"The Revenge of Dos Manos"
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dochermes"The Revenge of Dos Manos"
4/17/1992
I.
"Let's see how this works," Bane muttered out loud. He was in the gym on the seventh floor of the old KDF building, with its array of Nautilus machines and treadmill. By his left side was a metal rack holding ten throwing knives. These had been made for him to be as nearly identical as possible to the matched pair of silver-bladed daggers he always wore in sheaths under his sleeves.
Sixty feet away, part of the wall had been covered with cork panels. On the floor was a small electric motor with a steel rod extending up to face level. The rod was hinged and ended with a round wooden disc as big as a man's head. Jeremy Bane studied the apparatus critically. He had a fortune to spend on these experimental devices as he saw fit, but he wondered if the results would be worth the expense. The Dire Wolf reached over and threw a toggle switch on the rack holding the knives. Instantly, the steel rod swung back and forth, up and down, moving in erratic circles. Bane smiled faintly and suddenly he was throwing the daggers. Faster than a normal Human, he snatched up one knife after another and hurled them at the moving target. Sometimes he threw with his right hand (he was left-handed), a few times he threw underhanded or turned and flung one over his shoulder. In twenty seconds, he had gone through all ten daggers and he switched the motor off.
Five daggers were stuck in the wooden disc, so close together that their hilts touched. One had touched a dagger already in the target and glanced off, another had stuck in too close to the edge and fallen off. Three that he had thrown right-handed had simply missed. The Dire Wolf folded his arms and studied the set-up, decided he liked it. A moving target set for random manuevers was much better than a piece of cardboard tacked to the wall. He detached the rack from its stand and walked over to begin replacing the daggers into their slots.
It had been more than a year since the KDF had disbanded. So many of his friends had died that hellish night in Necropolis, the City of the Dead, and others had been so damaged by those events that they had stepped down from duty and left the Midnight War altogether. Time weighed heavily on him. For six months, he and Cindy had decided to enjoy their wealth. They went to concerts, museums, art galleries. They spent a week in Hawaii, a week in the South of France, a week in New Zealand. And they were still not satisfied, he more than her. Finally, Cindy had told him that he was made for trouble and he might as well accept it. Bane thrived in high stress situations and stagnated when at leisure. And he had to agree.
Bane had always renewed the PI license that Michael Hawk had helped him obtain, and he opened the DIRE WOLF AGENCY here in the KDF building, using the reception room as his office. Cases had immediately poured in. Whenever there were weird events, gruesome unexplained deaths, serial killers too twisted for profilers, people had come to Bane. He was in his element. He was as happy as he was ever going to be. At least he felt his time was being put to good use.
Replacing the rack of daggers to its stand, Bane decided to dim the lights in the gym before practicing some more. As he walked over to the switches, the phone on the wall by the door rang. A gleam came to his grey eyes at the interruption and he snatched up the phone eagerly. "Dire Wolf Agency."
"Hello? Bane? Listen, I don't know if you remember me. My name is Jack Wengert, I used to work for City Streets Agency."
"Wengert? Sure, I remember you," Bane answered. "You handled that business for the IBM executive, Breslin."
"That's me. I watched you punch out the hitman in the lobby when he already had a gun aimed at you and it was the coolest thing I ever saw. I decided to call you if I ever needed help," said the gruff voice.
"Where are you now?"
"I'm calling from a sports bar on 33rd. When can I see you?"
"I'm free this morning," said Bane. "Come right over. 28 East 38th Street, the door still says KENNETH DRED FOUNDATION."
"Great, great, I'm on my way," said the voice as the connection broke. Bane left the gym and took the elevator to the ground floor, thinking about the Breslin case. Wengert had seemed like a thug with muscle and ambition but not much finesse. He had not been impressed by the man, but a case was a case and he wanted to at least hear what the deal was. As he got out in the front hall, Bane picked his sport jacket off the coatrack and slipped it on. As always, he was wearing all black, boots and slacks and long-sleeved turtleneck. Just six feet tall, he had the build of a runner. His black hair was cut short and the pale grey eyes stood out vividly under heavy brows. There was nothing misleading about the Dire Wolf, he looked as dangerous as he was.
Standing by the front door, he slid open a wooden panel to reveal a monitor screen and controls. Bane switched it on and saw an image of 38th Street. In a few minutes, a bulky figure in a dark raincoat hustled up the stone steps to the front door and pressed the bell. Through the intercom, Bane said, "I'll be right with you," and opened the front door by remote control. Jack Wengert stepped into the small foyer, which held only a bench, a lamp on a shelf, and a framed portrait of Kenneth Dred. Advanced Trom systems hummed and buzzed faintly as Wengert was scanned more thoroughly than the best MRI could match.
There was the gun of course, a 9mm Ruger stuck in the guy's belt. There was also a folding knife and a set of metal knuckle guards in the right coat pocket. On the monitor screen, yellow yellows read JOHN HENRY 'JACK' WENGERT, ID CONFIRMED. Bane opened the inner door and said, "Good morning. Listen, before you come in, I want that Ruger placed in the cabinet here. You can pick it up on the way out."
Wengert blinked and started to protest, but Bane said, "Rules are rules. Guns go in that cabinet while you're here."
Grudgingly, the detective tugged the pistol from his belt and lowered it into an open cabinet just inside the door. "Did you X-ray me?"
Bane did not answer directly. "You always carried a gun, Jack. Step into the office and tell me what's on your mind."
The reception room was to the left as you entered, with a fish tank full of bizarre specimens, a low table littered with old magazines, and an assortment of straight back chairs. Hanging on one wall was a beautiful handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937, and in front of it was a plain oak desk. Bane took his seat behind the desk and motioned for Wengert to pick a chair in front.
"I didn't know you were a private detective," Wengert said.
"Licensed by the State of New York," replied Bane. "Do you have a case for me, Jack?"
"Sort of." Wengert glanced around uncertainly. He was big, stout and obviously tough as his job required. Bane noticed the scar tissue on the man's knuckles and that the nose had been worked on after being broken more than once. "I'm not a classy PI," Wengert admitted. "I deal a lot with shady types and customers who had things to hide. Most of the time, I seem to pass messages and arrange meetings. It's enough to pay the bills. But I'm here because of my brother Jimmy."
Bane waited, saying nothing. His pale eyes were watchful.
"Jimmy's a bit wild, always has been," Wengert said. "Our parents have been dead a long time, so I raised him to an extent and still try to keep an eye on him. But he's determined to get in with bad company. I catch him with some punks that I know are nothing but bad news. They work for a freak called Dos Manos. I see you recognize that name?"
"Dos Manos," Bane replied. "We've met."
"Then you understand why I worry about Jimmy. The bums that work for that maniac have all done time. If Jimmy gets sucked into their games, it's only a matter of time until he's in the can or in the ground."
"And what is it I can do? Have a talk with him?"
"Nah, talking won't do any good. Everyone in our family is stubborn as Hell. No, Mr Bane, I think only one thing is going to help. I heard a lot about you. The Dire Wolf. If half the stories about you are true, then I think you're my only hope. I want you to get rid of Dos Manos."
Bane's voice had a new edge to it. "I'm not an assassin, Jack. You can't hire me to kill someone."
"I know that. Not that anyone would mind if Dos Manos got killed, he's the worst lunatic running loose since Samhain. But even if you get him arrested, or chase him out of town and break up his gang, that would do it. Jimmy will lose his illusions and maybe settle down a little."
"Wow." Bane placed his palms flat on the desk and leaned forward. "The NYPD has not been able to get a grip on this guy. The FBI has been interested in him, too. What makes you think I can get done what they can't?"
