Say the Word(69)

I nodded in agreement. The view outside my window was bleak.

It had begun to drizzle. The sky had darkened as a thick cloud cover rolled in overhead, casting the streets further into shadow and sending whatever pedestrians had been outside scurrying back indoors as fast as possible. The streetlights had yet to illuminate, as it was still relatively early, and the rain-slicked streets looked both desolate and uninviting. I had no desire to venture out in them alone. Still, I made myself smile at the concerned cabbie, forcing my tone to reflect a cheery disposition I didn’t feel.

“I’ll be alright. Thanks for the ride.” I reached for the door handle.

“Wait, lady.” The cabbie flipped open a compartment on his dashboard and grabbed a business card from inside. “Here, take my card. You need a ride back, you call me.”

I accepted the card with a smile — genuine, this time — and stepped out of the cab. Once his taillights had disappeared around the nearest corner, I turned and walked a half block until I reached the waterfront. The old pier abutting the warehouses to my left stretched for at least a hundred yards; if I could find a safe enough path across the rotten wooden planks, maybe I could approach the warehouse Santos had disappeared into from the back side. With any luck, the metal door I’d seen last night was the primary entrance, and I wouldn’t be spotted from this alternate vantage point.

And if I was… well, I was just a girl out for a walk in the rain. I’d play the dumb-blonde card and hope they bought it. The fact that I didn’t exactly look like a super-sleuth would likely work in my favor.

My hair grew damp in the constant drizzle as I picked my way along the pier, the wood groaning beneath my sneakers with each tentative step I took. I stopped to pull up my hood, and looked out over the dull gray waters of the bay to the Statue of Liberty. This could’ve been a beautiful spot — a home to waterfront condos, or a historically preserved neighborhood filled with boutique shops and vendors. Instead, everything out here seemed leached of color — as though the cloud of factory smoke which had once poured from the chimneys and smokestacks of these warehouses had permanently stained the atmosphere, coloring it faintly gray even after a hundred years of inactivity.

I held my breath each time I decided to trust that the neglected pier would hold my weight, hoping I wouldn’t plunge into the dirty, trash-strewn harbor waters below. Skirting my way along two boarded up warehouses, I came to a stop when the third came into view. That was it — the one Santos had vanished into last night. In the dim light, I squinted to make out the faded, peeling paint which had once proudly proclaimed the business name in bold hues and a scrawling font on the side of the building.

Rochester Brewery

The old beer factory’s smokestack had caved in long ago, and I wondered about its structural integrity as I crept slowly closer. The three story building had stone-framed windows placed at regular intervals, their shattered panes boarded over on the street level — presumably to keep people out or, quite possibly, to shield whatever was inside from prying eyes like mine. There was a skinny alleyway running alongside the warehouse, piled high with wooden crates and pylons, overflowing garbage cans and years of amassed refuse. I held my nose as I edged around the corner into the mouth of the alley, blocking out the unmistakable stench of rotting trash and decomposing waste.

Closing my eyes, I focused my senses on the brewery yet heard nothing except the patter of light rain as it fell onto the asphalt and rippled into the bay. The sturdy brick walls were too thick to emit any sound from inside. I walked further into the narrow passage, my concentration honed so intently that I almost missed the abrupt scrape of metal against stone as a recessed door swung open behind me.

My heart in my throat, I darted even deeper into the alleyway and crouched behind a large stack of wooden pallets. Curling in on myself, I held both hands over the bright red BULLDOGS lettering on my black sweatshirt, praying I hadn’t been spotted. I felt the cold water puddled beneath me seep into my sneakers and soak through my socks, and tried to ignore the torrent of dirty rainwater dripping off the roof onto my head.

Two men stepped through the doorway into the mouth of the alley, mere feet from where I’d just stood. Both were relatively young and stocky, with dark hair and thick, vaguely European accents. I watched as they took shelter beneath the small doorway overhang, lighting their cigarettes and puffing smoke into the damp air. Their voices were faint — I strained my ears to make out their words.

“Don’t know why boss makes us smoke outside.” The grumbled complaint came from the one whose nose looked like it had been broken four times too many and never properly reset, resulting in a crooked mess that divided what had at one point been a rather handsome face.

“Boss makes the rules. We don’t question them.” The second man, whose voice was so gravelly it rumbled like a freight train, looked like he’d never evolved past the Paleolithic Era, with his low-hanging brow and small, wide-spaced eyes. His hulking muscles only added to his Neanderthalish appearance; he made every club bouncer I’d ever seen look scrawny.

“Well, are we at least getting a new shipment in soon? We haven’t had a new one for days,” Smash-Nose whined.

The Neanderthal grunted in response, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“We’re almost out of GHB, so Santos better come through soon.” Smash-Nose chuckled under his breath. “Otherwise we’ll have to find more… creative… methods of controlling the next arrivals.”