Chapter Text
“Who’s the new palooka?” Enver asked. He needed to lean down to be heard over the din.
“They call him Dee. Or maybe ‘D,’ like the letter. That’s what he said to call him, anyway. The boys have been calling him the Slayer,” Tommy said.
“‘The Slayer’ sounds rather grand for a man so very average-looking. Is it a joke?”
Tommy shrugged. “I dunno, boss. That’s just what I heard. I heard he came up this way because he killed somebody down in New Orleans.” Tommy pronounced it ‘New Or-lee-ans’, but Enver did not trouble to correct him.
“Interesting. Well, let us see how the new palooka does against Mickey. And call the girl. My glass is empty.”
Tommy ducked his head and slipped off into the crowd. Enver leaned against the railing, squinting through the haze of cigar smoke to look at Dee, or maybe just D, or maybe the Slayer, as he stalked around the ring. At first glance, the man was just an average Joe with a handsome face, a respectable build, and few more scars than would be welcome in polite society.
Enver knew all about that— he had almost as many crisscrossing his face and marring the body beneath the expensive tailored suit he wore. He also had not been welcome in polite society until he had something those fat cats needed. Now, he had a seat at every table in New York. He preferred the company of whores and boxers in his own club to nibbling tea sandwiches with debutantes, but it was quite gratifying to be invited and extra gratifying to turn it down.
His first indication that Dee might be something special was how the man moved around the ring while awaiting the bell. He did not walk or even precisely stalk—he moved like smoke, like liquid, with animal grace. His eyes were locked on his opponent, a popular middleweight that everyone called Mickey Finn—because he would put out your lights, of course. Bare-knuckle boxers were not known for their clever witticisms. The man ignored Dee and chatted with some dame in a slinky dress. Enver knew Mickey thought he looked relaxed and cool to be so unconcerned, ready to beat this newcomer and go home with the purse (and maybe the girl, too), but Enver thought he might be just a tad overconfident.
Tommy came back with one of the girls in Enver’s employ, a harried-looking teenager who quickly put on a cheerful smile when she saw she was going to be serving the boss. “Get me an old fashioned. And one for my partner here. Oh, and darlin’,” Enver said, putting a heavy arm around her to draw her in close. He put his lips to her ear and breathed, “Tell the pit boss I want to put a C-note on the new palooka. Be quick, sweetheart, the fight is about to start.” He felt her shiver at his touch, but he did not mind. She would do as he had bid. He slapped her ass to send her on the way and leaned back on the railing to watch. Placing a bet at his own fights was just a bit of theater; maybe it was true that the house always won, but Enver was the house, so he could not lose. He did it to keep up appearances.
The men squared off, facing each other while the ref read them rules that neither one listened to. There were not many rules in Enver’s boxing ring, down in the cavernous basement of the Black Hand Club. Men came here for the fights because they wanted to see the blood fly. They missed the bare-knuckle brawls that had been outlawed, and they missed tossing back a few beers while they watched. Enver saw a need and filled it, providing a venue where the city's working men could enjoy entertainment and refreshments at a reasonable markup.
Dee was stripped down to shorts that looked like they were just his underwear, and Enver could see hard muscles bunching across his chest beneath a dark pelt of hair. He had not bothered to tape his hands, another point of interest. Mickey had, and he now slammed his fists together and glowered at Dee, who had stopped moving and gone very still. The girl returned to him with a tray and two glasses. Enver picked his up absently and sipped when the bell rang.
It was brutal. Dee came in like a dancer, graceful and smooth, but every punch landed with a sickening thud. Mickey swung back, and Enver knew that Mickey swung hard, but Dee was always gone when the other man’s taped fist came flying. Rounds in bare-knuckle were short, and by the first bell, Enver knew he had been right to bet on the newcomer. But more than that, he realized he had found something special.
While Mickey slumped in the corner, bleeding in a dozen places and half-dead, Dee only stood waiting, eerily calm. Enver needed to be ringside now. His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, and he needed to take a clearer measure of this man. He shouldered his way forward, and people parted for him when they realized who it was jostling them, insults dying on every lip when he pushed past. He took a place behind Mickey, next to a fat man with a cigar.