"Because you're you. Seriously, I've heard about you for years. The gangs go out of their way to leave you alone because you take out the rogue killers and maniacs. Everybody knows you've been hunting monsters that come out at night, supernatural things that people are afraid to admit even exist." He exhaled sharply. "I seen things myself I don't want to talk about."
Bane seemed to reach a decision. "I'm going to take you as a client, Jack. My official assignment is to locate your brother and persuade him to keep away from this gang. But if I happen to run into Dos Manos along the way..."
"I get it, I get it. I knew I could count on you," Wengert said. He took a thick white envelope from his inside pocket. "There's two Gs cash in there, all I got. Of course, there's also a reward for Dos Manos, so you'd be collecting that."
The Dire Wolf counted out one thousand dollars and handed the rest back. "That's my standard fee, and I have to charge it for legal reasons. If I'm acting on behalf of a client, I can claim confidentiality when dealing with police questions." Opening the center drawer of his desk, he took out a red leatherbound ledger, wrote down the details and made out a receipt which he handed over to Wengert. As he closed and locked the drawer, Bane said, "You know, I met Dos Manos a long time ago."
"I thought so!"
"He didn't have his freak hands back then. He was just a Miami con man and thug named Raul Garcia Montez. I was only a kid myself, twenty years old, working for Mr Dred. Montez robbed some friends of Mr Dred and punched a seventy-year-old woman in the face in the process. I put a .38 slug in his stomach after he shot at me and I turned him over to the NYPD. He went upstate to Napanoch for some reason and we didn't hear from him for a few years. Then he got out with some lawyer doubletalk and decided he needed new hands. You know the rest."
.
Wengert got up, pushing the chair back. "I can give you the address where Jimmy goes, but I don't know if Dos Manos himself shows up there. Eighth Avenue, up by 50th Street."
"Let's go for a walk, Jack. You might remember some useful details along the way." Bane led the man from the office, gave him back his gun, and headed outside. As he closed the front door, alarms and locks clicked into place. They began walking west. As they went, Bane started questioning Wengert about the gang members... names, appearance, known habits. Although he did not appear to be scrutinizing Wengert, Bane had been trained by experts in judging tiny details of body language and speech patterns. He had known Wengert was lying to him from the moment he had picked up the phone but he went along with it for his own reasons.
By the time they reached Eighth Avenue, Wengert felt his brain had been squeezed dry. It was a cool breezy April afternoon, the air was as fresh as it was ever likely to get. At four o'clock, the sidewalks were jammed and traffic was crawling. At 48th Street, Jack Wengert stopped and stepped into the doorway of a tattoo shop calling itself INKSANE. "I don't want to be too visible. Look. That building right on the corner. Used book store and tobacco stand."
"I see it," said Bane."
"The windows on the top floor are painted over. Used to be a Korean massage parlor. Empty now. That's where Jimmy's been drinking and smoking with them punks."
The Dire Wolf studied the building in silence. "I'm going to have a look inside. You better go about your business for now, I'll call you when I have results. I expect to tackle Dos Manos within the next twenty-four hours."
"Better you than me," said Wengert. "The more I hear about that guy..."
Without another word, Bane stepped off the curb and strode up to the dingy red brick building. As he crossed the street, he spotted Wengert heading for a phone booth on the next corner. That was the final giveaway, he thought grimly. Before this was over, he was sure he'd have to deal with Jack Wengert as well. Fine. The Dire Wolf strode up to the ancient brick building. The window of the used book store was so grimy that he could hardly make out the covers of the books on display, but there were a lot of buxom women in leather holding whips or being tied up. The tobacco shop next door had an awning that read FINE TOBACCOS - CIGARS - IMPORTED CIGARETTES. A fat man with thick-lensed glasses grunted ambiguously as Bane walked by.
On the side of the building facing 8th Avenue was a single concrete step and a narrow wooden door. Without breaking stride, Bane drew back his elbow and smacked the palm of his open hand just above the doorknob. The lock snapped and he went in as if he owned the building. It was not strength itself that made the lock-breaking trick work, it was knowing how to deliver torque from the feet up through the body and focus it.
There was a short hallway to his right that ended in a janitor closet, which had a bucket of murky water standing in front of its own door. Directly in front of him was a door with a frosted glass panel that must open into the tobacco shop, and right next to it were antique wooden stairs with a bannister. Bane headed up them, placing his feet on the extreme end of each step to minimize creaking. When was the trap going to be sprung, he wondered. As he neared the second floor landing, he paused to adjust the matched silver daggers sheathed on his forearms, hilts forward. Reaching behind him, he thumbed the safety off on the anesthetic dart gun holstered behind his right hip. There were other weapons concealed in hidden pockets, but his real faith rested in his own body with its years of hard training and hard experience.
Above him, he heard a door softly closing. Now this was getting interesting. Bane came out on the second floor landing and saw a door standing wide open, with a piece of cardboard taped to it, OUT OF BUSINESS. Expecting an ambush, he took two quick steps and leaped into the center of the room. He almost stepped on the corpse.
II.
There was a door on the opposite side of the room, which must have been what he had heard closing. Bane looked through it but saw no one in the tiny landing which connected to the stairs. He swung around and glanced over the empty room. Four plywood partitions divided up one wall into cubicles, with thin curtains hanging over the openings. When this was a massage parlor, they would be the rooms where the girls worked on their customers. A few empty cardboard boxes, some scattered newspapers and a cluster of empty beer bottles were all the decorations now. One corner held a gallon jug filled with urine. The guys meeting here had class, Bane thought.
He crouched over the body. Out of habit, he felt for a pulse but didn't expect to find one. That neck was bent at any angle no living person could reach. The body had been an Hispanic man around forty, stocky and muscular. He had been wearing sneakers, baggy pants and a navy blue sweatshirt. The face had been pounded so hard it would be hard to identify. Three teeth were on the floor, and blood was everywhere. Yet there were no signs of the wrists being tied, so why hadn't the victim defended himself? He looked tough enough to put up a good fight. Bane was careful not to get any of the blood on him.
The Dire Wolf rose to his feet. The corpse was fresh, the blood unclotted. This man had died within the past few minutes... as Wengert had been leading him up Eighth Avenue. Someone must have seen them walking toward this building and either made a call or run ahead to signal it was time for a killing. All so he would walk in on a gruesome corpse. This was the trap he had been expecting.
Bane turned to face three men in the open doorway behind him. Two were uniformed officers, but it was the third who got his full attention.
"You! Goddam, I knew we'd catch you sooner or later." Inspector Harold Klein of Homicide was a short, wide man in a white raincoat over a rumpled suit. The curly black hair was starting to show lots of grey, and his left eye was glass. He had a chewed up cigar stub clenched in his teeth. Twice before he had caught Bane in suspicious circumstances but did not have sufficient grounds to hold him.
"This man is dead," Bane began.
"NO! Really? You'd never know it to look at him. Cover this guy, boys. This is the Dire Wolf you may have heard of. Listen, Bane. We got a tip-off that you entered this building with a known burglar named Carlos Alvarez.. who matches that cadaver's description. The caller said he heard arguing and screaming. And here we are. You're a dangerous individual, son. I don't know if you use karate or plain boxing or whatever, but look how smashed up that guy's face is."
For a second, Bane had a strong impulse to attack. He knew he was capable of knocking down all three of these guys and getting down the stairs. But then what? Could he try to catch Dos Manos while on the run from the cops? No. Besides, he had gone to too much trouble to get his PI license to have it revoked.
He sighed and held up his open hands, palms down, directly in front of Klein's face. "Take a good look. Take your time."
