Ciphers

with one hand tied behind his back. In the past there’d been a never-ending stream of hangers-on willing to do anything for the right price, and he’d always paid handsomely for them to take care of his problems. They weren’t around anymore. The resources and access to henchmen had vanished along with the money.
No, his desire was a little different.
He wanted to be hit, to be slapped or punched in the face or cut or beaten, just to feel something. Something visceral. Something real. He didn’t have the balls to approach any of the gangbangers himself, so he continued up through the Bronx in this state of limbo, wondering who might be the first to try to steal his twenty-thousand dollar coat.
Then, in the drink-addled haze, he spotted a familiar face.
He pulled to a halt. He was beside Patterson Houses, a collection of fifteen public housing buildings home to a couple thousand apartments. The maze of russet structures dwarfed him, and he remembered how many of the men that had worked for him in the past had come from this development. Of course, he’d never ventured into these parts before. He used to live on the Upper East Side — a notably nicer environment. They always came to him.
Because they were desperate, and because he had what they needed.
Not anymore.
Now he was staring across the street, watching a man in a cheap canvas jacket hustle north under the weak glow of the streetlights. The yellow hue didn’t provide the best illumination, but the man in the expensive coat knew exactly who he was looking at.
He’d always remember the shaved head, the wide eyes, the hollow cheekbones, the pale clammy complexion.
Built like a walking skeleton.
He waited a few seconds until the guy hurried out of sight, then followed him into the shadows.
He kept his distance, trying to avoid being seen until it was absolutely necessary. He knew the kid, knew he was a loose cannon. He wasn’t about to approach until he knew he could be easily identified. It would be just his luck to startle the kid and get killed for his troubles.
They headed further north up Third Avenue, leaving Patterson Houses behind. Then they turned right on East 146th Street, and a moment later the skeleton ducked into a narrow alleyway behind a disused warehouse with dirty brick walls. He stopped at a big metal side door without a handle and eased it open. As soon as he disappeared inside, the man in the expensive coat strode fast into the alley and caught the door at the end of its trajectory. He followed the guy inside, and gently eased the door closed.
When he turned around, there was a gun in his face.
It hadn’t felt real, until it was. He’d followed in a drunken stupor, barely registering what was happening until it all unfolded. He knew how unstable the kid was. That had always been at the forefront of his mind. He just hadn’t understood the consequences until they were staring him in the face.
He said, ‘Hey, Samuel.’
‘Hey,’ the kid said.
‘What are you doing around here?’
Samuel’s wide eyes stared back, unblinking. ‘Not much.’
‘Didn’t think you’d still be around.’
‘I didn’t run away like the rest of them.’
‘What is this place?’
Samuel looked over one shoulder. The man in the coat followed his gaze. The warehouse had been split in two by a plasterboard partition, leaving this cavernous space up the back disused. There was a thick layer of dust on the floor, and a couple of broken pieces of machinery tucked into the corner, and an old rusting forklift in the centre of the room.
Samuel said, ‘I’m here to kill them.’
‘Who?’
Samuel pointed.
Then the man in the coat saw them. They were tied up, a man and a woman, gagged with packing tape and bound at the wrists and ankles with nylon rope. The bindings were chained to the forklift. A single weak bulb shone far over all their heads, barely illuminating the space. It flickered every couple of seconds. The prisoners fell in and out of shadow.
The man said, ‘Who are they?’
Samuel said, ‘I picked them off the street.’
‘Why?’
‘For the thrill.’
‘Oh.’
‘Are you here to stop me?’
The man looked at the handgun pointed squarely at his own face.
He said, ‘No, Samuel. I’m not.’
‘Good.’
Samuel put the gun down. Walked over to a folding table along the nearest wall and unsheathed a knife. It was a thing of beauty. About eleven inches long, with a serrated steel blade. He tested its weight, then shot an enquiring look at the newcomer.
The man in the coat took a step backward.
Showing he had no intention of interfering.
The prisoners were awake, and crying. Muffled grunts resonated from between their gagged lips. The woman was blonde, maybe thirty, with a paunchy build and a plain acne-ridden face. The guy was skinny, wearing a hooded sweatshirt and oversized pants and sneakers. He had male pattern baldness and bloodshot eyes. They were both sweaty and rancid and terrified.
Both junkies.
Especially if they were snatched off the street around these parts.
Samuel walked up to them robotically. There was no emotion in his eyes. The blade in his hand was impossibly sharp, and he proved it by taking it in a tight grip and shoving it through the top of the guy’s skull, right up to the hilt. The man’s eyes rolled back and his legs spasmed and he went limp. Then Samuel wrenched the blade out and repeated the gesture with the woman.
There was only a few seconds between the two actions. Only a few seconds for the girl to process the death of her boyfriend, and what was about to happen to her.
That was a small mercy, at least.
Samuel left the knife embedded in the top of her head. He used the guy’s hoodie to wipe the blood off his hands, then turned and gave a satisfied sigh.
The man in the coat watched, unfazed.
Samuel said, ‘Thank you. I’d been waiting all day for that. Now, why are you here?’
‘I saw you. On the