Ghosts Of Manhattan Part 1

Ghosts of Manhattan.

George Mann.

To Lou Anders, for boundless pa.s.sion, enthusiasm, and friendship.

I have no name.

I am the judgment that lives in the darkness, the spirit of the city wrought flesh and blood.

I was born of vengeance and I have no past. I am both protector and executioner I represent the lives of the helpless; those who will not or cannot help themselves. I show no mercy.

I exist only in the shadows. The alleyways and the rooftops are my domain. I feel the heartbeat of the city, like a slow, restless pulse; I flow unimpeded through its street map of veins.

I live to keep the city clean, to search out the impurities and deliver retribution.

I am Life and Death, Yin and Yang.

I have no name ...

And I know where to find you.

DOWNTOWN MANHATTAN, NOVEMBER 1927.

Something stirred in the shadows.

"Fat Ollie" Day flicked the stub of his cigarette toward the gutter, watching it spiral through the air like a tumbling star. It landed in a puddle of brackish rainwater and fizzed out with a gentle hiss. Nervously, he rested his sweaty palm on the b.u.t.t of his pistol and edged forward, trying to see what had made the noise. It was too dark to make out anything other than the heaps of trash piled up against the walls of the alleyway, illuminated by the silvery beams of the car's headlamps. The air was damp. Ollie thought it was going to rain.

Behind him, the car engine purred with a low growl. He'd left it running, ready for a quick getaway. Ollie had stoked it himself a few minutes earlier, shoveling black coal from the hopper into the small furnace at the rear of the vehicle, superheating the fluid in the water tank to build up a head of steam. It was a sleek model-one of the newer types-and Ollie couldn't help grinning every time he ran his hands over its sweeping curves. Who said crime didn't pay?

Now his smart gray suit was covered with coal dust and soot, but he knew after they'd finished the job they were doing, he could buy himself another. Heck, he could buy himself a whole wardrobe full if he had the inclination. The boss would see him right. The Roman knew how to look after his guys.

Inside the tall bank building to his left, the four men he'd ferried downtown in the motorcar were carrying out a heist-their third in a week-and once again he'd been left outside to guard the doors. It suited Ollie just fine; he'd never had a stomach for the dirty stuff. Being on the periphery didn't worry him-as long as he still got his share of the proceeds.

There was another scuffing sound from up ahead, like a booted foot crunching on stone. Ollie felt the hairs on the back of his neck p.r.i.c.kle with anxiety. The pressure valve on the vehicle gave an expectant whistle, as if in empathy, calling out a shrill warning to its driver. Ollie glanced back, but the car was just as he'd left it, the side doors hanging open like clamsh.e.l.ls, waiting for the others to finish the job inside.

"Who's there?" He slid his pistol from its holster, easing it into his palm. "I'm warning you. Don't you mess with Ollie Day."

There was a sudden, jerky movement as a nearby heap of trash was disturbed, causing cardboard boxes to tumble noisily to the ground. Ollie swung his pistol round in a wide arc. His hand was shaking. He couldn't see anything in the gloom. Then more movement, to his right. Something crossed the beam of the headlamps. He spun on the spot, his finger almost squeezing the trigger of his pistol ...

... And saw a black cat dart across the alley, scuttling away from the pile of boxes. Ollie let out a long, wheezing sigh of relief. "Hey, cat. You got Ollie all jumpy for a minute there." He slipped his pistol back into its holster, grinning to himself. "Man, I gotta learn to take it easy." He looked up.

Two pinp.r.i.c.ks of red light had appeared, thirty feet further down the alleyway, hovering in the air at head height. Ollie stood silent for a moment, trying to figure out what was going on. For a minute he thought he was seeing things, and made to rub his eyes, but then the lights began to move, sweeping toward him through the gloom.

Footsteps running. Ragged breath. Ollie fumbled for his weapon, but he was already too late.