"And...?"
"See any blood? See any torn skin or bruises or swollen knuckles? No. Do you think anyone could beat a man like that without getting marked himself? Of course not. Look at the broken teeth on the floor. My hands would be all gouged."
Klein grumbled. Finally, he gave in. "Anything else to say?"
"Sure. Look at how fresh that blood is. How long did it take you to respond to the anonymous tip and ride here? Enough time for the blood to thicken and darken." Bane shook his head. "I shouldn't have to tell you this stuff, inspector."
One of the uniformed officers had turned his head aside to hide a smile. Klein gave him a sour look and said, "So. What's your story, Bane?"
"I'm working for a client," the Dire Wolf said. "He wants me to investigate the activities of someone known to him who has been seen associating with unsavory underworld types. I got this address, came up to see if anyone was available to volunteer information and almost tripped over the body. As I came up the stairs, I heard the back door to this room closed. That's how close I came to walking in on the goons who did this."
Klein was struggling with conflicting instincts. "I see. I see. You're in for some questioning and you need to sign a statement. Geller, go to the car and call in the forensic boys."
For the next two hours, while city employees measured and photographed and took samples, Klein grilled Bane in excruciating detail. The Dire Wolf played straight and, except for the name of his client, told everything. But even as he was being interrogated, Bane was overhearing the results the CSI workers came up with.
Traces of Asian and African-American skin had been found, particularly on the broken edges of the teeth which had been dislodged. The killers had shown remarkable physical strength, judging by the impact areas of each blow. The victim had tried to put up a fight but had been overmatched and unable to defend himself. The room itself had been used for an extended time for drinking beer and whiskey, and for smoking pot.
Gradually, Klein slowed his questioning, since Bane's calm self-assurance had not been shaken in the least. In fact, he had gradually begun to act as if he were investigating the crime scene alongside the police. "Neither the tobacco store owner or the bookstore owner said they phoned you," he told Klein. "Of course you can check their records of outgoing calls. We're dealing someone who has a neat sense of timing. As I was seen approaching this place, someone sent a message to kill Alvarez. The call to you had to be earlier than that, to allow you time to get here as soon as I did, but not give me enough time to realize it was a set-up and skip out. We've both been played by some would-be mastermind."
Without quite realizing it, Klein had begun treating Bane less as a suspect and more as a colleague. "One last time, don't you think your client's name would help the investigation?"
"No. I have a hunch who is behind this, but that's all it is. Not enough evidence to justify dragging you into it, at least before I ask around a little." Bane watched as the forensic team started packing up. "I'll let you know as soon as I find anything."
"Hold it, hold it." Klein gestured with a stubby forefinger. "You were found at the scene of a homicide. All the evidence points to the conclusion that you didn't commit the crime, and I am not going to charge you. At this point. But I can still hold you as a material witness, Mr Dire Wolf."
"You could," Bane agreed. "Or you could let me do some hunting on my own. You've read my file. You know all the maniacs I brought in. Samhain. Seth Petrov. Seneca. The Slaughterman..."
"I know. I get the point. Some of the higher-ups actually like the idea of turning you loose to bring in mad killers. But freelance vigilantes have no place in this city, Mr Dire Wolf."
"Listen," Bane said as if he hadn't heard, "the body has been taken away and the yellow tape is going up. Are you going to be leaving soon?"
"I think so, yeah. Why do you ask?"
"Take me down to headquarters with you," Bane said.
Klein made a startled noise. "What? Bane, you're a person of interest in this business but you are not under arrest. You're not being taken into custody."
"But I want someone to think I am," the Dire Wolf answered. "Obviously, whoever is behind this will have a watcher or two outside. If they see me stroll away, they know the frame has failed. But if they see me get hauled away in a squad car..."
"Listen, you do not ask the New York City Police Department to play charades for you. We are not your partners in trickery. But.. on the other hand, I see where you are going with this and I like it. Come on. Geller, Ellsworth, escort this character to the squad car. I'll be down in a few minutes."
As Klein got in the front of the patrol car with Geller at the wheel, Bane was in the back with the officer who had apparently disliked him on sight. As they pulled away from the curb, the Dire Wolf caught sight of Jack Wengert standing in a doorway with a cigarette, checking out the scene. Bane looked down and tried to seem crestfallen. At the police headquarters on 20th Street, Bane was marched in the front entrance. He exchanged a few words with Inspector Klein, who seem more and more tickled with the ruse, and promptly left through a side door that opened on a municipal parking lot. Now he had to act fast.
III.
Bane figured that Wengert had reported to Dos Manos that the frame-up was going fine, and that the cops had shoved the Dire Wolf in the back of the squad car. Maybe there was a watcher in front of the station on 20th, it depended on how many people were in the organization. He was gambling that there wouldn't be someone posted to watch every exit. Bane started heading uptown at a good clip. It was getting near dusk, which suited him. At Gramercy Park, he found a phone booth at a bus stop and started making phone calls. Over the years, Bane had established a network of dozens of people who owed him their lives. Rather than accepting cash rewards, Bane had instead asked that they keep an eye open for weird events, sightings of the inexplicable, rumors of gruesome murders and relay that information to him. It had worked out well for him.
The third call was to a bitter old man who called himself Bleak. He had once been a fighter in the Midnight War himself but now was content to act as courier and messenger while battles raged around him. He reported that Dos Manos had been indeed spotted back in Manhattan, along with some of his cronies. Bleak wasn't sure but he suspected Dos Manos was renting a house on Marsh Street, in Greenwich Village within sight of Washington Square. Bane said thanks, and Bleak replied to skip the thanks and mail him his retainer.
Back down to the Village. Bane walked at a pace that usually got him around town faster than being in a car fighting traffic. It was getting dark. The Dire Wolf spotted the house at the address Bleak had given him, a small structure wedged between a used clothing boutique and a gift shop. The front door was flanked by two pairs of windows, heavily curtained. Bane circled the block and checked out the rear of the house from across the street.
This looked more promising. A man in a white dress shirt and black slacks flung up the window as high as it would go. He leaned out and lit a cigarette. Evidently he was under orders not to smoke inside the house and this was his idea of a compromise. The red dot flared brighter as he drew on the cigarette. Across the street, Bane crouched behind a huge white Blazer and drew his dart gun. It was a fairly long shot for the weapon but there was no wind and he judged it was worth a try. He stepped around the back of the Blazer and snapped off a shot by instinct. The air cartridge made a barely audible cough and there was no muzzle flash. In the open window, the thug slapped at the sudden hot pain in his chest where the tiny dart had hit, but he was dazed within half a second and unconscious within three. The man slumped silently out of sight.
As soon as he had fired, Bane holstered his dart gun and moved. He flashed across the street, leaped up from the sidewalk and dove through the open window like a gymnast. All the hundreds of hours of instruction and practice made it look effortless. He went through the window neatly, clearing the slumped body on the floor and rolling to jump back up on his feet. Bane glanced around. That had gone so smoothly that he was sorry no one had been there to see it.
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. Bane saw he was in a large and well-organized kitchen, with lots of dark wood and stainless steel. As the door opened inward, he stepped behind it with the dart gun in his hand. A short man in coveralls came through, wiping his hands on a rag. "Hey, did you hear something? Archie, what's wrong?"
As the man bent over the unconscious Archie, Bane dropped him with a dart and the two were left slumped next to each other. The anesthetic darts were great for stealthy approaches, Bane thought, but they had their limits. He couldn't rely on them in cold weather when people wore thick layers of clothing, and they didn't have the range of a bullet. But for silently taking prisoners, the darts were perfect. Holding the dart gun in one hand, he stepped through the door and found himself in a wide hall with plush carpeting. Judging by the oil paintings on the walls and the little bits of statuary on end tables, Dos Manos had plenty of money and pretensions of culture. One small lamp on the wall gave just enough light to see by.
