nonetheless,” Hayes said. “You’re likely searching for the Rose. Perhaps you’ve sent some of your men after Mr. Cardinal or you’ve put out a bounty on his head. I would suggest you cease those efforts immediately. We have resources, Mr. Impelliteri. The Rose belongs to us; it belongs with us. If you gain its possession, I can assure you it will be for a brief and sorrowful time.”
With the words still hanging in the air, the men of the Alchemi walked out of the study, leaving Marco with the remains of his bodyguard.
Thoughts ran through his head in a jumble of words and images. Each idea was critical. They raced like ponies on a track as Marco leaned back in his chair and let the pounding of his heart ease. The thought that led the pack was: Lonnie hadn’t been full of shit; the Rose was real and its power was real.
This important realization lost ground to Marco’s temper, which insisted he get on the phone so he could have his men begin the process of hunting down Brand and Hayes. He needed to show those fucks how much he enjoyed someone breaking into his house and killing his guard. This thought came on fast and hot, but it faded just as quickly when he remembered how little he’d done to track down the Rose.
He’d only sent Rabin, and Rabin was good, but he could only cover so much ground. Cardinal could be anywhere by now. The outfits had a long reach, and Marco decided that getting the word out was crucial; he would put an ample price on Cardinal’s head, one so high no one would be stupid enough to let the wrestler slide.
Marco crossed to his desk, ignoring Tony’s corpse, which continued to leak fluids through the innumerable holes in its skin. For a moment, he was confused because the space where he kept his phone was empty. Then he remembered and looked at the floor where the busted machine lay like another victim. He growled a stream of obscenities and walked through the house to the kitchen where he kept a second phone. The longest night he’d experienced in months was just beginning.
Part Two
New Orleans December 1932
Chapter 10
Under the Weather
Butch woke to the sensation of someone rapping gently on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to a stern, round face with bulging eyes and plump, wet lips beneath the bill of a conductor’s cap. With his amphibian eyes and fat cheeks, the man’s face looked like it was about to explode. “New Orleans,” he said, but Butch’s plugged ears and addled mind turned the words into “Nawluns.”
Threads of dream clung to him as he shook off sleep. Details from his dreams melted like paraffin but he knew with complete certainty that the dreams had been horrible. He felt so bad, they couldn’t have been otherwise.
He nodded, which sent the conductor on his way, but Butch remained in the seat, looking through the window at the wooly, gray air, as he tried to compose himself. A chill ran through him as if his blood had been replaced with ice water. He trembled. Sweat coated his neck and brow. Fluid streamed from his scratchy eyes and his head felt as if it were full of rancid pudding. His throat hurt. His head ached. When he tried to breathe, he could barely get air to his lungs. His chest felt as if it were being used as a bumper between two trucks. Then the pain from his wounded ear surfaced, arriving after the other miserable sensations like the star of a show. It burned and throbbed. Butch coughed painfully and set about hoisting himself from the seat. At first, his muscles were like rubber, all but useless, and only with a tremendous act of will did Butch manage to get to his feet. He wobbled for a moment as he checked for his billfold and the scrap of paper with the name and phone exchange of Rory’s friend on it. The necklace nearly slipped his mind. He reached into his shirt and felt the bauble against his chest and nodded. Then, with great effort, he made his way off the train.
The depot teamed with people,
With the words still hanging in the air, the men of the Alchemi walked out of the study, leaving Marco with the remains of his bodyguard.
Thoughts ran through his head in a jumble of words and images. Each idea was critical. They raced like ponies on a track as Marco leaned back in his chair and let the pounding of his heart ease. The thought that led the pack was: Lonnie hadn’t been full of shit; the Rose was real and its power was real.
This important realization lost ground to Marco’s temper, which insisted he get on the phone so he could have his men begin the process of hunting down Brand and Hayes. He needed to show those fucks how much he enjoyed someone breaking into his house and killing his guard. This thought came on fast and hot, but it faded just as quickly when he remembered how little he’d done to track down the Rose.
He’d only sent Rabin, and Rabin was good, but he could only cover so much ground. Cardinal could be anywhere by now. The outfits had a long reach, and Marco decided that getting the word out was crucial; he would put an ample price on Cardinal’s head, one so high no one would be stupid enough to let the wrestler slide.
Marco crossed to his desk, ignoring Tony’s corpse, which continued to leak fluids through the innumerable holes in its skin. For a moment, he was confused because the space where he kept his phone was empty. Then he remembered and looked at the floor where the busted machine lay like another victim. He growled a stream of obscenities and walked through the house to the kitchen where he kept a second phone. The longest night he’d experienced in months was just beginning.
Part Two
New Orleans December 1932
Chapter 10
Under the Weather
Butch woke to the sensation of someone rapping gently on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to a stern, round face with bulging eyes and plump, wet lips beneath the bill of a conductor’s cap. With his amphibian eyes and fat cheeks, the man’s face looked like it was about to explode. “New Orleans,” he said, but Butch’s plugged ears and addled mind turned the words into “Nawluns.”
Threads of dream clung to him as he shook off sleep. Details from his dreams melted like paraffin but he knew with complete certainty that the dreams had been horrible. He felt so bad, they couldn’t have been otherwise.
He nodded, which sent the conductor on his way, but Butch remained in the seat, looking through the window at the wooly, gray air, as he tried to compose himself. A chill ran through him as if his blood had been replaced with ice water. He trembled. Sweat coated his neck and brow. Fluid streamed from his scratchy eyes and his head felt as if it were full of rancid pudding. His throat hurt. His head ached. When he tried to breathe, he could barely get air to his lungs. His chest felt as if it were being used as a bumper between two trucks. Then the pain from his wounded ear surfaced, arriving after the other miserable sensations like the star of a show. It burned and throbbed. Butch coughed painfully and set about hoisting himself from the seat. At first, his muscles were like rubber, all but useless, and only with a tremendous act of will did Butch manage to get to his feet. He wobbled for a moment as he checked for his billfold and the scrap of paper with the name and phone exchange of Rory’s friend on it. The necklace nearly slipped his mind. He reached into his shirt and felt the bauble against his chest and nodded. Then, with great effort, he made his way off the train.
The depot teamed with people,
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