The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus Page 34

  The juice clung to its limbs and midsection. It thrashed about, its lightning limbs kicking back pillows and cushions as it began to fade. Then the energy crackled a final time and vanished. The last drops of herbal juice hit the ground. Nothing remained of the energy golem but a thick puddle. Talia sighed and dropped the jug. She slumped onto a cushion. Clay came to his feet and Deutsch picked up the empty jug and set it on the table.

  “Quick thinking with the juice, honey,” Deutsch said. “Though it will take me a while to get the stains out...”

  Clay brushed himself off and kicked a pillow aside. “What did you learn? Did the creator of this energy golem also make the garbage golem?”

  “I don’t know. But the mystic forces are coming from an Uptown penthouse, in the Harwood Apartments. That’s strictly millionaire country. I don’t know why some silver spoon is summoning golems, but that’s the source. It might be where Henry is, but I can’t be sure.” Deutsch sighed. “You’re gonna have to go in on foot and see for yourselves.”

  “Thank you,” Talia said. “We really appreciate your help. And I’m sorry about, ah, the energy golem.”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Deutsch replied. “This kind of thing happens all the time when Clay’s around.”

  “Let’s go to the Harwood Arms.” Clay adjusted his trench coat and headed for the door. Talia waved goodbye to Deutsch as they stepped outside. She was adjusting very well to all this supernatural insanity and the various golem attacks. Henry’s mom had picked the right babysitter. Clay led her back to his Studebaker and they got inside. Henry needed their help, and they were ready to rescue him from any sort of danger.

  ~~~

  By the early evening, they reached the Harwood Arms. It stretched up to join the other skyscrapers, towering above the green expanse of Arcadia Park—one of the most expensive chunks of real estate in the city. That was as true now as it was in the Twenties. Clay found a lucky parking space near the park for his Studebaker and filled up the meter with quarters. Then he and Talia headed inside. Even for someone who had spent several decades in the city, the Harwood Arms was still impressive. Clay stared up at the rows of windows, and then the glassy palace at the very top. They entered the lobby, bribed the doorman, and went to an elevator in the corner that resembled a small garage. Clay punched in the buttons for the penthouse. They waited as the elevator rushed its way up with a whispered hum. Soon, the doors noiseless slid open.

  Talia and Clay walked into a small hallway, outside a steel door. Clay walked over and gave it a knock. A security camera above the door swiveled around, making tinny, electronic noises as it zoomed in and stared at the visitors. Then the door opened. A broad-shouldered black man in a somber suit and tie stepped into the hall. He had Clay’s size, if not his bulk, and a thin scar crossed his face from his cheek to his ear. He had no hair to speak of.

  He looked over Clay and Talia. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Amir?”

  “No,” Talia explained. “But we really need to see him—whoever he is. It’s very important.”

  The guard stared at Clay. “You don’t even know who Mr. Amir is? You must be lost. Or maybe you’re the press playing dumb. Either way, he doesn’t want to see you. Go back in the elevator and leave. Be glad you’re getting off with a warning.”

  He moved back, when a shrill voice came from the penthouse. “Hold up, Saladin. I never said I was busy—because I ain’t. And that girl is fine!” He dragged out the last word, making it last several seconds. “You send that girl in, yo! Let me get better acquainted.” Evidently, Mr. Amir wanted to see them. The guard held open the door, let out a weary sigh, and motioned for them to enter. Clay and Talia headed inside.

  The penthouse had been furnished in a cross between a hip-hop mogul’s pad and a terrorist training camp. Everything, from the angular furniture to the ground, seemed to have been composed of thin, spiking metal. Television screens turned to various channels flickered in the corners, and posters of terrorists and dictators gleamed down from the wall. A massive TV took up one wall, where Amir sat, hard at work at some explosive video game. Large windows covered the other walls, looking down at Arcadia Park and the city.

  Amir paused his video game and bounded up from the couch. He waved Clay and Talia to join him. “What’s up, yo? I’m Alex Amir.” He looked about Talia’s age, with smooth dark hair and coffee-colored skin, his thin frame under an olive green track suit. He wore numerous gold and silver rings, a set of swinging golden chains that seemed to weigh him down, and sported an Arabic verse in inscribed on diamonds in a grill on his mouth. “Come on. Let me check you out.” Talia walked over, rolling her eyes. “Damn. Damn. Damn. I thought you was fine—but you’re hella fine!” He waved past the couch. “Come on. Let me show you something. Your swole homeboy there can come too.”

  “Is he always like this?” Clay asked Saladin.