He made his way to the front of the building, where light poured out of an open door. He heard a voice mutter and a second voice answered it in rich, eloquent tones with just a trace of an accent. "You have done well, my friend. Indeed, I expected the Dire Wolf to escape the first trap and I had already prepared a second one to follow. Ways to slay him are many. I wanted to humble him."
Creeping up next to the doorway, Bane heard the voice of Jack Wengert. "He didn't suspect me at all," Wengert said gleefully. "Listen, boss, if he's released, I can go see him tomorrow and bring him here-"
Bane could not resist an entrance line like that. He stepped through the doorway and called out, "I'm already here."
IV.
In a split-second, Bane registered he was in an old-fashioned study with overstuffed easy chairs, walls lined with matched editions and prints of historical events. Three men were in that room and he automatically targeted the one who was the most immediate threat. This was a huge black man, easily three hundred pounds at six foot three, wearing a tan business suit. His right hand was moving toward his left armpit, and Bane snapped a shot at him first. The heavy anesthetic dart stabbed into the man's chest. Those darts hurt when they hit, the point went in three-quarters of an inch with considerable impact, and the pain distracted the target for an instant. Then, as the potent drug was injected, the subject became confused and disoriented instantly. Within a few seconds, the man was completely unconscious. He fell backwards, knocking over a small stand which held a brandy decanter.
Even as that man fell, Wengert tried to make a run for it. Bane had taken three steps into the room, leaving a space which Wengert thought he could get through. He ran right into a hooking punch that spun him around and left him on his hands and knees, too dazed to rise. "I want to have a few words with you later," Bane said.
All this time, Bane's attention had not entirely left the main menace. Now he extended his arm with the dart gun steady and said, "I didn't think we would meet again, Montez."
Dos Manos was one of the more grotesque rogues in the Midnight War. At first, he seemed very handsome, a dark Spanish man around forty, with crisp wavy black hair and a flashing smile that showed perfect teeth. He had a square cleft chin and thick eyebrows. In the tight silk shirt he wore, almost to the waist, bulging muscles showed dramatically. He looked like the cover of a romance novel.
It was the hands that made him a monster.
Thick ridges of scar tissue and metal clamps just above the wrists showed where his natural body ended. The right hand was huge, with powerful thick fingers and black skin. The left was that of an old man, with thin bony fingers which ended in long pointed nails. The skin on that hand was a dark gold, like the tawny hide of a lion. Dos Manos flexed those mismatched hands and flashed his movie star smile.
"Medical science had nothing to do with that," Bane said sourly. "That's Darthan magick. I heard rumours about you after your release, Montez. Dos Manos.. "two hands." I know your right hand came from a strangler of the Night Gorilla cult in Danarak. The left was taken from a master of the Winter Snow martial arts school. With the Darthan spell, you gained their abilities and skills."
"Go on, my old friend," Dos Manos purred.
"What's next? I suppose you'll give yourself the legs of an Olympic track star. You're a sick one, Montez. Ten years in jail wasn't enough for your kind."
The killer ripped off his shirt, popping the buttons. He was in magnificent shape, but the mismatched hands ruined his looks. "It was while in prison that I learned of Darthan magick. I met a warlock you yourself had convicted of child abuse conducted during his rituals. He told me where I might meet a Kje and perhaps strike a deal."
"I like the premise of your frame-up," Bane said, holding the dart gun steady on the monstrous killer. "But you messed up on a few details. And Inspector Klein isn't quite as dumb as you figured. You'll be talking to him soon enough, as it is."
Dos Manos stepped into the center of the den, with ten feet of free space around him. "You will not use that trick gun on me, Dire Wolf, no no no. I can see the eagerness in your face. You're a born warrior- like myself. How long has it been since you've faced a foe who can give you a real challenge?"
"Oh hell," growled Bane. "Even the Devil tells the truth once in a while." He holstered his dart gun, yanked off his jacket and tossed it on an easy chair. He stepped forward and Dos Manos lunged to meet him head on. The next minute was a blur of lightning motion, punches and kicks thrown and blocked without a second between them. Both men were highly skilled and in peak condition, both coldly determined to win.
Dos Manos was known to have killed many men with his original body back in Miami. When an execution was required, he arranged for barehanded combat under the pretense of giving the victim a fighting chance but the result was always the same. At first, Bane had attacked with a spinning reverse kick but the killer had swept that foot up and back, getting the Dire Wolf off-balance for just a second. Before Dos Manos could take advantage of that moment, Bane had leaped in close and blasted a barrage of left-right alternating blows that pummeled the man's ribs like a drummer. A brutal backfist from the right hand seemed to come from nowhere, catching Bane high on the cheek and making him step back.
The Dire Wolf began to realize what he was dealing with. Much of his Kumundu training was based on judging an opponent's timing and approach. After the first step an enemy took, after the first blow, Bane had been taught to respond appropriately. Kumundu was not so much technique as perception. But Dos Manos was unprecedented. He had a lithe, well-muscled body with one hand belonging to a powerful African strangler and the other to a skilled Chinese sifu. Bane was more than a little perplexed. It was like fighting two opponents occupying the same space. There was no rhythm for him to interrupt, no pattern to give him an opening.
Suddenly the black hand darted out to close its thick fingers around Bane's throat, the thumb pressing his windpipe. At the same time, the sharpened fingernails of the Asian hand raked across his cheek and nicked his eyelid. At this moment, when Dos Manos seemed to have the advantage, the Dire Wolf got his bearings. One hand was choking him and the other scraping his face, but at least he now knew where they are and where they would be for the next few seconds. It meant his opponent's face was going to be right in front of him within easy reach.
Instead of trying the break the grip on his throat, Bane blasted a basic right jab and left cross combination that connected perfectly. Dos Manos' head jerked back and then twisted to the side so violently that he was almost knocked out. He dropped his guard. Bane brought an uppercut that started down by his knee and clapped the man's mouth shut with a sound like a sharp handclap. The mad killer fell over backwards with a thud that guaranteed he would not be getting up any time soon.
Bane exhaled sharply. It was not often he faced an opponent his training had not prepared him for. He had to tell Teacher Chael about this the next time he was at Tel Shai. He turned and saw Jack Wengert had gotten up and was trying to reach the door. Bane swept the man's legs out from under him and let him have a backfist that left him on the floor. "I thought I told you to stay put," he said calmly.
Blood was running down his cheek and getting in his eye. Damn. He found a bathroom out in the hall and washed his injuries with warm water. The gouges in his cheek were shallow, but the nick in his eyelid would need a stitch or two. He taped a sterile gauze bandage over his eye and went back to the den. Dos Manos showed no signs of stirring, nor did Wengert. The thug who had caught an anesthetic dart would be out for another hour or so.
Going to an elegant French phone on its own little stand, Bane dialed a number he knew well. "Klein? Glad you're still on duty. Yes, it's me. Get some of your boys. 219 Marsh Street, down by Washington Square. Why? Well, are you interested in taking Dos Manos in? I thought so. Yeah. I'll be here but I need to go the ER soon. I'm going to need some patching." The Dire Wolf lowered himself to the overstuffed chair which had a side table with a brandy snifter and copy of REMEMBRANCES OF THINGS PAST by Proust, in the original French. Despite the throbbing in his eye, Bane smiled at Dos Manos' choice of reading matter. What a pretentious mastermind.
