New Orleans, 1928

They say that New Orleans—s’cuse me, “N’awlins”—is the party-center of the South thanks to Mardi Gras and a reputation for having more booze than they actually do, in spite of all’a this Prohibition nonsense. Nobody told N’awlins that, turns out. Summertime, the city goes the way of all cities in the South. Everybody just seems to slow on down in a fit of laziness that lasts from June to September, and sometimes earlier and later depending on the hurricanes and the rain they get.

At least, that’s the impression I’ve gotten so far since I’ve been there. For having the Mississippi end right in the middle of it, this place seems like it’s the driest place in the southern half of the States, and that’s sayin’ something when you consider there’s places down here like Roanoke that probably haven’t seen a drop of liquor since the Indians accidentally spilt yeast in their pumpkin juice back when Mother Earth was still young and beautiful.

Ah, poetry’s not much my thing. Scratch that last part willya? I’d hate for some kinda line like that to see print after the rep I’ve been building myself.

Y’see, the name’s George Collins. I’m a reporter from the Tribune up in Chicago, albeit born and raised in Louisville. You know the rivalry we’ve got ourselves into with theHerald-Examiner, don’tcha? ‘Course you do, if you’ve been going around any newsstand lately. Well, anyhow, my high-and-mighty editor up top sent me down here to New Orl—N’awlins, anyhow, because the brass wanted something to spice up the readership. Says there are people in Chicago getting tired of hearing about what Capone is or isn’t doing, says they want some scandal from the South. In fact, they mandated I make that my headline, wouldja believe it? So here I am, fresh off the ferry, sitting in the driest city in the South, and the deadest one at that.

I mean, there’s a reason they sent me down here, you know. Rumor has it one of Capone’s family (that’s codeword for drinking buddies, or people he owes a debt to, or something like that, I dunno) has set up shop down here, boiling booze to make Mardi Gras next spring a kick-tail event like the world’s never seen before and so on and so forth. Rumor has it to be a guy named Patelli or something like that. The boy’s rich, richer than most of the fellows down here, who haven’t seen much more than a coupla pennies to rub together since slavery went outta style with Abe Lincoln hats.

Of course, there’s a reason they call this stuff yellow journalism. I’ve gotta be careful as hell around this guy. They say the bastard has ears all over town, trying to find out if anyone’s going to have the nerve to rat out his operation and ruin business. And if he does find out, well, he comes after ya with a vengeance.

SLOTH

By Hunter Lambright

Patelli lived in the better part of town, far as I could tell, in a secluded little neighborhood with a direct route and window toward Bourbon Street so he could take account of all the festivities when Fat Tuesday came around, or some such nonsense. I don’t really think it bothered him much, to tell the truth. As long as the cash kept rolling in, he could pay his dues to the family and keep on movin’ the booze. Problem was, the bastard kept it well-hidden. And he was ruthless, too. Nobody in town acted like they knew where any of the liquor was, or where a fella could get some. Looking back, they probably thought I was a cop or something. My fault, really, but they have a saying about hindsight.

I showed up in town at dusk, hopping off the ferry and watching it chug back upriver. The editor at the Tribune gave me five days to dig up the dirt and put the story in print, even if it meant the story got back home before I did. Fair enough, I said. I’ll have it back in three. That was the way things went with me, and Sully, the editor, he damn well knew it. Good riddance, I thought, because now that I was down here, I had no idea what kind of a quagmire I’d wandered into.

You see, the tricky thing about figuring out mobsters was that they had ways of getting around being figured out. They had people paid off, people threatened, and it was hard enough to get a word out of anyone who wasn’t paid off or threatened, because they knew they could find themselves on the other end of the list.

I’m not trying to say N’awlins had a big mob presence—compared to Chicago, New York, this was nothing. Probably wouldn’t make it into the history books. But hey, behind every city in this Prohibition time there was a guy with an Italian- or Irish-sounding name feeding the masses of people who still wanted their liquor. N’awlins was no different. Patelli was just one of the guys protecting his interests. He wasn’t the only one, either, but he had local interest ties to his buddy, Capone, and so on. You get the picture.

So first thing I did when I got to town was I checked myself in at this chintzy little motel and got out my notebook and a couple pencils, plus my envelope of allowance from the Tribune, and headed out to the first tavern I saw. I didn’t choose one of those ritzy places out on the main streets, one of the ones that’s been converted to a restaurant to save face and keep business, you know. Chances were that there I’d get overheard by some lowlife wanting to get on the boss’s good side and end up with my head on a stake or my feet in cement blocks. You think you’d hate to go swimming with the fishes in Chicago? Try the muddy river water at the delta. I wasn’t looking forward to that, no sir. I’d do everything I could to avoid it.

