665

By Hayden Duvall

When Jack accidently set fire to $50,000 belonging to a local gangster, he figured that his day could not possibly get any worse. He was, of course, wrong.

It was bad enough that he had been arrested for the brutal slaying of two people he didn't even know, but when the mysterious old man who had liberated him from the police disappeared in the middle of the street, Jack had to admit that his life had become every bit as strange as it was tragic.

Things were, however, about to get stranger, and before long, Jack would find himself catapulted into a hidden world of murder and magic, a world ruled by a sinister criminal aristocracy know as "The Numbered."

Smart, fast-moving and inventive, 665 takes the reader on a journey where nothing is ever quite as it seems, and where fate is little more than a four-letter word.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hayden Duvall
• Release date: Mar 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9780986916007

Hayden Duvall

Born in Liverpool, England, Hayden Duvall can currently be spotted wandering the icy wastelands of Northern Canada with his wife, 4 children, and their 5 badly behaved cats. Inspired as a child by Roald Dahl and The Amazing Spiderman, Hayden aims to combine the wit and inventiveness of Douglas Adams with the depth and insight of Alan Moore. However, when he inevitably falls short of this ridiculous goal, he is simply happy to write a good story.

Book preview

665

Hayden Duvall

Smashwords Edition

Copyright Hayden Duvall 2011

CHAPTER 1

Sulphur and spice

Jack had never tasted a gun before, but as the barrel pressed against the roof of his mouth, his tongue was surprised by the unlikely combination of black powder and paprika.

The short, ugly man who was holding the gun, grinned at his discomfort and glanced back towards the corner of the room.

Come on Mr. V., he said, twitching, ain't no way no one'll hear nothing.

The man in the corner stepped from the shadows and shook his head.

"That was a double negative, he said, his voice calm and precise.  In fact, I think this time, Maurice, you may even have managed a triple negative.  Kudos." He removed one of his gloves and placed a finger at the center of Jack's forehead, pushing him back until he squinted under the glare of the workman's lamp that hung from the ceiling.

Were you here alone?

Jack's throat was suddenly very dry.

Yes, he said with a cough, just me.  It was the truth, but he knew that it sounded unconvincing.

Mr. V. narrowed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose, almost as if he was testing the air for lies.  After a moment he straightened, replaced his glove, and fished a small gun from one of his pockets.

Watch him, he said as he turned towards the door, I will not be long.

Maurice waited until his boss was outside, and then crossed to one of the windows where he peered through a crack in the boards that were nailed across it.

Jack took advantage of the distraction and tested the rope at his wrists. There was some movement, but his chair creaked like a falling oak if he so much as tensed one of his buttocks.

The room he was in smelled of urine and rotting wood.  Dark patches of mold covered much of the walls and ceiling, and the single electric lamp cast hard black shadows that tapered away into the gloom.  Everywhere was thick with dust, but as his eyes adjusted, Jack noticed a stack of metal boxes near the left-hand wall that were suspiciously clean.  Each box had the words East European Epicurean Enterprises stenciled on its side, but as he strained to get a better look, he heard movement at the window and turned to see Maurice heading back in his direction.

Bet you’ve never seen one of these before, he said, waving his gun around like it was a toy.  Put a hole in your head the size of a softball.

He placed his hand over Jack's chin and held him tightly as he forced the barrel into his mouth once more.  When Vashenko gets back I'll give you a real nice demonstration.

As Jack struggled, he was again struck by the taste of paprika, and for a moment, he wondered if it could somehow be an aftereffect of the blow that had earlier knocked him unconscious.

His speculation was, however, short-lived, as Maurice pushed the gun deeper, making him recoil with enough force to tip his chair over backwards.

The short man snorted with laughter and hauled him upright.

Won't be long now, he said, shoving the gun back into his belt, Vashenko won’t want you here when the deal goes down.

Jack closed his eyes and allowed his mind to absorb this last fragment of information.  After a moment, a faint smile crossed his lips.

You don't know, do you? he said with a sigh.

Know what? said Maurice, his brow furrowing.

Jack opened his eyes and stared directly at his captor.

You don't know that Vashenko's going to hand you over to the feds.

There was a pause, and Maurice half shook his head before he caught himself and snorted with disdain.

Yeah, right.

A surge of adrenaline raced through Jack's veins; this was going to be easier than he had originally thought.

Those guns are worth what, fifteen hundred apiece on the street?

Maurice was unable to hide his surprise. 

Who’ve you been talking to?

Smuggled in through Hungary, continued Jack, hidden in a shipment of spices and stashed here in an abandoned corner of the docks until you found a buyer.