2/20/2014
4/17/1992
I.
"Let's see how this works," Bane muttered out loud. He was in the gym on the seventh floor of the old KDF building, with its array of Nautilus machines and treadmill. By his left side was a metal rack holding ten throwing knives. These had been made for him to be as nearly identical as possible to the matched pair of silver-bladed daggers he always wore in sheaths under his sleeves.
Sixty feet away, part of the wall had been covered with cork panels. On the floor was a small electric motor with a steel rod extending up to face level. The rod was hinged and ended with a round wooden disc as big as a man's head. Jeremy Bane studied the apparatus critically. He had a fortune to spend on these experimental devices as he saw fit, but he wondered if the results would be worth the expense. The Dire Wolf reached over and threw a toggle switch on the rack holding the knives. Instantly, the steel rod swung back and forth, up and down, moving in erratic circles. Bane smiled faintly and suddenly he was throwing the daggers. Faster than a normal Human, he snatched up one knife after another and hurled them at the moving target. Sometimes he threw with his right hand (he was left-handed), a few times he threw underhanded or turned and flung one over his shoulder. In twenty seconds, he had gone through all ten daggers and he switched the motor off.
Five daggers were stuck in the wooden disc, so close together that their hilts touched. One had touched a dagger already in the target and glanced off, another had stuck in too close to the edge and fallen off. Three that he had thrown right-handed had simply missed. The Dire Wolf folded his arms and studied the set-up, decided he liked it. A moving target set for random manuevers was much better than a piece of cardboard tacked to the wall. He detached the rack from its stand and walked over to begin replacing the daggers into their slots.
It had been more than a year since the KDF had disbanded. So many of his friends had died that hellish night in Necropolis, the City of the Dead, and others had been so damaged by those events that they had stepped down from duty and left the Midnight War altogether. Time weighed heavily on him. For six months, he and Cindy had decided to enjoy their wealth. They went to concerts, museums, art galleries. They spent a week in Hawaii, a week in the South of France, a week in New Zealand. And they were still not satisfied, he more than her. Finally, Cindy had told him that he was made for trouble and he might as well accept it. Bane thrived in high stress situations and stagnated when at leisure. And he had to agree.
Bane had always renewed the PI license that Michael Hawk had helped him obtain, and he opened the DIRE WOLF AGENCY here in the KDF building, using the reception room as his office. Cases had immediately poured in. Whenever there were weird events, gruesome unexplained deaths, serial killers too twisted for profilers, people had come to Bane. He was in his element. He was as happy as he was ever going to be. At least he felt his time was being put to good use.
Replacing the rack of daggers to its stand, Bane decided to dim the lights in the gym before practicing some more. As he walked over to the switches, the phone on the wall by the door rang. A gleam came to his grey eyes at the interruption and he snatched up the phone eagerly. "Dire Wolf Agency."
"Hello? Bane? Listen, I don't know if you remember me. My name is Jack Wengert, I used to work for City Streets Agency."
"Wengert? Sure, I remember you," Bane answered. "You handled that business for the IBM executive, Breslin."
"That's me. I watched you punch out the hitman in the lobby when he already had a gun aimed at you and it was the coolest thing I ever saw. I decided to call you if I ever needed help," said the gruff voice.
"Where are you now?"
"I'm calling from a sports bar on 33rd. When can I see you?"
"I'm free this morning," said Bane. "Come right over. 28 East 38th Street, the door still says KENNETH DRED FOUNDATION."
"Great, great, I'm on my way," said the voice as the connection broke. Bane left the gym and took the elevator to the ground floor, thinking about the Breslin case. Wengert had seemed like a thug with muscle and ambition but not much finesse. He had not been impressed by the man, but a case was a case and he wanted to at least hear what the deal was. As he got out in the front hall, Bane picked his sport jacket off the coatrack and slipped it on. As always, he was wearing all black, boots and slacks and long-sleeved turtleneck. Just six feet tall, he had the build of a runner. His black hair was cut short and the pale grey eyes stood out vividly under heavy brows. There was nothing misleading about the Dire Wolf, he looked as dangerous as he was.
Standing by the front door, he slid open a wooden panel to reveal a monitor screen and controls. Bane switched it on and saw an image of 38th Street. In a few minutes, a bulky figure in a dark raincoat hustled up the stone steps to the front door and pressed the bell. Through the intercom, Bane said, "I'll be right with you," and opened the front door by remote control. Jack Wengert stepped into the small foyer, which held only a bench, a lamp on a shelf, and a framed portrait of Kenneth Dred. Advanced Trom systems hummed and buzzed faintly as Wengert was scanned more thoroughly than the best MRI could match.
There was the gun of course, a 9mm Ruger stuck in the guy's belt. There was also a folding knife and a set of metal knuckle guards in the right coat pocket. On the monitor screen, yellow yellows read JOHN HENRY 'JACK' WENGERT, ID CONFIRMED. Bane opened the inner door and said, "Good morning. Listen, before you come in, I want that Ruger placed in the cabinet here. You can pick it up on the way out."
Wengert blinked and started to protest, but Bane said, "Rules are rules. Guns go in that cabinet while you're here."
Grudgingly, the detective tugged the pistol from his belt and lowered it into an open cabinet just inside the door. "Did you X-ray me?"
Bane did not answer directly. "You always carried a gun, Jack. Step into the office and tell me what's on your mind."
The reception room was to the left as you entered, with a fish tank full of bizarre specimens, a low table littered with old magazines, and an assortment of straight back chairs. Hanging on one wall was a beautiful handpainted map of the world as it had been in 1937, and in front of it was a plain oak desk. Bane took his seat behind the desk and motioned for Wengert to pick a chair in front.
"I didn't know you were a private detective," Wengert said.
"Licensed by the State of New York," replied Bane. "Do you have a case for me, Jack?"
"Sort of." Wengert glanced around uncertainly. He was big, stout and obviously tough as his job required. Bane noticed the scar tissue on the man's knuckles and that the nose had been worked on after being broken more than once. "I'm not a classy PI," Wengert admitted. "I deal a lot with shady types and customers who had things to hide. Most of the time, I seem to pass messages and arrange meetings. It's enough to pay the bills. But I'm here because of my brother Jimmy."
Bane waited, saying nothing. His pale eyes were watchful.
"Jimmy's a bit wild, always has been," Wengert said. "Our parents have been dead a long time, so I raised him to an extent and still try to keep an eye on him. But he's determined to get in with bad company. I catch him with some punks that I know are nothing but bad news. They work for a freak called Dos Manos. I see you recognize that name?"
"Dos Manos," Bane replied. "We've met."
"Then you understand why I worry about Jimmy. The bums that work for that maniac have all done time. If Jimmy gets sucked into their games, it's only a matter of time until he's in the can or in the ground."
"And what is it I can do? Have a talk with him?"
"Nah, talking won't do any good. Everyone in our family is stubborn as Hell. No, Mr Bane, I think only one thing is going to help. I heard a lot about you. The Dire Wolf. If half the stories about you are true, then I think you're my only hope. I want you to get rid of Dos Manos."
Bane's voice had a new edge to it. "I'm not an assassin, Jack. You can't hire me to kill someone."
"I know that. Not that anyone would mind if Dos Manos got killed, he's the worst lunatic running loose since Samhain. But even if you get him arrested, or chase him out of town and break up his gang, that would do it. Jimmy will lose his illusions and maybe settle down a little."
"Wow." Bane placed his palms flat on the desk and leaned forward. "The NYPD has not been able to get a grip on this guy. The FBI has been interested in him, too. What makes you think I can get done what they can't?"
