Jack of Clubs

When a cold wind blows midday on a balmy August afternoon, I know where I am. I'm not in the meadow that surrounds me. Despite Haley's jade eyes sparkling at me beneath a clear azure sky as her red hair twists in the breeze, she's not with me. But I don't care; I let her presence sink in, filling a hole deep inside me. This is where I can breathe. This is when my mind is free to wander to hope. This is when my heart beats for love. But when her lips part to release a peel of laughter, a scream comes instead. It snaps me back to the icy darkness of the night, pulling me from the pristine meadow to the dingy city where I now reside.

The scream comes again as my body moves from instinct while my mind shakes the cobwebs of my dream. My fingers stumble over the buttons of my duster coat before tugging my bowler hat over my dark hair. I pull the hat low, nearly to my eyes, while the collar of my jacket shields the lower half of my face. From the angle of the scream, the victim is right below my apartment. My mind is sharp now, assessing the situation before I reach the window. The bloated sill of the window feels fleshy beneath my hand. The evening is humid, causing the air to be dense. The need for slicing precision will be higher, but sounds will mute in the thick air.

I propel myself out to the fire escape to find the light and dark points in a war among themselves. Many believe that crime clings to darkness, but it's the greyness of shadows that draws nefarious acts, the same grey that attracts me. The light cast from the streetlight at the head of the alley defeats the prominent areas; the pitch-black darkness of the voids fosters too much unknown to be of consequence. It's the greyness of the shadows that I focus on; that's where the screams are born.

I see them, a man in a crisp pinstripe suit with the collar of a goldenrod button-down peeking out around his neck. He's struggling with his prey as she lets out another mind-curdling scream from her quivering lips. Her lips float in the grey, set off by her cream skin as a few loose tendrils of her auburn hair curtain the image. He has her by her wrists as they struggle before the strain overcomes her and she passes out. In his hasty defeat, he lets her fall to the ground with a thud.

The moment of victory is when the man drops his guard. His muscles tense at his success. I'm sure that if I were at a different vantage point, I'd see his eyes dilate with greed and conquest. Confidence is a vulnerability, and he's at his most vulnerable. I have the upper hand. Careless bluster won me this edge, but sureness will quickly strip me of this advantage. I won't be able to descend the fire escape unnoticed without assistance. My eyes twitch around the scene, looking for a diversion, before spotting it in two fat alley cats lounging atop precariously stacked tin garbage cans.

I work quickly through the formula. A proper diversion comes in threes. A curt flick of my wrist sends a simple playing card searing through the muggy night, striking a trash can just below the cats. As they jump, the metal trash cans tumble to the ground in a deafening chorus. My foe stumbles back from his prey, unsettled by the sudden clatter. In his disorientation, I move down the fire escape to a better vantage point, but never take my eyes from him. One slip, one deviation from my plan, and he'll be back in power.

Before he fully regains his senses, he turns back to his conquest, inspecting any power she may have had to disturb the cats. Another simple flick sends a second card slicing through the air, landing as intended with a bite to the back of his neck. Unexpected pain scorches more than expected agony. A pitiful yelp escapes the man's throat as his hands rush to the spot. He's done my work for me. In one swift movement, my boots thump to the pavement as my hands nimbly bundle his wrists within a zip tie. For a moment, he futilely struggles with the constraints that now bind him to a drainpipe as his mind catches up to what his body already knows. He has lost. In one last move, I sling a silk sack over his head to shield me from his view and muffle his arguing.

The crumpled body of his prey slumps like a discarded rag doll against the wall. I prop her up to a more suitable position and use her phone to dial 911, tossing it beside her like a beacon before I stroll from the alley as though I'm returning from a mundane business meeting. In a few paces, I'll be back in my apartment, my work here complete. I'll nestle into my bed and push the unsavory grime from my mind as I fade back to Haley's meadow.

"You're him," an edgy voice calls out from the shadow of a doorway alcove.

I'd have noticed the stiffening of my neck at the unexpected intrusion, but most would not. I hedge my bets that this voice is like the most.

"The Jack of Clubs," he calls out again, but this time his words cause me to freeze. Even a master of instinct is a slave to them. "I've been looking for you," he adds. But his voice is not sinister; it's relieved.