I walked into the place, and it was quiet, really. I kinda cursed under my breath. You see, it’s easier to mingle when the atmosphere’s already got people all talking to each other and having a good time. This looked like the kind of bar you go to if you find your wife dressed like a flapper for your best friend or something like that. The place you go to drown your sorrows—excuse me, in ginger ale.

I sat down at the bar—and yeah, you and me both were surprised enough that the city had two former bars still running, but that’s neither here nor there—and the bartender handed me just that, a ginger ale. I nodded, commented about the weather, and looked around the room, surveying it quietly. I was trying to figure out who best to talk to, you see. I knew for a fact that there were some types you just didn’t bother with. There was the trophy wife sitting by herself at the bar that was bound to be trouble. And then there were some shady types hanging around a couple of the booths. So I picked somebody who just looked…normal.

“Heya, fella,” I said, sliding into a booth that was only occupied by a single man. “Mind if I sit here?”

He shrugged politely. Obviously I made him uncomfortable, but I was okay with that. “It’s a mighty fine city you people’ve got here,” I said, turning on the Kentucky charm. I’ve found that the dumber people think you are, the more likely they are to trust you. Go figure. I stuck out my hand. “I’m George. George Collins. How are ya?”

The man looked at me oddly for a moment, then shook my hand. “Phil,” he replied. “Phil Thomas. Nice to meet you. I take it you’re new in town?”

“Very,” I said. The waitress came over and interrupted me just as I was getting started, damn her soul, and then the conversation continued.

“So where are you from, Mister Collins?” Phil asked. “Sounds like you have a trace of hick country in you.”

“That I do,” I said proudly. “Kentuckian, born and raised. Just moved to Chicago a few years ago and got myself some education. Now I’m here on business, you see.”

We continued like that for awhile, going on about the niceties. I told him my impression of the lazy town on the Mississippi, and he told me he agreed. It actually irked him sometimes when people wouldn’t move to action. He said he wanted more people like myself, and I’ve gotta, say, I almost beamed at the thought considering the man hardly knew me, and I was actually just using him anyway. But I went on about it, and eventually, as he was about to close out his bill, I leaned across the table and said quietly, “Now before you go, Phil, I’ve been wondering. You see, being from Chicago, I’m used to being able to go out and get myself something to drink, Prohibition nonsense or not. You, ah, know of any speakeasies around here a fellow could go get himself watered down at?”

I looked away nervously, wondering for the first time if the man was a policeman. There were a few beats of silence before Phil Thomas, wonderful gent that he was, spoke. “You’ve got guts walking up to a man and asking him that, Mr. Collins. Fact is, we do. You just can’t be talking about it out loud like that.” He pulled out a fountain pen and scribbled something on a napkin, then passed it across the table. “Here’s an address. Don’t go asking around on it. Just go there sometime after dusk and you can get yourself a good something to drink if you’re willing to pay the price.”

I thanked him kindly and then he left. I finished eating my meal, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. Part of me began wondering if I was being played as a patsy, either by Phil Thomas or by my good, wonderful editor back home, trying to send me to my grave.

Still, the reporter goes where the story is, and so I resolved to go to the speakeasy that night. Hell, maybe I could get a drink myself while I was at it.

I showed up all natural-like, the way you’d expect a person who belongs there to act, if you follow me. I wanted to fit in with the crowd. There was no sense in going in acting nervous and all. I was a seasoned customer. No reason to act as if I wasn’t, now, right?

I walked inside and got a queasy feeling in my stomach. The place was bare, but there was a man at what you could only really call a counter, like what the secretary might be sitting at in a lumber mill or something, you know what I mean? He was a weasel of a character, with a pointed nose and an eternal grin on his face. “You here for the liquor?” he asked, tipping his hat.

I cocked an eyebrow. How did he even know I wasn’t a cop? I guessed they must’ve had all the cops in the state profiled or something, or else he was sloppy. “Sure thing,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. “Gotta get my fill some time or another. You know what they say. If a man stays dry, the women win.” I chuckled.

The man nodded, his grin growing as I continued speaking. “Good thing, then,” he said. He put two fingers in his mouth and blew a sharp whistle. “Hey, Boss! Guy wants to talk to ya about getting a drink!”