"Because you're you. Seriously, I've heard about you for years. The gangs go out of their way to leave you alone because you take out the rogue killers and maniacs. Everybody knows you've been hunting monsters that come out at night, supernatural things that people are afraid to admit even exist." He exhaled sharply. "I seen things myself I don't want to talk about."
Bane seemed to reach a decision. "I'm going to take you as a client, Jack. My official assignment is to locate your brother and persuade him to keep away from this gang. But if I happen to run into Dos Manos along the way..."
"I get it, I get it. I knew I could count on you," Wengert said. He took a thick white envelope from his inside pocket. "There's two Gs cash in there, all I got. Of course, there's also a reward for Dos Manos, so you'd be collecting that."
The Dire Wolf counted out one thousand dollars and handed the rest back. "That's my standard fee, and I have to charge it for legal reasons. If I'm acting on behalf of a client, I can claim confidentiality when dealing with police questions." Opening the center drawer of his desk, he took out a red leatherbound ledger, wrote down the details and made out a receipt which he handed over to Wengert. As he closed and locked the drawer, Bane said, "You know, I met Dos Manos a long time ago."
"I thought so!"
"He didn't have his freak hands back then. He was just a Miami con man and thug named Raul Garcia Montez. I was only a kid myself, twenty years old, working for Mr Dred. Montez robbed some friends of Mr Dred and punched a seventy-year-old woman in the face in the process. I put a .38 slug in his stomach after he shot at me and I turned him over to the NYPD. He went upstate to Napanoch for some reason and we didn't hear from him for a few years. Then he got out with some lawyer doubletalk and decided he needed new hands. You know the rest."
.
Wengert got up, pushing the chair back. "I can give you the address where Jimmy goes, but I don't know if Dos Manos himself shows up there. Eighth Avenue, up by 50th Street."
"Let's go for a walk, Jack. You might remember some useful details along the way." Bane led the man from the office, gave him back his gun, and headed outside. As he closed the front door, alarms and locks clicked into place. They began walking west. As they went, Bane started questioning Wengert about the gang members... names, appearance, known habits. Although he did not appear to be scrutinizing Wengert, Bane had been trained by experts in judging tiny details of body language and speech patterns. He had known Wengert was lying to him from the moment he had picked up the phone but he went along with it for his own reasons.
By the time they reached Eighth Avenue, Wengert felt his brain had been squeezed dry. It was a cool breezy April afternoon, the air was as fresh as it was ever likely to get. At four o'clock, the sidewalks were jammed and traffic was crawling. At 48th Street, Jack Wengert stopped and stepped into the doorway of a tattoo shop calling itself INKSANE. "I don't want to be too visible. Look. That building right on the corner. Used book store and tobacco stand."
"I see it," said Bane."
"The windows on the top floor are painted over. Used to be a Korean massage parlor. Empty now. That's where Jimmy's been drinking and smoking with them punks."
The Dire Wolf studied the building in silence. "I'm going to have a look inside. You better go about your business for now, I'll call you when I have results. I expect to tackle Dos Manos within the next twenty-four hours."
"Better you than me," said Wengert. "The more I hear about that guy..."
Without another word, Bane stepped off the curb and strode up to the dingy red brick building. As he crossed the street, he spotted Wengert heading for a phone booth on the next corner. That was the final giveaway, he thought grimly. Before this was over, he was sure he'd have to deal with Jack Wengert as well. Fine. The Dire Wolf strode up to the ancient brick building. The window of the used book store was so grimy that he could hardly make out the covers of the books on display, but there were a lot of buxom women in leather holding whips or being tied up. The tobacco shop next door had an awning that read FINE TOBACCOS - CIGARS - IMPORTED CIGARETTES. A fat man with thick-lensed glasses grunted ambiguously as Bane walked by.
On the side of the building facing 8th Avenue was a single concrete step and a narrow wooden door. Without breaking stride, Bane drew back his elbow and smacked the palm of his open hand just above the doorknob. The lock snapped and he went in as if he owned the building. It was not strength itself that made the lock-breaking trick work, it was knowing how to deliver torque from the feet up through the body and focus it.
There was a short hallway to his right that ended in a janitor closet, which had a bucket of murky water standing in front of its own door. Directly in front of him was a door with a frosted glass panel that must open into the tobacco shop, and right next to it were antique wooden stairs with a bannister. Bane headed up them, placing his feet on the extreme end of each step to minimize creaking. When was the trap going to be sprung, he wondered. As he neared the second floor landing, he paused to adjust the matched silver daggers sheathed on his forearms, hilts forward. Reaching behind him, he thumbed the safety off on the anesthetic dart gun holstered behind his right hip. There were other weapons concealed in hidden pockets, but his real faith rested in his own body with its years of hard training and hard experience.
Above him, he heard a door softly closing. Now this was getting interesting. Bane came out on the second floor landing and saw a door standing wide open, with a piece of cardboard taped to it, OUT OF BUSINESS. Expecting an ambush, he took two quick steps and leaped into the center of the room. He almost stepped on the corpse.
II.
There was a door on the opposite side of the room, which must have been what he had heard closing. Bane looked through it but saw no one in the tiny landing which connected to the stairs. He swung around and glanced over the empty room. Four plywood partitions divided up one wall into cubicles, with thin curtains hanging over the openings. When this was a massage parlor, they would be the rooms where the girls worked on their customers. A few empty cardboard boxes, some scattered newspapers and a cluster of empty beer bottles were all the decorations now. One corner held a gallon jug filled with urine. The guys meeting here had class, Bane thought.
He crouched over the body. Out of habit, he felt for a pulse but didn't expect to find one. That neck was bent at any angle no living person could reach. The body had been an Hispanic man around forty, stocky and muscular. He had been wearing sneakers, baggy pants and a navy blue sweatshirt. The face had been pounded so hard it would be hard to identify. Three teeth were on the floor, and blood was everywhere. Yet there were no signs of the wrists being tied, so why hadn't the victim defended himself? He looked tough enough to put up a good fight. Bane was careful not to get any of the blood on him.
The Dire Wolf rose to his feet. The corpse was fresh, the blood unclotted. This man had died within the past few minutes... as Wengert had been leading him up Eighth Avenue. Someone must have seen them walking toward this building and either made a call or run ahead to signal it was time for a killing. All so he would walk in on a gruesome corpse. This was the trap he had been expecting.
Bane turned to face three men in the open doorway behind him. Two were uniformed officers, but it was the third who got his full attention.
"You! Goddam, I knew we'd catch you sooner or later." Inspector Harold Klein of Homicide was a short, wide man in a white raincoat over a rumpled suit. The curly black hair was starting to show lots of grey, and his left eye was glass. He had a chewed up cigar stub clenched in his teeth. Twice before he had caught Bane in suspicious circumstances but did not have sufficient grounds to hold him.
"This man is dead," Bane began.
"NO! Really? You'd never know it to look at him. Cover this guy, boys. This is the Dire Wolf you may have heard of. Listen, Bane. We got a tip-off that you entered this building with a known burglar named Carlos Alvarez.. who matches that cadaver's description. The caller said he heard arguing and screaming. And here we are. You're a dangerous individual, son. I don't know if you use karate or plain boxing or whatever, but look how smashed up that guy's face is."
For a second, Bane had a strong impulse to attack. He knew he was capable of knocking down all three of these guys and getting down the stairs. But then what? Could he try to catch Dos Manos while on the run from the cops? No. Besides, he had gone to too much trouble to get his PI license to have it revoked.
He sighed and held up his open hands, palms down, directly in front of Klein's face. "Take a good look. Take your time."
