Chastity - Chapter 3

“We have to go to the police,” Chris said.

“Did Vincenzo get Gil?” asked Tit.

“I dunno. His pussy ass stopped running when you started to fly. What the fuck was that about?”

“Man, I dunno. But we need to find out what the hell is up with Vincenzo.”

When the boys got to the precinct downtown, they were immediately ushered into an Investigations office. “Sit,” ordered the weathered detective in the office. He was clean shaved, with dark features. His hair was peppered with grey and he smelled of cheap cologne and cheaper coffee. And for some reason he looked vaguely familiar to Chris and Tit.

“We know who you are. We need answers. NOW!” demanded the detective.

“I don’t know who you think we are,” Tit spoke slowly choosing his words carefully. “But our boss tried to kill us.”

“Yeah, he fuckin’ blasted shots at us like some gangster movie,” Chris added.

“Not ‘us.’ Him,” the detective informed, pointing at Tit.

“Me?”

“Yeah. You. It’s them shoes,” the detective pointed.

“My shoes?”

“Well, it ain’t your pants, ‘cause you ain’t got any.”

“Sorry. We were in a rush. I  can explain that, too.”

“Let me guess. You were being chased, flew away, and fell in the lake?”

“Not the lake, the waterfall…wait, how do you know I flew?”

“I know about the shoes, son. Detective Philipe Octetes. I’m with the undercover unit here.” The detective tipped his imaginary hat. Tit looked at him even more confused about the day’s events. “Spicy sausage on rye? Keep it hot?” reminded Detective Octetes.

“Oh yeah, extra cheese, right?” remembered Chris.

“Yeah, Porky. And guess what? It was fuckin’ cold when I went to get it. You guys are in some shit.”

“Over a sandwich?” asked Chris. Tit was still recounting the events in his head.

“No. Over them shoes there.”

“Why? Shouldn’t you be out looking for Mr. Vincenzo, trying to figure out why he would kill us over some shoes? And what happened to our friend Gil?”

“Gilliam is fine. We have him in Holding. That wasn’t Vincenzo, and those ain’t just some shoes, kid.”

“Can I have some sweatpants or something?” asked Tit.

“Sure. Hey Pete? Get the boy some pants from the locker room,” Detective Philipe Octetes called out to a colleague in the bullpen.

“Sure Phil. What size?”

“Just get ‘em some fuckin’ pants will ya?” Octetes paced the office, trying to figure out how to best explain the shoes. “This is gonna sound like some fairy tale, you hear me. But it’s real.” The boys perked up and listened attentively. “Those shoes are magic or something. They are ancient, really. Worth a lot of money, too. We’re appraising them at about 25 mil. Matter of fact, gimme the shoes.”

Tit started quickly to untie them. Chris stopped him, “Fuck that, Tit. You want ‘em copper? You can have them for 25 million.”

“Look, you fat piece of fuck. You don’t gimme them shoes and your friend here’s gonna die in ‘em.”

Tit went back to untying his shoes. Chris stopped him again, “Look you old, decrepit, old fuck, loser fuck. You said they’re worth a lot of money. And my friend here spent some good money trying to get them. So we’re going to get compensated somehow. You said 25 mil, so we want the 25 fuckin’ mil.”

The detective lunged for Chris’ throat and started wrangling him, “You little shit.” Tit wrestled himself between the two, trying to pry the detective off. “You can have the shoes. Just get the fuck off him.” Octetes composed himself. “ Now, tell us about the shoes.” The detective sat on the corner of the desk and began retelling the story.

“Kid, like you already know, the shoes can make you fly. I was workin’ with the Pantino Family, who was tryin’ to locate them there shoes. We needed them to sell and buy into some racketeering gig that was going on the Island. Well, we found a guy says he knows where the shoes are. When we meet up with the guy, he tries to hold us up.”

“Sounds stupid to meet up with anyone carryin’ that kind of cheese,” replied Chris.

“We were gonna put half down and he’d get the other half when we got them. But just as things started getting ugly, your boss, Mr. Vincent…”

“Vincenzo,” corrected Chris.

“Shut the fuck up, fat boy. This Mr. Vincenzo comes strolling by. Our guy grabs him and threatens to take his life if we didn’t hand over the cash. He knew.”

“Knew what?” asked Tit.

“Knew that there was a mole among the three of us. Me. Going into action, I tried pleading with him. But I knew if I tried too hard the other two would sniff me out and I’d blow the whole operation. It didn’t matter, our man slits your boss’ throat, leaves him to bleed in the gutter like some livestock, and takes off running.”

“They killed Mr. Vincenzo? How? He was chasing us,” Chris corrected.