Maurice pulled the gun from his belt and pointed it at Jack's head.

Who you working for?

You've been set up, Maurice, said Jack, ignoring him.  Any minute now this place will be crawling with cops.

The short man lunged forward, striking Jack across the cheek with butt of his gun.

Who you working for?

I told you, said Jack, his ears ringing from the blow, I'm with the F.B.I., we've been tracking Vashenko for months.

Several beads of sweat had begun to form on Maurice's forehead and he raised the gun once more, aiming it at Jack's chest.

You're lying.

What, you think I just pulled those details out of thin air?  Your boss knew we had him, so he agreed to trade you, and the whole operation in for immunity.

He wouldn't do that, said Maurice hesitantly.

He's left you here with the guns and a hostage.

He wouldn't…

He even made sure that you'd get your fingerprints on the merchandise.

Maurice looked at the weapon in his hand as if it was the first time he'd ever seen it.

In fact, he's somewhere out there right now, making the phone call.

Maurice shook his head slowly, his lips continuing to move as if he was holding a silent conversation with himself.

Won't let him stitch me up, he said at last, and with a face like thunder, he turned towards the door and stormed outside.

Jack took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.  He had no idea what Maurice would do, but time was short and so he quickly set about trying to free himself.

It wasn't long before the skin on his wrists and stomach burned from the struggle, but as he felt the chair begin to buckle, he threw his shoulders to the left and split it in half.

At almost the exact same moment, the sound of a single gunshot rattled through the storeroom, followed a few seconds later by two more.

Jack pulled himself free of the ropes and dived for the back of the room, looking for a way out.  He quickly scanned the walls, but all four of the windows were tightly boarded and apart from the main door, he could see no other exits.  His cheek throbbed mercilessly, and he was about to try and pry one of the boards loose when he heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside.  Someone was approaching.

With nowhere to run, he grabbed a section of rusted pipe from the shelf next to him, and crept into position behind the door.

The footsteps were close now, and he raised the pipe ready to strike, when without warning, the door broke from its hinges and Maurice collapsed face-first into the room, his forehead hitting the floor with a sickening thud.

Jack peered outside, and seeing no sign of anyone else, he prodded Maurice with his foot.

The short man remained motionless, so Jack quickly rolled him onto his back and saw that he had two gunshot wounds: one in his chest and one in his stomach.  Both were bleeding profusely.  He was still clutching a gun, but Jack noticed that it was significantly smaller than the one he had been carrying earlier, and as he reached out to take it, Maurice's eyes sprang open, his eyelids flickering as he struggled to focus on Jack's face.

Our Father, he whispered, coughing violently as blood and saliva ran down his chin, thy will be done, on earth, as it… as it is in heaven.

His breathing slowed and he reached out towards Jack, grabbing his shirt with a grip that defied his injuries.

He's come for me!  There was a look of terror in the dying man's eyes as he struggled for breath.  He's out there now.

Vashenko? said Jack, glancing nervously over his shoulder.  I don't see him.

I never believed, spluttered Maurice, pulling Jack closer, I never believed, and now he's come for me.

He strained briefly as if to get up, the muscles in his face contorting with the effort, and then coughing one last time, his head fell back to the floor, his final breath rattling from his lungs.

Jack felt for a pulse, and finding nothing, he grabbed the gun and went to the window. There was still no sign of Vashenko, but Maurice had certainly seemed convinced that someone was out there, and despite the fact that he was now armed, Jack had no intention of hanging around long enough to find out who it was.

The gun was cold and heavy in his hand, and after making sure that it was loaded, he edged over to the doorway and cautiously made his way outside.

It was late in the afternoon, but the October sky was still bright, and after the gloom of the storeroom, he winced in pain as his eyes struggled to adjust. He could hear the sound of sirens in the distance--the police had probably been called soon after the shots were fired--and so he headed towards the loading bay that was near the main entrance.

The remains of a brick wall cut through the undergrowth to his left, and as he approached, three or four crows jumped into the air, startled by his proximity. He threw himself to the ground, hoping that the birds hadn’t given away his position, but seeing no other movement, he was about to continue on when he noticed a pair of shoes sticking out from behind a row of broken crates ahead of him.

There was a strange smell in the air that for some reason reminded him of his high school chemistry class, and as he moved forward, the stench quickly became overpowering. There was no sign of a spill, but the fumes were strong enough to make his eyes water and he was forced to stop and wipe them with his sleeve. His vision still blurred, he peered through a gap in the crates, and there, lying on his back was Vashenko, his lifeless eyes staring skyward, a single bullet hole in his forehead.