The man sprang at him from nearly ten feet away, hurtling through the air toward him like a panther, body coiled for an attack. Ollie caught only glimpses of his a.s.sailant as the man was crisscrossed by the headlamp beams: dressed fully in black, a long cape or trench coat whipping up around him, a fedora on his head. And those glowing red eyes, piercing in the darkness. Ollie thought they might bore right into him, then and there.

He got the gun loose just as his attacker came down on him, hard, causing the weapon to fly from his hand and skitter across the ground toward the car. It clattered to a stop somewhere out of sight. The man was fast, and Ollie was hardly able to bring his hands up in defense before he was punched painfully in the gut and he doubled over, all of the air driven out of his lungs. The man grabbed a fistful of Ollie's collar and heaved him bodily into the air. Ollie tried desperately to kick out, or to cry for help, but was able only to offer an ineffectual whimper.

Before he knew what was happening, Ollie felt himself being flung backward. He sailed through the air, his limbs wheeling, and slammed down across the hood of the car. He felt the thin metal give way beneath his bulk. But he had no time to lament the damage to his precious vehicle. Pain blossomed in his shoulder. He realized that his arm had been crushed and was hanging limply by his side. The back of his head, too, felt like it was on fire, and he could sense a warm liquid- blood?-running down the side of his face. He emitted a heartfelt wail, just in time to see the grim face of his attacker looming over him.

The man was unshaven and unkempt. His eyes-his real eyeswere obscured by a pair of glowing goggles, strange red lights shining bright behind the lenses, transfixing the mob driver as he struggled to inch backward on the car's hood, to get away from this terrifying apparition of the night. He had nowhere to go. He was going to die. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the fatal blow. Seconds pa.s.sed. He peeled his eyelids open again.

The man was still hovering over him. After a moment, he spoke. His voice was gruff and filled with ire. "In there?" He gestured toward the set of double doors that the others were planning to use as their escape route from the bank.

Ollie nodded. He knew he was likely signing his own death warrant by giving them away, but all he could think about was getting free from this maniac, this ... vigilante. He could taste blood. If the car would still drive ...

The stranger grabbed the front of Ollie's jacket with both fists and hauled him into the air again. "Oh no. No, no, no ..."

Turning, the man charged at the double doors, swinging Ollie in front of himself like a battering ram. Ollie's shoulder connected painfully with the heavy wooden doors as they burst through, causing the hinges to splinter and the doors to cave inward with a huge crash.

Stars bloomed in his field of vision. His head spun. He couldn't remember what it was like not to feel numb with pain. He felt as if he was going to die, and realized that he probably was.

They were standing in the main lobby of the bank. The scene inside was one of utter chaos. Around thirty or forty civilians were scattered over the polished marble floor, lying p.r.o.ne on their bellies, their hands behind their heads, their distraught faces pressed to the ground. Another of the Roman's men was standing over them with a gun, keeping guard. Two further men were standing by the bank tellers as they stuffed cloth bags full of paper bills, and a fourth was up in the gallery overhead, surveying the scene below, a tommy gun clutched tightly in his hands.

A huge holographic statue of Pegasus dominated the lobby s.p.a.ce, flickering ghostly blue as it reared up on its hind legs, its immense wings unfurled over the swathe of terrified civilians below. Above that, an enormous chandelier shimmered in the bright light.

Silence spread through the lobby as everyone turned at once to see who had burst through the doors in such a violent fashion. A woman screamed. The four mobsters offered Ollie and the other man a silent appraisal before raising their weapons.

Ollie was struggling to catch his breath. He couldn't feel his left arm anymore, and he didn't know if this was troubling or a blessed relief. He didn't have time to consider it any further before he found himself unceremoniously dumped against the wall.

"Stay there."

The man in black stepped forward, glancing from side to side. Ollie could see now that his billowing trench coat concealed a number of small contraptions, including what looked like the long barrel of a weapon under his right arm. Dazed, he watched the chaos erupt again before his eyes.