“Hey you fat fuckin’ meatwad. Interrupt the story one more time and I’m gonna slice your sack open, let the cockroaches eat your testicles, understand me?”

Chris sat back and gulped at the thought. The other detective came in and handed Tit some sweatpants. Detective Octetes waited until Pete left. Then, continued. “We were dashing around the Campus when we lost him. While the three of us are scoping the area, we spot this Vincenzo character. We knew that was him.”

“But you just said…”

The detective pulled out a butterfly knife and leaped towards Chris, coming cunt hairs away from his crotch. “Another word, you snub nosed piece of shit. One more fuckin’ word.” The detective straightened himself back up and sat back on the desk.

“Our guy morphed into Vincenzo. You see, this ain’t no ordinary guy after some ordinary shoes. He’s a lycan.”

“What the hell is a ly…?” Chris started to ask, but Octetes shot him a look. “nevermind.”

“Like a werewolf?’ asked Tit.

“Yeah. More complex. A complete fuckin’ shapeshifter. It sounds dumb, I know, but it’s real. Hear me out.”

“Wait, you just said not another word,” Chris complained, seeing the detective take no offense to Tit interrupting.

“From you. I don’t like you. You’re like a big fuckin’ sloth. Your smell churns my stomach. AND YOU DIDN’T KEEP MY SANDWICH HOT!”

Chris remained quiet, now shaking. The detective went on. “So, yeah, he’s a shapeshifter. Tried to lose us by morphing into Vicenzo. Thing is, he can only turn into things he killed. Unfortunately, he has to first go through his list of dead, starting with the last. Guess he got stuck in a rut and went with it. So we follows him to your deli. Well, when things got heavy, I couldn’t let the wiseguys take him down. After all, I’m still a man of the law, you see? So I helped our guy out a little, but he got me in the crossfire. I played dead until the smoke cleared. But when I came out, everyone was gone… And my sandwich was cold.”

“How do you know all this? And why the shoes?” asked Tit.

“Kid, I’ve been around longer than you’ve been a thought. I came over way before the boats brought the WOPs.”

“You mean to Ellis?” Tit asked.

“No. The Pilgrims. My people chased the lycans for hundreds of years, in ancient Greece, preventing them from ruling our land. We chased them so far we lost our way back. So, instead, we continued the hunt. When the Vikings began their expedition, some lycans escaped. So we too joined the expedition. Came down through Canada and picked up their sent here upstate. Been here since trying to fish them out.”

“But the shoes…”

“The shoes are a remnant taken from my people. Yes, they make you fly. Big deal right?”

“If these lycans wanted to fly, why not kill a bird or something? You said they can morph into whatever…”

“DNA doesn’t match up. But back then, they didn’t dare to test the Earth mother and stuck to their own kind of species. Or likeness of. So K-9s or people. Anyways, when we all poured into Ithaca, there was a King already here. From Portugal; King Jao of Ramirez Valls Dinosio. The lycans wanted his protection from us, but the King refused to help beasts of Satan. In retaliation, the lycans murdered his wife, Queen Maria de Golasis of Genoa.”

“Genoa. Like Columbus?” Tit asked. “Man, this is like some sick history joke.”

“Yeah, like Columbus. And your American history is a joke. Ever heard about Truthers. They’re real. You really think Columbus accidentally stumbled upon some islands lookin’ for India? He did stumble on some islands, but only because he went too far south. He was tryin’ to reach the new kingdom being built. But that’s another story. So upon killing his wife, the lycans threatened his daughters to be next if he didn’t comply. The King being threatened gave them protection all through the years. The King has masons that are crafty in creating diversions, labyrinths, mazes that can get you lost. And that’s what he did to the forest to keep us away from the lycans. After they started dying off, the King started leaking information to us as to where the last ones were. That’s when things got ugly and they threatened his daughters again. Losing his masons in the Civil War, the King went at it himself and built a tall tower for his daughters in order to protect them. Being the savvy architect, he built mazes on the first three levels of his mansion so they couldn’t get to his daughters. After years, we thought the lycans all died off and all was safe. Until some gypsies came in town with their flea markets. The shoes were on display, with a legend of their existence. Soon, dead gypsies turn up all over the place. Fast forward to now, here, you...”

“So that’s why they need the shoes? So they can get to the daughters?” asked Chris.

“Bingo. And I thought I told you to keep your trap shut, you cow eatin’ piglet.”

“Sorry.”

“Did you lose his…scent? Can’t you get the rest of your people and go find him now and take him down?” suggested Tit.