A man stepped out of the shadows, though he might’ve brought the shadow with him, for all I know. He was a hulk of a man, had to waddle to keep himself standing up. I almost felt sorry for him before I realized just who the hell I was lookin’ at. I almost lost it in my trousers right then. The pudgy, baby-faced man was Patelli, the guy I was trying to get dirty on. And that’s when that sinking feeling in my stomach came back with a vengeance. Something told me I was in some trouble.

“George Collins, eh?” he asked, and I could tell that his Italian accent had been afflicted with a touch of Southern drawl. “You say you want to drink, my reporting friend?”

I didn’t know what all I was going to give away or how much he knew about me, so I did the only thing I thought I could do. “Yes sir,” I replied. “I would very much like a drink. Where does a fellow go, then, since the man I was talking to earlier tonight obviously sent me wrong.”

Patelli looked at me, but his expression didn’t change in the slightest. He began walking toward me. I noticed, for the first time, that his hunched back leaned forward onto a silver-headed cane, though whichever animal’s head adorned the top was obscured by the enormity of his hand. He looked me up and down and said, “Mr. Collins, I heard you weren’t a stupid man, but it appears I was wrong. You want a drink tonight? The best sustenance I can offer you is lead. I hope you get your fill.” He turned around and casual snapped his fingers.

I looked around and saw, with a cringe, a man with a Tommy gun pointed at my chest. He smiled, waved goodbye, and damn if I don’t remember exactly how it all went down, but it hurt something awful in my chest. What I do remember is how warm I felt, laying on the ground without remembering hitting it, surrounded by my own blood. You know, at that point, I wasn’t too sure me dying was a bad thing. I was obviously a piss-poor investigative reporter, so that was shot, and let’s face it, I annoy myself sometimes, so lots of people would probably be glad to see that I went the way of the dodo, if a man can go extinct like that.

So, well, I thought I was about to die gracelessly. And that’s when I saw him. Bastard stood right out of the corner of my eye. All I could see was his red-skinned calf and nothing else. Then the calf moved and it was little more than a foot in my pathetic vision. “Hmmm,” he said. That’s all. He just hummed for a minute. Here I’m thinking I’m dying on the floor, do a little something other than hum, you devil, but he was in no hurry, and I guess me dying wasn’t about to happen either.

This point, I wanted him to get off his high horse and carry me on my way to Hell or whatever place he had in mind, though I doubt I could hope for Purgatory with all the things I’ve done in my pursuit of the gosh-darned “truth.” I mean, I never killed nobody, never cheated nobody, but I’d ruined a few careers and made a few people angry. If that didn’t merit a walk to Hell, I’m not sure what does anymore. We got ourselves working on a book that’s kinda outdated, you ask me. Not complaining now, mind you, God Almighty, but I wouldn’t mind an updated edition sometime, if you could.

So anyway, the damn Devil himself was standing over me humming, and then he speaks. His words were daggers into my soul, all clichés aside. He said, “This won’t do at all. Vengeance needs a steed.”

He disappeared and then, seconds later, it seemed, there he was again. This time, though, his foot came out of a car door. “Much better,” said the Devil.

“Hey!” shouted my Tommy gun-wielding guard. “That’s Patelli’s limousine, just here from Detroit! You can’t take that!”

“Yes, I can,” said the Devil, stepping into the man’s line of sight. Even as I was lying there dying, I could hear and smell the man wetting himself.

“Aw, no. Patelli’s gonna kill me for this,” said the guard.

The Devil chuckled. “No, he isn’t.”

“He isn’t?” the man asked, as if he could trust the word of the Devil.

“No, he isn’t,” the Devil said. He extended a pointed finger toward me in my line of sight. “Because he is.”

That’s when the Devil stood over me and looked me in the eye. “Do you want vengeance?”

And, without hesitation, I gurgled my answer through the blood that pooled inside my throat: “Yes.”

Then the Devil didn’t say anything else. He just touched my damn forehead, and suddenly I was on fire. I was sure that he’d gone on and sent me to Hell anyway just for sayin’ yes, but that’s not what it was. I could feel the skin burning off my scalp. My face was devoured by fire, and the fire was spurred on by the power of vengeance itself.

You’ve gotta understand here. I was starting to see things from outside myself, if that makes any darn sense at all. I know it doesn’t, but you really do have to see it. I was a spectator to my own damn body, and it didn’t feel right at all. Somebody else was in the driver’s seat, and he raged with the fires of Hell itself.

The fire traveled down my body and under my clothes even as my cheap suit melted into a dark leather one, somehow untouched by the flames around and under it. My ribs were exposed by the fire next, and it kept traveling all the way to my feet. My body made its way to its feet as the molten metal of the bullets dripped to the ground. “Vengeance is ours,” said my mouth, though I didn’t tell it to speak.