His attacker spread his arms wide, facing the rest of the Roman's men. "Time's up, gentlemen."

One of the mobsters opened fire. There was a series of loud reports as he emptied his chamber, yelling at the others to take the newcomer down. The man in black seemed unconcerned by the spray of bullets, however, waiting as they thundered into the wall behind him, failing even to flinch as the mobster went wide with his shots, too hasty to take proper aim. Ollie watched in dismayed awe as the man gave a discreet flick of his right arm, causing the long bra.s.s barrel of the concealed weapon to spin up on a ratchet and click into place along the length of his forearm. It made a sound like a steel chain being dragged across a metal drum.

The man swung his arm around toward the crook who had fired on him and squeezed something in his palm. There was a quiet hiss of escaping air, and then he gave his reply. A storm of tiny steel flechettes burst out from the end of the strange weapon, a rain of silver death, hailing down on the crook and shredding him as they impacted, bursting organs and flensing flesh from bone. It was over in a matter of seconds. The shattered body crumpled to the floor, gore and fragments of human matter pattering down around it in a wide arc. The teller who had been standing beside the felon dropped to the floor in a dead faint, the pile of cash in his hands billowing out to scatter all around him as he fell.

The vigilante didn't wait for the stutter of another gun. He rolled forward and left, moving with ease, and came up beside the holographic statue, his weapon at the ready. Another hail of flechettes dropped the man in the gallery above, sending him tumbling over the rail, his face a mess of blood and broken bone fragments. He crashed to the marble with a sickening crunch, his limbs splayed at awkward angles.

The mobster guarding the civilians-who Ollie knew as Bobby Hendriks-wasn't taking any chances. He leapt forward, grappling with one of the women on the floor and dragging her to her feet. Looking panicked, the heavyset man pressed a knife to her throat, which gleamed in the bright electric light as he turned the blade back and forth, threatening to pull it across her soft, exposed flesh. The woman-a pretty blonde in a blue dress-looked terrified and froze rigid, trying not to move in case she somehow made the situation worse.

"I'll kill her! I'll kill her!" His voice was a gravelly bark.

The man in black flicked a glance at Hendriks, and then back at the other mobster guarding the tellers, who were still furiously emptying the cash drawers. He stepped toward Hendriks and the hostage.

Hendriks stepped back, mirroring the movement. He pressed the blade firmly against the woman's throat, drawing a tiny bead of blood. She wailed in pain and terror.

A shot went off. The man in black flinched as a bullet stroked his upper arm, tearing a rent in his clothing and drawing a line of bright blood on his skin. He turned on the gunman, but Ollie realized he wasn't able to get a clear bead due to the tellers. Instead, the man reached inside his trench coat and gave a sharp tug on a hidden cord.

There was a roaring sound, like the deep rumble of a distant explosion. Bright yellow flames shot out of two metal canisters strapped to the backs of the man's boots, scorching the floor. Ollie stared on, bewildered, as the stranger lifted entirely into the air, propelled by the bizarre jets, and shot across the lobby at speed, flitting over the p.r.o.ne civilians and swinging out above the mobster's head. He didn't even need to fire his weapon. Bringing his feet around in a sweeping movement, he introduced the searing flames to the gunman's face, who gave a gut-wrenching wail as his flesh bubbled and peeled in the intense heat. He dropped on the spot, still clutching his gun, hungry flames licking around his ears and collar.

The man in black reached inside his coat and pulled another cord. The flames spat and guttered out. He crashed to the floor, landing in a crouch on one knee. All eyes were on him. He climbed slowly to his feet and stood, regarding the last of the felons.

"I'll kill her! I'll kill her!" Hendriks was swinging the girl around as he looked for an escape route, edging away from this terrifying man who had come out of nowhere and murdered his companions. "I'll kill her! I'll kill her!"

When he spoke, the vigilante's voice was drenched in sorrow. "You already have."