  The bodyguard shrugged. “His dad’s one of them oil magnates from the Middle East. Pays me a mint to babysit and watch his boy waste fortunes on dumbass business ventures and mangle ebonics.” Saladin, Clay, and Talia followed Amir to the rear of the apartment. “Beats the Marines, that’s for sure.”

  Past the couch, a small armory of gold and silver weapons had been mounted on the wall. Amir pulled down a golden assault rifle. He posed with it, grinning as the light shone on the rifle. Silver machine pistols and jeweled handguns also gleamed down. “Check it. I keep my weapons iced—just in case I gotta ice some dude. Got that Jihad swag, know what I mean?” He set down the assault rifle and grinned at Talia and Clay. “Say, what are your names? And why exactly have you chosen to swing by my crib?”

  “I’m Emmet Clay,” Clay explained. “Private detective.”

  “And I’m Talia Goldstein.” She glanced at the weapons behind Amir. “I see you got the full size Uzi and the Mini. I fired both of them when I trained with the IDF.” She turned past Amir, to a large map of the city set up on a frame. “What’s this?” Talia walked closer and Clay joined her. They looked at the poster, which showed Haven Street. A large property had been circled, and surrounded with posted blueprints. “This is the Kosher Kave. You’re the guy who bought it up?”

  “Uh, yeah,” Amir agreed. “I had a hard time getting the owners to agree, but that place was losing money and they took my deal eventually.” He pointed to the map, and then to a large set of posters on the far wall. “I’m gonna tear that old burger joint down and bring in the new hotness. Check it—my banging club, Gangsta Gaddafi.” The pictures, artist’s sketches, showed crowded dance floors, with glowing, neon camo assault rifle decorations flashing on the walls and a DJ in bandoliers and a turban working the turntables. “I already got one Gangsta Gaddafi at an Uptown location, and now I’m branching out into Haven Street. It’ll be the trendiest place in the city. Get some of that franchise swag going.” He clapped his hands and grinned at Clay. “Gonna be collecting mad cheddar, bro.”

  “You’re tearing down the Kosher Kave to put up some goddamn Jihad-themed club?” Talia asked. “That’s not cool. Haven Street has been the center of a large Jewish population since before the turn of the century. You can’t demolish a Jewish institution and—”

  “Times are a-changing, baby girl,” Amir explained. “Haven Street gotta change too.” He waved his hand at the map and the blueprints. “Gangsta Gaddafi will do just that. Now there may be some resistance from the, ah, local population. And it’s not like the Zionist types have the right to complain. They been forcing people out of their homes since 1948, for real. I even had some trouble coming my way from them, and already got it handled.” He tapped his foot on the marble floor. “Gangsta Gaddafi all day, son!”

  Talia glared at Amir. She drew closer, her face flashing with rage. “You’re talking trash about Israel now? We fought and died to create our homeland—and the Jewish people need a home. You don’t need another stupid, taste
less night club.”

  “It’s called terrorist chic, bro,” Amir explained. “That’s far from tasteless.”

  Clay had a feeling Talia wanted to use some Krav Maga on Amir. He stepped between them before she could strike. “What sort of trouble?” he asked. “What kind of trouble did you face from the Kosher Kave?”

  Amir stared at Clay. “Not enough to make me shook, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Did it involve golems?”

  The question made Amir’s eyes widen. He stumbled back, his chains swaying. “All right. I’ve had about enough of you fools questioning my stee-lo. You better bounce, now.” He turned to Saladin. “Yo, Saladin. Throw them out of my apartment.”

  Saladin stood by a computer bank in the corner. “Actually, Mr. Amir, it looks like you got another visitor.”

  Everyone clustered around the bank of computers. It showed a view from the security camera in the hall, fixed on the elevator door. Henry Mackintosh-Holtz stood there, staring at the door and fidgeting. His collared shirt and jacket looked a little rumpled, and he had a slight bruise on his cheek, but seemed otherwise unharmed. He knocked on the door. “Mr. Amir?” His voice piped in through the computer speakers. “Excuse me, is there a Mr. Amir in there? I’ve got to warn him about something.” He moved nervously from foot to foot and pushed his glasses up.

  “Henry.” Talia smiled. “He’s all right. Thank God.”

  “You know that kid?” Amir asked.

  “I’m a friend of the family. Talia was babysitting him when he was kidnapped by garbage golems.” Clay motioned to the door. “We thought you stole him. That’s why we’re here. Evidently, that isn’t the case. You better let Henry in, so we can see what he has to say.”

  “Yeah, no problem.” Amir punched a spacebar on the computer screen and the door slid open.

  Henry stepped hesitantly into the penthouse. He stared at the furnishings in quiet awe. “Mr. Amir?” he asked. Then he spotted Clay and Talia. “Mr. Clay! Talia!” Henry hurried to join them.