“Hello, Officer Franks,” Enver said quietly, and the man looked alarmed before he saw who was speaking.
“Aye, Mr. Gortash, quite a fight tonight, although I’m startin’ to think I was wrong to trust in Mickey. He looks half-dead,” Officer Franks said.
“Don’t count Mickey out just yet! The lad has pluck!” Enver lied and clapped Franks on the arm when the bell sounded again. The crowd turned their attention to the action.
Mickey Finn did not see the next bell. As it turned out, Mickey Finn would not see all that well at all going forward in perpetuity. When Dee came at him this time, some of the grace was gone, subsumed by what could only be manic bloodlust. Enver watched the man’s face carefully and saw the shift in him. He saw Dee’s nostrils flare, his cheeks redden, watched him breathing hard. He pummeled Mickey with stunning ferocity, left, right, left again, and blood flew. A drop landed in Enver’s old fashioned, but it only added a little spice, and he continued to sip it while he watched Mickey go down.
The man was on his knees, struggling to stand, when Dee swung one final time. Enver heard the crunch even over the yells of the crowd, followed by Mickey’s ragged screams. He was on his side, howling, and Enver could clearly see that one of Mickey’s eyeballs was dangling against his blood-slicked cheek, swinging like a pendulum as the unfortunate man rolled in agony.
The crowd hushed, and even the ref stood flabbergasted, but Dee was apparently not done. He gave a strangled cry and aimed a kick at Mickey’s stomach that landed with a thud. He drew back and started to kick again, but the ref, who had bigger stones than Enver might have guessed, stepped in. Dee pushed the man away, and he stumbled backward, his face an O of surprise and his bravery at an end. “Send in some boys to stop him,” Enver told Tommy, who had followed. “Subdue him, but don’t hurt him more than necessary, and have him sent to me after.”
Enver did not wait to see what happened, turning his back on the commotion and the yells. He shouldered through the stunned crowd, taking advantage of the hush to move more quickly. He had surely delivered a show tonight, and no one could say otherwise.
…
His office was blessedly cool and quiet, in sharp contrast to the rest of the club. Upstairs, jazz and liquor. Downstairs, fights and gambling. And all the money rolled right into his office. Here, in the middle, an oasis that belonged solely to him. Enver knew how to deliver a good time to the masses, but this is what a good time looked like for Mrs. Flymm’s wayward boy Enver. He groaned as he sat in one of his plush chairs, still sipping the bloody old fashioned. He had barely settled in when he glanced at the clock and saw it had gone well past midnight. He heaved a sigh, knocked back his drink, and stood again reluctantly. He had an appointment, and he had to prepare. As they said, 'no rest for the wicked,' and that meant him.
Inside his drawer were several different guns for a variety of uses. He took the piece he usually wore from the holster under his jacket— a slim .22, and exchanged it for a bigger one. Dee would be able to see it, and that was just what Enver wanted. And if it came to it, he thought a larger caliber was prudent. After what Dee had done to Mickey, Enver would take no chances. This chore accomplished, he went into his little washroom to freshen up. A quick piss, a splash of water on his face, a squirt of cologne, and a comb through his hair (still mostly coal-black with only a slash of grey at the temples and a private source of vanity). He peered into the small mirror, inspecting the result. Enver would never be pretty, but he could be striking when he tried for it, and he wanted to impress this new palooka in every possible way.
He straightened things that did not need straightening and then sat to wait.
He did not wait long. As his guest approached, there was considerable commotion down the hall: shouts, bangs, and a strangled cry. Enver stayed still, sitting serenely at his desk. When dealing with a dangerous animal, one cannot show fear.
The door crashed inward and disgorged the new palooka. He had Tommy around the neck, pushing him around like the bigger man was stuffed with feathers instead of muscle. Tommy was going purple and making a gurgling urk sound, and Enver knew he had to end this.
“Welcome, Mr. Dee. I'm not sure what my associate did to rile you, but if you could put him down, it would be most appreciated.”
Dee turned pale blue eyes toward Enver, his lips drawn in a tight line. “He tried to force me in here. I don’t like bein’ forced.” His voice was low, oddly soft, but carried over the sound of Tommy’s choking. Enver now heard more people rushing up; a woman screeching and the sound of other indignant men approaching.
