Brother Grim:
The Bloody Brothers Grim
by Ron Fortier

Life and death are absolutes. You get born, live and then you die. The end. Period. That is, if you live anywhere else in the world except Port Nocturne. You see, in Port Nocturne there are no absolutes. There is only hell and it just goes on. 
Not so long ago, when things were a little quieter, there were two major crime bosses in the city. Big Swede Jorgenson controlled everything from the 8th Street Bridge down to the docks of Old Town. 
The other half of the city, from midtown to the ritzy northern boroughs of Marlowe Heights, was under the thumb of Don Gino DeMilo. DeMilo was a man of reckless appetites. And as much as he loved women, food and the life, he loved power even more and saw himself as some sort of Old World Caesar. 
He detested the delicate balance of authority that existed in the underworld between himself and his hated rival, Big Swede. It bothered him daily, no matter what he was about. Whether it was doing business or entertaining the high mucky-mucks of Port Nocturne’s social elite with a lavish dinner. The fact that he only controlled one half of Port Nocturne wore away at DiMilo like an itch he could never scratch. 
This arrangement had lasted for ten years, much to everyone’s acceptance and no one really believed Don DiMilo would have the balls to upset the apple cart. Thing is, no one knew just how crazy he really was. 
The fact that he employed the Brothers Grim should have been a serious clue. But then again, this is the underworld we are discussing and not high society. 
Guido and Tony were identical twins born seconds apart to a hooker on Locust Ave. Guido was the older by three seconds. Story had it he was born with Tony holding onto his heels. Their mother sold them when they were a year old and the rest of their legend is lost on the streets of the past. All you need to know is that by the time the boys were in their teens, they were two of most sadistic, vicious souls ever dumped on the mean streets. Somehow, the Grimaldi brothers survived. No one ever knew who sired them, as if it mattered. Lots of folks think it was the devil himself and they could have been right considering the carnage the boys caused. 
Dark-haired, with piercing black eyes, the boys were sinisterly handsome. Exact copies of each other. This was the cause of the constant sibling rivalry that prompted them at age 13 to have tattoos etched on the backs of their right hands. Guido had a Black Ace and Tony’s was of a red skull. Instinctively the boys knew their future careers would be mapped with blood and guts. 
Bottom line is, they liked causing pain. They were tough and they were brutal. It was the law of the streets and both brothers took to it with a savage relish. Depending solely on themselves, they grew and prospered as petty thugs until the day they were summoned to the presence of Don DiMilo. The crimeboss had heard stories about the brothers and their exploits and he saw in them tremendous potential. 
He offered them wealth, luxury and more mayhem than they could ever imagine. The brothers accepted immediately and under the tutelage of DiMilo’s top lieutenant, Simeon Link, they were soon transformed from hot-blooded thugs into stone-cold killers. 
Of course, there were several other soldiers in the gang who had held the boss' favor prior to the brothers' arrival. Once Guido and Tony came aboard, some of them mysteriously disappeared. Both Link and DiMilo approved. It was enough of an object lesson that word spread throughout Port Nocturne like a wildfire. 
You did not mess with the Brothers Grim. 
So, let's get back to Don DiMilo’s annoyance at only controlling one half of the city. For ten years, he contained his lust for power with Herculean resolve. But it was only a matter of time. Obsessions have a way of swelling in the soul until nothing else remains but a single desire that has to be met. Thus Don DiMilo, after months of careful planning, set forth a wild and daring scheme that would ultimately lead to his total dominance of Port Nocturne. 
The first step in this devious strategy was to make Big Swede look like the instigator. 
On the lower east side of the once-fashionable Whittington Park, DiMilo owned a popular and highly profitable bordello operated by one Sadie Levine. It was said that half of her clientele were made up of members of the City Council and the Police Department. DiMilo ordered the Brothers Grim to fall upon the establishment like a Biblical plague, and exterminate everyone within the house, leaving no living witness behind. Then they were to leave clues behind that would point a finger at Big Swede. After all, who would believe that DiMilo would destroy one of his own places? 
Once people thought Big Swede had broken the truce, the uproar would be great on both sides of the political track. It would then be simple for DiMilo to fuel his spark and from it build a fire that would devour his nemesis. 
Naturally Guido and Tony were only too eager to carry out their contract. Arming themselves with half a dozen pistols and wielding two Thompson machine-guns, the brothers descended upon the old, sleepy brownstone in the dead of night, long after midnight when things were quiet as a tomb. Most of the house’s inhabitants having long succumbed to slumber from either too much booze or sex. 
Having themselves been customers on several occasions, they were familiar with the building’s layout. They entered via a kitchen door facing the back alley. Using silencers, they took out the kitchen staff and then, like ghosts, made their way into the parlor. 
Henry, the piano player, and several of the girls, who were not asleep, were lounging about, smoking dope and drinking cheap bourbon. Only a single table lamp lit the huge, overly-furnished, main room. When the brothers emerged from the back door, the girls and the black musician were hardly aware of their presence until Guido raised the machine gun and opened fire. 
The bullets cut across the room like lead encased bees and tore their victims apart. Blood and flesh spewed up everywhere and what screams arose were easily drowned away by the gunfire. 
"Let’s go!" Guido snapped, rushing towards the stairs. Now that they had virtually wakened the dead, they had to work fast to make sure no one got away. 
At the top of the stairs, they ran into the Madame of house, Sadie Levine. She was coming out of her private room fumbling with a handgun. At the sight of the brothers she gasped and dropped her pistol. Laughing, Tony grabbed her by the neck, pulled her to the railing and threw her over. Sadie screamed once and then her body crashed into the hardwood floor below, snapping her neck. 
"Nice move," Guido said. 
"Mmm," Tony replied. "Guess pigs can’t fly." 
It was the end of their witty repartee, as by then scores of doors were popping open as dozens of whores and their customers rushed out to see what had shattered their dreams. 
For the next twenty minutes the brothers were busy dispensing their lead greetings to one and all in that ill fated house of pleasure. Twenty short minutes to snuff out the lives of twenty men and women, not counting the six in the parlor and the three in the kitchen. Twenty-nine dead. It was a new record for the brothers and clearly one they were quite happy with. 
As they were walking down the circular staircase, having made sure no one was left breathing behind them, the brothers laughed and joked. As they were crossing the parlor, they heard a soft groan and both of them reacted like skittish cats, instantly alert, guns ready. 
Tony was closest to the sound and looking down beside an overturned chair, found the source. A young, painted girl, her face half hidden in the shadows, was staring up at him from a pool of her own blood. That she had survived after taking so many hits was nothing short of miraculous. Tony was impressed and he leaned over to see if the bitch would say anything. 
She did. She gasped and said, "Thank you." 
Tony Grimaldi blinked. "Huh?" 
But the skinny girl was dead and there was no taking back the gesture. 
"What did she say?" Guido asked. 