The natural predisposition of fight-or-flight muddles my thoughts. If I run, this faceless man will undoubtedly follow, and from his vantage point, the voice will have the edge. If I fight, I risk further exposure. He must be mere paces away, based on the volume of his voice and lack of strain in his cadence. He would certainly glimpse my face. I bow my head deeper into my collar and move with just a slightly faster step past my doorway. I cannot go home with eyes on me.

"Please, I need your help." The distance between us added a layer of strain to his voice. My unwanted companion isn't far enough behind to warrant a yell, but the tension of added space strangles his words.

'Help' is my trigger. It's the calling that echoes within me at all hours of the day. My steps stutter at the call.

"I'm not anyone," I don't raise my voice above a murmur; his footsteps tell me he's as near to my side as a companion.

"You are; you're the Jack of Clubs. I saw you with the cards back there in the alleyway."

My mind curdles. One slice of solace, one tool of comfort, and the press brands me. "I hate that name," I mutter.

"But you are him. I've found you." The peaks of excitement stretch his tone. "I need your help for my family." His voice was pleading, but cracked with exhaustion.

"I just clean up a few petty criminals."

"I know that's not true. I know you see the truth: the crime wave, the dapper criminals, the thinly obscured connection of victims. You're in a fight against John Spader, and so am I."

"And who are you?" I still didn't turn to reveal my face; it was a commitment I was still unwilling to make.

"I'm Mac Dymond."

His name flowed through me like ice water, Mac Dymond, the second son of Charlie Hart. Until his death, Charlie Hart was one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in New York, only rivaled by newspaper magnate John Spader. His sudden death sent shock-waves through the political and social climate of the city. His eldest son tried in vain to fill the shoes, but Steve Hart did not have the shoulders to bear this city's weight and crumbled. Mac Dymond was now the sole heir of the entire fortune, but he had recoiled after his brother's demise.

Human curiosity turned my face to him.

"I can help you. I can keep you in the shadows." Mac's face was earnest and pleading as he held a hand out to me.

"How can you help me?"

"I don't know who you are, and I know that's intentional. But your antics have hit the papers, and, given that Spader owns those papers, they have hit his radar, too. He'll relentlessly come for you. I, by name alone, am already targeted. I have the means, a motive. I can be the suspect; the answer to the rumors. If I am suddenly be absent when the Jack of Clubs is in action, you'll be shielded from suspicion.

"Why would you put yourself at risk like that?"

"John Spader took everything from me and will take everything from this city. I'll give up myself for this city in the name of my father and my brother."

"I'm not here to declare war on John Spader."

"Then why are you here? What has drawn you to the calls for help if not to end his reign of terror?"

My mind flickered to Haley. I didn't even need to close my eyes to see her. Her red hair clings to her crimson lipstick as the skirt of her cream dress billows in a warm breeze. Her clear green eyes cannot hide her thoughts from me. She wouldn't have left; she wouldn't have run. Her smile haunts me just like calls for help.

"I have my reason for being here."

"I can help you with your reasons. My name still carries power here, even as Spader tries to destroy it." Mac spat out Spader's name like it was acid on his tongue. His hatred would be a liability, just like my love for Haley.

"You can't say no. Your reason brought you to this city, so it's tied here. This city is sick. If you abandon it, then you forsake your reason too."

He was right; the plague of the city was undeniable. If Haley were here, then the epidemic could swallow her like it had so many. But taking on Mayor Spader would pull me deeper from the grey that protected me. Without my anonymity, my skills, my intuition would be lost; I'd be useless.

I lifted my eyes to Mac, inspecting him. Our heights were similar, just over six feet. His brown hair could pass for my dark hair as long as I continued to don my bowler hat. It was his stature that was furthest from mine. His privilege straightened his back and broadened his shoulders. Still, most people that get flashes of me would see a hero. They would replace my bowed spine and rounded shoulders with the confidence of a hero. It could work.

As though he could read my thoughts, Mac added a thin, "please," as he extended a hand to me again.

"If we do this, there's no turning back."

"I have no back to turn to," Mac agreed with a nod. "What do I call you?"

"David, my name is David." I grasped his hand, sealing our entwined fates.