  Talia patted his head. “Thank God you’re all right, Henry. I was freaking out. One of Mr. Clay’s friends pointed us here, and we thought we might find you—but I guess the garbage golems took you somewhere else.” She motioned to a nearby chair and Henry sat down. “Why don’t you tell us what happened, and why are you trying to warn Mr. Amir?” She pointed to Amir. “He’s right there, and that’s his bodyguard, Saladin.”

  “My real name’s Jonathan,” Saladin added.

  “Thank you.” Henry settled into the chair. Amir popped open his fridge, withdrew a soda, and handed it to Henry. “Oh—thanks.” Henry smiled as he popped the seal on the soda. “My mom only lets me have one of these per month, so they’re sort of a treat.” He sipped the soda. “Okay, so those garbage guys picked me up and then they flew away and they took me to the Kosher Kave.” He pushed up his spectacles. “I know—it’s so weird. I’ve had all my birthdays at the Kosher Kave and their buffalo burgers are really good. I was wondering why the garbage golems took me there, and then they brought me to the back, and I met this guy named Shmuel Horowitz. He’s the son of the owner, and he’s the one who created the garbage golems.” He nodded to Amir. “He was really angry about you buying out the Kosher Kave and wanted to fight back, so he made golems. And he had said that you made golems to fight his golems.”

  “Is that true?” Talia asked. “You made that energy golem, I bet.”

  Amir shrugged. “Hey, if someone steps to me with a gat, I go for a gat. Someone steps to me with a golem, and I look up how to make golems from some weird-ass website and build my own.” He stared at Clay. “What? You got a problem with that?”

  “Too many golems—and all mindless creations, made by amateurs,” Clay explained. “It’s bound to cause trouble. They’ll get their orders mixed up, mindlessly pursue their goals, and not care if anyone gets hurt in the crossfire. They’ll tear Haven Street apart until they’re destroyed.” He faced Henry. “So what happened after that? And why exactly did Horowitz want to capture you?”

  Henry had another sip of the soda. “He said it was because my ancestors were great golem-makers. My great-grand uncle made you, after all.” He shrugged. “He wanted me to help. But I remembered what you said about creating golems, Mr. Clay—I refused. I wouldn’t make golems and send them on a mission of destruction.” He smiled hopefully and Clay nodded proudly at the boy. “Well, then Shmuel got worried. He seemed like a nice guy, but he said that he really wanted me to help get his golems under control. They’re all going after you, Mr. Amir. They’re going to come here and attack you. Shmuel said you deserved it—but that’s not true. Nobody deserves to be attacked by golems. So I escaped through the window, and took a cab over here to warn you.”

  “Why would you risk your life like that, Henry?” Talia glared at Amir. “For someone like him?”

  “He’s just a person, Talia,” Henry said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Well, thanks, little man.” Amir scratched his head. “I’d never think anyone like you would risk your life for someone like me. But you can bet it’s appreciated.” He turned to Saladin. “So, the garbage golems are coming here. I say we lock the doors, load up the burners, and start blasting soon as they show. You down to roll, bro?”

  “Jesus Christ.” Saladin sighed. “We can’t hold them off here—not in this goddamn penthouse surrounded by windows and massive heights. We need to go somewhere more defensible.” He moved past Amir and stared at the wall of gold and silver guns. He reached for a silver assault rifle and the extra magazines. “We need to start heading to the lobby now and leave.”

  “How about we slide to the Uptown location of Gangsta Gaddafi?” Amir asked. “It’s closed now and that seems pretty defensible.”

  “Fine.” Saladin turned to Clay and Talia. “Mr. Clay, can you handle a firearm? And what about you, Talia? You said you had IDF training with the Uzis?”

  Talia stared at the wall of guns. “Well, it was just training.” She picked up a golden assault rifle with an attached grenade launcher. “And I practiced a little more with this.” She slung the gun over her shoulder, holding it like a pro. Clay selected a combat shotgun and a belt of shells. “But I don’t know if I’m ready, exactly.” She glanced at Henry. “How long until the garbage golems show up, Henry? Did Shmuel Horowitz happen to tell you?”

  “I d-don’t think so,” Henry admitted. He set down the soda.

  “Then we’ll leave now.” Saladin started toward the elevator. “Amir, you stay back with the kid. Keep him safe, okay? Stay behind us a bit when we go through the lobby. Your ride’s on the curb. We get inside and then we’ll start driving to the club.”

  Amir grinned at Henry. “You stick with me, little man. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

  They headed to the elevator. Clay rested his shotgun on his shoulder. Talia switched off the safety on her assault rifle as Saladin opened the door. Clay hoped Amir was right. With two groups of feuding golems, everything working out seemed nearly impossible. Golems made with this sort of hate had a propensity to get their orders mixed up and cause all kinds of terror and destruction. Clay hoped that things wouldn’t get too bad. Haven Street had seen enough trouble in the past.

