Chapter 31

 

                It was dark again, as no time had passed while Maxwell occupied the jail cell. But he knew another 24 hours had passed with rush hour traffic crawling up Broadway in both directions, a nightmare of frustrated office workers seeking escape before the ghouls and goblins make their way to the street. Even the trucks and buses seemed anxious, the faces of their drives caught in an agony of doubt as they stared out at the sidewalk, some even frowning when they encountered Maxwell's striding form.

                Around him, even the out of business store fronts had eyes, his reflection passing before the dark stare of each window as if he was being photographed, each window a frame of film capturing that moment forever as he abandoned the past for an uncertain future.

                He reached Main Street and turned left, crossing between a narrow gap left by the bumpers of a Mercedes and a Cadillac, both locked in traffic heading towards Wayne, both bearing license plates that proclaimed them doctors. A half block later, Maxwell stood again before the twisted remains of what had been the Greasy Spoon. Someone had twisted up the metal gate to allow them access into the store. Maxwell did not go in, but stared into the gloom taking note of the over-turned tables, and the crockery strewn and broken across the floor.

                Mr. Harrison would be pissed, Maxwell thought, then moved on, up towards Market Street towards his loft. The rest of Main Street seemed unaware of the catastrophe on-going around it, or perhaps kept its eyes closed to the gutted Greasy Spoon and its ears shut to the nearly constant wail of sirens throughout the city. One by one, the other stores, pulled down their shudders or closed their gates, leaving only the scent of their perfumes lingering in the air, as Latino, black and a few old Italians made their way to their own cars for their escape.

                Maxwell returned to the ruins of his front door and climbed up the stairs slowly, keeping his ears open for any sound. But all remained quiet and he found the loft just as he had left it, its shattered contents hinting of the great fury that had passed through it. Maxwell did not linger in the main room, but went straight to Jack's room, seeking the treasure he hoped searchers had missed. He cleared away the dirty laundry and the stained issues of Penthouse and Playboy, uncovering the bare floor. He pried up the loose board and reached his hand into the hole, pulling out a heavy, brown leather pouch, Jack had put there for safe keeping. Maxwell slid out the small, pearl-handled 25 caliber Colt. It surface was so oily, it nearly slipped out of his fingers. He thumbed the released mechanism and drew out the magazine from the bottom of the handle. Both the chamber and the magazine lacked bullets. He reached back down into the hole and felt around until his fingers encountered the small, reticular box. This rattled as he drew it out.

                The box slid open the way boxes for stick matches did, only the bullets inside stood straight up and down, their brass points glistening a little as he pulled one out, then another, sliding these into the magazine. When this was filled. He slid the magazine back into the handle of the gun, yanked back the top so that the top bullet popped into the firing chamber. He flicked the safety on. Put the pistol in his right jacket pocket and the rest of the box of bullets into his left. Both weighed heavily upon the fabric when he stood up.

                Maxwell glanced around, wondering about Jack for a moment, but his mind made up to pursue his current plans.

                "I'll check on Jack later when I've finished with this," he thought, then with a long sigh, he headed for the roof.

                Maxwell smelled the dead dog even before he reached the ground, puzzled as to why no one had bothered to remove its body -- the hot sun of the previous day raising its sink. Once on the ground, Maxwell made for his garage, his keys rattling as he found the one which opened the door to his car.

                Surprisingly, no one had touched the car, and he backed it out into the car port, turning it to face out towards the gate. He got out once, opened the gate, then drove out, not bothering to close the gate again.

                With darkness, the street people had reappeared, each scurrying to avoid the notoriety of his headlight, their gray faces blending with the background of the city as he turned onto Market, then again onto Main.

                But the gray shapes populated each street, a mocking reflection to the crowds that bustled along these same sidewalks during daylight hours.

                They reminded Maxwell of roaches, except now, he had come to know a few as people, and he could not reconcile the conflicting opinions. With winter over, their numbers increased, and would continue to increase over the following months.

                He felt them staring at his car, as if they knew who he was and what he had done, and they hated him for the crimes he had committed against Toad and Suzanne.

                Maxwell pressed his foot down on the gas, yet his thoughts raced ahead of the car, struggling to shape a series of actions for when he arrived at his destination.

