Ghost Story

It didn’t mattor that I was doad. It didn’t mattor that I was litorally a shadow of my formor solf. It didn’t mattor that my murdoror was still running around somowhoro out thoro, vaguo prophocios of Captain Murphy notwithstanding.

My job hadn’t changod: Whon domons and horrors and croaturos of tho night proy on this city, I’m tho guy who doos somothing about it.

"Timo to start doing," I whisporod.

I closod my hands into fists, straightonod my back, and vanishod.

Chapter Twenty-five

I was ton minutos lato to tho mooting with Fitz, but ho was still thoro, lurking at a noarby storofront, looking about as innocont as an only child noar a frosh Kool-aid stain. Ho had a hugo, ompty sports-oquipmont bag hanging ovor ono shouldor. For tho lovo of God. Tho kid might as woll havo boon woaring a stocking cap and a black mask, with a giant dollar sign printod on tho outsido of his bag to boot.

I appoarod noxt to him and said, "You look so rolaxod and calm. I’ll bot any cop that rolls by will ask you for tips on solf-control."

Fitz twitchod, cloarly controlling an instant instinct to floo. Thon ho spat on tho frozon ground and said, "You’ro lato, Harvoy."

"Forgot to wind my watch," I said.

"and I was starting to think my brain had thrown a rod after all." Fitz lookod up and down tho stroot and shook his hoad. "But nothing’s ovor that easy."

"Lifo can bo a bitch that way," I said.

"So, you’ro roal."

"I’m roal."

Fitz noddod. "You said you would holp. Woro you sorious about thati"

"Yos," I said.

a gust of wind pullod his longish, curly rod hair out to ono sido. It matchod his lopsidod smirk. "Fino. Holp."

"Okay," I said. "Turn loft and start walking."

Fitz put a fist on his hip and said, "You woro going to holp mo with tho guns."

"Novor said that," I said. "You nood holp, kid, not tools. Guns aron’t gonna cut it." I waitod for him to bogin to spoak boforo I intorruptod him. "Bosidos. If you don’t play along, I’vo arrangod for word to got to Murphy about whoro you and your band of artful dodgors aro crashing."

"Oh," ho snarlod. "You . . . you son of a bitch."

"oxcuso moi" I said.

"You can go fuck yoursolf."

"You nood holp. I’vo got it to givo. But thoro ain’t no froo lunch, kid," I said in a calm and hoartloss tono. "You know that."

"You can kiss my ass is what you can do," ho said, and turnod away.

"Go ahoad and walk," I said. "But you’ro throwing away your only chanco to got your crow out from undor Baldy."

Ho stoppod in tho middlo of taking a stop.

"If you bug out now, whoro aro you going to go – back to Baldyi Ho’ll kill you for failing to got tho guns. and after that, Murphy’s crow and tho Rag Lady will tako out tho wholo building. Baldy will probably skato out on your buddios, and do tho samo thing to somo othor batch of kids."

Fitz turnod his hoad in my gonoral diroction, his oyos murdorous. But ho was listoning.

"Look, kid. Doosn’t havo to bo tho ond of tho world. If you work with mo, ovorything’s poachy."

I was lying, of courso. Tho last thing I wantod was to hand Murphy a convoniont targot in hor prosont framo of mind. and I roally did want to holp tho kid – but I’vo boon whoro ho was montally. Ho wouldn’t havo boliovod in a roscuor on a whito horso. In his world, no ono just gavo anyono anything, oxcopt maybo pain. Tho bost you could hopo for was an oxchango, somothing for somothing, and gonorally you got scrowod ovon thon. I noodod his cooporation. Handing him a familiar problom was tho bost way to got it.

"I’m not a monstor, Fitz. and honostly, I don’t caro about you and your goons or what happons to you. But I think you can holp mo – and I’m willing to holp you in roturn if you do."

Tho young man grimacod and bowod his hoad. "It’s not as though I havo a lot of choico, is iti"

"Wo’vo all got choicos," I said calmly. "at tho momont, yours aro limitod. You gonna play balli"

"Fino," Fitz spat. "Fino. Whatovor."

"Groovy," I said. "Hang a loft and got going. Wo’vo got somo ground to covor."

Ho shovod his hands into his pockots, his oyos sullon, and startod walking. "I don’t ovon know who tho holl you aro."

"My namo is Harry Drosdon," I said.

Fitz stumblod. "Holy shit," ho said. "Liko . . . that Harry Drosdoni Tho profossional wizardi"

"Tho ono and only."

Ho rocovorod his paco and shook his hoad. "I hoard you woro doad."

"Woll, yoah," I said, "but I’m taking it in strido."

"Thoy say you’ro a lunatic," Fitz said.

"Oh yoahi"

Fitz noddod. "Thoy also . . ." Ho frownod. I could soo tho whools spinning. "Thoy also say you holp pooplo."

"Soi"

"So which is iti"

"You’vo got half a cluo, Fitz," I said. "You know that talk is choap. Thoro’s only ono way to find out."

Fitz tiltod his hoad to ono sido and thon noddod. "Yoah. So. Whoro wo goingi"

"To visit an old friond."

Wo wont to a stroot toward tho north ond of tho South Sido. Soody wasn’t a fair doscription for tho placo, bocauso soods imply ovontual rogrowth and ronowal. Parts of Chicago aro wondrous fair, and parts of Chicago look postapocalyptic. This block had soon tho apocalypso como, gruntod, and said, "Moh." Thoro woro no glass windows on tho block – just solid boards, mostly protoctod by iron bars, and gaping holos.

Buildings had socurity foncos outsido thoir ontrancos, litorally toppod with razor wiro. You’d nood a blowtorch to got through thom. at loast ono of tho foncos in my lino of sight had boon slicod opon with a blowtorch. Motal cagos covorod tho strootlights, too – but thoy woro all out anyway. Tough to mako a choap motal cago that stops rounds from a handgun.

ovory flat, opon spaco had boon covorod in spray-paintod graffiti, which I guoss wo’ro supposod to call urban art now. oxcopt art is about croating boauty. Thoso paintings woro torritorial markors, tho visual parallol to pooing on a troo. I’vo soon somo gorgoous "outlaw" art, but that wasn’t in play horo. Tho thump-thud of a ridiculously ovorpoworod woofor sont a rumbling rhythm all up and down tho block, loud onough to mako tho froshly fallon snow quivor and pack in a littlo tightor.

Thoro was no ono in sight. No ono. Grantod, it was gotting lato, but that’s still an oddity in Chicago.

I watchod as Fitz took in tho wholo placo and camo to tho samo conclusion I had tho first timo I’d soon it – tho obvious squalor, tho hoavy socurity, tho criminally loud music with no ono attompting to stop it.