PART THREE: The Ferryman of Death
Chapter I: Charon
The assembled mobsters shifted uncomfortably. Sovereign City’s underworld had always been a strange thing, governed frequently by madman who bore silly names or outlandish attire. The Monster, Doctor Satan and The Burning Skull were all figures who had populated meetings like this one but it never got easier to take.
Morris Jones was known to most of his cronies as Dash, so named because he had some of the fleetest feet in Sovereign. It was said that if a job went sour, Dash was probably the only one guaranteed to get off scot free — no one, not Lazarus Gray or Fortune McCall — had ever managed to put his mitts around him.
Dash anxiously chewed on a toothpick, his right foot tapping a staccato beat on the floor. Standing before the group, which easily numbered three dozen of the roughest gangsters in the city, were two figures that looked like they’d stepped right out of one of those cheesy pulp novels that Dash devoured like fried chicken.
One of them was the Headless Horseman, dressed in a set of Revolutionary-era clothes. The Horseman’s sword hung at his hip and a gloved hand rested atop the hilt. The fact that the Horseman had no head was terrifying, of course, but Dash thought the smell that drifted from the man’s wound was far worse.
The other figure wore a hood and robes. His arms looked emaciated but it was the bits of face that occasionally showed that was truly frightening. His cheeks were sunken and his long beard was scraggly. The deep pits of his eyes shone with madness and his teeth were yellowed and crooked. This was Charon, who was just as frequently known as the Ferryman of Death. Dash knew the origins of the name, having been a voracious reader as a child. In fact, though he’d never admit it to his peers, he knew portions of Virgil’s description by heart:
Dash stared at the Horseman, feeling uneasy. It was strange how the guy had no head… It had to be a trick of some kind, but he was damned if he knew how the Horseman pulled it off.
Charon spoke up, interrupting Dash’s train of thought. The man had a calm, if somewhat aged, voice. “Gentlemen, thank you for answering my summons. I know that many of you are loyal to The Monster or the other crime lords in the city and that you do not want to offend them. Let me assure you that nothing we discuss tonight should do that.”
Dash didn’t think that was very likely but he didn’t speak up. The Monster, in particular, was a stickler when it came to matters of trust. If he thought you were on the take from another mobster or, heaven forbid, the cops, he’d plug you full of lead and drop you off the pier.
“What I am proposing is that each of you act as a clearinghouse of information on my behalf. I have certain things that I want to keep tabs on — and if you come across anything related to those subjects, you pass them on to me and no one else. In return, I will pay you handsomely.”
Dash saw a number of people lean forward with interest. He retained his cool, though. He wasn’t getting excited about any deal until he knew what the subjects were — and how much he’d get paid for the info.
“I am interested in anyone selling objects of occult power,” Charon continued. “If you hear of something, no matter how ludicrous it sounds, you come to me. If it bears fruit, you will receive a bonus. I am also interested in keeping tabs on the various vigilantes in the city: Lazarus Gray, Fortune McCall, The Dark Gentleman, Doc Daye, Gravedigger, etc. If you hear that they’re out of town, you pass it on to me. If you hear that they’re adding new members to their ranks, I want to know. It’s that simple.”
“Whatcha gonna do with that information?” Lefty Malone asked. Lefty had lost his hand during a botched robbery a few years ago.
“I plan to carve out an empire for myself in this city,” Charon answered. “But it’s not one based upon monetary concerns like most. I want to own men’s souls.” The ferryman laughed but no one joined in. “Let me worry about such things — for you, it’s simply a matter of getting paid.”
“What’s his story?” Dash asked, finally finding his voice. He gestured towards the Horseman.
“He’s exactly what he appears to be — he’s the Headless Horseman of legend.”
“So if you’ve got some kinda spook on your side, what do you need us for? Can’t you use your magic powers to find out all this stuff?”
“As I said, there is no reason for you to concern yourself with the details.” Charon chuckled again, a merciless sound that made many in the room shift uncomfortably.
The meeting ended soon after, with only a few of the other criminals asking for mundane details or clarifications. People could reach Charon by leaving a message at the front desks of any of a half dozen squalid hotels — he had people who would receive them.
Dash stepped out into the chill night air and lit a cigarette. He watched as his fellow crooks scattered to their cars or took off down dark alleyways. He lived not far from here, in a run-down little apartment building. The place housed more rats than people, but Dash still considered it home. So home isn’t used twice
He still wasn’t sure what to make of Charon’s deal. It seemed simple enough but he didn’t trust the Ferryman or his Horseman… and anything that led to dealings with Lazarus Gray or the other vigilantes simply wasn’t a smart move for a man who liked breathing.
He was deep in thought when he approached his apartment building. He nodded at a pretty young Chink who was standing near the steps. She must be new, he mused, because he didn’t recognize her as being one of the usual girls who worked the block. If he hadn’t been so low on funds, he would have invited her up to his place, but it had been awhile between jobs and he barely had enough to cover the rent.
Regretfully, he passed her by and went on inside. He unlocked his door and stepped through, his hand reaching out to find the light switch. A strong hand wrapped around his wrist and yanked him close, a sharp blade suddenly pressing hard against his throat.
The door was kicked shut behind him, leaving him in total darkness.
“Who is this?” he hissed in fear. He dropped his cigarette and considered fighting back… but the touch of cold steel against his skin made him pause.
A match was struck and a second later, Mitchell lit a candle. He was facing Dash and he looked particularly menacing in the dim light. “Don’t move,” he warned.
Mitchell came towards him and began binding Dash’s hands and feet with strong wire. Once Dash was bound, the knife vanished from the criminal’s throat.
Mitchell dragged the hobbled man over to a chair and pushed him down into it. Dash could now see whom it was that had held him at knifepoint. It was a dame, one outfitted in a red and black outfit that accentuated her athletic physique. The woman’s face was hidden beneath mask and hood.
“I’m Gravedigger,” she said, sheathing the curved knife that she had been holding. “Tell me what Charon said to you.”
Dash swallowed hard. Gravedigger was the worst of Sovereign’s vigilantes — Lazarus Gray or The Dark Gentleman would usually cart you off to jail but this woman was known for gutting her prey. “I don’t work for him,” he stammered. If he was out in the open, he would have taken off by now, hobbled or not. Nobody could match his speed, he was sure of that.