                ************

                The glow from the blinking window lights spread across the street like fire flowing over water, setting into flame the upturned faces of the men waiting to get inside. But it wasn't the lights that made those men hot, and they could not drag their gazes from the squirming female bodies that occupied the line of windows. Their lives seemed to Maxwell then as pathetic as those he had just escaped farther downtown, despite their ability to maintain jobs and a place to live -- each man one more sucker to side shock hucksters.

                Around these lines, the dark shapes of the Palace guards maintained their ritual, herding the line of sheep steadily towards the doors and the money collectors inside. But these characters seemed far less confident than on Maxwell's previous visit, glancing frequently over their shoulders as if they knew something would transpire and did not wish to be caught completely off guard. Several looked as if they already had plans to flee once the crack down started, each merely going through the motions until the time came.

                Maxwell pulled his car to the curb and climbed out. Near him was the same thug he had encountered during his earlier visit, wearing the same dirty pullover parka with the same greasy hair poking out of the sides. The thug glanced sharply over at the sound of Maxwell's car door slamming.

                "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he said, moving towards Maxwell the way a starting train might, slowly at first, but gathering power and momentum with each step.

                "Where's Puck?" Maxwell said, having no patience for the minor conflicts.

                "The boss said he don't want you here?" the thug said, fumbling for his pocket and the heavy lump Maxwell knew had to be a gun.

                "I don't care what Puck wants," Maxwell said. "I'm here to see him. So get out of my way."

                "Like hell I will," the man said, dragging out the pistol, although Maxwell reached his hand before the barrel cleared the pocket, twisting the gun free, and sending the man sprawling onto the ground.

                The crowd -- bored and cold -- howled its approval. The women ceased their dancing in the windows to watch the fun. But Maxwell made for the door, leaving his victim squirming on the ground. Another guard tried to stop him, and Maxwell broke his arm, tossing both pistols into the street where they clattered in the dark.

                At the door, two men stood with pistols out, but the crowd surged around Maxwell, giving him time to reach them, too -- shoving the first man against the wall so that the pistol fell as his feet. The other man ran.

                Maxwell motioned the crowd to follow, and he marched into the crowded space inside.

                "Free drinks!" he yelled as loud as he could, his voice too weak to compete with the stereo system, but strong enough to reach the nearest of the patrons, who quickly picked up the message and passed it on.

                The crowd surged towards the bars, and bartenders, already feeling the tension of the evening, abandoned their posts -- posts quickly taken up by some volunteer who filled glasses and passed them to the parade of hands reaching for them. At the some of the bars, patrons crashed through glass cases to pass out whole bottles of hard alcohol, a violence rushing through them as if each soul had waited for this moment to get even with management. Small fights broke out for possession of the booze, and these two led to more major skirmishes, and finally all out war among factions.

                Some men made for the unprotected dancers who were unable to flee from the stages, throwing them down, yanking at their small garments, while other men yanked at these men to get at the women, so that fights for possession kept most of the women from real harm for the moment. Maxwell rescued one who had fallen, and protected her until she could rush towards one of the side doors and the protection of the passages beyond it.

                Sirens sounded from outside -- whether part of the raid the mayor had talked about, or a reaction to the violence, Maxwell did not know. But soon the main door filled with police in riot gear who began pounding at the patrons with patrons. Maxwell shoved panicked people out of his way as he made his way towards one of the inner bars, and the door to the webwork of passages behind it. He found two men trying to rape one of the dancers. He struck the first with the back of his hand, then kicked the other in the face. But the dancer seemed too stunned to move, and he did not have time to help her recover. Yet he bent over her and pulled her to her feet.

                "Where's Puck?" he asked.

                She shook her head.

                "Was he even here tonight?" he asked.

                She shook her head again, but he could not tell if she understood the question. He moved on.

                Police whistles cut through the shouts, as did the stern amplified voice of the mayor telling the people to stop fighting or face arrest. Maxwell peered towards the door and saw the gray-headed man holding a bullhorn. Around the mayor, police battered patrons into submission. But Puck's guards were not resisting, forming a clutch of men at the center of the room, their pistols abandoned on the floor and their hands lifted over their heads as they awaited arrest.

