Invisible Streets
by Toby Ball
We are delighted to welcome novelist Toby Ball to Omnimystery News.
Toby — the author of two previous thrillers, The Vaults and Scorch City — has a new book published today, Invisible Streets (The Overlook Press; July 2014 hardcover and ebook formats), and we are pleased to present you with an excerpt from it, Chapter 14, which introduces one of the book's more morally ambiguous characters, and employs the darkened bar setting perfect for a noir; it also talks about the New City Project that is at the core of the book's mystery.
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DORMAN HAD A REGULAR TABLE AT the Ares Club, a semicircular booth around a half-moon glass-top in a dark corner of the dark room. The house band played their usual languid jazz, backing a woman who sang in Portuguese, her voice weightless. From where he sat the band was hard to make out beneath the red spotlights and the haze of smoke. He sat alone, some papers on the table, his briefcase on the bench beside him. His martini glass was empty.
He leafed through a report on the upcoming destruction of the neighborhood surrounding St. Stanislaw's church — who would handle the demolition, the waste removal, the infrastructure improvements, and so on. In each of these contracts, extra funds had been allocated, though they would never make it to the contractor. This was the grease, the money that ensured that everything ran smoothly. It wasn't even a matter of keeping two ledgers. The contractors simply invoiced for more than they needed and didn't complain when they only got their actual price. Not complicated. The hardest thing about it was keeping Canada far enough removed from these deals that he couldn't be implicated. Canada was always worried about this distance. He needed it both for (obvious) legal reasons, but also to avoid having the petty corruption used as leverage against him.
Dorman was always protecting Canada, had been for more than two years since he'd taken the job as Canada's right-hand man, straight out of the Navy. Dorman had come out of the service with a big reputation, and Canada had brought him in to interview based on what he'd heard from people who'd met him. Canada had pitched him — you will be an integral part of the most important urban planning project in a century. We need someone uncorrupted in this position — someone incorruptible.
But why him?
Canada had leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers over his fleshy middle. "There are plenty of untouchables out there, Mr. Dorman, but few who know how to persuade and fewer still who have both these qualities and are willing to play the hard game, as well."
So Canada had hired him — the man who could not be corrupted — dropped him into a sea of corruption and told him to navigate without getting wet.
A THIN BLONDE SHEATHED IN A BLACK COCKTAIL DRESS APPROACHED with a bottle of wine and two glasses. Dorman sat back, took in her big, heavy-lidded eyes, her cupid's-bow mouth, her slender legs.
"Care for a 1923?" She spoke with an accent, something Eastern
European. Dorman had never asked her where she was from, exactly, and she'd never offered.
"Sure." He watched as she put the glasses down, uncorked the bottle with unhurried grace. She poured wine into the two glasses and slid in next to him, crossing her legs so that her foot barely brushed his thigh. His mouth went dry.
"Still working?" She sipped her wine. He knew her as Anastasia, though he was sure this was not her real name. The only women inside the club were employees, and they all used fake names. It was a house rule.
"I could work all day and all night. I just need a reason to stop."
"Like me?"
Dorman nodded and took a sip. Anastasia nearly always came to sit with him when he was here, maybe four or five nights a week. A couple of times in the past another girl had come because Anastasia was out, but the club liked to pair each member with the same girl every visit, build a certain kind of relationship — a mix of discretion and ambiguity.
"You are tired," Anastasia said, her lips shining as candlelight reflected off the sheen of the wine.
"It's been a long day."
It was always a long day. She waited, running her finger around the rim of the glass. She was patient; she would listen when he was ready to talk. Discretion is what they sold at the Ares, billed as a place for men to unburden themselves of their secrets to women who would keep them.
But Dorman couldn't make the leap. "Complications at work."
WHAT HE DIDN'T TELL HER:
Before lunch, Canada called him into his office, Dorman noting the dozen or so cigarettes already lying crushed in the ashtray. Canada sat still in his chair, looking over his reading glasses at Dorman, lit cigarette in one hand, the fingers of the other drumming on his desk. He knew. No point in trying to finesse it.
"I wanted to wait, try to get some information."
Canada snorted, pissed off. "More information," he said quietly.
"Before I told you, Mr. Canada."
Canada took a deep breath, responded in a voice tight with anger. "You think I'm willing to fucking wait to hear that a trailer full of dynamite was stolen? You think I want to hear it from that goddamn spic . . . Jorge, what the hell was his name . . . Goddamn it. It doesn't matter. What matters is I get this goddamned call about a fucking explosives robbery, and I'm caught with my shriveled cock in my hand."
Dorman waited, knowing there was more.
"While you've been doing whatever the fuck it is you've been doing, I've been working your goddamn job for you, and it hasn't been pretty. I had to call that fuckwit Ving, ask him to send over Zwieg. Ask him, for the love of Christ. Ving doesn't even know what the fuck's going on, but I tell him, send the stupid Neanderthal over. Zwieg comes in here and I have to explain to him in minute goddamn detail the method by which I will castrate him if there is a leak. I don't deal with shitheads like Zwieg. That's why I have you."
Canada took a moment to settle, bring his volume back down to conversational.
"Take care of the press. Figure out what they've got. If you need to bargain, give them something — the cash that priest down in Little Lisbon paid to those Turks to let the Crosstown run through their backyard. That's history at this point, no harm."