  ~~~

  The elevator descended swiftly, the floors ticking down. Clay and his friends stood inside, nobody saying much as the elevator moved down at a whispered hum. The doors slid open, revealing the wide, marble expanse of the lobby. Clay, Talia, and Saladin emerged first, carrying their weapons. The concierge stared at them and their guns in surprise, and then let out a yelp of panic as the glass doors shattered. Clay turned down the lobby. Henry had warned them just in time. The garbage golems had already arrived.

  Four of the garbage creations raced across the street, bounding from the roofs of the cars, and then lunging through the air at the
hotel. They smashed their way through, shattering the glass like they were projectiles fired from some gun. The garbage golems pierced the glass door, rolled on the ground, and sprang up to attack. Bits of litter dripped behind them, and each golem left a trail of refuse as they closed in. They bounded toward Clay and the others like wolves on the attack, rustling as they moved in. They pushed aside a stanchion and rippled around a geometric modern art sculpture in the center of the room as they advanced.

  Saladin raised his assault rifle. “Contact!” He moved ahead of the others, leveling his assault rifle with practiced precision. “Give them some long bursts. Put some suppressing fire on them!”

  “Look down the sights.” Talia whispered to herself as she moved to join him. “Squeeze, don’t pull.” She was repeating her training. She raised her rifle and joined in with Saladin. Clay didn’t need any training. He had been built to be a killer. He joined them and racked the pump on his shotgun. They formed a firing line, aimed at the garbage golems, and then started shooting.

  Gunfire roared and echoed through the lobby. The blasts struck the first two garbage golems, the bullets shredding their cobbled-together forms and spraying litter into the air. Tattered magazines, chunks of rotten organic matter, and ruined car parts bounced off the ground, staining the pristine floors of the lobby. They concentrated their fire on the first garbage golem, shredding the creation as it drew closer. Saladin fired his clip into the golem’s chest, the bullets cleaving their way through. The golem continued its charge, sliding along the floor and advancing even as the shots dismantled it. Talia fired at its outstretched limb, ripping it from its body and letting it fall on the ground in a heap. Then Clay moved close to the garbage golem. He rammed the butt of his shotgun into its chest, knocking it onto the ground. The garbage golem tried to rise and Clay’s shotgun fired through its forehead, stopping the mindless monstrosity for good.