                Then Mayor Graves saw Maxwell, and in a phalanx of police, made his way to the spot where Maxwell as standing, coming to a halt a few feet away. The mayor grinned.

                "You've done much damage here," the gray man said.

                "Me? I didn't do anything. You were going to raid the place, remember?"

                "Perhaps," Graves said. "But Puck by this time will have heard about your coming here, and he'll think this was your doing. I also arranged for you to get credit for our raid on his Straight Street crack house."

                "Why the hell would you do that?"

                "To enhance your reputation, of course."

                "My reputation as what?"

                "As a challenger to his throne."

                "But I don't want his throne," Maxwell snapped.

                "He thinks you do, and he's scared."

                "He can't be that afraid of me or otherwise he would have killed me by now."

                "I'm sure he's contemplated that numerous times," the mayor said. "But even he knows he can't kill a myth so easily as all that."

                "A myth? You're as crazy as he is."

                "Am I? I never said I believed you to be Superman. In fact, I know better. Even Hutch knew you could be taken. But he liked the fact that you alone struck fear in the heart of Puck. Hutch wanted to do you in himself, to take your place in Puck's heart, but you've done things even Hutch couldn't figure, and now even he's afraid of you."

                "And you're not?"

                "I admire your prowess, but I have the law on my side, and a hundred armed men."

                "But I'm the one you're using to get at Puck," Maxwell said. "I'm the one Puck expects to come after him."

                "And you do have to finish it," Graves conceded.

                "If I don't?"

                "He'll continue to make the girl pay for loving you," Graves said. "Right now, he has her up at his castle, doing unimaginable things to her because of you."

                "And you with your hundred guns won't lift a finger?"

                "He has his guns, too. It would mean all out war."

                "But if I go?"

                "He'll want to kill you himself -- of have his nigger do it for him while he watches."

                "All right," Maxwell said. "I'm going up there. And then, when I'm done with him, I'm coming back for you."

                "If you come back, Zarra," the mayor said.

                "Oh, I will, I guarantee it."

                ***********

                The car roared up the drive way, every part of it seeming to thrive on the rage exuded from Maxwell's hands, as if the energy poured through his fingers as he shifted gear or turned the wheel. The ghost of Charlie was alive again, feeding on Maxwell's anger as if fuel. The car refused to halt when Maxwell applied the brakes, bucking furiously as he shifted the gear into park, he and the vehicle shuddering in unison as he sat at the lower curb. Puck's black Trans Am was just visible in the driveway nearer the castle -- as were several off-road vehicles. Although lights glowed in the arched windows of the castle, the whole place seemed abandoned. No sound drifted down to where Maxwell waited. No movement or shadow showed across the lighted windows.

                For a long moment, Maxwel did not move, just sitting in the dark, his hands so tightly gripped around the steering wheel, his palms hurt.

                "The first rule of fighting is to keep your head," Charlie told him twenty years earlier. "You must find your center and hold it."

                But the lecture seemed to lose meaning now, when rage was all he had, like a pent up desire that demanded release, and the violence he envisioned lacked meaning without the associated emotion.

                He wanted to see Puck bleeding.

                Then, something moved across the lawn, some dark shape staggering from the road below -- not following the route of the driveway, but moving in a straight line across the lawn. For a moment, a glint of light revealed the face.

                "JACK!" Maxwell yelled, and yanked open the car door, as the figure staggered to a stop.

                Jack blinked, his swollen eyes squinting to make out Maxwell at the car.

                "Is that you, Max?" Jack asked.

                "Of course, it's me. Come here."

                Jack staggered over to the car. He looked only marginally better than he had in the jail cell, though he had a band aid over one of the cuts on his face.

                "How the hell did you get here?" Maxwell asked. "I thought the police took you to the hospital?"

 

                "I went to morgue instead."

                "The morgue?"

                "The mayor said he had something to show me," Jack said, choking on the words. "They killed her, Max."

                "Killed who?"

                "Linda. She had a fucking hole in her chest, big enough to drive your car through."

                "Who the hell would do that?"

                "The mayor said it was the Boss."

                "It wasn't Puck," Maxwell said, his voice so low he could barely hear himself.

                "Who would kill my Linda?"

