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There’s an old saying that if it’s not broke, don’t try to fix it…. Sometimes it’s like they could write that on me bloody tombstone. Gasoline Alley by Josh Whitener <”Will that be all, sir?”> The waiter was a thin man of little muscle and very odd looking. Those eyebrows, or rather that eyebrow ascended like a curtain over his curious eyes to study the man at the table in front of him. With a small nod the man spoke. “Spasibo.” With a hesitant stare the waiter then nodded accordingly and placed the bill beside him before quickly making himself scarce through the kitchen door. The man’s hand moves to the bill and turns it slightly into view. Momentarily it moved to grab the burning cigarette in his ashtray and pulled at it with a deep breath. He waited, holding his breath, before a small cloud of smoke blew from his mouth and then he went for his coat. With the slap of the case he left the respectable amount of cash before rising from his table and gathering his coat at the door. John Constantine left the restaurant throwing his coat around those bulking shoulders and tugging at it roughly to avert the wind’s small gusts. This was the way he came and went for days now, not stopping to stay for more than fifteen minutes in a place before making some phantom exit. Luckily he had a few contacts in Eastern Europe who hadn’t heard of his fiasco weeks earlier. Seemed the sooner the better to leave all else behind him, then maybe that way he could outrun the word of mouth. A pair of eyes watched him cautiously from the other side of the street. It was almost two months since the murder of Ivan and time didn’t hold his hand for this one. There was an ominous chill in the air. Mark Posigof had written a letter to him while he was in London; he didn’t get it until two weeks ago and managed to settle down for a night. There were sightings around a specific part of the city, where people were acting all kind of degrees crazy. “John, By now I’d have figured you’d heard. No use in apologizing, I can’t think of something more inconsequential than your involvement. The only reason I’m writing you is because once and for all Ivan needs to be in peace. The newspapers have done nothing but make a mockery of the crime, and different sects of the KGB are already gotten a hold on the situation and it’s steadily getting worse. Ivan was a fair man, but he wasn’t the brightest or careful in his life. Of all, you John need to evaluate your situation….” Then it trailed off into more of a plea than anything. After a phone call I got in touch with Mark and let him do the talking, which inevitably made me do the walking. As much as air travel sickens me it’s a welcome change from trying to hide myself on sail barges and sneaking rides with total strangers. No one’s looking for me now, so why am I buggering it up to have it all happen over again? Most of the world considers me dead by now, anyway. He told me what had been reported, which was as helpful as a punch in the face. Streets were cluttered with enough paranormal activity to make the ones that wanted to notice drool. A bookstore girl ran home terrified when she saw something unspeakable in the alley near Ivan’s old apartment. For weeks inspectors were clueless, surprising – hardly. There wasn’t a bastard’s clue in hell what was making the homeless gauge the eyes out of rats, only to turn on each other. One of the more recent ones was found strung over a rusty terrace. His left arm was severed and found below the body. The body was beaten to death, carrying several bruises along the face and torso, and then metal shards were forced into the eye sockets. When he ran out of those he used the pieces of glass from a broken vodka bottle. This happened about two days before John flew into the country, which meant that there was one still at large. So with a potential killer and something haunting the streets of an old market town in Moscow what’s there to lose? Hell, at least he gave me a location. Peter hurried inside the church. His feet stamped insanely against the wooden floor, making noticeable “clunking” sounds throughout the entire establishment. The stained glass figures were lit as the setting sun fell to highlight their sometimes eerie faces. One that always ran a chill down his spine was a figure of John the Baptist, his head held in his own hands as his index and middle fingers rose to the heavens as figure of Christ beckoned him from the panel above. He stopped to stare at it. Peter’s eyes were round and innocent, caring dark circles underneath them. His lips full, red and a smooth, square jaw line that needed shaving about once a week. As he moved at a much slower pace towards the confessional booths he kneeled and crossed himself before moving to knock at one of specific importance. He knocked gently. Nicholas Grübter’s hands crossed over his chest to form the sign of the cross invisibly across it. The small confessional door opened, his eyes peering out like an owl searching for food, locking onto the man in front of him. He was met by no other than Peter. <”He has already arrived.”