Hendriks looked down at the girl in his arms. Sudden realization flashed on his face. His knife was half-buried in the woman's throat, blood seeping down to drench the front of her dress, matting the fine hairs on his forearm. Shocked, he stumbled backward, allowing the dead woman to slide to the floor, the knife still buried in her flesh. "Oh c.r.a.p. Oh c.r.a.p. I didn't mean to do it. Hey, mister, I didn't mean it! I just-"

There was a quiet snick. Something bright and metallic flashed through the air. Hendriks' head toppled from his shoulders, the stump spouting blood in a dark, crimson fountain. The body pitched forward, dropping to the floor. The head rolled off to one side. Ollie glanced round to see a metal disk buried in the wall behind the body. He started to scramble to his feet.

All around, people were screaming, getting up off the floor, and rushing toward the exits. The ma.s.sacre was over. Or at least Ollie hoped it was over. He needed to get to his car, fast.

The man in black stooped low over the body of the dead hostage. He seemed to be whispering an apology, but Ollie wasn't quite able to hear over the noise of the crowd.

Ollie backed up, edging toward the burst double doors. His arm was hanging limp and useless by his side, he was sure his rib cage had been shattered, and he was still bleeding from the back of his skull. Even if he made it out of there alive, he'd never be the same again.

He saw the stranger's red eyes lift and fix on him from across the lobby. He didn't know what to do, didn't dare turn and run or take his eyes off the stranger for a second. The man watched him for a moment, unmoving. Then in three or four graceful strides, he was on top of him. He grasped Ollie by the collar and the fat man whimpered as the vigilante leaned in close. He could feel the hot breath on his face, smell the coffee and whisky it carried. Ollie's heart was hammering hard in his chest. Was this how it was going to end?

"Today, you get to live."

Ollie nearly fainted with relief. "I ... I-"

"But you take a message to the Roman for me."

Ollie nodded enthusiastically, and nearly swooned from the movement.

"You tell him he's not welcome in this town anymore."

The stranger dropped Ollie in a heap on the ground and then stepped over him, making slowly for the exit, his boots clicking loudly on the marble floor.

Ollie's mouth was gritty with blood. He called after the mysterious figure. "Who ... who are you?"

The man shrugged and kept on walking. "Death," he said, without bothering to look back.

ggs! I need eggs, Henry. Two of them. With a side of toast." Gabriel Cross dropped the morning paper onto the breakfast table and leaned back in his armchair, stretching his weary limbs. He was a thin, wiry man in his mid-thirties, clean-shaven, with hair the color of Saharan sand. He was dressed in an impeccable black suit, of the expensive variety, but wore his collar splayed open, betraying his innate sense of informality. Some, he knew, would call him louche for such behavior, but he preferred to consider himself freethinking, unbound by the stuffy conventions of the age. In truth, he was simply unbound by the conventions of money; he had about him the casual air of the exceptionally rich.

Yawning, Gabriel surveyed the aftermath of the prior evening's entertainment. His eyelids were heavy with lack of sleep. All around him, devastation reigned. The drawing room was cluttered with discharged gla.s.ses, a few still holding the remnants of their former owners' drinks. Accompanying these were the pungent stubs of fat, brown cigars and pale cigarettes; even a woman's red silk scarf and a man's topcoat, abandoned there in the early hours by drunken lovers, carefree and searching for intoxication of a different kind.

Gabriel had a love/hate relationship with New York society; it loved him-or rather, it loved his wealth and status-and he hated it. He disliked "society" as a concept. To him it was a metaphor for the socially inept, the "upper" cla.s.ses, a means of filling one's head with notions of self-import and grandeur. Yet he adored people. He needed people. He surrounded himself with them, night and day. He was an observer, a man who watched life. An artist without a canvas, a writer without a page. He lived to amuse himself, to attempt to fill the vacant s.p.a.ce where a real life should have been.