Having ridden out Canada's temper, Dorman nodded, flashed the boss his cocky half-grin, the one that seemed to inspire confidence. He was good at his job. He'd take care of the problems.
"COMPLICATIONS," SHE ECHOED, HER VOICE BETRAYING NOTHING.
He didn't tell her about his visit earlier that evening to the steamy basement of St. Stanislaw's Orthodox Church, the pipes from the boiler radiating heat in the close quarters, clanging as air bubbles forced their way through the ancient system. The men waiting around the table wore ties despite the stifling temperature, their sleeves rolled up. They mopped their brows with handkerchiefs.
  The leader of the neighborhood delegation was Peter Trochowski, a stocky man, white hair ringing his bald crown, a red drinker's nose.
"Mr. Dorman — "
"Call me Phil, Mr. Trochowski," Dorman was alone, as he liked to be when he had to do this kind of work. He wasn't in any physical danger. No one would cross Nathan Canada.
Trochowski's collar was dark with sweat. "You have to understand that the Crosstown will destroy our neighborhood, the biggest Polish neighborhood in the City. This will be a tragedy, a wrong that cannot be corrected later."
Dorman nodded, half-listening. He'd heard it before — again and again. He gave the same answers that he always gave: "We are well aware of the enormous impact that the Crosstown will have on your community, etc., etc. We will make every effort to help relocate both people and businesses, and so on." Christ, it was hot in there.
The old man reacted the way they often did — with desperation. "This cannot happen in America."
This part was never his favorite, but it was important. People needed to understand that their narrow interests couldn't take precedence over the good of the City.
"Actually, Mr. Trochowski, in America we can take your neighborhood from you if it is in the best interest of the state, which, I'm afraid, this is." He saw the loathing in their glares, felt it as an almost physical sensation.
He said, "I need you to understand that if we don't build the Crosstown, the New City Project will not be completed, and if it is not completed every expert agrees that the City will die. Commerce will leave the City and the City will die and with it, your neighborhood."
Trochowski, his face bright red and shedding sweat, wasn't convinced. They never were at first.
"Let me explain it another way, Mr. Trochowski. Your neighborhood is already gone. The decision has been made. It's too late to change that. We've made this situation plain with communities before, and we will make it plain to communities in the future. You can cooperate with us, and we will do our best to help you during this time of change. You can also cause problems, like the incident that you no doubt read about in yesterday's paper, and in that case we will be less . . . predisposed toward your community's welfare." He kept his voice even. You had to be calm, keep it from getting personal, but never retreat for even a second. You could not give any hint that there was room for negotiation, because there wasn't. It was a done deal. This way was better for everyone.
He showed them the case with the money, watched the effect that the stacks of bills had on the men's faces.
Trochowski leaned forward over the table, sweat dropping onto the top bills. "We cannot be bought."
"We're not trying to buy you, sir. We don't need to buy you. We're trying to help you. That's all we can do now."
Trochowski stood and slammed the case shut. Sometimes they started by refusing the money. They usually came around.
It was a fool's errand trying to explain to people that while he — Dorman — understood their distress and the devastating effect that the Crosstown would have on their lives, not building the Crosstown would have a different but no less devastating outcome for them as the City crumbled around them. Most didn't understand, and if they did, they couldn't see why it had to be their neighborhood and not the one to the east or to the west. These were decisions made through a calculus of money and influence. He didn't want to know the details, only to have to keep them from people. The details weren't his problem.
As he emerged from the old church onto the steps leading down to the sidewalk, he'd heard a whistle and followed the sound across the street, up to the roof of a four-story apartment building. A crude dummy fashioned from pillows hung from a noose dangling from the roof. Even from that distance, Dorman was able to read "Canada" written on the sign attached to the dummy's chest.
NEAR TWO IN THE MORNING, TIRED AND DRUNK, DORMAN GATHERED HIS papers, another night passed without being able to confide to Anastasia.
He knew that people here took the girls home sometimes, but he had never done that with her. He wasn't sure that he wanted to risk somehow queering their limited relationship. But he felt the tightening in his chest as he stood and she walked with him to the door, her hand on his arm. They paused at the threshold. He looked in her eyes, but she was unreadable.
Copyright © Toby Ball from Invisible Streets, published by The Overlook Press.
All rights reserved.
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Photo provided courtesy of
Toby Ball
Toby Ball lives in Durham, NH with his wife and two children. He works at the Crimes Against Children Research Center and the Family Research Laboratory at the University of New Hampshire.
For more information about the author, please visit his website at TobyBall.com or find him on Facebook and Twitter.
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Invisible Streets
Toby Ball
A Suspense Thriller
It's the mid-1960s, and the City is a hulking shell of itself. Bohemians, crooks, and snarling anti-Communists have their run of the place, but if Nathan Canada has his way, all this decline and decadence will soon be nothing but a distant memory. His New City Project will paper over the grit and the grime, making the City safe for the rich. According to Canada and his influential allies, the project is the City's last best hope — but according to everyone else in town, it's a death knell.
So when the Project's cache of explosives goes missing, everyone is a suspect, and police detective Torsten Grip finds himself up against a ticking clock and a wall of silence. Meanwhile journalist Frank Frings — the last honest man in the City — sets out to find his friend's grandson, who has gotten himself involved with Kollectiv 61, a radical group that Grip believes holds the key to the investigation. And in the middle of it all is Canada's enforcer Phil Dorman, whose job is to ensure that the City's corruption and chaos remain at a boil — but never more than that.
