Gods of Manhattan by Al Ewing

of them knew the truth - that was what filled him with that cold, coiling hatred, lying like a snake in his gut. Not a single one of these vultures knew the reality of the man they were so desperate to tell the world about in their filthy little publications.
    The corner of his mouth twitched, almost involuntarily, in a smile. And if they did know... if the great unwashed who pored over these yellow rags, these scandal-sheets, if they knew his intimate secrets - what? Would they praise him? Understand the cause that burned in him like a fire? He liked to think they might.
    Some would want him dead, of course. The criminals. The inhuman. But he and they were at war, a war that never ended. Nestled against warm, yielding flesh, his trigger fingers itched, unsatisfied, denied their kill.
    Inside, the girls ran quickly to powder their noses, leaving him blessedly alone. As he plucked a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, he felt his ears burning, and he turned his attention to the source - a rather loud argument near a potted plant, which the waiters were studiously avoiding as if attempting to starve it into silence, but which had drawn a small throng despite their efforts.
    "What you don't understand, Mister Big-Shit Doctor A-hole, is the Blood-Spider's keepin' our streets safe, capeesh? Every one of these pieces of crap he puts down means lives saved! People in the line walkin' away from the jackpot and breathin' for another day! You ever told an officer's widow her husband's lying in the ground because some spic had more rights than he did? Huh? You ever did that, asshole, 'cause I have!"
    The voice was loud, belligerent and rough, sandpapery from decades of nicotine abuse. Crane recognised it immediately. Detective Harry Stacey, forty-three years old, five feet and two inches tall. Hair a muddy grey with still the occasional streak of red. A handlebar moustache to match. A tan suit that had seen better days. He stank of whiskey, cheap cigars and light corruption. Crane had no doubt that he'd scrounged up the hundred dollars admission though gambling or stealing cash from the evidence locker, and presumably he was only here in the first place to grease a few palms or find a new mistress to put in the apartment he kept for that purpose across town.
    In many respects, the man was a human sewer, but he had qualities that Crane couldn't help but admire. For example, he had an iron determination to protect the decent people in society from the undesirables, those who would prey on them - those inhuman devils who would revel in their sins, as it were - and he never allowed his weaknesses to compromise that. Not to mention that his deep connections with the more squalid elements of the police department allowed him to be useful to the Blood-Spider as a member of the Spider's Web.
    Of course, if he hadn't proved himself so useful, he would have probably been killed by now. That made his blind loyalty a source of endless amusement to Crane, although naturally the Blood-Spider would never allow it to show. Idly, Crane looked over at his opponent in the one-sided debate.
    'A tall, thin man, dressed in a grey suit and leaning on a gold-handled cane, with longish white hair and beard, hollow cheeks and grey, sunken eyes with large bags underneath them. The face was emotionless, almost supernaturally calm in the face of Stacey's tirade, and the only movement the man made was to occasionally take a long sip from the champagne glass in his left hand.
    What had Stacey called the man? A doctor?
    "It just seems somewhat unconstitutional, doesn't it? Shooting a young man in the street in cold blood. What about the basic freedoms?" The voice was cold, disinterested, and this attitude only enraged Stacey more. The scotch in his glass spilled over his clutching hand as he aimed a stubby finger at his debating partner.
    "Freedoms? Screw your god-damn freedoms, Mister Med School! What about my freedoms? Where's my right to take a