Shocked and confused, Jack took a step back, his brain barely registering the two police cars that skidded to a halt beside him.

Seeing he was armed, the four officers exited their vehicles and immediately pointed their weapons in his direction.

Put the gun down and step away from the body, said the officer who was closest.

Jack could imagine how things must have looked, so he dropped the gun and placed his hands behind his head.

There’s another body in the building behind me, he said, trying his best to sound calm. They were holding me hostage and I escaped.

Face down on the ground!

Two of the policemen moved slowly in Jack’s direction, their guns still aimed squarely at his chest.

Carter, take Hammond and go check the building, said the officer who seemed to be in charge. You! Get down on the ground.

Jack knelt down. He understood that there was a procedure to be followed in situations like this, and so he made no attempt to complain as he was handcuffed and placed in the back of a car.

Less than a minute later, one of the men who had been sent to investigate the storeroom returned at speed and came over to the arresting officer.

There’s another one in there, Redmond, he said. Dead, but still warm. You want to call this in or should I?

I’m gonna take this guy back to the station, said Redmond, climbing into the car, I’ll do it on the way. Get a perimeter set up and make sure you keep the scene secure. Half the guys that work here will be coming over to see what happened. And see if you can find out what that god awful smell is.

Sulphur, said the other officer. Must be some chemicals stored nearby.

Right, said Redmond thoughtfully. Well maybe breathe through your mouth or something.

He closed his door and unhooked the handset from the radio. This is Unit 451 responding to the 10-32 at Blackwood Dock.

There was the customary crackle.

Roger that 451, what’s your status? The voice at the other end sounded distinctly uninterested.

We’ve got a 187: two bodies at the scene, suspect apprehended. We’re bringing him in now; E.T.A. fifteen minutes.

CHAPTER 2

Volston Ross

The seventy-second precinct police station was an amalgamation of every cop show cliché that Jack had ever seen. Fat, balding officers waddled along the hallways, and detectives in cheap grey suits scribbled hastily at desks piled high with case files. In the distance, a set of three raucous prostitutes, one of whom was wearing a leopard-print miniskirt, were being led towards the holding cells. It was like an entire season of NYPD Blue condensed into a single, archetypal moment. All that was missing were the donuts.

Officer Redmond looked at his watch and then scanned the room impatiently. Kaminski! he shouted at a young officer across the hall, go get Dawson will you, tell him it’s the guy he was asking about from the double homicide at the docks. I’m going to put him in 401 if it’s free.

Kaminski scurried away and Jack was ushered across to the custody sergeant who ponderously recorded his details in a shabby-looking book.

What you got here, Steve? said the man behind the desk, glancing at Jack’s battered face. This guy resist arrest?

Nah, he was like that when we found him, said Redmond turning to look at Jack. You need to see a doctor?

I’m okay, said Jack, trying not to sound too irritated, I’d just like to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Right, well let’s see what we’ve got available. The custody sergeant ran his finger down the list in front of him. Who’s going to be doing this one?

Dawson wanted it. Is 401 free?

Yep, 401’s empty, you can go ahead and take him up. The man behind the desk scribbled something in his book and then Jack was led down a long corridor that smelled of cheap air-freshener. He could see an elevator in the distance, and once they reached it, the two men stood in silence, waiting for it to arrive.

When do I get my phone call? asked Jack, sounding more annoyed than he had intended.

There’s a phone upstairs. You got a lawyer?

Yeah, I’ve got someone, said Jack, what time is it?

Redmond checked his watch.

Nearly seven. Why, you got plans? He started to smirk and then seemed to think better of it.

Jack shook his head. Just trying to decide which number to call, that’s all.

Regrettably, as a photographer and part-time private investigator, Jack had found himself needing legal representation on a regular basis. After much research, he had finally tracked down someone that he could actually afford, and whilst the quality of service was patchy at best, it was better than nothing. His attorney’s name was Henry Watts, and in his day, his reputation had been fierce. Unfortunately, over the years, Henry had developed a fairly broad spectrum of physical and psychological ailments, and after a long and fruitless search for an effective treatment, he had begun to self-medicate.

His medicine of choice was any fine single malt that had spent at least ten years in the barrel, and as Jack approached room 401, he decided that at this time of night, his phone call would be best directed to O’Connor’s: the bar where Henry did most of his drinking.

Redmond opened the interview room door and switched on the light. The smell of body odor and stale coffee flooded into the hallway, and looking slightly embarrassed, he hurried over to the table and cleared away some Styrofoam cups and a handful of papers.

Grab a seat, he said, pointing towards a brown plastic chair. Someone’ll bring you the phone in a minute.