> He rose from his kneeling position and calmly walked out of the booth-like area. He had an odd habit of chewing on the inside of his lower lip when he was excited. This was no exception. Clearing his throat he spoke calmly. <”You’re certain?”> <”Yes sir, Vysovic saw him not long after he left a café near the old market district. He believes to be heading there.”> <”Because Vysovic told you this? He’s a belligerent old drunk and you should not make assumptions from someone that speaks with nothing to say, Peter. Get the car ready.”> Peter nodded and at once moved to make his way out of the chapel, stopping first to cross himself before the alter once more, and then leaving as quickly as he entered. Nicholas’s steps were slower, moving to the altar with a graceful stride. His black suit fit perfectly, giving in to his more lean trim. Blonde strands of thin hair fell just over the rim of his scalp in a short crop style trim. Blue orbs scanned over the contents of the altar and a short smile spread to reveal short mouse like teeth. His skin was not so much pale as it was milky; a tone that sometimes reflected his personality. The altar held several candles that illuminated yet another representation. The stained glass was intensely lit by the direct rays of the setting sun. The man, if it was called, was surrounded, bordered if you will, by a thick slate of black. Its body ran symmetrically down to the end of the window, where his feet were then hidden under a painted representation of water. Its body was that of a normal mans – but its head was beholding something more troubling. The nose was bent in more, crocked and pointed resembling features of a crow. The eyes were hollowed out, tiny teeth-like shards of glass pointed inward. This looked like it was hand done by drills, or nailed. Painted blood ran down the cheeks of the glass, defacing his porcelain skin. The source of the blood seemed to be from the eyes. Those eyes were met by Nicholas’s own. He crossed himself slowly, speaking in low broken English. “Give me strength.” Three knocks was all it took before Mark Posigof answered the door to his small cottage-like house. The wind was picking up by now, and John’s hands were getting numb. Coughing he waited at the man to open up. The doorknob almost fell off when he scrambled to open it and with a slightly apprehensive look he ushered John in out of the cold. He was a fatter man, mostly around the neck, older too, just about ten years ahead of John, but younger looking in the eyes. John always had the appearance of someone who’d ‘seen’ more years than they’ve actually lived. When he opened the door a small gust blew several leaves inside, and John kicked them aside as he looked around Mark’s small home. “I’d have expected you sooner, John. It’s good to see you.” He said extending his hand. John met it quickly and shook sighing. “I had more to do than I would have thought; long story with no ending, mate. Keep your ride gassed then? You can explain it on the way” He lit a cigarette and held his breath. “Where are we going?” “We’re checking out that alley, squire. Do you think I’d come all the way here for small talk? There’s bad weirdness on its way and as far as I can tell it started here and I’m way behind the trail. It’s like one big conspiracy with you lot, and I don’t think it’s time I started back into the smoke without a good look around, right? So get your coat, we’re on.” Mark did as he was told. There wasn’t much else to say in objection to John. He was right and John knew that he knew he was right. Bad weirdness it was. His old car wasn’t much, a bit beaten around the edges but still ran, and pretty soon the two were in and off down the road with the small town fading from the view of the rear mirror. John sat passenger, and busied himself as he lit another cigarette. Smoke strands filled the rim of the car and danced along the faded brown interior of the shitty old wreck. There were unpleasant jerks along the way, and they soon turned into big shifts as Mark hit the accelerator and changed gears. He cursed in Russian and John held on calmly to the dash, bits of ash falling from his cigarette to the floor as it vibrated. “Rides on a pin, doesn’t she?” he said “I’d like to see you drive, Constantine. We’d be no better off than we are now.” John took his hand off the dash as the car steadied on a more paved part of the road ahead. He leaned back in the seat. The worn leather was full of holes that even some of the metal from beneath it vibrated on his back. It wasn’t the most pleasant thing to stand, but John leaned back as comfortably as he could and sighed. The area just north of the Markey district where Ivan was murdered was their ticket. He checked his watch – quarter past two – it would be at least three thirty to four o’clock before they’d get to Moscow City. He took a drag and held his breath before speaking. “You’re the only person I know that could make a letter sound desperate, Mark. So what’s the story?” “You mean you don’t already know, John? That’s why I’m so fond of you. Never an explanation needed.” he laughed. He gave a look and then turned his eyes back to the road. “Right now I know as much as I have to for me to