Tony looked at his brother, his suit smeared with dozens of brown blood splotches, and then back to the dead girl at his feet. Something cold snaked into the pit of his stomach and he shivered. 
"She said, ‘Thank you’." 
"That’s nuts." 
"Yeah, I know." 
"Well, forget it. Come on. We still got work to do." 
They then proceeded to drop betting slips on the floor from one of Big Swede’s racing joints. It would be just enough evidence to point the finger at Jorgensen. In all, the Brothers Grim had taken all of thirty-five minutes to do their dirty work. Walking away through the smelly back alley, Guido slapped his twin on the back and chuckled. 
"Man, I’m starved. Let’s find us a diner and get some chow." 
"Okay, Guido. Sounds good to me." What Tony didn’t tell his brother was that he wasn’t hungry at all. Rather he was ill at ease. The dead girl’s parting words bothered the hell out of him. Why did she thank him for doing her? Was her life that goddamn bad that she was grateful to him for ending it? Now how screwy was that? 
Screwy. Still, he heard the words in his head and they simply would not go away. 
Two weeks later and Tony Grimaldi woke up screaming in the night. Since the hit on the bordello, the nightmares had come on a regular basis. Every single night it was the same dead hooker, smiling at him, her face cold and hard in death. And the words sliding over her gray lips were always the same benediction of the damned. 
Thank you. 
Guido, who was aware of his brother’s strange mood swings, questioned him one morning while they were cleaning their guns in their bungalow located on Don DiMilo’s fortress-like estate. 
"I can’t shake that girl thanking me for offing her," the younger of the twins confessed. "Every night she just comes out of the ground, her skin crawling with maggots and then she smiles and she thanks me." 
Guido eyed his brother warily. He had never seen Tony this upset before. "Hey, you ain’t getting a conscience or something, are you?" 
"Huh?" 
"A conscience. You know. Feeling sorry about what we do and all." 
It was such an alien thought to Tony Grimaldi, that he was confused for a moment. In all their years of mayhem and savagery, he had never once felt anything but elation. Suckers deserved what they got. If you weren’t strong enough to survive, you died. Simple as that. It was the law of the jungle and he and Guido were the lions of the Port Nocturne. 
"Bullshit," he finally blurted. "The day I get a conscience is the day dogs will fly and cats will swim." 
He took a sip of his coffee and grinned. Guido responded with a chuckle of his own and they dropped the subject. Yet, Tony felt the same ice in his stomach that told him something was not right. But he dared not share it with Guido. He was smart enough to know that would be dangerous. 
Two nights later, the boys were called out to whack a crusading city councilman named Cramer. It seemed the man, a former cop, had started making investigations into the ties between the mayor’s office and Don DiMilo. When the Mayor, who was on the payroll, informed the crimeboss, it was decided that the crusader should take a dirt nap. 
The brothers shot him coming out of his garage and threw his body into the trunk of their black sedan. They drove up to Smoky Hollow, twenty acres of pines located along the coast west of the city. The boys had used it often as their personal graveyard and over the years had buried dozens of men and women among the silent firs. This night was just a routine job. 
As Guido finished digging the four-foot hole, Tony paced around the body, chain smoking and staring into the inky darkness of the trees around them. On a boulder they had set an old lantern that gave off a weak, sick, yellow glow. In the distance an owl hooted and small animals skittered through the underbrush. Tony’s head snapped around trying to find their source. 
"Jeezuz!" Guido said, seeing his nervousness. "It’s just a freaking owl, is all." 
"Right." Tony tossed his butt and its burning tip made a tiny glowing arc as it died in the dew-covered grass. "Are you finished?" 
"Yeah. I am. Let’s have the councilman." 
Tony grabbed the corpse by the ankles and dragged it to the edge of the hole where Guido took over. As the body dropped into the cavity, it made a soft, smacking sound. Guido handed Tony the shovel and climbed out. That was Tony’s cue to start filling in the hole. 
As the clumps of dirt dropped over the body, Tony felt his heart starting to race. With each spade full, he could he feel his nerves tightening. Then, just as he was patting down the last chunk, he thought he heard a voice. Holding the shovel tightly, he leaned over the mound of dirt and he heard it again, a soft, eerie voice rising up out of the ground. 
Thank you, it said. Thank you. 
Tony froze. His heart started racing wildly in his chest. Then he heard it again. 
Thank you. But this time it was coming from behind him. He slowly turned around and sure enough the voice was coming from nearby thicket. He remembered that was where they had buried old Judge Williams. Then he heard a woman’s voice and it came from the rise where the woods sloped into a small valley beyond. Now there were lots of voices and they were speaking to him with soft, raspy words that were not of the living. Words spoken by long silenced voices. It was a cacophony of the dead. 
"Make them stop!" Tony cried, throwing the shovel to the ground and covering his ears with his gloved hands. 
"Make who stop? What?" Guido asked, looking at his brother oddly. "What’s wrong, Tony? What’s the matter?" 
With eyes bulging wide, Tony looked at his kin with a wild desperate stare. "Can’t you hear them, Guido?" 
"Hear what?" Guido looked around the empty woods. "There ain’t nothing out here but us and some critters." 
"No," Tony yelled back. "The dead are here, Guido. Don’t you remember? They’re all around us." 
"Sure, they are, Tony. But Tony, the dead don’t talk." 
"Oh yes, they do. They talk to me!" 
"That’s bullshit, Tony! Knock it off! You’re starting to spook me." 
"But I can’t shut them out, Guido! They keep speaking to me. Here, in my head. Thank you. That’s what they all say. Thank you, thank you, thank you…" 
Guido rushed up and with a balled right fist, knocked his brother to the ground with a sock to the chin. Standing over him, he breathed hard, his fist ready to inflict more damage if necessary. 
"I told you to knock it off! Damn it, Tony, what the hell is wrong with you? Ever since we took out Sadie’s place you’ve been coming apart on me." 
"I’m sorry," Tony managed, his voice a half-strangled sob. "It ain’t my fault. I didn’t ask for this. It’s just the voices. I hear them." 
Guido reached down, took a hold of Tony’s arms and pulled him to his feet. He carefully brushed him off. 
"Yeah, maybe so. But you got to stop hearing them, Tony. Do you understand? If either Don DiMilo or Link finds out you're hearing voices, it'll be bad for us." 
Tony stopped his sniffling and wiped his nose with the back of his glove. "Right." Guido’s warning was sinking in and its effect was sobering. 
"If they think you’ve gone off the deep end like this, you know as well as I do, it’ll be all over for you! Then you’ll be hearing the dead for sure cause you’ll be one of them!" 
For a second, Tony Grimaldi kept his eyes averted from his brother’s face. He looked down at the new grave and then around at the trees with their mocking echoes. He shook himself and then raised his head. 
"But what if they come back, Guido? What do I do then?" 
"I don’t know, Tony. You’d just better figure something out and do it fast." 
"Okay, Guido. I will. I’ll make them go away. I promise. Somehow, I’ll get it done." 
