mail drop... "
"Aw, not that douchebag Crane! Jesus, every time I set foot in that friggin' rich-boy hellhole I get a case of the hives -" The finger jerked in his back again. "I love that guy."
" Crane. If you bring him the intelligence I require, I will allow you to continue serving the cause. If not... your sins are deep and steep, Detective, and they lie black upon your heart. I know about the gambling, the bribes, the kickbacks, the whores. Some would say the Spider's Web has no place for you. "
"So what, you'd kick me out?" Stacey scowled. "Just 'cause I cream a little off the top here and there? A guy's gotta make a living, buddy - uh, sir."
Crane jabbed the finger into his back once more, leaning closer. "Yes. I would kick you out."
His hiss dropped slightly. " Of a window. "
Stacey stiffened, the sweat glistening on the back of his neck. Unconsciously, he raised his arms. "Please, I - I got a family! I got a grandmother with, with lumbago, she needs me - I got two! Another with the consumption! She needs me too! I'm needed in this world!"
Crane chuckled dryly.
" I'd hate to deprive your 'grandmothers' of your continued affection, Detective. The information. Tomorrow, without fail, as soon as your shift ends. Do we have an understanding? "
Stacey nodded, and Crane took a perverse delight in noting the dark stain spreading across the front of his tan suit trousers.
" Don't turn around. "
Harry Stacey didn't turn around.
He remained, with his arms raised and the front of his trousers coated with his own urine, for six minutes and fourteen seconds, until finally the two pneumatic blondes who Parker Crane would spend the evening entertaining in various ways exited the ladies toilets and asked him if he'd had a stroke.
On his way out, with the girls in place on his arms and another coming along for good measure - a statuesque redhead, the daughter of a Wall Street financier, who believed in seizing each moment as it came or some such philosophy, Parker Crane turned back and met the gaze of Doctor Hamilton. There was no emotion in that gaze. It reminded Crane of nothing so much as a dead fish on a slab, but all the same, he found something in it unpleasant. Threatening, almost.
"Can I help you?" he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.
"Parker Crane, the fashion photographer." Hamilton thrust out a hand, which Crane didn't take. "A pleasure to meet you. I'm..." He seemed to be searching for the correct words. "...an admirer of your work. I think you've made quite a valuable contribution to the culture of this city."
Something in the phrasing bothered Crane. "What do you mean?"
"What I say. I've watched your career with interest. In fact, I think we may have a mutual acquaintance..." His eyes narrowed, speculatively, though his expression did not betray the slightest hint of what he was thinking.
Crane stood for a moment, before one of the blondes - Mandy? Sandy? - tugged his arm, giggling. " Par- ker, we want to see your place. You said you'd show us your etchings..." They dissolved into tipsy giggles and led him away towards a waiting hansom. As he walked out through the great double doors of the Astoria, Crane turned to look back at the strange man who'd accosted him.
But Doctor Hamilton was gone.
Later, in his palatial room, Parker Crane lay back on silk sheets soaked with champagne and the sweat of beautiful women, ears filled with drunken laughter and soft, wet noises, and mused that none of this seemed real to him. Occasionally, all of the luxury, these endless dalliances and pleasures of his other self, his fake self - all of it disgusted him. Yes, there was a release there, a form of pleasure, but it was nothing compared to that feeling in him when he pulled the trigger and removed evil from the world. True pleasure came from the barrel of a gun.
The thought amused him as he allowed sleep to steal over him.
In the hospital, Monk Olsen breathed through a tube. He would not
"Aw, not that douchebag Crane! Jesus, every time I set foot in that friggin' rich-boy hellhole I get a case of the hives -" The finger jerked in his back again. "I love that guy."
" Crane. If you bring him the intelligence I require, I will allow you to continue serving the cause. If not... your sins are deep and steep, Detective, and they lie black upon your heart. I know about the gambling, the bribes, the kickbacks, the whores. Some would say the Spider's Web has no place for you. "
"So what, you'd kick me out?" Stacey scowled. "Just 'cause I cream a little off the top here and there? A guy's gotta make a living, buddy - uh, sir."
Crane jabbed the finger into his back once more, leaning closer. "Yes. I would kick you out."
His hiss dropped slightly. " Of a window. "
Stacey stiffened, the sweat glistening on the back of his neck. Unconsciously, he raised his arms. "Please, I - I got a family! I got a grandmother with, with lumbago, she needs me - I got two! Another with the consumption! She needs me too! I'm needed in this world!"
Crane chuckled dryly.
" I'd hate to deprive your 'grandmothers' of your continued affection, Detective. The information. Tomorrow, without fail, as soon as your shift ends. Do we have an understanding? "
Stacey nodded, and Crane took a perverse delight in noting the dark stain spreading across the front of his tan suit trousers.
" Don't turn around. "
Harry Stacey didn't turn around.
He remained, with his arms raised and the front of his trousers coated with his own urine, for six minutes and fourteen seconds, until finally the two pneumatic blondes who Parker Crane would spend the evening entertaining in various ways exited the ladies toilets and asked him if he'd had a stroke.
On his way out, with the girls in place on his arms and another coming along for good measure - a statuesque redhead, the daughter of a Wall Street financier, who believed in seizing each moment as it came or some such philosophy, Parker Crane turned back and met the gaze of Doctor Hamilton. There was no emotion in that gaze. It reminded Crane of nothing so much as a dead fish on a slab, but all the same, he found something in it unpleasant. Threatening, almost.
"Can I help you?" he said, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice.
"Parker Crane, the fashion photographer." Hamilton thrust out a hand, which Crane didn't take. "A pleasure to meet you. I'm..." He seemed to be searching for the correct words. "...an admirer of your work. I think you've made quite a valuable contribution to the culture of this city."
Something in the phrasing bothered Crane. "What do you mean?"
"What I say. I've watched your career with interest. In fact, I think we may have a mutual acquaintance..." His eyes narrowed, speculatively, though his expression did not betray the slightest hint of what he was thinking.
Crane stood for a moment, before one of the blondes - Mandy? Sandy? - tugged his arm, giggling. " Par- ker, we want to see your place. You said you'd show us your etchings..." They dissolved into tipsy giggles and led him away towards a waiting hansom. As he walked out through the great double doors of the Astoria, Crane turned to look back at the strange man who'd accosted him.
But Doctor Hamilton was gone.
Later, in his palatial room, Parker Crane lay back on silk sheets soaked with champagne and the sweat of beautiful women, ears filled with drunken laughter and soft, wet noises, and mused that none of this seemed real to him. Occasionally, all of the luxury, these endless dalliances and pleasures of his other self, his fake self - all of it disgusted him. Yes, there was a release there, a form of pleasure, but it was nothing compared to that feeling in him when he pulled the trigger and removed evil from the world. True pleasure came from the barrel of a gun.
The thought amused him as he allowed sleep to steal over him.
In the hospital, Monk Olsen breathed through a tube. He would not
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