A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Twenty-One

We drove for the next several minutes in relative silence.  I thought long and hard about what Kern had said.

He'd made it pretty clear that these guys had no intention of releasing either me or Howard. I imagined that once they got what they needed from Howard -- perhaps once they retrieved whatever it was they needed from his laptop computer -- he was as good as dead.

And, with him dead, they couldn't leave his biographer around to document the story.  Naturally, their plan was to kill me, too.

Interesting how matter of fact these guys were about it.

It confirmed my original suspicion about them -- not that I was all that familiar with real life bad guys in action.  Sure, I wrote about murderers and bad guys and people plotting evil things.  But I hadn't ever really been mixed up with any real bad guys before.  This was all completely new territory for me.

I wondered exactly what kind of outfit or organization these guys worked for.  They'd referred to someone named Monty -- obviously some sort of leader.  But what exactly was he a leader of?  Were they some mafia-type group?  They obviously were more than just a group of dumb thugs on a random mission.  Given not only their matching suits but where Howard worked, they were likely mixed in with some higher level financial dealings or schemes.

During the silence, and as I tried to figure out exactly who these guys might be and what they were after, I realized we were heading down into the South Street Seaport area.  I was familiar with that area of town, having spent some time down here a couple of years ago doing research for a book -- but even if I hadn't been familiar with the streets leading up to it, I likely would have figured out where we were heading by the not-too-subtle scent of the fish in the air.

The fishy odor was powerful and was another relief, believe it or not, from the nasty stench coming off of Kern and which I'd still not gotten used to.  I knew that these guys noses weren't nearly as sensitive as my own, but I still had trouble imagining how they could ever get used to it.

The guy named Bricky -- the one I'd originally been calling Mr. Passenger Seat -- turned in his seat and pointed the gun at me again.

Having the gun pointed at me wasn't all that fun, but I have to admit to one small relief.  Knowing their actual names was a lot less "work" for me than calling them by the pet names they'd adopted in my mind when I first met them.  I mean, look at how much simpler Kern had evolved.  First he was Mr. Hyperhydrosis.  Then he moved on to the much simpler Mr. Sweatypants (perhaps my version of a pet name for him) -- and the far easier name of Kern.  Similarly, Mr. Passenger Seat was now known as Bricky. 

Bricky? 

What the hell kind of name was that?  Likely another nickname -- perhaps a spin-off of the name Ricky?  Or maybe, and I shuddered thinking about it -- perhaps a nickname born out of his expertise at fitting victims with brick or concrete shoes and tossing them in the Hudson. 

In any case, knowing their names made life so much easier, made things so much simpler.  It made me wish that during moments like these people would just stop to introduce themselves to others.  Life would be simpler, so much smoother in a world where the mugger jumps out and says, "Hello, my name is Stephan - I'll be your mugger for today."  At least that way, when thinking about that frustrating moment of handing over your wallet and watch and jewelry, you would at least have a name for the person you loathed.  And yeah, I know, Stephan isn't a likely name for a mugger.  Perhaps I should be stereotypical and switch that to 'Brutus.'

For now, at least, I was traveling with Kern, Bricky and Driver Dude.  I wasn't particularly proud of the nicknames I'd quickly devised for my foes, but they would have to do in a pinch.  And I was confident that if I lived for at least another fifteen minutes I'd likely be able to convert Driver Dude into a real name in my head.

"We're almost here," Bricky said, the gun still pointing at my face.  "Any monkey business from you and you'll have six bullets in you before you have time to blink.  Got it?"

I swallowed, more in reaction to the determined and serious scent coming off him than his actual words.  My mouth was dry again.  It was getting close to action time.

"Got it," I said in a small voice.

The car ducked down an alley off of Front Street and we pulled alongside the back of a warehouse building.

When Bricky and Kern opened their doors, a sudden particular fishy smell hit me, which incited a quick flashback.

The air was tinged with the smell of burning rubber, combined with the fading echo of screeching tires; but even that powerful smell did little to mask the much stronger fishy smell that permeated the alley.

I shook my head.  I'd been in this very alley last night as a wolf.  I reached back, tried to pull more of the straggling thoughts from my memory, but all I got was the sudden brilliant and painful flash of headlights in my eyes.

My head pounded, both with the memory and the attempt at reaching too hard, and my eyes started to water.

I hadn't even noticed that Kern had come around my side of the car to pull me out while Bricky had opened the back door of the car with one hand, his other training a gun on me.

Kern hauled me out of the car.  Still shaking the memory from my head and blinking hard to diffuse that burst of lights from my memory, I let him pull me to my feet.

I stood there, staring at Kern dumbly.

For a moment, the overpowering smell of fish from my memory -- and yes, it had been stronger in my memory of being a wolf than it currently was at the moment; I might have incredibly heightened senses as a human with wolf blood running through my veins, but it still didn't compare to the actual sensory input I got when I was in wolf form -- had actually blocked Kern's offensive body odor from me, and it had been a relief.

But Kern's smell came back to me.

And with it was the subtle scent of Howard.  He'd been here earlier; his scent hung subtly in the air.

The four of us, with me in the lead, Bricky's pistol jammed into my back, and the others following, started heading toward a doorway into the warehouse building.

Then things got worse.

All of a sudden, I could smell him before I heard him yell out to us.  My old friend, my oldest New York friend, in fact, Buddy, was upwind in the alley and heading this way.  What the hell was he doing here?

Oh no, I thought, even before his words passed through the air.  Please, Buddy, get the hell out of here.

"Hey, Wolfman!  Hey Mikey!" Buddy called out in that gravelly voice of his.  "Fancy meeting you here."