For the next few days, the haunted killer kept to himself. He started taking long drives through the city. Aimlessly driving up and down streets with no idea where he was going or what he was looking for. Then, on the third day after the woods incident, Tony Grimaldi drove past St.Michael’s church. Seeing the giant bronze cross atop the high pitched roof, he instinctively realized the answers he was after might be found in a place such as this. He jerked the wheel hard and pulled into the narrow driveway alongside the old, weathered structure. 
Pulling his fedora down over his black eyes and flipping his collar up, Tony rushed up the stairs and into the church. Through the shadowy interior, he proceeded down the main aisle, his passage noted only by one or two kneeling penitents. The interior was lit by candles decorating the side knaves and the main altar. It was there that Tony spotted the little, white-haired man in the black robes. 
For his part, Father Dennis O’Malley, age 72, had met many a strange soul as a priest in Port Nocturne, but the one he now faced was by far the most intimidating of all. The man was a veritable giant and towered over the old cleric. The man’s face was lost in the well of his jacket, and his hat brim covered all but the intense eyes that caught the sparkle of the altar’s candles. Black eyes. 
Father O’Malley was scared. He silently invoked a prayer to St. Michael, God’s warrior angel, and held his ground. 
Suddenly, the fellow politely removed his hat and spoke in a voice sharp with agony and pain. "Padre. I need help." 
The old pastor led Tony to his spare office behind the vestibule, offered him and chair and then poured them each a mug of bad coffee. 
"Go on, my son. You have obviously come here, to God’s house, to unburden a heavy load. Tell me your story." 
"Okay, Padre, but it ain’t pretty." 
An hour later, Father O’Malley considered that the greatest understatement he had ever heard. He had spent a lifetime learning how not to pass judgement on others. His calling was to provide moral aid to all, even the worse of sinners. Still, nothing in all his years as a priest had prepared him for this man’s confession. Tony Grimaldi was an agent of the Devil and clearly represented all that was rotten and evil about mankind. 
O’Malley’s initial fear had only heightened as he listened in horror and disgust as the murderer related his brutal history. When Tony finally shut up, a silence heavy with dread descended on the small, square room. The priest’s thoughts were a jumble. There was the fear that he had become a liability to Grimaldi. It was clear the man was a deranged monster. How soon before he realized he had told the priest everything? Still, Grimaldi sat before him, head hung down, looking pitiful and alone. Something about the man’s plight triggered sentiments of concern in O’Malley. After all, this was why he had become a priest in the first place: to help lost souls and, by God, was there anyone in the entire world more lost than this man? 
"Hmmrr," the priest coughed at last to break the silence. "That is the most tragic story I have ever heard, son. Do understand why you are hearing the voices of the dead?" 
Tony lifted his eyes. "They want to make me pay for what I did to them. I know that now." 
"Then what you are doing is telling me is what you did was wrong and you are aware of that fact. Correct?" 
"Yeah, I guess so, Padre." 
"Are you sorry for what you’ve done?" 
"I don’t know. It’s all too crazy in my head right now." 
O’Malley nodded. "An honest answer. Good." 
"Padre. If I have to stop killing to make the voices go away, I will! I can’t go on like this. It’s making me nuts. Can’t you help me stop them?" 
"No. I don’t think I can…" 
"Then this was a mistake…" 
"But I think I know someone who can." 
"You do? Who?" 
"A very special man, Tony. But if you agree to what I am going to suggest, it will mean the end of this life of killing. The man you are will have to die." 
Tony didn’t hesitate. "If it will make the voices go away, I’ll do whatever you say, Padre. Just call it." 
For the first time since their meeting, Father O’Malley smiled. The task before the young man would be a formidable one but result was nothing less than the salvation of his immortal soul. Could it be done? O’Malley had seen enough miracles in his days to believe anything was possible, if the angels were on your side. And besides, there was a real sweet pleasure in giving Satan a kick in the nuts. 
"Fine. Then I will make the call to my friend. The rest is up to you and God." 
The next day, Tony Grimaldi, killer and butcher of men, and one half of the infamous Brothers Grim, disappeared. 
----- 
Gone. Just like that. As if he had been wiped off the face of the Earth, leaving behind not a single trace or clue. 
For the next few weeks, Guido Grimaldi went wild looking for his missing twin. Don DiMilo put his entire resources and considerable manpower to the hunt for the missing hitman but it was all to no avail. Tony had vanished without a trace and the general consensus among the gang was that he had been eliminated by some old adversary. The brothers did not lack in enemies. It was a hazard of the job. 
Finally, after turning city upside-down, Simeon Link told Guido to give it up. Tony was gone. He even hinted at the possibility that Big Swede had somehow tumbled onto the bordello affair and was responsible for Tony’s fate. As unreasonable an assumption as that was, Guido was enraged enough to buy it, sales tag and all. Thus, he was more than eager and ready to continue Don DiMilo’s campaign against Big Swede. 
Thus began one of the bloodiest gang wars in Port Nocturne’s less than illustrious history. For the most part, the police stayed clear of the conflict, no sane cop wanting to get caught in the crossfire between the two mobs. Raids started going down all over town and decent folks were keeping themselves locked in at night, when the bullets flew and the gutters were strewn with bodies. 
For his part, Guido lost himself in his work and eventually came to accept the loss of his brother. He was not one to dwell on the past. Especially when there was a war to be waged. 
What the older Grimaldi could never have guessed in his wildest dreams was that his brother had joined a monastery and become a monk, shaved head and all. 
While Port Nocturne was being torn apart, Tony Grimaldi, now calling himself Brother Michael, was living a life of peace and serenity in the Spanish-style fort nestled in the hills overlooking the Blackwater Bay. In fact, the place was called Mt. Serenity and was very popular with the citizens of the neighboring town of Castle Harbor. The dozen monks at the abbey spent their days toiling the huge vegetable and flower gardens, the excess of which they sold to the markets of the small fishing port. The night hours were filled with prayer and silent meditation. 
Late one hot, summer afternoon, Brother Jonas, the abbot of the community, was strolling past the pottery workshop, an open-air room located at the rear of the ground floor. Its back wall was made of louvered panels that slid open to reveal the gardens and allowed heat from the kiln ovens to escape. 
Brother Anthony, a small black man from New Orleans, was carefully putting the finishing touches on a beautiful, bone-white enamel mask. Brother Michael, carrying a heavy bag of fertilizer on his broad shoulders, had stopped on his way from the main shed to watch the artisan complete his beautiful piece of art. Neither knew the abbot was watching them. 
"Hello, Brother Michael," the potter greeted without taking his eyes from the mask on the table, his skilled hand adroitly dabbing the hardened porcelain with the ivory colored paint. "It is almost finished." 
"What is it?" 
Brother Anthony finished his last swipe and put the paintbrush down. He looked up at the big man and grinned. "It is an African spirit mask. When I was a boy, in Orleans, my mama, she would make them all the time for the Mardi Gras." 