get from point A to fucking Q. Then I’d guess it was right back to B with a long shot to Z, right? I’ve got the basics, now you’re going to fill me in on what they wanted with Ivan. Why was he killed?” The tone seemed to cut Mark’s fading smile in half. Keeping to the shoulder, he looked at John and gave a look that you would give to the victim of a heart attack in the hospital. John didn’t like it at all and gave on of his own, eyes drooped as if to say “cut the shit, Rusky, I don’t play that game”. “I knew Ivan a bit more than you did, John. He wasn’t as free-spirited as you would have thought. He used a lot of himself in the last couple of years and it would begin to wear away at the soul. You’ve seen it before, no? Time after time looking for this and searching for that. The magic can drive you mad. Not that Ivan went mad. Thank God he had Alexandria there for him. She was the real key to his life.” John sighed, he never met her formally - a kind word over the phone - but he was sure that she knew about him. Ivan did like to let certain things slip. She probably hated him. Your mate’s missus had a way of being outright honest about the people they didn’t want their lovers messing about with. Too bad you couldn’t have listened to her, mate. Too bad. “When Ivan started visiting Dr. Kerosh more regularly” he continued “she started to see him less and less. Mostly she understood, but toward the end I think she knew where it was going. After the two of you left, we’ll…I think that’s –“ “Save it for the magazines. You could probably write a nice letter to her folks and get a tear from them but this is more serious. Ivan wasn’t a major player here, mate. Never was and probably never could have been. He didn’t have the stomach with certain things.” “This is true, but whatever Ivan was studying was making it more and more visible around the certain sects all the way around Eastern Russia. The KGB knew certain parts, but it wasn’t like them to go after this sort of thing. There are more opportunities elsewhere in the more political matters. There’s no reason they would want to risk getting their hands dirty unless it was-.” “…Unless it was too big for them not to ignore it.” John interrupted. Mark didn’t need to finish, he was already showing signs of agreement in his breath. The car continued at a small speed down the road, and somewhere John fell into a small nap in between the jerks and pulls. The sharp corner up a head was too narrow for Mark to go at this speed. John recognized the look in his eyes too – desperation. It was like a raving beast climbing around his shoulders, shouting at him to push the machine as far as it could go. He was trying to get rid of him; get him into town and then drive far off into the world without ever having the consequence of knowing John Constantine. John tried to move, he straightened up but found it made him sore even trying. Slouched against the door, his coat collar rising to his earlobe, he tried to speak, but it came out in mumbles. “Twah…rae ouy goind? Twahs wogrn?” Startled, Mark turned to him as if he had just shot off a gun or screamed at the top of his lungs after an hour of uninterrupted silence. This seemed to make the car accelerate. It was then that he noticed something terrifying. The car itself was moving at a top speed, faster than it ever could have and that turn was coming up quickly. All in five seconds time seemed like an eternity. John noticed three important things before Mark jerked the wheel at the end of the road, coming into a spin. One was that Mark’s feet weren’t on either the accelerator or the breaks. His hand wasn’t switching gears, and the trees themselves didn’t move past them, only remained like a still life picture hanging in view of the window. That’s when the car when over the hill. The small bits of grass below the road seemed like they were soft, but when the car hit most of it was chucked from the ground, imbedded into the glass that broke when the car landed on its top portion. They say a moment of clarity comes before something like this, but all John could hear was noise. He thought that Mark looked calm enough, except for the look in his eyes. It looked like last minute plans changing, a sick feeling in the back of the throat that tasted like battery acid and made you feel like ramming a knife in not only someone else’s gut, but your own. The car hit the rocks next, that was the last of the impact and turned John upside down. He could taste the blood when he bit his tongue in half. It was like a piece of liver held against his cheek. Screaming out in pain wasn’t any good, he probably wouldn’t be able to hear it if he tried. The car’s wheel spun out, and was left somewhere near the rocks they hit, and then the hunk of moving metal started to slide down the embankment. He felt a big push when it lodged itself at the end of a row of solid rock. Everything was stable, it stopped. The door on John’s slid had been crunched in and there was probably no way out. It took him a couple of minutes for the realization to set in, but he couldn’t smell gas or anything burning. The entire windshield was broken out; he could feel the bits of glass