As the explosion rose behind the creature, and the blast of heat hit Vasiliy, he felt his body pushed by the searing piston of displaced air, and a body—that of a singed vampire—hit him full-on… knocking him out.
As he faded into a serene void, a word out of the depths of his mind replaced the cadence of the counting in his head:
CRO… CRO…
CROATOAN
Arlington Park, Jersey City
TEN THIRTY AT NIGHT.
Alfonso Creem had been at the park an hour already, selecting a strategic spot.
He was picky that way.
The only thing he didn’t like about the location was the security light above, shining down in orange. So he had his lieutenant Royal—just Royal—bust the lock on the base and pop out the plate and jam a tire iron inside. Problem solved. The light flickered out above, and Creem nodded his approval.
He took his place under the shadows. His muscular arms hung out from his sides, too big to cross over his chest. His midsection was broad and nearly square. The head of the Jersey Sapphires was a black Colombian, the son of a Brit father and a Colombian mother. The Jersey Sapphires ran every block surrounding Arlington Park. They could have the park too, if they wanted it, but it wasn’t worth the trouble. The park was a criminal bazaar at night, and cleaning it out was a job for the cops and good citizens, not the Sapphires. Indeed, it was to Creem’s advantage to have this dead zone here in the middle of Jersey City: a public toilet that drew the scumbags away from his blocks.
Creem had won every street corner by sheer force. He rolled in like a Sherman tank and battered the opposing force into submission. Every time he earned another corner, he celebrated by having one of his teeth capped in silver. Creem had a brilliant and intimidating smile. Silver bling dressed his fingers as well. He had chains, too, but tonight he had left his neckwear back at his crib; it’s the first thing desperate people grab when they know they’re about to be murdered.
Royal stood near Creem, sweating inside a fur-lined parka, an ace of spades sewn into the front of his black knit cap. “He didn’t say to meet alone?”
Creem said, “Just that he wanted to parlay.”
“Huh. So what’s the plan?”
“His plan? No fucking idea. My plan? A nice puto scar.” Creem used his thick thumb to mime a straight razor cutting deep across Royal’s face. “I fucking hate most Mexicans, but this one ’specially.”
“I wondered why the park.”
Murders in the park didn’t get solved. Because there was no outcry. If you were brave enough to enter A Park after dark, then you were dumb enough to die. Just in case, Creem had coated his fingertips with Crazy Glue to obscure his fingerprints, and had readied a flat razor’s handle with Vaseline and bleach—just like he would with a gun handle—to avoid leaving any DNA traces.
A long, black car pulled down the street. Not quite a limousine, but something swankier than a tricked-out Cadillac. It slowed at the curb, stopped. Tinted windows stayed up. The driver didn’t get out.
Royal looked at Creem. Creem looked at Royal.
The back door opened to the curb. The occupant got out, wearing sunglasses. Also a checked shirt unbuttoned over a white tank, baggy pants, new black boots. He removed his pinch-front hat, revealing a tight red do-rag beneath, and tossed the hat back onto the seat of the car.
Royal said, under his breath, “What the fuck is this?”
The puto crossed the sidewalk, entering through the opening in the fence. His white tank shirt glowed with what was bright in the night as he strolled over grass and dirt.
Creem didn’t believe his own eyes until the dude was near enough that his collarbone tat showed plain.
SOY COMO SOY. I am what I am.
Creem said, “Am I supposed to be impressed?”
Gus Elizalde of Spanish Harlem’s La Mugre gang smiled but said nothing.
The car remained idling at the curb.
Creem said, “What? You come all the way here to tell me you won the fucking lottery?”
“Sort of like that.”
Creem dismissed him with a look up and down.