Slipping his fingers under the hard mask, the monk held it up so that the rays from the sun played over its pale, smooth surface. 
"Do you like it?" 
"It looks like a skull." 
"Yes, I guess it does. My mama, she say, if you wear the spirit mask, it will protect you from the demons and ghouls." 
"Ain’t no such things." 
"Do not be so sure, my friend." 
Brother Michael’s face, brown with the sun, looked as if his mind were millions of miles away. 
"No, Brother Anthony. You are wrong. There are no ghosts and such. Only death. That’s all there is." 
For a second, the man who was all too familiar with death remembered the red tattooed skull on his hand and he envied his friend. There were some things no man should have to know. He resumed his march to the fields leaving a perplexed Brother Anthony scratching his head. 
Brother Jonas watched him walk off and wondered whether the man would ever find the peace he sought. Looking around the small courtyard to his right, he could see the front entrance and the dirt road that led to the world outside. It was a place Brother Michaels had escaped from. Now if he could only keep it away. Maybe he would have a chance. The old abbot prayed it would be so. 
At the very same time, in a seedy, broken down Port Nocturne landmark known as Mick’s Bar & Grill, Guido Grimaldi sat at his customary back corner booth nursing his third beer and doing to his best to get drunk. It was still too early for the place to fill up with its usual assortment of lowlifes and Mick Finn, the owner/barkeep, was busying himself getting supplies stacked away in the backroom freezer. The only other patron in the joint at this hour was a one-legged German sailor named Otto. He was sitting at the far end of the bar listening to a ball game on Finn’s battered old radio. 
But none of this penetrated the haze that enveloped Gino at the present. His mind was muddled with events of the past few months. All them bad. Very, very bad. And like some chain of bad luck, it had all started with Tony’s disappearance. After the loss of his sibling, Guido had turned to his mentor, Simeon Link, for guidance and support. For a while, both men were consumed with the business of warfare and things had gone along fine. 
Then suddenly, in the middle of a planning session with Don DiMilo, Link had gone into convulsions and collapsed. When Guido and some of the other soldiers started to go to his assistance, the Don waved them off. 
Instead, he walked around the long, rectangular conference table and stood over the fallen Link with a smirk on his fat, beefy face. Clutching his stomach and groaning loudly, Link continued to shake like some wind-up toy gone berserk. 
"My, my, Simeon. Is there something wrong?" 
But the man couldn’t answer. He was twisting about in agony and by now it was obvious to all that he had been poisoned. Then, as if prearranged, an ambulance arrived at the estate bringing with it one of the strangest dudes Guido had ever seen. He called himself Dr. Boroff and it seemed that he and DiMilo were old acquaintances. 
Upon entering the room, Boroff injected Link with some kind of serum, then his two white-jacketed assistants put the ailing man on a stretcher and removed him to the waiting ambulance. Dr. Boroff and DiMilo shook hands and then the creepy doc with the thick, gray hair and eyebrows left without uttering another word. As for Don DiMilo, he resumed his place at the head of the table, looked at Guido and said quite simply, "You are now in charge, Guido. Don’t disappoint me." 
Guido never found out exactly how his predecessor had messed up with the boss. There were whispers among the boys that Link had embezzled cash from the war chest. Guido doubted that seriously. Whereas others put forth the scenario that the dapper Link had been romancing the Don’s teenage daughter, Vanessa. Now this was more likely the fact, Guido thought, having witnessed the raven-haired beauty around the mansion many times. She was real easy on the eyes that one, with the look that meant trouble to any man who crossed her path. So, yeah, maybe old Don DiMilo had caught Link sampling the forbidden fruit. 
Hell, maybe it wasn’t either the money or the girl. It really didn’t make any difference in the end. Link was gone, just like Tony. Only this time, after seeing his final exit, his ultimate fate was a bit more determined. If that Boroff character was a real doctor, then Guido was a cabaret dancer with flying feet. No, poor old Simeon’s lot was foregone the second he was wheeled away on that stretcher. 
Which left Guido holding the bag. All of it. Sure, it was great to be the number one gun and Guido had the ambition to make it stick. Still, the added responsibility the position entailed was a full, twenty-four hour, seven days a week burden he had not been prepared for. The war with Big Swede had taken its toll and the current number of available men was at an all time low. Thus, as one of his first tasks as the new top lieutenant in the DiMilo family, Guido had begun recruiting new talent. 
Much to his dismay, he soon learned what was left on the streets was not the cream of the lot. Drunks, ex-cons and two-time losers were pretty much the bulk of the pool from which he had to draw. Among these was his own right hand man, a thin, rat-faced knife lover named Vincent Detta. The guy was pretty much a talentless jerk, but he had the loyalty of a pit-bull. Unfortunately, Guido was barely able to put up with him. 
As if thinking of the gaudily-dressed little crook was enough to summon him into being, the front door opened and Detta came rushing in. From his look, he was agitated and his small, mean eyes scanned the place. Tony’s booth left him comfortably in the shadows, which was he liked it. Still, Detta could make out a body and started coming closer. He had a handkerchief in his hand and was mopping his sweating face. Sure it was hot outside, but not that hot. Something was wrong. 
"Guido! I’ve been looking for you all over!" 
Grimaldi didn’t reply. He didn’t feel like wasting words. At his silence, Detta slipped into booth across the formica table from him and again ran the silk cloth over his rat-like face. 
"I seen, him, Guido! I seen your brother!" 
Guido was about to take another swig from his bottle. He put it down. "What?" 
"Me and Louie had just come back from dropping off our… ah, package. You know, for the fishes." Nervously, the hood looked around to make sure no one was there. Otto still had his attention focused on a ninth inning tie out at Maxwell Stadium and Finn was still busy in the backroom. 
Detta went on, his words chasing each other as if his breath couldn’t keep up with the images in his head. "We was coming back when Louie says he needs to gas up the tank. So we stop at this pumping station.." 
"Where?" Grimaldi’s voice had dropped. It was hard. 
"Out in Castle Harbor. You know, the little burg on the other side of the bay." 
"Go on." 
"Right. Well, Louie pulls up to this here pumping garage and the kid comes out to take care of us. Turns out the place is also one of those roadside general stores, you know. They sell all kinds of things, mostly for the folks who live up in the hills. 
"So I figure I’ll run in and grab some smokes and beer for the ride back into town. While I’m doing that, I notice this group of holy joes talking .." 
"Holy what?" 
"Ahh… you know. Those guys who wear burlap and shave their heads." 
"Monks?" 
"Yeah, that’s it. Monks." Detta pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and lit one fast, continuing his story without missing a beat. "They was monks. Three of them. Seems they have some kind of place up in the hills and they grow vegetables to sell to places like that. 
"Anyhow, they were so weird looking, you know. What, with their cue-ball heads and all, I couldn’t help taking a good look at ‘em when they passed me on the way out. Especially the last guy in line. Guido, he was a big mother and…" Detta gulped, realizing the importance of his next few words. "He was the spitting image of you." 