Any chance of some water and an aspirin? asked Jack, tapping his swollen cheek.

Yeah, sure, I’ll send some in with the phone. We got coffee if you prefer?

Jack considered the acrid stench that had greeted him when the door was opened. No, water’s good thanks, he said politely, and the officer nodded and left the room, locking the door behind him.

#

A little earlier, in a part of the city where most people hoped they would never find themselves after dark, Henry Watts stepped out of a cab, took a lungful of the murky, pungent air, and made his way down a worn flight of steps into O’Connor’s Bar.

Henry was a large, barrel-chested man, who generally had the appearance of someone wearing far too many clothes. His gleaming red cheeks and propensity to swagger meant that he rarely passed unnoticed in the street, but inside the walls of O’Connors, he was just another face in the crowd.

O’Connor’s was not the kind of place that you would visit for a quick drink before catching a movie, nor was it ever likely to be considered as a possible venue for the office Christmas party. At O’Connor’s, there was no cheery barmaid to aggravate the serious drinker, and no designer beer to disrespect the real alcohol that was being served. The jukebox was filled with up-tempo hits from the sixties, but less than a week after it had been delivered it had mysteriously stopped working. These days, the only music that found its way through the smoke-filled air was vintage blues: the kind that you didn’t so much listen to, as drink down with your whiskey.

Henry took a seat at the bar, removed his gloves, and placed them to one side. Getting cold, Pat, he said, rubbing his hands together vigorously.

The barman nodded, and poured him a large drink.

A broad smile settled across Henry’s face and he lifted the glass carefully, holding it close to his nose as he savored the earthy, antiseptic aroma. He closed his eyes for a moment, almost as if he was saying a prayer, and then with a flick of his wrist, emptied its contents down his throat.

Ah, liquid love, Patrick, liquid love. He held the glass up to the light and then placed it back down on the bar in front of him. Pour me another one in there while I go and make some more room in the old bladder, he said, winking at the barman as he headed for the restroom.

When he emerged a few minutes later, a tall, elderly stranger had taken the seat next to his at the bar. There was some kind of scarf wrapped around his head and in the half-darkness of the poorly lit bar, he was wearing sunglasses.

As Henry sat down, the man cleared his throat.

I was just saying to young Patrick here, his voice was deep and distinctly foreign, that a single-malt is drinkable at ten years, but is only really worth pursuing at fifteen. What say you?

Henry raised his eyebrows, surprised at the directness of this stranger in a city where people tended to keep themselves to themselves. Whiskey however, was something about which he knew a great deal. If he had a religion, then whiskey was it, and nothing gave him more pleasure than sharing his faith with others.

Fifteen years you say? He turned in his seat to look directly at the other man. I would suggest then, that perhaps you have overlooked the smoky allure of a twelve-year-old Glenfiddich Caoran Reserve.

Really? The man in the dark glasses placed a finger to his lips. I see, he said, pausing thoughtfully, well perhaps you will join me as I explore your recommendation? My name is Ross, Volston Ross.

He motioned towards the bartender, who duly produced two glasses and after a brief search behind the bar, retrieved a dark bottle with a silver label and poured both men a good measure.

The glass that Henry had emptied before his trip to the bathroom had already been refilled, and so he quickly drained its contents and extended a hand to the stranger.

Henry Watts. It’s a pleasure to meet a fellow admirer of God’s own drink. The two men shook hands and he reached for his glass of Coaran Reserve and held it towards Volston. Your good health, Sir.

And yours.

They touched glasses and both men drank.

How does that strike you then? asked Henry.

Volston placed his glass down gently and sat for a moment in quiet contemplation.

Smooth, certainly, he said at last, and I came upon one or two spicy top notes that I have to admit were quite surprising for a relatively young whiskey.

Henry grinned triumphantly. Your palette is most certainly that of a connoisseur, Mr. Ross.

Volston, please call me Volston. But before you become too enthused with the merits of your twelve-year-old, let us attempt to draw a comparison with something more mature. He turned back to the bartender. Patrick my man, what is the oldest bottle you have in this fine establishment?

I’ll check the cellar, said Patrick, and he disappeared through a door behind the bar.

So Volston, Henry’s tone was cheerful, as always, I detect from your accent and your manner of dress that you are not a native New Yorker.

No, said Volston, laughing, no, I certainly am not. I am truly a stranger in a strange land, but this is not my first time in the city.

I was trying to place your accent—Germany perhaps? Austria?

Volston shifted a little in his seat.

Well, I have traveled much over the years. I imagine that my accent is somewhat eclectic. Where do you hail from, Henry?

I was raised in Brooklyn, said Henry, noticing the evasion, but at least tell me where you were born; your name is quite unusual.