"And...?"
"See any blood? See any torn skin or bruises or swollen knuckles? No. Do you think anyone could beat a man like that without getting marked himself? Of course not. Look at the broken teeth on the floor. My hands would be all gouged."
Klein grumbled. Finally, he gave in. "Anything else to say?"
"Sure. Look at how fresh that blood is. How long did it take you to respond to the anonymous tip and ride here? Enough time for the blood to thicken and darken." Bane shook his head. "I shouldn't have to tell you this stuff, inspector."
One of the uniformed officers had turned his head aside to hide a smile. Klein gave him a sour look and said, "So. What's your story, Bane?"
"I'm working for a client," the Dire Wolf said. "He wants me to investigate the activities of someone known to him who has been seen associating with unsavory underworld types. I got this address, came up to see if anyone was available to volunteer information and almost tripped over the body. As I came up the stairs, I heard the back door to this room closed. That's how close I came to walking in on the goons who did this."
Klein was struggling with conflicting instincts. "I see. I see. You're in for some questioning and you need to sign a statement. Geller, go to the car and call in the forensic boys."
For the next two hours, while city employees measured and photographed and took samples, Klein grilled Bane in excruciating detail. The Dire Wolf played straight and, except for the name of his client, told everything. But even as he was being interrogated, Bane was overhearing the results the CSI workers came up with.
Traces of Asian and African-American skin had been found, particularly on the broken edges of the teeth which had been dislodged. The killers had shown remarkable physical strength, judging by the impact areas of each blow. The victim had tried to put up a fight but had been overmatched and unable to defend himself. The room itself had been used for an extended time for drinking beer and whiskey, and for smoking pot.
Gradually, Klein slowed his questioning, since Bane's calm self-assurance had not been shaken in the least. In fact, he had gradually begun to act as if he were investigating the crime scene alongside the police. "Neither the tobacco store owner or the bookstore owner said they phoned you," he told Klein. "Of course you can check their records of outgoing calls. We're dealing someone who has a neat sense of timing. As I was seen approaching this place, someone sent a message to kill Alvarez. The call to you had to be earlier than that, to allow you time to get here as soon as I did, but not give me enough time to realize it was a set-up and skip out. We've both been played by some would-be mastermind."
Without quite realizing it, Klein had begun treating Bane less as a suspect and more as a colleague. "One last time, don't you think your client's name would help the investigation?"
"No. I have a hunch who is behind this, but that's all it is. Not enough evidence to justify dragging you into it, at least before I ask around a little." Bane watched as the forensic team started packing up. "I'll let you know as soon as I find anything."
"Hold it, hold it." Klein gestured with a stubby forefinger. "You were found at the scene of a homicide. All the evidence points to the conclusion that you didn't commit the crime, and I am not going to charge you. At this point. But I can still hold you as a material witness, Mr Dire Wolf."
"You could," Bane agreed. "Or you could let me do some hunting on my own. You've read my file. You know all the maniacs I brought in. Samhain. Seth Petrov. Seneca. The Slaughterman..."
"I know. I get the point. Some of the higher-ups actually like the idea of turning you loose to bring in mad killers. But freelance vigilantes have no place in this city, Mr Dire Wolf."
"Listen," Bane said as if he hadn't heard, "the body has been taken away and the yellow tape is going up. Are you going to be leaving soon?"
"I think so, yeah. Why do you ask?"
"Take me down to headquarters with you," Bane said.
Klein made a startled noise. "What? Bane, you're a person of interest in this business but you are not under arrest. You're not being taken into custody."
"But I want someone to think I am," the Dire Wolf answered. "Obviously, whoever is behind this will have a watcher or two outside. If they see me stroll away, they know the frame has failed. But if they see me get hauled away in a squad car..."
"Listen, you do not ask the New York City Police Department to play charades for you. We are not your partners in trickery. But.. on the other hand, I see where you are going with this and I like it. Come on. Geller, Ellsworth, escort this character to the squad car. I'll be down in a few minutes."
As Klein got in the front of the patrol car with Geller at the wheel, Bane was in the back with the officer who had apparently disliked him on sight. As they pulled away from the curb, the Dire Wolf caught sight of Jack Wengert standing in a doorway with a cigarette, checking out the scene. Bane looked down and tried to seem crestfallen. At the police headquarters on 20th Street, Bane was marched in the front entrance. He exchanged a few words with Inspector Klein, who seem more and more tickled with the ruse, and promptly left through a side door that opened on a municipal parking lot. Now he had to act fast.
III.
Bane figured that Wengert had reported to Dos Manos that the frame-up was going fine, and that the cops had shoved the Dire Wolf in the back of the squad car. Maybe there was a watcher in front of the station on 20th, it depended on how many people were in the organization. He was gambling that there wouldn't be someone posted to watch every exit. Bane started heading uptown at a good clip. It was getting near dusk, which suited him. At Gramercy Park, he found a phone booth at a bus stop and started making phone calls. Over the years, Bane had established a network of dozens of people who owed him their lives. Rather than accepting cash rewards, Bane had instead asked that they keep an eye open for weird events, sightings of the inexplicable, rumors of gruesome murders and relay that information to him. It had worked out well for him.
The third call was to a bitter old man who called himself Bleak. He had once been a fighter in the Midnight War himself but now was content to act as courier and messenger while battles raged around him. He reported that Dos Manos had been indeed spotted back in Manhattan, along with some of his cronies. Bleak wasn't sure but he suspected Dos Manos was renting a house on Marsh Street, in Greenwich Village within sight of Washington Square. Bane said thanks, and Bleak replied to skip the thanks and mail him his retainer.
Back down to the Village. Bane walked at a pace that usually got him around town faster than being in a car fighting traffic. It was getting dark. The Dire Wolf spotted the house at the address Bleak had given him, a small structure wedged between a used clothing boutique and a gift shop. The front door was flanked by two pairs of windows, heavily curtained. Bane circled the block and checked out the rear of the house from across the street.
This looked more promising. A man in a white dress shirt and black slacks flung up the window as high as it would go. He leaned out and lit a cigarette. Evidently he was under orders not to smoke inside the house and this was his idea of a compromise. The red dot flared brighter as he drew on the cigarette. Across the street, Bane crouched behind a huge white Blazer and drew his dart gun. It was a fairly long shot for the weapon but there was no wind and he judged it was worth a try. He stepped around the back of the Blazer and snapped off a shot by instinct. The air cartridge made a barely audible cough and there was no muzzle flash. In the open window, the thug slapped at the sudden hot pain in his chest where the tiny dart had hit, but he was dazed within half a second and unconscious within three. The man slumped silently out of sight.
As soon as he had fired, Bane holstered his dart gun and moved. He flashed across the street, leaped up from the sidewalk and dove through the open window like a gymnast. All the hundreds of hours of instruction and practice made it look effortless. He went through the window neatly, clearing the slumped body on the floor and rolling to jump back up on his feet. Bane glanced around. That had gone so smoothly that he was sorry no one had been there to see it.
Footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. Bane saw he was in a large and well-organized kitchen, with lots of dark wood and stainless steel. As the door opened inward, he stepped behind it with the dart gun in his hand. A short man in coveralls came through, wiping his hands on a rag. "Hey, did you hear something? Archie, what's wrong?"
As the man bent over the unconscious Archie, Bane dropped him with a dart and the two were left slumped next to each other. The anesthetic darts were great for stealthy approaches, Bane thought, but they had their limits. He couldn't rely on them in cold weather when people wore thick layers of clothing, and they didn't have the range of a bullet. But for silently taking prisoners, the darts were perfect. Holding the dart gun in one hand, he stepped through the door and found himself in a wide hall with plush carpeting. Judging by the oil paintings on the walls and the little bits of statuary on end tables, Dos Manos had plenty of money and pretensions of culture. One small lamp on the wall gave just enough light to see by.