Gabriel Cross was a nothing. A man defined by his inheritance, characterized by his former life. He'd heard people whispering in hushed tones at the party, huddled in small groups under the canopy on the veranda, or leaning up against the doorjambs in the drawing room, drinks in hand. "Yes, it's true! He used to be a soldier. I heard he fought in the war." Or, "A pilot, I heard. But now he just throws parties. Parties! Who needs parties?"

Gabriel knew they were right. Yet they swarmed to his Long Island parties like honeybees searching for pollen, intent on finding something there that would make their own lives that little bit easier to bear. He had no idea what it was. If he did, he would administer it to himself in liberal doses.

Gabriel rubbed a hand over his bristly chin. "Better send a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary with those eggs, Henry. G.o.d knows, it's going to be one of those days." He turned and looked out of the window at the sound of a motorcar hissing onto the driveway in the watery morning sun. Its wheels stirred the gravel track, whilst black smoke belched from its rear funnel. He recognized the sleek curves of its ebony bodywork, as well as those of its owner, who sat in the driving seat, her head and shoulders exposed to the stiff breeze. It ruffled her shock of bright auburn hair as she turned toward the house and saw him watching. Smiling, she raised her hand and offered him a brief wave. Gabriel smiled and raised his own hand in reply. He watched her climb out of the car's side door, swinging her shapely legs down from the cab. Gabriel felt his heart beat a little faster in his breast. Celeste. Celeste Parker.

He'd missed her at the party. Missed the opportunity to peel away with her to a quiet spot and blot out the presence of everyone else. But he was also pleased, in a sense, that she hadn't come. She didn't need the party, not like everyone else needed the party. And for that reason, if no other, he was very much in love with her.

Gabriel listened to the sound of her heels crunching on the gravel, a soft rap on the front door with a gloved fist, Henry's footsteps as he crossed the hallway to let her in. Smiling, Gabriel retrieved the newspaper from the breakfast table and rustled it noisily, as if intent on continuing with an article he had earlier abandoned. He attempted to exude his most nonchalant air. He knew Celeste would see through this ruse, but then, such was the game they played.

A moment later the drawing room door creaked open. Gabriel didn't look up from the newspaper to watch Celeste enter the room. She hovered for a moment at the threshold, silent save for her soft inhalation, awaiting his acknowledgement. The moment stretched. Gabriel turned the page and pretended to scan the headlines.

Finally, the visitor broke the silence. "You look terrible, Gabriel. I see the party was up to its usual ... standards." Her voice was soft and melodious; it had broken many hearts.

Gabriel folded the left page of his New York Times and peered inquisitively over the crease, as if he'd only just realized she was there. Framed in the doorway, the soft light of the morning streaming in from the hallway, she seemed to him like an angel; surrounded by a wintery halo, beautiful, ethereal. She dressed with the confidence of a woman who knew she would turn heads: a black, knee-length dress, stockings, high-heeled shoes, and a black jacket. Her auburn hair was like a shock of lightning, bright and electrifying, her lips a slash of glossy red.

"You didn't come." It was a statement, not a question.

"Of course I didn't come. Did you expect me to come?"

"You were missed."

Celeste laughed. She stepped further into the room, placing her handbag on the sideboard beside the door. Gabriel crumpled the newspaper and tossed it on the breakfast table, where it disturbed the ashtray, sending a plume of gray dust into the air. He wrinkled his nose. "Yes, it does rather make a terrible mess of one's house." He paused, as if thoughtful. "I think next time we'll stay outside. We'll all have to wear beach clothes. A bathing party, out by the pool."

Celeste looked confused, despite herself. She offered him a wan smile. "In November? Whatever are you talking about?"

Gabriel grinned profusely. He leaned forward in his chair. "Yes! Why not! There's that place down in Jersey selling some new-fangled contraption. A thing that heats your pool. The Johnson and Arkwright Filament, they call it. Just imagine. It would be a showstopper! I'll order one next week. A pool party in November! Oh, do say you'll come?" He knew she wouldn't come. But he had a role to play, and so did she.