                "Probably Hutch," Maxwell said, his head filling with visions of gun battle between Hutch and her brothers. Somewhere in the middle of the cross fire, someone taking aim at the girl -- one last act of violence, as if to say if Hutch couldn't have her, no one would. "He's probably up there in the castle with Puck right now."

                Jack's wounded face tightened with a look of rage. "If I had my gun, I'd take care of that bastard," he said.

                "Here," Maxwell said, thrusting the weapon into Jack's shaky hands, along with the box of bullets. "You'll need the pistol more than I will. But we can't just charge in there. They're armed to the teeth, waiting for someone to come get them. We need some kind of distraction."

                Jack shook his head. "We don't have time for that," he said. "Sooner or later the police will come, and I want Hutch for myself, before the police get him, or worse, he has a chance to get away."

                Clutching the pistol in one hand and the box of bullets in the other, Jack staggered away, stumbling into the shadows of the castle, one more lost soul seeking its doom.

                Maxwell made no immediate move to follow, studying the walls of the building, wondering if it was as secure as it looked. Then, his gaze followed the line of the wall to where the cars were parked, then the line of the road leading to the lot as it circled down and around to where he was standing.

                "Puck's expecting me," he thought, "But maybe not through the front door."

                Maxwell sighed, slipped into the car again, and drove the rest of the way up to the castle door.

                ***********

                Three men leaped to their feet when Maxwell walked approached the front door, each fumbling for pistols they had shoved into their pants, two unable to free their weapons in time to halt Maxwell's strike -- falling forward clutching their groins. The third tried to aim his pistol, but Maxwell kicked his knee, then groin, then chest -- in piston like movements that sent the man's pistol clattering across the cobblestones and the man back against the door to slide down it.

                Maxwell retrieved the weapon and tossed it back out onto the lawn, then shoved the man aside so as to make his way inside. All remained the same from his last visit, although with second viewing, Maxwell noted the decay -- as if Puck could not keep up the place any better than Lambert had, and that anybody fool enough to sit up on a hill and declare himself king would suffer an equal indignity.

                The door to the room on the left stood open, and the space beyond it, sat empty -- save for the historic desk and chair Puck never used, part of that image of professionalism the street urchin had sought to create for himself, and that connection to the past, he needed to maintain. He was an upsurder to the throne, seeking to justify his crowning by manufacturing a line of ancestry to the original robber barons. Maxwell remembered some of Puck's moaning when half conscious here years ago.

                "They were just like me," Puck said, giddy with the realization. "The fucking bastards were just like me."

                Silk baron, drug lord, they were all the same.

                To the right, the square room sat with a dark, dungeon-like foundation, its curved walls making up the base to the southern tower. It had served the castle's original master as a vault. No sound came from its darkness, so Maxwell ignored it, edging on, feet coming into contact with the carpet, static bristling with each step.

                Again on his right, another break in the wall opened up onto the steps -- so narrow and twisting that two people could not limb it abreast, servants stairs that allowed the staff to access the kitchen and other necessary places and quickly return with meals or laundry to the master's chambers in the floors above. No sound came from that direction either, and Maxwell eased on, through the wide framed space that led to the dark pocket ball room.

                He heard the moan first, and then the click of a safety, and spun in their direction just as the lights flooded on, the blinding blaze of the chandelier leaving him helpless for a moment, though he rolled to one side, hoping that if someone fired, they would be as blind as he was, shooting for the space where they had last seen him standing.

                From a crouch, he surveyed the spot where the sounds and come from, and found everything he had come for: Puck seated in an throne like chair near the fire place, a drugged Patty staring into space at his right side, and the more cautious, and fully armed Redbone standing to the other side, machine pistol covering the room in arching movements, waiting for its chance to open fire. At Puck's feet, Hutch moaned. His bloody face testified to a recent violent encounter from which he had not emerged a victor.

                Maxwell soon realized these were not the only four people in the room. Perched on the second floor at intervals along the encircling balcony were additional loyal soldiers, the last of Puck's once massive army, their rifles turned inward and down towards the floor of the ballroom -- towards that point where Maxwell crouched.

                "Come in, come in," Puck said, laughing as he waved Maxwell towards a heavy-armed wooden chair near where he sat, his face contorted, his gestures overly wild. "We've been expecting you."

