Page 2 of Curse the Flame

“We’ll let you know.”

Nobody ever did until Teddy did.

He sat me down in his office above this Greek restaurant that smelled like oregano, citrus, and cigar smoke, poured me a drink I couldn’t afford, and told me the country might have forgotten its heroes, but he hadn’t.

“I need men who know how to make difficult decisions,” he’d told me, his lips curving, his eyes hidden behind a pricy pair of black aviators. “Men who know who to shoot a gun without blowing their own goddamn toes off. You in, Murphy?”

I’d heard of him before that first meeting. Whispers in the city said he was known as the “Fulfiller” because, no matter what, he got shit done. And he accomplished that by hiring those willing to do what he required of them for a decent fee.

In my case, it was collections first. Intimidation came next. Then, about two months into his employ, I met him for supper and, when we were done eating, he slid a folder across the tablecloth to me.

“Some people don’t deserve tomorrow,” he murmured.

I remember staring at the file for a long time before I even opened it. It was long enough for him to refill my tumbler of whiskey, long enough for him to flick his fingers, sending his retinue of bodyguards away so that it was just him and me.

“You killed Nazis,” he said as he flung the folder open for me, showing a black-and-white photo on top of a sheet with all the details I needed. “What’s one more monster?”

That made sense to me last December. It still does now.

Most of the time, at least…

Ahead of me, Johnny turns another corner.

I smile to myself, knowing I was right. Part of that’s because I spent last night poring over his file. John Wallace, known as Johnny, is a twenty-five-year-old photographer from Sheepshead Bay. He didn’t serve. He was classified 4-F—unfit for service—due to vision problems which, come on, is obvious bullshit given his line of work.

I hate draft dodgers. Especially when I think of all I lost… but you know what I hate even more? Men who take advantage of girls.

That’s Johnny Boy’s crime, according to Teddy. He lures girls, some of ‘em as young as twelve, into his studio to take their picture. He tells them all they’ll be the next June Allyson or Janet Leigh while convincing them to strip down to their skivvies—or worse.

Some men deserve to die, Teddy told me. A man like Johnny Wallace is one of them.

From the moment he took off, I had an idea where he might go. Not his studio near Prospect Park; that would be too obvious. Instead, he heads toward the rundown part of the city where he can try to hide—but where no one will admit they hear his screams.

The abandoned brownstones come into view exactly where I expected they would. Boarded windows. Cracked stone steps. Weeds growing through iron fences and exteriors that haven’t been touched up since the before the first Great War.

Oh, yeah. Nobody’s coming to help him in any of those.

Whether he picks one at random or this is one of the dens where he brought his young victims, it doesn’t matter to me. Patting my Colt, I watch as he anxiously bounds up the porch steps two at a time and disappears through a front door that was partway opened before he reached it.

As he does, I slow to a walk. Way I see it, there’s no reason to rush now. He’s trapped himself with Death stalking after him, and even if he could hide in the shadows, there’s no hiding from Aiden Murphy.

The Colt slides naturally into my palm as I climb the same stairs he galloped up. Funny how quickly something becomes familiar. First time I ever held one of these, my hands shook so badly I almost dropped it. France fixed that. By the time the Germans surrendered, I could strip and reassemble my sidearm blindfolded.

The front door groans as I push it open the rest of the way.

“Johnny…” My voice echoes through the obviously empty house. Thick with my brand of accent—one part the old country, one part pure Brooklyn—I call out again: “Johnny? Where did you go, Johnny?”

No answer except for a pair of frantic footsteps over my head.

He’s still running as though he hasn’t figured out that this is the end for him all because he picked the wrong girl and caught the Fulfiller’s attention—and that’s when I hear the footsteps stop.

The staircase complains beneath my boots as I climb. Every instinct I have says that this is where he’s going to make his stand. I have him cornered. Unless, of course, he wants to jump out of a window and replay what all those hoity-toity fellas did during the Wall Street Crash of ’29 when I was nothing but a boy…

He didn’t pull a jumper. As I reach the second level, peeking into the first room I find, Johnny is standing perfectly still in front of a⁠—

Is that a mirror?

This must be some kind of lady’s room. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an abandoned bed with dusty linens. There’s a dresser thick with the stuff on the top. Wallpaper hangs in curling strips, a sure sign this place hasn’t had an occupant in twenty years. The windows are closed with tattered curtains blowing⁠—