in his face, and in one eye. The pain was excruciating. He climbed as best he could out of the windshield, a shard of glass piercing into his thigh as he did, like it was trying to hitchhike out of the mess as well. He screamed, and then fell out on the hood with a sigh. He didn’t mean to land there it was just the only strength he could carry. He half-expected it to be as hot as Hell itself but it wasn’t. It was quite cool. Blacking out may have been the first logical thing he could do, but he couldn’t. Not now or at all did he slip into unconsciousness. The sky was dark. How long had they been traveling before this happened? That wasn’t as important as what he saw just in front of him. “I…” He started, but couldn’t find the strength. Standing dead center was a woman, scarlet dress and raven hair that ran down to her shoulders with a messy, uncared style. She was sexy, beautiful, and that’s what was noticeable. Her eyes had some kind of sadness to them that was hidden by a porcelain stare. She seemed to be crying but with only one good eye he only got so much. That’s when he felt something tugging on his body, but he couldn’t stop looking at the woman. His head fell to the hood with a loud thud. “John?” Mark’s voice came in like a foghorn to his ears. John rubbed his head, and slowly his eyes opened. “We’re here. I apologize about the brakes. There’s as shaky as the rest of the car. You are alright?” He looked around. The car was parked on the road near a large bank deposit. There was a letter carrier riding past him. His clothes were wrinkled and he could see from both eyes. Mark must have put out his cigarette because he couldn’t find it so he reached for another. Realization hadn’t set in yet but he gave a sort of half nod and then tried to rise from the seat and open the door. This was more easily done than he had previously thought. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked as peaceful as you could have been.” John glared at him. Nicholas sat from his private room in the Giavadi Hotel just short of the car. Outside he could see Constantine exiting from the shabby brown vehicle. He’s looked better. This wasn’t the first time he’d seen him, but it was in the flesh. Of course the rumors had flared more than his appearance. He remembered an incident in the Ukraine of an exorcism that cost the lives of three factory workers and the building itself that left a certain chill down his spine. He wanted to be careful with him, especially if the story had been true; that John had thrown the match himself and left without so much as a blink. There are stories like that of all sorts of different magicians and worldly occultists. Nicholas kept track of them all, that was his job. Peter’s job was making sure everything was in line, and that’s what Peter did best. The man himself came into the room with a bottle of vodka and two glasses; he poured and watched the happenings outside. His two thick eyebrows furrowed and he looked to Nicholas. <”That is him? He looks normal enough”> Nicholas turned from the window, eye set upon the man with a small sneer. He looked to the glasses as he poured them and then moved his aside. <”Your body is a temple, Peter. You shouldn’t destroy it with cheap drink.”> <”But you drink, Nicholas”> He said, almost stuttering. There was a brief bit of silence between them before he looked back out the window. Peter almost wished he hadn’t said that. Then Nicholas gave a short sigh and shook his head. “Not anymore.” A calm swallow follow shortly after that. “We’ll be ready shortly. Gather the others; I want to keep a close watch on Constantine, and his friend. Remember the agreement and ruin this with any mistakes. I’ll need some time alone. I’m suddenly hungry.” Peter nodded with an exasperating sense of relief and then, moments later, slipped out of the door. Outside he passed two guards who were sitting down over a deck of cards. Nicholas was alone in silence. He rose, closed the drapes, and then moved to a dark corner of the room. His personal closet was closed and a thin hand reached out to open it. Inside was a large body, hanging like a faded shirt, muscles relaxed. It was a beautifully handsome man with long black hair but most of it was frozen from the ice. His skin was a fine tan before but had not turned putrid and pale after his death. And he was obviously dead, small bruises formed at his sides and chest from a possible beating as cause. His eyes were still open and his mouth hung from the hook that protruded from his jaw like a fish caught by a child and his grandfather. Yes, that what he was, he was a hooked fish swinging from the chain line at the top of the closet (more like a tomb). Nicholas took a small wine glass and looked at the body. There was no smell, something had been done to stop that, and he extended his hand to an array of vials that lined the inside of it. He took one and began to fill his glass with a crimson liquid before returning to his place at the window. Two of his men were already moving into a car with Peter. He drank. John Constantine was moving into the alley just short of where the hotel stood. He smiled, and drank. It won’t be long now. |