Black Days

Black Days, Chapter 8: “Moonrise Over Marketland”

Mei-Ling watched Silas and Hannah. Propped up on one of her lavish cushions, she looked like a queen surveying her subjects. The table before them was laid out with full tea service. She poured herself a cup. Silas and Hannah were required to stand by the door and wait. Slowly Mei-Ling finished tasting the tea and nodded to her attendant, who bowed and quickly left the room.

Eventually, she got around to speaking to Silas. “Were you successful?”

Silas stopped tapping his foot. “That all depends on what you do with the corpse on your roof.”

Mei-Ling showed mild surprise.

“This is the ghost’s body?”

“It’s not a coincidence.” Silas invited himself to a cushion and poured a cup of tea. “Looks like he was killed and stuffed in the box. Bury the bones, give him whatever rites you think appropriate, and the ghost should be satisfied.”

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Black Days, Chapter 7: “It’s Chinatown”

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“So, who was it?”

“I dunno,” Silas said. “The cops let him go before I got out.”

“And this is important to us, why?” Hannah asked.

“The stuff he was saying, Lucretia. It wasn’t your average drunk talk.”

“You spend a lot of time listening to drunks?”

“I didn’t get this far by ignoring them.”

“You should’ve heard the nut I met at the station,” Hannah said.

Silas stopped marching down the street and turned back. “What nut?”

Hannah shrugged. “Homeless guy next to me on the bench. Said something like, ‘You’re the one’ and ‘We’re coming for you.’ I don’t remember exactly.”

“Why didn’t tell me sooner?” he asked.

“He was just a homeless guy. I didn’t think it was important.”

“He was drunk?” Silas asked.

“McClelland threw him in the drunk tank,” she said.

“You knew him?”

“Yes, I’m popular among the homeless,” Hannah said. “He was crazy.”

“Of course, he was,” Silas said. “But just what kind of crazy was he?” He looked away. “Could it have been the same man? Must have been, right?”

“Excuse me, who are you talking to?”

“And you’re sure he was homeless?” he asked.

“He was dressed in newspapers,” Hannah said.

“There’s something there,” Silas said. “I just can’t see it.”

“Does this have anything to do with our case?” Hannah asked.

Silas said something, but it was lost in a blare of car horns. He was crossing the street, ignoring the red light. Hannah ran after him, flipping off an irate driver. Street vendors leaned over their tables, waving cheap-looking merchandise. Once or twice Silas stopped and looked them over. After talking with the seller for a few seconds, he would move on.

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Black Days, Chapter 6: “Precinct 451”

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“Obstruction of Justice? This is a joke, right?”

“Do I look like I’m laughing?”

Detective Amy Lang wasn’t laughing. Her face seemed set in a permanent scowl. She stood across from Silas in the interrogation room. Her silky, black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. With her overcoat and blazer removed, Silas noticed her lean figure in white buttoned shirt and pants. The gun at her hip looked heavy enough to tip her over. He assumed she walked with a limp when no one was looking.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, Mr. Black,” she said.

“Comes with the job,” he said. “But first I’d like to know why I’m being charged with such an absurd crime.”

“You took evidence from a crime scene.”

“What evidence?”

The police detective reached into the valise on her chair and pulled out an evidence bag. Inside was the fetish.

“How did you get that?” Silas asked.

“We recovered it from your apartment,” Lang said.

“You broke into my place?”

“Of course not, your landlady was happy to let us in,” she said. “She even told us where we would find you.”

Silas leaned back in his chair. “Sounds about right.”

“I’d like to know why you thought it appropriate to take key evidence from the scene of a kidnapping.”

“I’m on the case,” Silas said. “I’ve worked on countless cases for the NYPD. Just look it up.”

“I did.” She moved the valise and sat down. Taking out a large file, she dropped it onto the table. Lang deliberately opened the file and leafed through the documents inside.

“In the short time I had getting acquainted with you,” she said, “I’ve discovered a disturbing history of you interfering in NYPD cases. Your file goes back years.”

“Interfering?” Silas allowed himself a laugh. “I’m a consultant, sister.”

“What kind of consultant are you?” she asked. “From what I can see, you have no credentials that make you an asset. You’re a private detective.”

“I’ll enlighten you. I’m an Oxford graduate with degrees in History, Mythology, and Anthropology.”

“That’s very impressive,” Detective Lang said. “And if the NYPD hired you for that expertise, that’d be fine. But all I’m seeing are vague references to ‘extraordinary circumstances.’ Care to explain?”

“I investigate paranormal phenomena,” he said. “If an NYPD case smacks of the Otherworld, they call me.”

“So, how many ghosts have you arrested?”

“Very funny,” Silas said. “But statistically, ghosts are unlikely to commit crimes.”

“Why were you given remarkable access to crime scenes, evidence, even witnesses?” Lang asked. “Normal consultants don’t have that kind of privilege.”

“It’s necessary for my work,” he said. “I need to see everything.”