Golly, just look at me. I get all poetic when bad stuff starts happening. Sorry if it happens again.

The man with the Tommy gun dropped it to the ground. He started screaming, “Oh, god. Oh, god, no, please—” as my flaming skeleton walked toward him. My bony hands wrapped around his throat, and then, even as the guard was dying, he screamed. But the creature in control of my body said, “Vengeance is ours.”

And, let’s face it. I knew he was right. Picking up the Tommy gun, my skeleton turned to the limousine. It had transformed on its own. The skeleton of the car was made of bones, and it had been painted blood-red. No living creature would be found dead in it, if you can pardon the turn of phrase. But then, it didn’t make any difference, because I wasn’t all for certain that I was alive anyhow, and that’s just a statement of fact.

My skeleton got itself into the driver’s seat, and I’ll be darned how I knew it, but I did. We were going to be heading for vengeance in style.

Patelli’s house had a short drive, but the Spirit of Vengeance didn’t take the front entrance. While subtlety might not have been its strong suit, it was something that it knew how to value when it could. The music and partying on the street covered the Spirit’s approach, even in such a vehicle as the flaming, skeletal limousine.

Somewhere along the way, the Spirit had the idea that it no longer needed to steer, and so it stood up in the back of the limousine and poked its torso out through the top of the elongated car. It held the gun at ready.

Me? At this point, well, I was just along for the ride. I know that I ask for your forgiveness a little too often, but I feel like I have to ask it before I get into what happened next. I had no choice but to sit by and do nothing, you see? I’d tried to take control back over my body, but as long as there was vengeance to be had, I couldn’t do it. It’s not something I wanted, believe you me. I just knew that there was nothing I could do. If I was powerless, and the Spirit of Vengeance had the power it had just because I said yes instead of dyin’, well, all it meant was that the streets of N’awlins would run with bad men’s blood tonight.

Hate to say it, but at the moment, I didn’t have much of a problem with the concept.

When we pulled up to the back of Patelli’s house—and by pulled up, I mean busted through the hedges and dividing wall—men with guns showed up all over the place. Patelli had his place loaded like he was expectin’ an attack from a bear pack, or maybe just from a whole squadron of police or something. I mean, it’s not like we didn’t realize he was a crazy bastard, but that’s not what I’m trying to get at here. The point is, when they shot at us, not a damn thing happened.

Oh, sure. Bullets hit us. They ricocheted off the car and rattled around my rib cage, but nothing really, actually happened. The Spirit of Vengeance just smiled my toothy, flaming grin once they ran out of bullets, and then pulled the trigger on the Tommy gun.

‘Cept the Tommy gun no longer shot bullets. It shot molten lead. Hellfire, even. I couldn’t tell you, and I’m not going to go off looking for an answer. That’s not my style anymore, but we’ll get ourselves on back to that later.

Seeing those men riddled with burning bullet holes was one of the most satisfying moments of my life. I’m sure it makes me a sick little man, but I can’t help that. These bastards killed me. If vengeance was gonna happen either way, who was I not to bother enjoying it? It seemed like looking a gift horse in the mouth or something, you know? Why not just take the gift, from the Devil or not, and enjoy it?

Hell, moral dilemmas never were my forte. Forgive me for that, too, would ya?

By the time that ol’ Spirit of Vengeance was done with those bodies, well, you could hardly tell they were corpses anymore, and that’s a fact. The ash, smoldering and all the like, obscured the bodies. Only thing that left you a clue that there used to be human beings down there was all the guns sitting around the body-sized lumps. Somethin’ about it let me respect the Spirit, y’see. Man knew how to clean up his business.

We didn’t go into the house next, no sir. The Spirit walked himself up to the cellar doors and threw ‘em open without so much as a single thought to ceremony. There were a coupla men down here, too, but they were reduced to the same state as their fellows outside before they had a chance to draw their own weapons.

First thing I noticed about the cellar was that it reeked of gin. That’s not to say that gin really reeks. I can appreciate a good bit of gin. But what I’m trying to get at is that it really showed me Patelli’s arrogance, the fat bastard. Not only did he think he could get away with running a damn speakeasy business in N’awlins with backing from up north, but he did it by keeping the alcohol in his cellar? Proved to me right then that he was nothing more than trash. When you get so big in the head that you think you can go on and get away with keep your illegal activity in your own damn business, well, there’s a problem.

There were dozens of wooden kegs stacked along the walls there. I’m telling you, I never saw such a sight there. Not in a public residence, and of course not under Prohibition. Well, the Spirit of Vengeance went ahead and corrected that damn problem. He stood there at the entrance and shot holes in every single damn keg in the room. The liquor started puddling on the stone floor of the cellar until it reached at least an inch high.