                Maxwell straightened, then eased out into the open, knowing that nothing could save him if Puck ordered those above to open fire. Hutch moaned, his blonde hair batted with blood, as was a greater portion of his pants -- his hands clutching the space where his zipper had been. He saw Maxwell, but with eyes that had the dull gaze of near death.

                Of all in the room, below and above, only Redbone seemed calm, dressed in his ---- as if prepared for a contest, his black belt tied around his middle, his huge black hangs resting on the knot. The black man's head was lowered and eyes closed. He stirred at the sound of Maxwell's step, but did not open his eyes.

                Redbone was centering himself for a conflict, Maxwell thought.

                But Maxwell's attention focused on Patty, who stood at the other side of Puck's large chair, her hands and legs chained slave-style, her clothing largely removed except for the garments she might have worn during a dance at the club. She showed wounds as well, dried blood at the corner of her mouth, more active bleeding in the area of her thighs. More subtle in the dim light were the marks of lashes across torso and legs.

                "You're a fucking animal!" Maxwell growled at Puck, taking a step towards the chair, as safety's clicked off above him, each like an echo of the previous click. Redbone opened his eyes.

                "Don't come near me!" Puck said, his voice strained and shrilled.

                Maxwell halted, letting his own limbs go limp, his breathing deepening as he centered himself to control his rage.

                Patty -- so deep in a drug haze -- only now woke from her haze, blinking away blood from her brow Maxwell hadn't noticed, blood that made it difficult for her to see him.

                "You like what you see?" Puck asked in a hysterical voice. "We fixed her up, just because we knew you'd be coming."

                "You could have saved yourself the trouble," Maxwell said, glancing around, studying Puck's army. "You seem to be missing one of your fat dogs. Where's Wilson? Didn't you want him involved in this little gang bang of yours?"

                "Oh, he had his," Pick said. "Everybody had a piece of Patty -- except for Hutch here, and, of course, Red Bone."

                "Hutch needs a doctor," Maxwell said. "So does Patty."

                "Hutch needs to die," Puck shouted and leaped from his chair, his face contorted even more with rage. "And so do you, you son of a bitch!"

                Maxwell expected the sound of gunfire and then the ripping of his flesh as the riflemen above riddled his body with bullets. But the guard there seemed as stunned by Puck's sudden explosion as Maxwell and not firing took place.

                "You've ruined me!" Puck shouted, waving his fist at Maxwell. "You've stolen everything that was ever important to me, my father, my grid friend and now my goddamn city. You couldn't be satisfied with going off with your music, you have to ruin my life first."

                "No one stole anything you didn't give away," Maxwell said, his voice cooly calm. "You're father threw you out because you made such an ass of yourself, as for Patty, you just have to look at her to show how much you've cared for her.

                "Fuck you!" Pick shouted, and spat into Maxwell's face. "That's what I say to that! Fuck you! Someone do something about this bastard!"

                No one moved, except for the slight, tell-tale twitch from Redbone, who set himself to honor his master's request.

                His was a style Maxwell had seen before, with a slow ritualistic wind up that some of the elders in Maxwell's dojo used, part of that early movement in the 1960s to imitate traditional oriental mannerisms.

                But Maxwell did not fool himself about Red Bone's prowess, as the man swung around to face him, the eyes glinting as if anticipating the next few moments with pleasure -- and oddly, admiration.

                "We both knew it would have to come to this sooner or later?" the black man said, circling now, his hands up, blade like at intervals above his chest, his elbows rigid, his gaze locked on Maxwell's, watching Maxwell's eyes for clues of Maxwell's attack.

                "Did it?" Maxwell asked, taking up a stance similar to Red Bones, but more the hub of the wheel, moving to keep his face to his opponent. "I've spent my life trying to avoid conflicts like this."

                "You have not succeeded well," Red Bone said, a glint of mockery in his eyes. "Each time we've met, you've been at the center of some conflict. But then, some people are born to it."

                "And I'm one of those?"

                "You have not heeded repeated warnings."

                "I suppose I don't like people telling me how to live my life," Maxwell said.

                "We all do," Red Bone growled. "Why should you be the exception?"

