Gods of Manhattan by Al Ewing Page A

walk through the South Bronx at night without some freakin' jig sticking a knife up my ass? Where're the freedoms of all the decent folk, like - like schoolteachers, not the stinking commie ones, the ones who teach sports, where's their freedom not to have to look over their shoulders all the time in case there's a Jap with a giant freakin' pair of, I don't know, those sticks with the chains, what are they called, standing there waiting to knock their balls right off 'em and wear 'em like a friggin' hat? If it was up to you, Hamilton, you'd just give all the chinks and the spics who're terrorising the streets of this city a, a little slap on the wrist and a don't-do-it-again-"
    "Can we do this without the racial invective?" murmured the doctor - Hamilton, that was his name. His expression had not changed, and he looked bored by the whole discussion. There was something about him that rubbed Crane the wrong way. His stoicism in the face of Stacey's drunken tirade seemed unnatural, somehow.
    Not to mention his disapproval of the cause, which was suspicious in itself. This Hamilton would bear watching.
    "Racial - up your ass, pal! I'm no racist!" Stacey flushed red, knuckles white on his glass as he tossed the rest of the scotch down his throat. "You god-damned progressives, you're pretty damned quick to call a guy a bigot just for speaking his mind, aincha? Maybe you're the racist, pal! Ever think of that? Maybe you're racist against people like me who friggin' work for a living - in the line - keepin' the streets safe like my buddy the Blood-Spider! Friggin'... friggin' cop racist! "
    "I think we're done here." Hamilton turned on his heel, taking the bulk of the crowd with him. Stacey stared balefully after him for a moment, hurled his dead cigar angrily onto the polished floor and then charged off in the other direction, banging immediately into a waiter carrying a tray of canapés and sending miniature smoked salmon rolls scattering in all directions. Crane watched Stacey curse the man out and then head down a corridor in the direction of the gents' toilets.
    Crane checked that no eyes were on him and then surreptitiously followed, making sure to keep several paces behind the detective, moving silently. Once they were out of sight of the main throng, Stacey stopped, digging in his inside pocket for a fresh cigar. Crane smiled, taking a handkerchief from his own pocket and using it to disguise his voice as he crept up behind the older man.
    It was all in the timing. Crane, silent, waited until Stacey had raised the stogie to his lips and was attempting to light it with a book of matches he'd taken from one of the city's many strip clubs. Then he spoke.
    " Detective. "
    The Blood-Spider's voice. That unearthly hiss, low, sibilant and menacing. Harry Stacey nearly leapt out of his skin. "Christ-" The match went flying, thankfully going out before it burned a hole in the carpet. The cigar slipped from suddenly trembling fingers, bouncing off an unpolished shoe.
    " Turn around and you will be killed, Detective. Do we understand each other? "
    Stacey had been half turning, but now stood straight as a ramrod, beads of sweat appearing on goose bumped flesh, staring straight ahead. "Aw, crap. I mean yessir. Whatever you say. I won't turn around, you can count on your buddy Harry Stacey, Mr. Blood-Spider, sir, 'cause I'm right there with you in the friggin' line, pal -"
    " Be quiet. "
    Stacey was quiet.
    " Two days ago, a man was found dead, Detective. Murdered in his home. He was killed with a sword. "
    Stacey frowned. "Killed in his home... wait, was this that recluse guy everybody thought was dead? Danner, Donner, what was his name -"
    Crane thrust the tip of a finger into the man's back, and he jerked as if he'd been stung by a wasp.
    " Be quiet, I said. "
    Stacey nodded, dumbly, trying to swallow.
    " I need information, Detective. Anyone who's been killed or injured with a sword in Manhattan. If you bring this information to my...