“No. I got his scent now. And I’m the last of my kind. An amonder. Most of my people died in the Trail of Tears, fighting alongside the Natives in the American-Indian Wars. But I have a plan. We got to use you as bait Titty boy.”

“Bait? Me? Hell no. Fuck no.”

“Calm down, I’ll follow you closely. You’ll be fine.”

“Like Mr. Vincenzo? I’m sure,” Tit snipped.

“That was out of my control. I didn’t know our guy was a lycan. I just thought he stunk from being a bum thug. Your senses get rusty after a cold trail, my friend.”

“We have to go to the Tower. We gotta help Chastity and Sinclair,” said Tit.

“Who?” asked the Detective.

“The King you mentioned. I think I found his daughters, I guess. I’m sure the lycan followed us into the woods.”

“Wait. You met the King’s daughters? Impossible. They’re sirens. You would have died had they spoken to you. And what is this we go back to the woods malarkey? We’ll get killed for sure. No one but the lycans and King knows the mazes in the woods.”

“I can fly in and you can use a helicopter or something.”

“Listen kid, we can’t cause a big stink about this. This ain’t Rambo, shooting goons in the woods. Once we land, our guy will tear my people… my police humans to shreds. We gotta plan this out better. And it’d be safer with you out of the equation.”

The room was quiet for a moment as everyone was in deep concentration. “So, did they speak to you?” Octetes asked.

“Who?”

“The daughters? How did you not get killed?”

“They spoke to me, too!” Chris chimed in. The office windows trembled a bit.

“Yeah? Well I wasn’t. I told you to shut the fuck up. March your fat feet out of my fuckin’ office and let me speak to your friend here.” Chris looked stunned, then at Tit. Tit nodded and Chris shuffled out of the office. “Why don’t you go warm up my sandwich while you’re out there, eh.” Octetes smirked, and then called back out. “And I’m sure your stomach would like some food, too. It’s causing my office to shake it’s so hungry.”

Tit leaned forward, “They spoke to me… to us. But nothing happened.”

“Must be a myth after all. But we still have to plan this out more strategically. And I’m sorry, kid, but you’re mortal. You wouldn’t last 5 seconds with these creatures.”

Just then Pete burst into the office. “Phil, you better come fast. That guy we had in Holding…” Outside the office, police and detectives were running around.

“What? What about him?”

“He, uh, man I dunno. This sounds bananas. He broke through the wall and escaped.”

“Gil?” Tit perked up. Detective Octetes gave Tit a sorrowful look. Chris peeked in the office. The boys knew this was more serious than some mob hit and castles.

“The lycan,” Octetes mumbled. “Well, I can’t put yous two in holding now. He’s probably picked up on your scents here. You’ll have to ride with me. But go ahead and gimme them shoes just in case. Meet me downstairs in 10. And bring your tubby buddy with you. But keep his piehole closed.”

The Forbidden Dance - Allegro Moderato, First Coda

     The dinner to celebrate the New Year was to take place in two weeks. Karl was busy making sure all in his kommando were perfecting their works. He had the painters painting the finest portraits of the Führer. He also had the sculptors creating the finest statues and ice sculptures for the party. The musicians were practicing 16 hours a day and the dancers practicing their Viennese Waltz and Ländler. The dancers were falling behind and instead of showing them the proper technique of the waltz himself, he would have his subordinates—who detested the task of coming in contact with Jews—show them. He made sure only the finest art was on display for the evening. Although Jews were to perform German art, Karl was determined to show that the German arts could overcome degeneracy and still transcend into greatness.

He had confidence in his Jewish musicians. Karl would hold private concerts for officials throughout the autumn months for feedback. He chose the favorites; Beethoven, Bach, Wagner, and of course Bruckner. Karl was raised on Beethoven and Wagner, but discovered Bruckner in school. He fell in love with the composer’s masterfulness of slow codas and passages that swayed into the most romantic finales. This was how he found himself feeling for Anzeka.

Karl put Anzeka to work in the serving rooms where she was responsible for designing and rearranging them for different gatherings. In a month of her arrival, he put her in charge of all the house servants. He would always greet her in passing, stopping her for small chats. She only replied with head nods and hand gestures, never once speaking to him. To her, Karl was just another uniform, another oppressor of her soul, though he never dared to take advantage of her body. He kept her well fed and she now had color to her face.

During Rosh Hashanah, he allowed all his prisoners to practice their traditions. A month preceding the holiday, he had the musicians practice before dawn every day so that one could blow the shofar. This way the guards and officials would not notice what Karl was allowing to go on in the Herrenhaus. The day before the fast of Gedalia, Karl allowed the cooks and servants extra servings, especially Anzeka.