                Something sad showed in Red Bone's eyes then, as if the veil that had hung over the man's inner soul from their first meeting in the jail so many years earlier finally lifted to reveal how dissatisfied with his own fate -- how the man could have been more, should have been more, than Puck's lacky.

                "Will you stop talking and kill the fucker!" Puck screamed.

                "He'll die soon enough," Red Bone said, but then cocked his head, distracted by some sound outside the room. He didn't look away from Maxwell, but the distraction clearly annoyed him. Maxwell maintained his stare, too, but sensed the movement of the men above, the clatter of the weapons telling him they had turned their attention elsewhere.

                Then, something sounded on the roof high above the pocket ballroom. Shouted voices pursued the scramble of footsteps there, Jack's enraged voice among them, although the words were lost. A pistol report sounded, followed by the whack of a pistol shot Maxwell recognized as a police Glock. Glass tinkled to the floor as a missed footstep on the roof shattered a corner of the skylight.

                More shouts sounded, followed by a more significant crash as something larger crashed through the glass high above -- the body of a uniformed police officer falling with a plop at Puck's feet. Red Bone blinked. Maxwell struck the man's open groin with a sharp kick. He held back nothing, feeling the tips of his toes scoring. He struck again and again, alternating hands and feet, giving the wounded man no chance to react, watching the black man crumble -- at which point Maxwell fell back to a defensive position.

                He had lost control. He had struck harder than intended. The black man had died in the series of blows, his thin body now side by side with the plump form of the dead Wilson.

                Only then did Maxwell stare up at the broken skylight, catching the grinning face of his roommate in the gap, an expression as deranged as Puck's. Jack swayed, his shoulder showing a stream of red with a limp arm dangling below it. Then he was gone as more shots sounded from above.

                Puck found voice and screamed at Maxwell. "You cheated! You're not better than me."

                Maxwell shook his head, squinting at the wild man, as Puck started kicking at the black man's body. But it was Hutch's broken shape that moved, moans erupting into laughter as he lifted his bloody head.

                "He beat you," Hutch told Puck. "The fucking poet beat you."

                "Shut up!" Puck screeched.

                "But he did. He killed your black lover and his buddy shot your fat cop, now you got nobody left to keep Graves from getting you."

                "I told you to shut up," Puck screamed and yanked a large pistol from his belt, the automatic weapons emptying its clip into the upturned face, shattering it, sending a shower of blood and brain across the floor and the nearby people. Then Puck turned the weapon towards where Maxwell stood, but Maxwell was no longer standing there.

                Puck blinked, waving the gun in a manner that might clear the air of smoke or shadows, his mouth tight like a red slash across the bottom on his face.

                "Oh, such a clever boy," Puck said. "You were also so clever. But maybe too clever for your own good, eh? Maybe you left me with the thing you really want? Well, you're not going to get here. You hear me? She's not yours. I'll kill her first, I swear I will."

                Maxwell heard this half way up the twisted stairs, pushing passed Puck's confused army who where squeezing down the other way. They looked too scared to wonder at Maxwell, their faces bearing the same expression he had seen on television images of refugees. They were an army in retreat, casting curses towards the top where a few loyalists apparently remained.

                The moment Maxwell appeared at the top, one of the loyal screamed: "He's up here! That son of a bitch is up here."

                "Kill him!" Puck shouted from below.

                The boy swung his rifle around -- too young and inexperienced to realize how doomed his cause was, too slow to stop Maxwell's attack, stumbling back as blow after blow struck vital parts of his anatomy. His rifle fell off the balcony clattering on the floor far below. He collapsed in a heap, and this broke the spirit of those few others who had remained, some of them yelling out to seek the back stairs. Their echo of their retreating footsteps filled the emptying castle with ghosts.

                Maxwell peered over the balcony. Puck was gone. He had taken Patty with him, the cage door still swinging over the crumpled and bleeding bodies of Hutch, Wilson and Red Bone.

                The report of a small caliber pistol sounded from outside the castle, followed by the rat-tat-tat of heavier weapons, and finally by the sustained boom of a high caliber machine pistol letting loose a flurry of shots.

                "Damn it, Jack," Maxwell thought, as he turned quickly to find his way out, plunging down the narrow stairs again, hoping he could reach his roommate in time.

                ************

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