“I apologize. I am the one at fault here. I asked Tommy to fetch you, and he was clearly too eager to please me. If you would, set him down and let him leave so we can talk,” Enver said, flashing a winning smile.
Dee cocked his head, then nodded and set Tommy down. He fell immediately into a boneless heap, sucking in breaths and crying. “He tried to kill me! Boss! Urk!” Tommy heaved like he might vomit, and Enver thought about the thick Persian rug the man was currently sprawled on. He got up in a hurry to help Tommy to his feet.
“Go on and have a few drinks on the house, Tommy. You earned it.” Enver ignored any more gasping and weeping and steered Tommy toward the door, very aware of Dee’s eyes on him as he did. Enver did not relish turning his back on this beast of a man, but he remembered not to show fear. He gently but firmly pushed Tommy into the hall and shut the door. Dee stood in the center of the room, following Enver with his weird eyes and making no move to do anything but stand there.
“Let me get us a drink, Mister, uh…” Enver waited, but Dee just stared. “Fine. I will just call you Palooka unless you tell me otherwise. Anyway, here in my office, I serve the good stuff. Glenfiddich, distilled in bonny ol’ Scotland and brought here to pour into your glass through the magic of guile and guts.” Enver splashed whiskey into two glasses, a very generous pour in this day and age.
He pushed the glass into Dee’s hand. Blood was gathered in the creases of the bruised, swollen knuckles there, but Enver did not shy away. He was not afraid of a bit of blood. “Quite a show you put on tonight, Palooka,” Enver said. He did not sit; he just leaned against his desk and sipped his scotch. “I used to box a bit myself, you know.” He fingered the scarred, crooked bridge of his nose as proof, although that was a lie, the first of what would likely be many. He had some scars from his brief boxing career, but his broken nose was not one of them. Little Enver could thank Mrs. Flymm for her hands-on approach to childminding and his constitutional resistance to being minded for that particular old wound.
“They call me Dee,” he said. He did not sip his drink; he only clutched it and stood very still.
“I see. Does that stand for something?” Dee shrugged. “Well, what did your momma call you?” Enver asked.
“Don’t got no momma,” Dee said.
“Come now, everyone has a momma. Even me. Mine named me Enver, and that’s what you can call me. But I’ll stick to Dee for you if that’s what you wish.”
“What do you want, Mr. Enver?”
“Mr. Gortash. Only my friends call me Enver. I may have jumped the gun a bit, but I dared to believe I might count you among my friends once you heard my proposal. Drink up. That’s a fortune in scotch, and you must have worked up a thirst while pummeling Mickey into the hospital.”
Dee raised his glass and delicately sniffed it, and Enver was reminded again of an animal. Once he deemed it acceptable, he took a sip, then a swallow, then a gulp. “Is good,” Dee said.
“There’s more where that came from, my lad. Dee, I mean. Shall we sit?” Enver did not wait for him to agree; he just sat in one of the plush chairs. Dee followed and sat with that weird grace, ramrod straight and still looking at Enver with a pale, unblinking gaze. Dee had not washed or put back on his shirt, and Enver could not help but give him a looking over. They were of height with each other, but where Enver was thick and ruddy, Dee was muscled and pale. He was covered with dark hair that looked stark against the paleness of his skin, and his sweaty mop of dark curls was ragged and too long. He was even more handsome up close than Enver had thought from the ringside, with a chiseled jaw and long, strong nose, all brought together under those overlarge pale blue eyes, so pale they looked almost white. A dusting of beard showed that Dee had not shaved in some time, and he had a general air of unkemptness that added to his animal feel. Enver kept looking him over longer than necessary, his eyes dropping to the broad shoulders and corded muscles on his chest, taking in the sheen of sweat and droplets of blood, then down further to where the black hair formed a line over his hard belly, pointing downward into the threadbare boxer shorts Dee wore.
Enver hurriedly sipped his scotch when he felt a very unwelcome stir at the physique of this other man, then regretted it. He was already a little too drunk, and the alcohol would only add fuel to the unwholesome fire he could never quite tamp down. He brought his eyes back to Dee’s, who had never stopped with the unblinking stare, and decided to move on to business before he made a fool of himself.