“Then there’s the damage to private property,” Lang said. “Multiple disruptions to city services. A blackout. All of which were results of your work with the NYPD.”

“You’ve failed to mention the seventeen murderers I helped put away,” Silas said. “Or the ten missing persons I found. How about my commendations? I’m not one to toot my own horn, but those should be mentioned.”

“You still haven’t explained why you took this piece of evidence from Ms. Lisbon’s apartment,” Lang said.

Silas tried to gesture, but it was difficult to do with the handcuffs.

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Black Days, Chapter 5: “Old Man Luther”

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It was a cramped part of Brooklyn, though that could be said of most of the city. The street was lousy with grocers, restaurants, and ethnic coffee bars. They were crammed together making the most of the limited space. Silas was tapping his foot, staring at the facades. He eyed one in particular. For the fourth time he checked his non-existent watch. Eventually, he looked up at the Sun.

“It’s ten after seven, Icarus,” Hannah said.

She sat on the curb, head bowed. Her voice cracked when she spoke. From the pile of Mrs. Plonka’s laundry she had chosen a t-shirt, long skirt, and baggy sweater. In her boots, she looked like a hipster on hard times. She sucked on the extra-large coffee she managed to grab on the way. The only saving grace were the sunglasses Silas had found in one of his boxes.

“He should be open by now,” he said.

They both looked up at the awning above the store. “The Lost Gallery,” it said in yellow on black. There was no security gate covering the front window, but it was too dark to see inside. Books were piled high behind the glass, interspersed with the occasional ornament or bronze globe. No puppets. Silas shuddered when he remembered his experience from a day ago. He put it out of his mind.

“What are we doing here?” Hannah asked. “I thought we were seeing a doctor.”

“We are seeing a doctor,” Silas said.

“This is a bookstore,” she said, giving it another glance. “I think.”

“We’re not going to the bookstore, we’re going through the bookstore,” he said. “And it’s an antique shop.”

“What does that mean?”

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Black Days, Chapter 4 “Cold Pad Thai”

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“Well, well, well. Look who came crawling back?” Silas said.

“What are you talking about?” Hannah asked.

“Oh, I guess that doesn’t fit this situation. What are you doing here?”

He about-faced and walked back into his apartment. Hannah stood in the doorway, waiting for an invitation. It never came. She stepped inside. His entryway was filled with cardboard boxes, stacked to the ceiling. Weaving between them, she entered something that was once a kitchen. Books were on every available surface. The only sign that food was prepared in it were the filthy dishes in the sink.

There was something the size and shape of a fridge but covered in tapestries. Silas pulled back the cloths and opened it. He came back with two bottles of orange soda. He popped open one and took a swig. The bottle fizzed as he pulled it away from his lips. He looked at the woman thoughtfully, slushing the liquid in his mouth. Finally, he swallowed and nodded.

“We can talk in the living room.”

Between stacks of newspapers and a Narnia-like wardrobe was a space leading to the next room. Silas slipped through with ease. It took longer for Hannah. The room on the other side was claustrophobic. There was a couch and armchair, a long fire bench between them. Against the wall was a hutch with glass doors. Shelves took up every free space, packed to their limits with books. Hidden behind the couch was a treasure chest worthy of Blackbeard.

Hannah heard the ticking of a grandfather clock, but couldn’t see one.

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Black Days, Chapter 3: “Uninvited Guests”

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Hannah was shivering by the time she got home. Six years and she still hadn’t gotten used to the New York cold. Not even the down jacket her father gave her was warm enough. Maybe her blood was too thin. Maybe she still pined for the West Coast and unconsciously refused to adapt. Either case, her fingers were blue and her teeth were chattering as she reached the corner where her apartment stood.

A door beside an old pharmacy led to her rooms on the second floor. Hannah felt claustrophobic every time she climbed the stairs to get there. Everything about her apartment was small. The doorway was narrow, the ceilings were low, and the bathroom was little more than a closet.

Looking over her kingdom, Hannah felt a pang of jealousy over Emily Lisbon’s apartment. How did a waitress afford something that size? Hannah lived in two rooms, one inside the other. The alcove that held a stove, mini-fridge, and sink didn’t count. The rest was a bedroom and tiny bath. At least she was still living in it; that’s more she could say for Emily.

There was noise coming from the apartment above her. The neighbors were of the soccer persuasion. There seemed to be games going on all day, every day. Instinctively, Hannah grabbed a broom by the door and pounded the ceiling. It was used only for this purpose. Never worked. Moaning, she closed her front door and shuffled into her bedroom.

Dropping her bag onto the bed, she rummaged for her notepad and phone. She glanced at the clock on her nightstand. Nine forty-five. Riding the train home ate up most of her night. Climbing over her bed, she sat down at the desk crammed into a corner. She flipped through her notes as a laptop booted up.

Hannah wasn’t a good reporter. She was still new and had yet to develop those instincts that could make her a force to be reckoned with. As a newcomer, she also lacked connections with the people who actually would buy her articles. Also, she bit her nails. But she was convinced that with this story, she would make her mark.

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