The one thing that had improved after they’d forced out the old residents of this neighbourhood was the parking situation. I would be able to move my car to the front of the building, or at least damn close. It beat parking in some skyscraper-like garage.
I reached my Talbot 140 and slipped inside. The leather felt a bit less comfortable than it had the previous night. My car was unique for this side of the city — for this side of the world, for that matter — as most people scraped by with Packards and Fords. I made enough to pay this one off, though it had cost me a small fortune to get it shipped in from France, since it was a concept car.
I’d just had to have it.
I still had sixteen minutes. Sixteen minutes to sober up in the seat’s leather embrace. I closed my eyes for a moment, and it was the most heavenly feeling I had experienced in months. I would have nodded off if not for the Green-eye with the buzzer who saw me sleeping in my car.
“Identification, sir?”
It was too formal. It creeped me out. The precincts employed Green-eyes for labour they couldn’t be bothered to do themselves, like writing parking and jaywalking tickets — or to be bullet fodder. This one kept staring into me with its green bulbs until I flipped open my coat and reached for my own badge. Not the most convincing fake, but I wasn’t trying to convince a human.
After one look, it stiffened up and retracted. “Thank you, sir.”
“Any time.” My throat was parched. I needed a drink — non-alcoholic. Looking at my watch, I saw I was late. Time flies when you’re nursing a hangover.
I started the car. The modified straight-10 engine croaked as exhaust funnelled out. The force of gravity hit me as I pressed my foot on the gas pedal, swerving into traffic to merge with the innumerable black boxes populating the American automobile market.
I knew the Prince well — far too well. After all, I’d often come here back in my heyday. It was half speakeasy, half red-light stop and drop, well known to criminals and cops alike. No one wanted to ruin it, since it was the best place to get liquored up or get laid in Lower Manhattan — the district, not the city. There were far better places in the East Village.
The building itself was taped off by yellow and black. Most of the people on site were either paramedics or recovering victims. The presence of body bags wasn’t comforting.
The Night Call had come from the senior officer on scene, Sinclair. He looked a lot more professional in his uniform than he had last night. Or was it this morning? I moved to approach him when one of the lesser cops from the 5th decided to get in my way. I couldn’t get mad at the greenhorn, though. Proper procedure, was all. He didn’t shove me, didn’t yell, but definitely put himself directly in my path. “Sorry, sir, we have a situation. Afraid you won’t be able to come near for some time, as —”
“Hoyte! Civilians over there. Keep ’em busy until the ambulances show up,” Sinclair snapped at the officer.
The young constable flushed red before running off toward the crowd of people who had previously been enjoying their night, and I resumed my path.
Sinclair pulled a long drag off his cigarette. “You look like hell, Roche. You sure you’re good to go?”
“Just fashionably late,” I said, stumbling a bit as I tried to jump over the yellow tape. A headache pierced my skull like a buzz saw, making everything more intense: the lights, the smells, the sounds. “Not all of us can fly Rotorbirds, you know. It takes time to travel places.” I looked around. “Goddamn, though … we used to love this place, didn’t we? It was only a matter of time, I suppose.”
“Yeah. Good girls, they had here. Guess they’ll be scroungin’ up residence someplace else.”
“I just came for the drinks, Paddy. I didn’t know what you got into behind closed doors.”
Sinclair turned to me, a bit less jovial. “Don’t call me that. Not on the job.”
“What? I’ve been calling you that since ’16: Ol’ Paddy Sinclair.” I winked, showing him a grin as he turned away and led me toward ground zero. Was he trying to look good for the new kids out front wrangling the passersby and patrons? Well, if he really wanted to impress them, he shouldn’t have called me in. “So, what’s the lowdown?” I asked.
“Worse than I can put it.” Sinclair led me into the cordoned-off speakeasy — or what was left of it — through the open double doors. It took some time for my vision to adjust to the low light, but soon enough I could make out nooks and tables covered in an assortment of glasses. The smell of alcohol was revolting to me at the moment. But the stench of blood was worse.
I’ve got to keep it down. Can’t throw up on the job.
The second-floor balcony that overlooked the main area looked more torn up than the ground floor; the safety bar at the edge of the landing had been torn from its sockets, twisted and bent like plastic. It was obvious that a Red-eye had done that damage, because no human could. Well, no regular human, and I hadn’t seen any Augers outside getting medical treatment.
My eyes were fixed upward on the second floor as I kept walking, until Sinclair’s hand on my chest stopped me in my tracks. I looked down and saw the reason for the Night Call. I nearly stepped in it, too.
There were at least half a dozen bodies, all of them dressed well and none of them moving. Blood