“They told me the word on the street is you killed a man down in New Orleans. Is that true?”
“What’s it to you?” Dee asked, his voice completely colorless.
“Nothing at all but professional interest. I do not moralize, Dee. I see what people want, and I give it to them. I look at you and hardly know you, but I can see what you want.”
“Oh?” Dee knocked back his scotch in one big swallow, and Enver heard some amusement in his voice for the first time. “You think you have something I want, Mr. Enver?” The unsettling eyes dropped from Enver’s face to take in the rest of his body, crawling down to the crocodile skin boots and back up over the tweed and waistcoat of his sharply tailored suit before returning to rest on the black of his eyes. Enver ignored the thrill he felt at the possible double meaning of Dee’s words and plowed forward.
“You want someone to help you direct all that rage, to point you like a gun and let you fire. I want to harness that violence and make it useful. You have a talent that is not marketable in the real world. You have found it, I am sure, a detriment. You have a darkness inside of you and an urge to indulge in it, maybe a curse from god or maybe a blessing from the devil, but you are violent by nature and can only destroy. Am I wrong?”
Dee shrugged, and Enver took that as good enough.
“Do you have somewhere to stay in the city?”
Dee shrugged again. “It’s no concern of yours.”
“I ask because I happen to have an opening in my roster of employees. If you can do the job, I will hire you on, and you will find working for me quite agreeable.”
“What’s the job?”
“Answer me first about New Orleans. Did you kill a man?”
Dee smiled, and it looked like he had too many teeth. “No.”
“No?”
“I killed a lot more than one, and in a lot more places than Narlins. They only caught me on the last one and I had to run.”
Enver felt the reassuring weight of the gun in its holster beneath the coat, and that kept him calm, but more disturbing than Dee’s murderous smile was how it made Enver feel. He shifted uncomfortably in his plush chair and plunged onward. He could think about this later. “Good, that’s good,” he said. “How would you like the opportunity to kill a few more?”
…
Dee was gone with the promise that he would return soon, and Enver was sitting in his chair, too drunk to contemplate going to bed despite the hour. He went over the conversation with Dee again and again in his mind, perfectly recalling every word and, more distressingly, perfectly recalling the man himself. The sheen of sweat, the angular set of those shoulders, and the full redness of his lips over those white teeth. He shifted uncomfortably again, his fancy suit having grown far too tight around the crotch, and sighed inwardly. Enver did not like to think about this side of his personality, discovered when he was a teenager and never fully expunged. It was too dangerous to indulge in; it was as simple as that.
He liked women and what they had between their legs just fine and could sate any needs he had that way. It was acceptable in his world to have a parade of ladies, of ill repute or otherwise, in and out of his room, but even the suggestion of one rent boy would ruin him. It did not stop his body from sometimes wanting what it wanted, and he had to cope as best he could. He knew the score. Enver could murder, steal, smuggle, and lie, and no one would mind for a moment as long as he kept the liquor flowing, but if any of his associates got wind of his secret proclivities, he would be over in this town, and he knew it. He was always very careful and always very discreet, and it had been a long time since the last time.
He could retire to his rooms and sleep it off, maybe indulge in a bit of fantasy with his door firmly shut and the curtains drawn, but Enver did not think that would be enough, not tonight. He was too drunk, too excited. Watching Dee pummel a man until the blood and eyeballs flew had turned him on catastrophically and his hand would not suffice. He got up and readjusted the hard lump yet again, groaning aloud at the delicious pressure, then opened the door. Tommy was not outside, still likely sniffling and complaining and getting drunk on Enver’s dime, but some other kid was.
“Hey, boy,” he said after he could not dredge the kid’s name from his pickled mind, trying hard not to slur. “Go and get me a girl. One of the working ones. I don’t care much which one; I ain’t particular. Just make sure she knows what she’s in for and is ready to take it. I ain’t spendin’ time explaining myself.” When he was drunk, his slum accent came out, although he was barely aware of it. When he was drunk, a lot of traits came out that he thought he had left behind. The boy nodded, although he looked big-eyed and nervous. Enver went back into his office and shut the door. A quick fuck and a long sleep would cure what ailed him, and he had much to do.