Guido remained quiet. 
"I swear it. It was you. Only you was bald and had this really good tan." 
"Are you sure?" 
Vinny blew out a puff of smoke and then his eyes widened. "Shit, I almost forgot the most important thing of all." 
"What?" 
"Well, you know, I ain’t ever laid eyes on that brother of yours. I only come on after he vamoosed. Still the boys have told me enough about him. You know, like the two of you are the same in almost everything... but..." 
"But what?" 
"But that tattoo, Guido. This here monk. When I saw he was your fucking double, I looked at his hands. He had the goddamn tattoo there." 
"What was it?" 
"It was a red skull. Guido. I swear, on the back of his right hand." 
Guido took his glass of beer and drained it. Suddenly the taste was bitter. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, the black ace visible as he did so. Vinny took another puff on his fag and then ground it out in the glass ashtray. 
"All right, Vin. Get Louie and Frank and tell them to meet us at the mansion in thirty minutes." 
"You got it, Guido." 
"Tell them to come loaded for bear. Tell them we’re going to a family reunion." 
----- 
As the days were longer during the summer season, the brothers of Mt. Serenity took to reading their vespers, evening prayers, in the courtyard just inside the main gates. Here had been planted a small orchard of apple trees and although too soon for their fruit to arrive, the branches were alive with the colorful buds. The sky was a soft rose color as the sun began its gradual descent into the western hills. A cool breeze wafted over the ground and the ten men who made up the community were relaxed and content in their prayers. 
When they, as group, heard the approaching motor car, they looked at one another in mild puzzlement. It was unusual for the group to receive company after dinner hours. Brother Jonas closed his prayer book and clasping his hands behind his back, strolled through the trees towards the gate to greet their unexpected visitors. He was nearing the gravel drive when the car, a huge, black sedan rolled into view. Brother Michael, still with the others, saw the car and immediately realized his time had run out. Clasping his own prayer book, all but forgotten in his hand, he started after the abbot, calling out to him at the same. 
"Brother Jonas! Wait!" 
The driver of the sedan saw the monk and veered the car to come to a stop before him. Simultaneously the two back doors and the front passenger door sprung open and from them emerged gun-wielding monsters. The first, Vin Detta, coming out closest to the surprised cleric, whipped his machine gun and fired a burst a point blank range. 
"NOOO!" cried the man who had once been Tony Grimaldi as he watched his benefactor being cut down. 
Lost in the shock of what they had just witnessed, the other brothers came running, heedless of the apparent danger they were rushing towards. 
Brother Michael fell to his knees beside the lifeless body of the abbot. His hands were clasp in prayer. Then Guido Grimaldi came up and stood before him, a .45 pistol in his hand. 
"Hello, Tony. Long time no see." 
As he stood in front of the sun’s sinking rays, Guido was a wall of blackness to his kneeling brother. 
"Guido," Tony said, finding his voice. "Don’t do this. It’s wrong. They have nothing to do with this. It’s me you want." 
"Oh, you’re right about that, little brother. I warned you what would happen if you ever tried to run out on me." 
"I didn’t have a choice, Guido. It was that or go nuts." 
"Yeah, well, maybe that’s true but it still don’t change anything. We just can’t have no loose ends hanging around. You know that." 
Guido raised the automatic and shot Tony in the head. 
Brother Anthony gasped. 
Like a sack of potatoes, Brother Michael fell over, his empty eyes turned skyward. The monks began to cross themselves, fully aware that they were next. To their honor, not one begged or pleaded as Guido’s gunmen cut them apart with several long bursts from their Tommy-guns. 
Satisfied with his handiwork, Guido surveyed the dead and then pointing to them, ordered his men to drag the remains into the main building and torch it. The less evidence of a crime they left behind, the better. As Detta and the others set about obeying his commands, Guido stared down at the man who had shared half his life. If there was any regret in his heart, he could not summon it. There were theories that professed a special life-sustaining bond existed between identical twins. Guido had wondered about that and come to the conclusion that the only true bond he and Tony had ever shared was their homicidal natures. Having renounced that, Tony had severed the only true connection they had ever had. 
Hell, it was only business, after all. And one corpse was just as dead as any other. 
Guido fished into his coat, found a cigar, bit off the tip and spit it out. Sliding the two-dollar stogie into his mouth, he turned his back on the monastery and gazed out at the horizon beyond. The sky was now a brilliant orange crossed with purple and pink shafts. It was one of the most breathtaking sights he had ever seen. Too bad Tony hadn’t lived long enough to appreciate it. 
Guido chuckled at his own macabre humor and then, using a silver, monogrammed Zippo, lit his cigar. With the mystery of Tony’s disappearance now put to rest, maybe he could go home and finally get a good night’s sleep. 
Now, that was something to look forward to. 
Eternal rest and salvation was the reward most men good men aspired to all their lives. Regrettably, Tony Grimaldi had only come to his faith late in life and had met his demise with his soul still in jeopardy. 
As his consciousness floated in an ethereal wasteland between heaven and hell, he could not move on to either destination. He was trapped in a netherworld limbo and confused. Was he dead or alive? Was he awaiting some kind of final judgment or was this in fact his punishment, to linger throughout eternity as a lost soul? 
The more his thoughts, for now he was nothing but pure thought, followed these tracks they seemed to chase after each other like the horses on a carnival carousel, never reaching answers but only continuing to spin round and round. It seemed a never-ending madness. 
Then, just as he was about to succumb to a dark, enveloping despair, a light appeared before him. Slowly it began to shimmer until he realized it was taking on a vague, familiar form. A body emerged from the light, filled with an inner incandescence that was so brilliant, it would have blinded him had he eyes. But as a spirit, he could look upon the shape and watch its final materialization into someone he knew. 
It was the girl from the bordello. The girl he had gunned down. The one who had thanked him for it. 
Tony wanted to speak but he had no mouth, nor ears to listen if she spoke. But she was speaking and he could make out her words. Oh, not in any mortal, physical way, but inside his very being. It was as if each of her thoughts were being delivered by some arcane circuit of ectoplasm. 
What she said was not to his liking. He was going back to the land of the living. To the land of pain and suffering. He was being sent as an avenging spirit to protect the innocent and punish the guilty. He had a choice and it was a very simple one. Accept the mission or continue on to eternal damnation. One chance to redeem himself. Whatever cosmic master was dealing the cards was not open to compromise. 
The sweet young girl, now lovely in this afterplace, smiled and asked for his decision. The soul that was the late Tony Grimaldi didn’t really have a choice. 
He gave her his answer and bid limbo farewell. 
----- 
Blackjack Billy Craddock was so afraid, he might start screaming any second. Still, that act would have required he open his mouth, and that would have caused him to inhale, which would certainly would induce vomiting. Of that, he had no doubt in his young, fear numbed, twenty year old mind. 
