all the more impressive when they finally managed to take them out. But this was done too quietly to be the work of a rival family. There was no doubt why Hector had gone to such trouble to give Ridge an extensive history of the family lineage. He couldn’t come out and accuse his own family of the disappearance, not with Lenore standing right there. She, of course, knew that the odds were good that it was a member of the family, but she had to play the part, for the family. That would explain her hostility towards Hector. Well, he had all but accepted the job, they would expect some information soon. But for now all Ridge was interested in was getting some sleep, and another packet of cigarettes. First things first; sleep. He could go talk to Abelo in the morning.
Ridge slept uneasily, he hadn’t slept more than twenty minutes in the last forty-eight hours, but it still took him a restless three hours and half a bottle of whiskey to drift off. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Lenore’s face. Her mouth wide with fear, Hector standing behind her, his hands around her neck and Ridge’s .45 pointing at her heart. Eventually Ridge gave up on sleep and moved to his office. He began to reach for a match before he remembered he had finished his last cigarette during Hectors speech. As he withdrew his hand he noticed a small trail of yellow powder around the rim of the match case. Ridge ran a finger around the rim and brought it to his nose. Whatever it was, the powder gave off no discernable smell. He was reluctant to taste the powder but had resigned himself to it before he noticed that all the exposed matches were coated with a thing layer of yellow dust. Ridge reached for a match and turned it in his fingers. Whatever the powder was it was engrained into the head of every single match in the case. Ridge struck the match against the edge of the table and watched as the layer of powder curled inwards and disappeared. Ridge stubbed the match between his fingers and watched the smoke. It was almost indistinguishable, but there was a tiny thread of yellow weaving through the rising lines of pale blue smoke. Ridge looked over to the chair in the corner. Hector had opened the match case before he had entered the office yesterday. Whatever it was, it must have been on every one of the matches he had used last night while Hector gave his speech. Now that he thought about it, every time he had lit a match Hector had paused in his speech and watched him light his cigarette. At the time he had thought he was checking to make sure he was still paying attention, now it seemed he was looking to see if Ridge noticed the powder. Whatever the powder was, if it was on his matches the night before, he wasn’t noticing any effects, yet. Ridge placed his hands on the edge of the desk and sighed. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed his ashtray and remembered he hadn’t emptied it in a while. There was no obvious difference between any of the twenty he was able to fish out from beneath the discarded cigarette ends, although he knew that at least eight of them were from last night. Ridge dropped into his chair and brought a hand to his mouth. He didn’t have any idea what the powder was or what Hector had intended to happen, but it was a safe bet that he hadn’t intended for Ridge to notice. He must have been in the middle of applying the powder when he heard Ridge force open the door. It was hard to imagine Hector Lapore making such an amateur mistake as to leave some of the yellow powder visible on the desk. Ridge tried to think. He thought back to Hector lighting one of his own cigars with Ridges’ match. He must have placed the spent match back into the case to draw Ridges attention away from the powder he hadn’t been able to hide. It was a risky move, but it had worked, Ridge had been so preoccupied with the fact that Hector had used one of his precious matches he hadn’t noticed the coating of yellow powder on the case. Ridge flicked the dead matches from the desk, his anger rising with every match that hit the floor. There was no sense in sitting around waiting to see what was supposed to happen. At the very least Ridge had some questions for Mr. Lapore. But for now that would have to wait. Ridge had to get a new pack of smokes, and he had a few questions for Abelo down at the Red Stone.
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