Beyond the Pale: A fantasy anthology by Nancy Holder, Kami García, Saladin Ahmed, Jim Butcher, Jane Yolen, Heather Brewer, Rachel Caine, Gillian Philip, Peter Beagle Page A
Authors: Nancy Holder, Kami García, Saladin Ahmed, Jim Butcher, Jane Yolen, Heather Brewer, Rachel Caine, Gillian Philip, Peter Beagle
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Files know that
Harry Dresden’s main nemesis is the mobster Johnny Marcone. This short story
offers a fun twist in that it’s told from Marcone’s perspective rather than
Dresden’s.
A successful murder is like a successful restaurant: Ninety percent of
it is about location, location, location.
Three men in black hoods knelt on the waterfront warehouse floor, their
wrists and ankles trussed with heavy plastic quick-ties. There were few lights.
They knelt over a large, faded stain on the concrete floor, left behind by the
hypocritically-named White Council of Wizards during their last execution.
I nodded to Hendricks, who took the hood off the first man, then stood
clear. The man was young and good looking. He wore an expensive, yet
ill-fitting suit and even more expensive, yet tasteless jewelry.
“Where are you from?” I asked him.
He sneered at me. “What’s it to y — ”
I shot him in the head as soon as I heard the bravado in his voice. The
body fell heavily to the floor.
The other two jumped and cursed, their voices angry and terrified.
I took the hood off the second man. His suit was a close cousin of the
dead man’s, and I thought I recognized its cut. “Boston?” I asked him.
“You can’t do this to us,” he said, more angry than frightened. “Do you
know who we are?”
Once I heard the nasal quality of the word “are,” I shot him.
I took the third man’s hood off. He screamed and fell away from me.
“Boston,” I said, nodding, and put the barrel of my .45 against the third man’s
forehead. He stared at me, showing the whites of his eyes. “You know who I am.
I run drugs in Chicago. I run the numbers, the books. I run the whores. It’s my
town. Do you understand?”
His body jittered in what might have been a nod. His lips formed the
word “yes,” though no sound came out.
“I’m glad you can answer a simple question,” I told him, and lowered
the gun. “I want you to tell Mr. Morelli that I won’t be this lenient the next
time his people try to clip the edges of my territory.” I looked at Hendricks.
“Put the three of them in a sealed trailer and rail-freight them back to
Boston, care of Mr. Morelli.”
Hendricks was a large, trustworthy man, his red hair cropped in a crew
cut. He twitched his chin in the slight motion that he used for a nod when he
disapproved of my actions, but intended to obey me anyway.
Hendricks and the cleaners on my staff would handle the matter from
here.
I passed him the gun and the gloves on my hands. Both would see the
bottom of Lake Michigan before I was halfway home, along with the two slugs the
cleaners would remove from the site. When they were done, there would be
nothing left of the two dead men but a slight variation on the outline of the
stain in the old warehouse floor, where no one would look twice in any case.
Location, location, location.
Obviously, I am not Harry Dresden. My name is something I rarely
trouble to remember, but for most of my adult life, I have been called John
Marcone.
I am a professional monster.
It sounds pretentious. After all, I’m not a flesh-devouring ghoul,
hiding behind a human mask until it is time to gorge. I’m no vampire, to drain
the blood or soul from my victim, no ogre, no demon, no cursed beast from the
spirit world dwelling amidst the unsuspecting sheep of humanity. I’m not even
possessed of the mystic abilities of a mortal wizard.
But they will never be what I am. One and all, those beings were born
to be what they are.
I made a choice.
I walked outside of the warehouse and was met by my consultant,
Gard—a tall blonde woman without makeup whose eyes continually swept her
surroundings. She fell into step beside me as we walked to the car. “Two?”
“They couldn’t be bothered to answer a question in a civil manner.”
She opened the back door for me and I got in. I picked up my personal
weapon and slipped it into the holster beneath my left arm while she settled
down
Harry Dresden’s main nemesis is the mobster Johnny Marcone. This short story
offers a fun twist in that it’s told from Marcone’s perspective rather than
Dresden’s.
A successful murder is like a successful restaurant: Ninety percent of
it is about location, location, location.
Three men in black hoods knelt on the waterfront warehouse floor, their
wrists and ankles trussed with heavy plastic quick-ties. There were few lights.
They knelt over a large, faded stain on the concrete floor, left behind by the
hypocritically-named White Council of Wizards during their last execution.
I nodded to Hendricks, who took the hood off the first man, then stood
clear. The man was young and good looking. He wore an expensive, yet
ill-fitting suit and even more expensive, yet tasteless jewelry.
“Where are you from?” I asked him.
He sneered at me. “What’s it to y — ”
I shot him in the head as soon as I heard the bravado in his voice. The
body fell heavily to the floor.
The other two jumped and cursed, their voices angry and terrified.
I took the hood off the second man. His suit was a close cousin of the
dead man’s, and I thought I recognized its cut. “Boston?” I asked him.
“You can’t do this to us,” he said, more angry than frightened. “Do you
know who we are?”
Once I heard the nasal quality of the word “are,” I shot him.
I took the third man’s hood off. He screamed and fell away from me.
“Boston,” I said, nodding, and put the barrel of my .45 against the third man’s
forehead. He stared at me, showing the whites of his eyes. “You know who I am.
I run drugs in Chicago. I run the numbers, the books. I run the whores. It’s my
town. Do you understand?”
His body jittered in what might have been a nod. His lips formed the
word “yes,” though no sound came out.
“I’m glad you can answer a simple question,” I told him, and lowered
the gun. “I want you to tell Mr. Morelli that I won’t be this lenient the next
time his people try to clip the edges of my territory.” I looked at Hendricks.
“Put the three of them in a sealed trailer and rail-freight them back to
Boston, care of Mr. Morelli.”
Hendricks was a large, trustworthy man, his red hair cropped in a crew
cut. He twitched his chin in the slight motion that he used for a nod when he
disapproved of my actions, but intended to obey me anyway.
Hendricks and the cleaners on my staff would handle the matter from
here.
I passed him the gun and the gloves on my hands. Both would see the
bottom of Lake Michigan before I was halfway home, along with the two slugs the
cleaners would remove from the site. When they were done, there would be
nothing left of the two dead men but a slight variation on the outline of the
stain in the old warehouse floor, where no one would look twice in any case.
Location, location, location.
Obviously, I am not Harry Dresden. My name is something I rarely
trouble to remember, but for most of my adult life, I have been called John
Marcone.
I am a professional monster.
It sounds pretentious. After all, I’m not a flesh-devouring ghoul,
hiding behind a human mask until it is time to gorge. I’m no vampire, to drain
the blood or soul from my victim, no ogre, no demon, no cursed beast from the
spirit world dwelling amidst the unsuspecting sheep of humanity. I’m not even
possessed of the mystic abilities of a mortal wizard.
But they will never be what I am. One and all, those beings were born
to be what they are.
I made a choice.
I walked outside of the warehouse and was met by my consultant,
Gard—a tall blonde woman without makeup whose eyes continually swept her
surroundings. She fell into step beside me as we walked to the car. “Two?”
“They couldn’t be bothered to answer a question in a civil manner.”
She opened the back door for me and I got in. I picked up my personal
weapon and slipped it into the holster beneath my left arm while she settled
down
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