Billy had a way with the cards. He was a born gambler. It was a talent he had been blessed with from an early age. His parents called it a curse. He was betting by the time he entered high school and quickly amassed a nice little sum of cash that made him quite popular with the other kids. All except those who lost to him in the after school locker room poker marathons Billy orchestrated. 
Upon graduation, near the bottom of his class, he wasted no time packing his bags and buying a one way ticket to Port Nocturne. If he was going to be a big time roller, there was only one place to be on the coast. His mother thought he was an idiot and warned him that coming to that western den of depravity and sin would be his ruin. 
After six months working a blackjack table at the Gray Owl Casino, Billy, now tagged with the new name, Blackjack Billy, had all but forgotten his mother’s warning. He was living the good life and loving it. Then the gang war started and bit by bit it all went bad. One set of bizarre circumstances followed another, eventually leading him to his current predicament. 
Billy was tied up, hand and feet, on the cold cement floor of an Old Town warehouse. In that condition, he was the only witness to the final moments of Big Swede Jorgenson, currently a lifeless hunk of meat hanging from the ceiling rafters by chains, his corpse a black-charred, smoking nightmare. His death had been a long and gruesome affair that Billy would most likely remember for the rest of his life. A life that was likely to be a very short one. 
Billy inwardly cursed God and all the heavens at the total unfairness of his lot. He was not supposed to be here. He was not a hood. Well, at least not a gun-toting one for sure. He was a gambler. A man good with cards and favored, until the current situation, by the whimsical muse known as Lady Luck. But her favors had turned out to be fickle indeed. 
The same attrition that had so decimated Don DiMilo’s army had befallen Big Swede’s troops. Day after day, the street warfare diminished his ranks of soldiers until, in dire desperation, his lieutenants were forced to draft stooges from anywhere they could be had in Jorgenson’s vast organization. When his personal driver was wounded in gun skirmish weeks earlier, Blackjack Billy had been chosen to replace him. When he tried to protest, he was told all he had to do was drive Big Swede. No one had expectations of him having to fight. Just drive. A chauffeur for a fancy, armor plated limo. That was all. How hard a job could that be? 
Don DiMilo’s men ambushed them on a rainy Sunday morning, on their way home from a rendezvous with some foreign dealers on the docks. While weaving their way through a tight, narrow back street, the lead car carrying the Swede’s personal bodyguards had been taken out by explosives affixed to the underside of a manhole cover. It detonated with a deafening explosion, sending the vehicle into the air, a massive hunk of twisted metal. 
Craddock had slammed on the brakes and then shielded his eyes from the horrendous glare. By the time the wrecked car was slamming back down on the shredded asphalt, he was gunning his own machine backwards, his foot nailed to the pedal. Tires smoked on the wet street as Big Swede and his remaining bodyguard screamed frantically for Billy to get them out of that alley. He almost made it. 
Only yards from the lane’s entry, the entire world was suddenly blocked off by a giant, orange sanitation truck. The kid never had a chance and they slammed into it hard, the rear end of the limo crumpling like so much tissue paper. Dazed, his nose bloody from hitting the steering wheel, Billy fumbled for the door and fell out of the car. Gunmen, wearing city coveralls, were all around the stopped car, guns at ready. Billy was kicked along side of his head and fell into a puddle of brackish water. His last thought before passing out was that he might drown. 
Perhaps that would have been a lucky thing. When he came to, he was bound and in the huge, cavern like warehouse. He had been awakened by screams and the stink of burning flesh mixed with the sharp, pungent odor of gasoline. Big Swede was burning up, the fire devouring his clothes and the flesh beneath with an unquenchable appetite. All the while the big, blonde man jerked and twisted in his chains, swinging high above the floor, trying to escape the pain that consumed him. His screams were raw notes of unadulterated madness. 
Unable to watch any longer, Billy surveyed his surroundings and for the first time had a clear look at his captors. He knew, of course, that they were Don DiMilo’s men. That was a given and of the three present in the dimly-lit building, he could only identify one, their leader, Guido Grimaldi. The killer was well-known throughout Port Nocturne and although the card dealer had never met the man face-to-face, he had seen him a half a dozen times patronizing various night spots in the town. Grimaldi wasn’t the kind of character who laid low, no matter what the climate was. 
Billy knew there had been two of them a ways back, but the other one, Tony, had disappeared a year or so ago. Word on the street was that Big Swede’s men had done the job. Which was obviously why the self-same individual was now a roasting carcass above them. From the smile on Grimaldi’s handsome, hard face, Billy knew this particular hit was giving the man lots of personal gratification. He was enjoying this, the sick bastard. 
The two men with Grimaldi were standing behind him on the other side of the burning man and Billy could just make them out. One was a beefy type with a broken nose and wearing a fedora a size too small for his big head. The man beside him was a thin, rat-face man with a cheap, gaudy suit. He was sucking on a toothpick and grinning, much as Grimaldi was. Another whacko. 
Blackjack Billy Craddock tried to loosen his bonds but they were too tight. They had been tied by someone with experience in holding people captive. Frustrated, yet resigned to the inevitable, he stopped struggling, lay his head on the cold cement and waited with his eyes closed. 
When the Swede finally stopped screaming, Billy knew he was dead and slowly opened his eyes to confirm the fact. 
Sure enough, the charred corpse was still at long last, the foul smoke curling up towards the steel beams overhead. 
"I think he’s done," the small, natty crook said. 
"Oh, he’s done, alright," Guido Grimaldi conceded with a laugh. He walked over and pushed the dead man’s feet so that his body started swinging back forth. "I’d say he’s well done!" 
At that all three of them started laughing wildly. 
"Boss, that’s a good one!" broken nose chimed in, wiping his eyes. "Well done! What a hoot!" 
Oh, yeah, thought Billy. Hilarious. He was about to meet his end at the hands of bad comics. Now how sad was that. Life really wasn’t fair at all. 
"Well," Grimaldi continued, this time looking towards the boy on the floor. "Guess that leaves us with one final item to take care of." 
Billy looked up at the merciless gunman and refused to let his fear show. If he had to die, then it would be would some degree of courage. 
Grimaldi pulled the silver plated .45 automatic from his shoulder holster and pointed it at Craddock. 
"Sorry about this, junior. You just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Too bad." 
Billy swallowed, trying to keep his composure. Damn it, he thought, get it over with. Shoot! 
Suddenly a cold, chilling gust of air swept through the warehouse, washing over all of them. Vin Detta looked around, trying to find out where the wind had come from. 
"What the hell was that?" he asked, his head twisting around. "Must be a broken window up there somewhere." Outdoors, thunder crashed and a flash of bright, yellow light lit up the sky. It was enough to show there were no broken windows. All of them, situated high along the building’s walls were intact. 
Again the same cold wind swept over them. Bits of paper and debris skittered across the floor and the little gangster jumped. 
"Take it easy," Grimaldi snapped. "It’s just a gust of air." 