Then, you know what he did? He stepped in it.

Flames began to lick across the fumes coming off the alcohol, and before I knew it the whole damn basement was starting to go up in flames. I guess after that, the Spirit of Vengeance decided his work was started, but not done, and so we stepped out of the basement to watch the show.

You know, if I’d seen that mansion in daytime, I’d’ve though I’d never seen a prettier sight. But then I saw that sight on fire, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t become an arsonist for life right then. There’s nothing prettier in the world than the sight of something beautiful on fire.

And that’s when I realized that I was married to this Spirit of Vengeance, physically or mentally, for life.

Well, when they realized the place was on fire, people started coming out in droves. I mean it. House staff and personal attendants all came on out of the place, screaming like crazy.

The Spirit of Vengeance just seemed to know right then. He pointed the Tommy gun at a man in a chef’s hat and said, “Charles Cook. You have killed three prostitutes over the past two years. You are guilty.” Then I felt my trigger finger pull and Charles Cook was short one head.

Others he let get away. He would point the gun at someone and say, “Innocent.” Then he’d change it over to the next person.

He did it like that until the man of the house himself walked out. And that’s when I knew that the Spirit of Vengeance had something else in mind for that lazy sack of trash. It was going to be something cruel, but damn if it I wouldn’t be fitting for the man who’d ordered me to be filled with lead.

“Arnold Patelli,” said the Spirit of Vengeance. “You have been found guilty. For that, I demand vengeance.”

The baby-faced gangster held up both hands. “Look, I’m sure we can work this all out. Really. What do you want? You want money? I have money. You want something else? I can get it to you. Tell me what you want!”

“You would argue with an agent of fate?” my mouth asked. “You would try to barter? Bartering with fate is something that fits you, Arnold Patelli.”

“What do you mean?” Patelli asked. He planted a flabby fist on each of his hips.

The Spirit of Vengeance smirked as best as he could without lips. “The reason your hips are flat is because of your sedentary lifestyle. You feed on the people. You prey on them. You drain this city of its life and order its death. You feed it the liquor that makes it die. And you do it all from your easy chair. I hold no law, but I understand the blood in your alcohol. Nothing good has come of it. The only thing that you deal out is pain and undue death.

“The only death remaining in your life is not undue,” continued the Spirit of Vengeance. He raised the gun. “That death is yours.”

Patelli stood there defiantly, but did nothing. The Spirit of Vengeance gestured to a keg that rested in a truck bed outside the cellar doors. “Drink.”

“Drink? That?” Patelli asked, pointing at the keg.

The Spirit of Vengeance moved closer. Patelli’s skin broke out in sweat the closer he got to my body. “Drink.”

And Patelli drank. He unplugged the keg and put his mouth under it, eyeing us like a wild man. Like he thought that by following orders, he might escape alive. I was laughing from my passenger’s seat view of the damn thing. Patelli drank. And when he moaned, the Spirit of Vengeance prodded him with the Tommy gun so that he put his mouth back in the font of liquor and drank. He drank until the keg ran dry and he was kneeling in mud made of dirt and gin.

“Stand,” the Spirit of Vengeance ordered.

Patelli stood.

The Spirit of Vengeance backed away from Patelli. He stepped back until he was at firing distance and then, without warning, put a hellfire bullet into Patelli’s stomach.

The result was terrifyingly beautiful. When the fire hit Patelli’s alcohol-filled stomach, the fat man exploded. He breathed fire even as his innards were ripped apart by the explosion of alcohol and flame. I knew it. I knew that it was true. Vengeance was a damned beautiful thing, and I wanted more.

We rode out of N’awlins that night in the back of a driverless limousine. When the sun came up, I was whole again, but I know who’s going to come out at night. It’s why I’m writing this. I know you don’t believe a single thing I just wrote, but I’d like to hand in my resignation right now. I gave you the down-low on Arnold Patelli.

But right now, I’ve got a different mission ahead of me. The capital-T Truth is something much more frightenin’ than you and I could even think about. ‘Cept I’m thinking about it right now.

There’s stuff out there that’s bigger’n you and me. I’m full of these clichés but I don’t give a darn at this point.

Me an’ my Spirit buddy, we’re gonna start trekkin’ up the Mississippi and see what ne’er-do-wells we come across. I’m thinking this vigilante justice thing might be worth checking out. At this point, man, there ain’t no such thing as Truth.

There’s only vengeance.