“I know this is less than how you intended to celebrate, but I hope that you are enjoying the observance,” he told her. She looked into her plate of fish and bread nodding her head, never once looking up.

“Thank you, sir, for having mercy on us,” responded a cook sitting next to Anzeka. Karl smiled, keeping his eyes on Anzeka’s vibrant gold locks and continued on his way.

As the cold season approached, Karl allowed four of his prisoners to go in a truck and collect warm clothing from piles in a nearby warehouse, under the guard of another soldier. Only two returned with a few coats and a bag of mismatched shoes. Outraged, Karl questioned the guard he put in charge of the detail. “Only two came out, Corporal,” replied the guard.

Karl went to the warehouse to inspect. He was told that only two had come in to collect the clothing. The other two looked too fat to be Jewish prisoners and were sent back to Auschwitz. He was enraged and regretted sending his lead cook and one of his best painters. “Under whose orders?” Karl wished to ask, but he knew that if he showed compassion for his prisoners, he himself would be jailed. Or worse.

When he returned, he distributed what he had to those he thought needed them the most. The coats were of little comfort as many had bullet holes, some with fresh blood on them. Most of his prisoners refused to accept. “I cannot take comfort in another’s belongings, sir,” a sculptor told him. “If I may, sir, pass this coat along to a younger prisoner who may find warmth in it.” Saddened by their grieving, Karl allowed the prisoners to do so. His goal was to keep his prisoners morale as high as possible so that they could translate their feelings into their art, most of which, anyway, was sorrow.

One woman’s wool coat in particular was heavy and barely battered. He had it washed and sewn. The next day when he saw Anzeka, he pulled her into his office. “Miene Liebe, I wish to give you this coat. Please, I would like for you to accept it.” She looked down at the floor without a word. Karl walked up behind her and draped the coat over her shoulders. She allowed him to help her put on the coat and button her up. They were now a breath apart.

When he finished buttoning her up, he grabbed her hands and took a step back. “Perfekt!” He smiled, looking for a response in her face. She looked up and met his eyes. It was the first time since she was detained that she felt another human’s sensitive touch. This sent a surge through her body from the tips of her fingernails to her elbows, up her arms and into her shoulder and neck, her face, and back down her body. It was the first time she felt such a force since her father last kissed her on her forehead before they left home. It was the first contact she had made with him and he noticed. “Miene Liebe, so you do have life left inside of you.” 

She drew her hands from his and returned her gaze to the floor. He saw tears begin to well in her eyes, magnifying her piercing blue eyes.

“Have you ever heard of Bruckner, miene Liebe?” 

She shook her head. 

“Oh you must! It is the most beautiful music that speaks to the soul.” Her stare remained aimless. Karl moved towards the phonograph next to his desk. He fingered through his records on the wooden, crimson shelf behind the desk until he found one of Bruckner’s, Symphony No. 9 in D minor. “Miene Liebe, this one you will love. It is one of his greatest symphonies, one that he had not finished. Yet, it is whole in its entirety. It is No. 9.”

He hastily put the record on and let the needle play. As the woodwinds and strings introduced the piece, Karl closed his eyes with a soothed smile on his face. He began to sway and motioned an invisible baton like a conductor. When he opened his eyes, Anzeka’s face was silently buried in her hands, tears escaping the crevices of her fingers. It was the first time he saw any emotion out of her. “What is it, miene Liebe? Does the music move you to tears?” She began to tremble uncontrollably, still standing in the middle of the room. He walked up to her and put his hand on her shoulders, trying to ease her. He yearned to hug her, to hold her in his arms. “Please, tell me. Why is it that you cry? Can you feel the emotions of No. 9?” Anzeka trembled in his hands. She began to heave for air and fell to the ground.

“No. 9,” he mumbled under his breath. He now realized the issue at hand, why the soul had now escaped this fragile body. He crouched down behind her rubbing her shoulder in attempt to ease her, in attempts to ease her mind, to ease the memories of her time before coming to the Herrenhaus. “Miene Liebe, please forgive me. I did not mean to upset you.” Anzeka stood up and began to unbutton her coat with force. Karl could see her blue irises slashing through the redness of her eyes. She could not take off the coat fast enough. “Please, don’t. I want you to keep it for the winter.” She threw the coat to the floor and rushed out of the room. Karl stood up staring at the door. “Forgive, miene Liebe.”

That night, he dreamt of holding her in his arms as they dance to Anton Bruckner’s Symphony No. 4 in E flat. What a tragedy it would be to become her thwarted lover. His father would give the order of his own son’s execution himself. But he dreamed of showing her the beauty that Bruckner could exhume, the beauty within herself...

To be continued...