Then they heard the moaning. 
"That’s not just air!" Detta said pulling out his own gun, a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver. 
The moan was coming from all around them. It was low and eerie, the voice of someone in agony. 
Blackjack Billy was instantly forgotten as the gang chief turned his gun around and began trying to pinpoint the source of the creepy, low wailing cry. 
"Who the hell is it?" he shouted. "Show yourself or get ready to eat lead!" 
The moaning began to subside and the three mobsters looked at one another for some kind of explanation. None was forthcoming as each of them was totally mystified by what was happening. 
"HOLY SHIT!" Vinny mouthed, his eyes going wide at something he saw behind Grimaldi. 
Guido spun around, gun ready to fire, and looked at a white, transparent image of himself. The spectre flew across the space between them, arms reaching out in supplication and screaming, Guido fired at it. 
Unaffected by the bullets, the pale apparition moved onward towards the other two men with the same outstretched hands. As it neared settled into a spot between them, it began its awful moaning again. 
Completely unnerved, Vinny pointed his gun at the thing and fired off three quick rounds only to see his companion, he of the broken schnoz, take all the hits and go down dead as a doorknob. 
The ghost moved in closer and Vinny could see it had no eyes. The sockets were empty black pools of nothing. 
Insane with fear, Vin threw his gun at the spook and turning, bolted for the exit. He was gone in seconds leaving only Guido and the Blackjack Billy to witness what happened next. 
For his part, Billy was mumbling all the prayers his mother had taught him as a child. Words he had thought long-forgotten were fresh on his lips as he mouthed them with all the sincerity he could muster. Dying was one thing. Being taken by a ghost was something else altogether. 
But the spirit didn’t want Billy, it was after Guido and he knew it. In the few seconds since it had flown past him, Grimaldi realized he was dealing with his brother’s ghost. It was Tony come back from the dead to confront him. 
"So, what am I suppose to be, Tony?" he yelled at the floating, haunting figure before him. "Scared? You think you can scare me? You couldn’t beat me in life, kid, and there ain’t no way you can do it now. You got that? 
"I ain’t afraid of you!" 
Then the ghost of Tony Grimaldi glided forward and reached out its hand again. Guido fired the rest of his clip with the same useless results as before. As the thing from beyond fell upon him, he tried to bat it away, only to have his arm pass through it cleanly. Then the ghost reached into his body and grabbed his heart in its icy grip. 
On the floor, Billy had stopped praying, unable to look away from what he was seeing. The ghost was killing Guido Grimaldi by squeezing his heart until it stopped. 
Guido gasped, his eyes rolled upward, the gun fell from his lifeless hand and then he collapsed. 
The white wraith hovered over the dead gunman and once again its mesmerizing wail started up. Then, like a descending cloud, it settled over the body of Guido Grimaldi and began to merge with it. Billy blinked, his mind trying to grasp what it was he was seeing. That ghost thing was going into Grimaldi’s corpse like a cracker sliding into a bowl of soup. Just like that, it was gone and with it the eerie cry. 
Except for the booming storm still raging outside, a silence filled the place. Craddock, now very much alone, began to tug at his rope bonds again. Somehow he had to loosen them and get out of here. Sooner or later that other hood would come back to see what had gone down. If he was still here, then it would really be over. Somehow, through a bizarre, supernatural intervention, he’d been given another chance. He wasn’t about to waste it. 
Frantically pulling and twisting, he managed to get the thick cords to loosen a bit after nearly ten minutes of non-stop effort. Buoyed by even this minor success, Billy bit his lower lip and with all the strength he could muster, pulled his left hand free. Gasping with joy, he then tore the ropes away from his other hand and sat up on the hard floor. He rubbed his bruised wrist to restore the circulation to his hands. They were almost numb. Then, pulling up his knees, he began to work at untying the knots around his ankles. 
There was a noise to his left and Billy looked up. The dead man was moving! After everything he had already seen, Billy was still not prepared for this final, unbelievable horror. 
Like some marionette whose strings had been cut, the body of Guido Grimaldi began flopping around. Billy thought of a dead fish he’d once seen his grandfather throw on the docks at the lake where he’d spent summer vacations. The corpse was doing the same kind of dance. But it was dead! It wasn’t suppose to be moving at all! 
Then the dead man was rising and now Billy renewed his efforts to unfetter his feet. He had to get away from there! Managing to still his trembling hands, he undid the last knot and pulled his feet free. 
"Stop where you are!" The voice came from beyond the grave. Billy all but jumped to his feet. 
A dead man’s hand raised up and pointed to him. "Heed my words, Billy Craddock!" 
Billy was stunned. How had this thing, this zombie creature known his name? This was crazy. He should run as fast as he could for the door. No way this shuffling monster could ever catch him. But there was an implied warning in the words it had spoken. An unspoken threat that said no matter where he ran to, this thing would somehow find him. Right there and then, Billy Craddock believed it could do that. Hell, it knew his name. 
Slowly the dead man walked over to Billy, the finger still pointing. As it neared, Craddock saw something happening over the man’s hand. A tattoo of a black ace was fading and being replaced by one of a red skull. Now what the blue blazes was that all about? 
"I have saved your life, Billy Craddock. Do you understand that?" 
"Yeah… I guess so." 
The finger hit his chest, pushing Craddock back a half-step. 
"Good. Never forget it. From this day forth your life is mine to do with as I please." 
Billy kept his mouth shut. He wasn’t about to start arguing with a zombie or whatever this thing was. 
"You will obey my every command. Everything I demand of you will be done without question. Mind me and you will remain in good health. Cross me once and you will die." 
"Err, right, Mr.Grimaldi..." 
The hand grabbed his ear and the dead man’s face was suddenly in his. "Guido Grimaldi is gone. My name is Brother... Grim." 
Then he was released as the figure went back to where it had dropped its gun. It picked up the automatic, its movement becoming more fluid with each passing second. In fact, if one did not know the thing was dead, it would be virtually impossible to tell. Only one thing hinted at something unnatural. The eyes were cold. 
Putting the gun back in its rig, Brother Grim examined his tattoo and then wiped a mop of hair from his forehead. He looked at the frightened kid and smiled. 
"Do you have a car?" 
"No. But I can get one." 
"Good. Do so. Brother Grim has places to go and things to do before this fateful night is finished." 
----- 
By midnight the storm raging over the coast had started to diminish, although sheets of rain still fell on the city and surrounding bay hills. It was a dark, lonely night and few people dared to venture out into its shadows. 
Foraging rats were surprised and annoyed when the headlights of the small roadster came over the rise and drove onto the grounds of what had once been the Mt. Serenity Monastery. It came to an easy stop in front of the skeletal remains of the main house, now a broken erector set of burned timbers and piles of wet, dirty ash. 
"Stay here and wait," Brother Grim commanded as he climbed out of the car. He pulled his fedora’s wide brim down over his face, slipped his hands into the sleeves of his dark, greatcoat and began walking through the rubble. 