Volston pressed a couple of fingers to his forehead and grimaced. He was about to say something, when Patrick reappeared carrying a small wooden box.

There you go, he said, placing the box carefully in front of the two men. There was a small brass plate attached to the lid, and wiping away a thick layer of dust, Patrick read: Macallan: Celtic Heartlands 1968.

With something approaching reverence, Henry reached forward and opened the box, removing the bottle gently.

She’s beautiful, he said as his finger traced the edge of the label.

Yes, she certainly is handsome, agreed Volston. Crack her open, Henry, let us see how age has treated this fine Scottish Lass, and perhaps we can compare her to your twelve-year-old Glenfiddich.

Henry looked up at Volston as if he had been wrenched from a beautiful dream. Open her?

She is for sale isn’t she? Volston turned towards the barman expectantly.

Eighteen hundred, said Patrick, wincing involuntarily. I can’t let it go for less than that.

Henry put the bottle back into its box and closed the lid.

Ouch.

A bargain! said Volston, and reaching into his pocket, he brought out a huge roll of hundred-dollar bills.

You can’t be serious, said Henry looking at the money in Volston’s hand.

My dear Henry, if we are not to drink this precious liquid, then who on earth will? He counted out eighteen hundred dollars and handed it to Patrick. Two fresh glasses if you would.

Are you sure? said Henry, somewhat apprehensively.

Listen, said Volston, his voice low and reassuring, a fine whiskey such as this is made infinitely more pleasurable to me if it is shared with someone who can truly appreciate its value. He opened the bottle and poured a healthy measure into each glass.

Henry looked at his drink for a moment and then lifted it into the air. The amber liquid seemed much like any five-dollar spirit, but in the world of whiskey, this was truly a work of art.

To an exceptionally generous drinking partner.

Volston raised his glass to the same level as Henry’s.

Battle done, the victory won, he said, and they both drank.

The two men sat in silence for almost a minute. It was Henry who spoke first.

The finish is strikingly dry, but the malt comes through much earlier, with perhaps just a hint of peppermint. Remarkable. What did you think?

Volston was staring away into the distance, lost in thought. I tend to agree, he said at last, and I found it to be unusually earthy. He refilled their glasses. But let’s not jump to any conclusions.

They both drank again. It was Henry’s fourth of the evening, and even though his tolerance for alcohol was remarkably high, he could feel the room beginning to drift slightly.

Second time around I could taste a lot more fruit. Henry’s voice had the earnest tone of a man skirting the border of inebriation. He reached over and put his hand on Volston’s arm. More fruit, but still the peppermint.

Volston nodded and refilled the glasses. See what you make of the earthiness this time, he said, smiling encouragingly as Henry knocked back another.

Yes, peaty and very earthy. Fruity and earthy, like dirty fruit or maybe fruity dirt. Henry raised a finger as if he wanted to make a serious point. It’s really very strong though.

Certainly, beamed Volston, filling Henry’s glass once more. In a spirit like this, the alcohol content is distinctly elevated. Try another; I particularly want you to elaborate on this fruitiness you were talking about.

Henry lifted the glass to his lips, and Volston watched closely as he drank. The lawyer’s eyes had already begun to glaze; the speed at which the Macallan was working was impressive.

Volston grabbed the bottle from the bar and held it in front of Henry to make sure that he had his full attention.

I just have to make a quick call, he said clearly. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes to hear more about the fruit. You go ahead and refill while I’m gone.

Henry acknowledged this with a mock salute, and Volston lifted himself from his chair, and headed over to the payphone. After a few seconds of rummaging around in his pockets, he removed a scrap of paper, squinted at it briefly and then dialed the number. The voice at the other end was flat and soulless.

Karen’s Quality Cabs, how may I direct your call?

I need to order a taxi if you would be so kind.

There was a click on the line and Celine Dion barely had time to start her song before she was mercifully interrupted by the voice of a different, but equally dreary operator.

Could I have your name please?

Yes, it’s Ross, said Volston patiently.

Thank you Sir, where are you departing from?

O’Connor’s Bar on Court Street.

There was a pause as a keyboard rattled in the background.

And where will you be traveling to?

The seventy-second precinct police station on Fourth Avenue.

There was more rattling.

Thank you. A few seconds passed. We can have someone with you in twenty minutes, Sir.

Volston glanced over towards the bar where Henry was slumped, the bottle of Macallan wobbling hopelessly in his hand as he tried to pour himself another drink.

Behind the dark glasses, old eyes twinkled mischievously.

Twenty minutes will be fine.

CHAPTER 3

Old friends