He made his way to the front of the building, where light poured out of an open door. He heard a voice mutter and a second voice answered it in rich, eloquent tones with just a trace of an accent. "You have done well, my friend. Indeed, I expected the Dire Wolf to escape the first trap and I had already prepared a second one to follow. Ways to slay him are many. I wanted to humble him."
Creeping up next to the doorway, Bane heard the voice of Jack Wengert. "He didn't suspect me at all," Wengert said gleefully. "Listen, boss, if he's released, I can go see him tomorrow and bring him here-"
Bane could not resist an entrance line like that. He stepped through the doorway and called out, "I'm already here."
IV.
In a split-second, Bane registered he was in an old-fashioned study with overstuffed easy chairs, walls lined with matched editions and prints of historical events. Three men were in that room and he automatically targeted the one who was the most immediate threat. This was a huge black man, easily three hundred pounds at six foot three, wearing a tan business suit. His right hand was moving toward his left armpit, and Bane snapped a shot at him first. The heavy anesthetic dart stabbed into the man's chest. Those darts hurt when they hit, the point went in three-quarters of an inch with considerable impact, and the pain distracted the target for an instant. Then, as the potent drug was injected, the subject became confused and disoriented instantly. Within a few seconds, the man was completely unconscious. He fell backwards, knocking over a small stand which held a brandy decanter.
Even as that man fell, Wengert tried to make a run for it. Bane had taken three steps into the room, leaving a space which Wengert thought he could get through. He ran right into a hooking punch that spun him around and left him on his hands and knees, too dazed to rise. "I want to have a few words with you later," Bane said.
All this time, Bane's attention had not entirely left the main menace. Now he extended his arm with the dart gun steady and said, "I didn't think we would meet again, Montez."
Dos Manos was one of the more grotesque rogues in the Midnight War. At first, he seemed very handsome, a dark Spanish man around forty, with crisp wavy black hair and a flashing smile that showed perfect teeth. He had a square cleft chin and thick eyebrows. In the tight silk shirt he wore, almost to the waist, bulging muscles showed dramatically. He looked like the cover of a romance novel.
It was the hands that made him a monster.
Thick ridges of scar tissue and metal clamps just above the wrists showed where his natural body ended. The right hand was huge, with powerful thick fingers and black skin. The left was that of an old man, with thin bony fingers which ended in long pointed nails. The skin on that hand was a dark gold, like the tawny hide of a lion. Dos Manos flexed those mismatched hands and flashed his movie star smile.
"Medical science had nothing to do with that," Bane said sourly. "That's Darthan magick. I heard rumours about you after your release, Montez. Dos Manos.. "two hands." I know your right hand came from a strangler of the Night Gorilla cult in Danarak. The left was taken from a master of the Winter Snow martial arts school. With the Darthan spell, you gained their abilities and skills."
"Go on, my old friend," Dos Manos purred.
"What's next? I suppose you'll give yourself the legs of an Olympic track star. You're a sick one, Montez. Ten years in jail wasn't enough for your kind."
The killer ripped off his shirt, popping the buttons. He was in magnificent shape, but the mismatched hands ruined his looks. "It was while in prison that I learned of Darthan magick. I met a warlock you yourself had convicted of child abuse conducted during his rituals. He told me where I might meet a Kje and perhaps strike a deal."
"I like the premise of your frame-up," Bane said, holding the dart gun steady on the monstrous killer. "But you messed up on a few details. And Inspector Klein isn't quite as dumb as you figured. You'll be talking to him soon enough, as it is."
Dos Manos stepped into the center of the den, with ten feet of free space around him. "You will not use that trick gun on me, Dire Wolf, no no no. I can see the eagerness in your face. You're a born warrior- like myself. How long has it been since you've faced a foe who can give you a real challenge?"
"Oh hell," growled Bane. "Even the Devil tells the truth once in a while." He holstered his dart gun, yanked off his jacket and tossed it on an easy chair. He stepped forward and Dos Manos lunged to meet him head on. The next minute was a blur of lightning motion, punches and kicks thrown and blocked without a second between them. Both men were highly skilled and in peak condition, both coldly determined to win.
Dos Manos was known to have killed many men with his original body back in Miami. When an execution was required, he arranged for barehanded combat under the pretense of giving the victim a fighting chance but the result was always the same. At first, Bane had attacked with a spinning reverse kick but the killer had swept that foot up and back, getting the Dire Wolf off-balance for just a second. Before Dos Manos could take advantage of that moment, Bane had leaped in close and blasted a barrage of left-right alternating blows that pummeled the man's ribs like a drummer. A brutal backfist from the right hand seemed to come from nowhere, catching Bane high on the cheek and making him step back.
The Dire Wolf began to realize what he was dealing with. Much of his Kumundu training was based on judging an opponent's timing and approach. After the first step an enemy took, after the first blow, Bane had been taught to respond appropriately. Kumundu was not so much technique as perception. But Dos Manos was unprecedented. He had a lithe, well-muscled body with one hand belonging to a powerful African strangler and the other to a skilled Chinese sifu. Bane was more than a little perplexed. It was like fighting two opponents occupying the same space. There was no rhythm for him to interrupt, no pattern to give him an opening.
Suddenly the black hand darted out to close its thick fingers around Bane's throat, the thumb pressing his windpipe. At the same time, the sharpened fingernails of the Asian hand raked across his cheek and nicked his eyelid. At this moment, when Dos Manos seemed to have the advantage, the Dire Wolf got his bearings. One hand was choking him and the other scraping his face, but at least he now knew where they are and where they would be for the next few seconds. It meant his opponent's face was going to be right in front of him within easy reach.
Instead of trying the break the grip on his throat, Bane blasted a basic right jab and left cross combination that connected perfectly. Dos Manos' head jerked back and then twisted to the side so violently that he was almost knocked out. He dropped his guard. Bane brought an uppercut that started down by his knee and clapped the man's mouth shut with a sound like a sharp handclap. The mad killer fell over backwards with a thud that guaranteed he would not be getting up any time soon.
Bane exhaled sharply. It was not often he faced an opponent his training had not prepared him for. He had to tell Teacher Chael about this the next time he was at Tel Shai. He turned and saw Jack Wengert had gotten up and was trying to reach the door. Bane swept the man's legs out from under him and let him have a backfist that left him on the floor. "I thought I told you to stay put," he said calmly.
Blood was running down his cheek and getting in his eye. Damn. He found a bathroom out in the hall and washed his injuries with warm water. The gouges in his cheek were shallow, but the nick in his eyelid would need a stitch or two. He taped a sterile gauze bandage over his eye and went back to the den. Dos Manos showed no signs of stirring, nor did Wengert. The thug who had caught an anesthetic dart would be out for another hour or so.
Going to an elegant French phone on its own little stand, Bane dialed a number he knew well. "Klein? Glad you're still on duty. Yes, it's me. Get some of your boys. 219 Marsh Street, down by Washington Square. Why? Well, are you interested in taking Dos Manos in? I thought so. Yeah. I'll be here but I need to go the ER soon. I'm going to need some patching." The Dire Wolf lowered himself to the overstuffed chair which had a side table with a brandy snifter and copy of REMEMBRANCES OF THINGS PAST by Proust, in the original French. Despite the throbbing in his eye, Bane smiled at Dos Manos' choice of reading matter. What a pretentious mastermind.
2/20/2014