As he moved cautiously over what had once been the home and sanctuary of Tony Grimaldi, his mind replayed the newsreel of memories. They were all of goodness and warmth. Strange memories for a thug like Tony, but still his. Regardless of his new incarnation, they were still a part of him. So much so, that he was determined to make them part of his new life. But to do that he needed one thing and he was here to find it. 
Remembering the floor plan to the workshop, he moved around past fallen support timbers until he saw the baking ovens. Millions of shards of broken clay were scattered across the floor and burned tables. Cautiously, he pushed aside debris and examined every nook and cranny. It was hidden beneath a heavy rag on the same table where Brother Anthony had last set it. The spirit mask was miraculously intact. There wasn’t a scratch on it. As Brother Grim reached out and picked it up, a final flash of lightning split the horizon and the mask, wet with rain, shimmered. 
Brother Grim held it up to his face and look through the eye-slit with black, lifeless eyes. 
----- 
The grandfather clock in Don DiMilo’s study chimed that an hour had elapsed since midnight. Swallowing the brandy he had been nursing, Gino DiMilo went over to his elaborate liquor cabinet and poured himself another glass. 
It was late. Why hadn’t Guido and the others returned? Had something gone wrong with the hit on Big Swede? No, that was impossible. Several of his other men had arrived after dinner to tell him the motorcar ambush had gone off without a hitch. The Swede, and some rookie kid driver, had been snatched and taken to the warehouse hours ago. 
So why did it take so damn long to kill just two men? 
DiMilo took another sip of the rich, sweet liquor and started pacing in front of his huge, mahogany desk. Dressed casually in his pajamas, slippers and silk housecoat, he was an impressive sight. DiMilo tipped the scales at well over three hundred pounds. 
He had always been a big kid, from his early days on the docks. It was his strength that had brought him through the ranks to where he was on this night. A big man with big needs, as he liked to put it. There was nothing wrong with ambition. It was the grease that made the wheels turn. 
Now he was only minutes away from realizing his biggest dream of all. Soon, when he knew for certain that Swede Jorgeson was dead, he would become the one true Boss of Port Nocturne. He would be the single power that ran the entire city. No more deals with men who were below his intelligence. No more compromises. No more having to deal with half-wits to placate the status quo. There was about to be a new status quo. One that would bring stability to the underworld and make him a legend in his own time. 
So where in hell was Guido Grimaldi? 
He heard the footsteps second before the hidden entrance opened behind the bookshelf on the wall to the left of the room’s entrance. Set on hidden hinges, the shelf covered the entryway to a passage that went to the garage in the mansion’s lower, underground bowels. It was known only to Don DiMilo and his top lieutenants. Which was why he was startled by the figure that stepped out from behind the shelf. 
Clad in a dark-colored topcoat with matching fedora, the man standing before him wore a white mask carved in the shape of a skull. In his gloved hands were two silver-plated .45 automatics. 
Don DiMilo threw his glass at the ominous intruder and dashed around his desk in a desperate attempt to reach the gun in his top drawer. 
Brother Grim fired once and the shot hit DiMilo in the leg, felling him like a running stag. 
"Aaargh," he screamed, falling down against the front of the desk. "Who are you? Who sent you?" 
"I am Brother Grim. I have come to avenge all the innocent souls you have butchered during your reign of infamy." 
"What? You’re some kind of nutcase," DiMilo raged, his hands holding on to his bleeding leg. "Look, it don’t have to be like this! I’ve got money. I can give you anything you want. Just name it and it’s yours." 
"Can you give me peace, DiMilo?" 
"Wh... what?" 
Brother Grim stepped over the wounded crimeboss and then, leveling both his guns, began to laugh – a haunted, ironic laugh. 
"NOOO!" 
The avenger fired point blank, sending round after round into the obese man at his feet. Each slug ripped through Don DiMilo and left him a bleeding, dead slug of humanity. 
Brother Grim’s laughter faded away and he stepped back from his handiwork. 
Suddenly there was a loud scream from behind and Brother Grim whirled around. A young girl, beautiful with long, black hair, was coming through the front door and charging him with a long, sharp knife in her hands. 
Before he could stop her, she drove the blade deep into his chest. Brother Grim cried out and slapped her with the back of his hand, sending her reeling back into a padded chair where he fell awkwardly onto her backside on the thick oriental rug. 
Grim stepped over to the girl and dropping to knee, shoved the barrel of one of his guns under her quivering jaw, into the softness of her white throat. 
"You bastard!" she yelled, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. "You murdered my father!" 
"Your father was an animal who got what he deserved. Nothing more. Nothing less. The same will happen to all like him who cross my path." 
Then, almost as if an afterthought, Brother Grim, using his free hand, pulled the knife out of his chest and held the blade in front of the crime mogul’s daughter. It was clean. There wasn't a drop of blood on it. 
"What are you?" she asked, her voice softening with the awareness that he was something macabre and not some mere gangster. 
Grim tossed the blade away. "You can call me Brother Grim. I am the avenging angel from beyond the grave. Remember that, Vanessa DiMilo. Your soul is not yet corrupt enough to warrant my final justice. This night you are spared. It may not be so the next time we meet." 
Brother Grim rose, put away his guns and then slipped away through the secret passage from which he had arrived. 
"No." Vanessa DiMilo said weakly, to no one but herself. "Next time I will kill you, Brother Grim. I don’t know how but if there is a way, I will find it. I swear it on my father’s name." 
Outside, on the small side street bordering the DiMilo estate, Blackjack Billy Craddock puffed away on his third cigarette in ten minutes. 
Suddenly, without so much as footfall, Brother Grim was slipping into the seat beside him. Billy almost dropped his butt into his lap. 
"My work is done," Grim intoned. "Drive." 
Billy tossed the butt out the window, started the engine and gave it gas. Switching on the headlights, he sent the dark roadster rolling down the lane. 
"What the hell did you do back there?" he queried, afraid he already knew the answer. 
"Brought justice to Don DiMilo. The only type of justice his kind can understand." 
"You killed him!" Billy said. "You killed Don DiMilo. Goddamn it, do you know what that means?" 
Grim was silent behind his ivory mask. 
"It means the two men who held this town together are dead! Both in a single night! That means that every two-bit hustler and hitman will be making some kind of play to take over where they left off. 
"Hell, man, the whole damn town is going to be up for grabs. It’s going to be a bloodbath the likes of which no one has ever seen before!" 
Brother Grim watched the sleeping streets roll by as they left the suburbs behind. Up ahead the lights of the city’s skyline were coming into view. They were majestically grand in their nighttime display. But it was only a mask, a cheap cosmetic trick hiding beneath it decay and corruption that would reawaken with the rising sun. It was a mask that Brother Grim was all too familiar with. 
He turned to young Billy Craddock finally and made one single comment. "Then let the games begin." 
The dead man laughed.