"I'm busy."

He glanced out of the window. His voice was quiet. "Yes. Of course."

"Oh really, Gabriel. You need a drink. And I need a cigarette."

Gabriel smiled. He reached for the small silver cigarette case he kept in his jacket pocket. It was engraved with his initials: GC. "Do you want eggs? Henry's making eggs. Sit down."

She sat. "No. Not eggs." She reached over and took one of his proffered cigarettes. He noticed her fingernails matched the color of her hair. She crossed her legs and leaned forward, pulling the tab on the end of her smoke so that it sparked and ignited. A blue wreath encircled her head.

"Are you singing tonight?"

"Yes. At Joe's. Will you come?"

"I'm busy."

"Yes. Of course." Her lips parted in a knowing smile.

Gabriel grinned. Celeste was a jazz singer at a club in downtown Manhattan. That was where Gabriel had met her, six months earlier. He'd taken a pretty girl named Ariadne, a perfectly lovely young thing, all lipstick and short skirts and oozing s.e.xuality. But Celeste had stolen his attention. It had nothing to do with romance; it was dark and harsh and exotic, an attraction of a different kind. When she'd parted her lips at the microphone the entire world had ceased spinning. Her voice carried truth. It spoke to him-not to Gabriel Cross, but to the real man who hid behind that name. It carried knowledge of the world, and poor Ariadne hadn't stood a chance.

He'd driven Ariadne home in silence; abandoned her on the front steps of her house. She'd been sanguine yet desperate, resigned yet somehow wanting more. She still came to his parties, sometimes, floating around ethereally in her sequined dresses, catching his eye as he showered plat.i.tudes and cigarettes on his other guests. She needed a reason, an understanding of what had pa.s.sed between them. She needed to know what she had done wrong, what fatal act of sabotage she had committed. But Gabriel couldn't bear to tell her the truth, couldn't bear to strip away civilities and reveal to her the hollow reality of the matter: that poor Ariadne was just another girl in just another city. That her life filled with parties and laughing and booze didn't mean anything. That she could never compare to a woman like Celeste. She couldn't see the world for what it was.

Ghosts. New York was full of people like that. So were his parties. People who drifted through life as if it didn't matter, as if it were simply something that they had to do. Get up in the morning, pa.s.s time, sleep, f.u.c.k, die. Even Gabriel Cross was a member of that ill.u.s.trious set, as much as he hated to admit it. But Celeste was not, and her allure had been unavoidable, her effect on Gabriel predetermined from the outset. He had been ensnared, and for the rest of that night he had lain awake in the stifling summer heat, drunk on whisky and desire, replaying the sound of Celeste's voice over and over in his mind.

The next night Gabriel had returned to the club by himself in search of the jazz singer. He'd found her haunting the bar; drinking orange juice laced with cheap, illegal gin. He'd bought her drinks, offered her cigarettes, watched her as she brushed aside the other men who each lined up to make a play for her attention. At first she'd seemed amused by his presence-the confident interloper-intrigued by the fact that he had returned to the club so soon after his previous visit, this time without the pretty embellishment on his arm. But Gabriel had seen where the other men had tried and failed. He wouldn't make the same mistakes. Not this time. So, instead, he had simply offered her a final cigarette for the evening, before retiring. He didn't leave his name or his number. He didn't need to.

A week later he had found her playing cards in his breakfast room with three other girls whose names he could never remember. His party was in full swing; it was dark outside, but drunken men strutted loudly on the lawn by the light of the moon, and women laughed gaily as though being treated to the height of theatrical endeavor. All around them the house was full of bustle, of noise and tension and s.e.x and booze. Of people looking for a way to force some feeling into their lives, or else to numb the pain. But when Celeste had turned to smile at him, he'd wanted nothing more than for them all to disappear. He'd wanted the world to stand still again, like it had a week before, the night he'd first watched her open her mouth to sing.