CHAPTER SIX: LACRIMOSA
That night, the mournful notes of Mozart’s Requiem: Lacrimosa swirl around the dimly lit second floor apartment. The Black Jester sits at the lighted wooden vanity next to the small window overlooking Decatur Street. The night sky is dark, and the light poles and the burning gas lamps affixed to the lower level buildings cast their warming yellow-orange glow on the streets. The constant flow of tourists and native residents walking to and from the local bars keeps the streets alive.
He is in full costume. The black Kevlar clothing hugs his body, protecting his long limbs and svelte physique. The black boot-length trench coat that wraps comfortably around him is loaded with knives and throwing stars, his preferred weapons of choice. His face is painted white with black around the eyes and mouth, a precaution he always takes in case his mask comes off during a fight. A white contact lens transforms his eye so that it matches the other. He slicks his hair back; the gel darkens and holds it in place. Lifting his ghostly eyes to meet his reflection in the vanity mirror, he returns the killer’s stare and remains unmoving, save for the slow, rhythmic breaths that raise and lower his chest.
The cell phone on the vanity buzzes, and he breaks his gaze to look down at it. The text message has arrived. He picks up the phone and slips it into an inside coat pocket. He secures the black mask over the top half of his face and fits the black jester hat snugly onto his head. He waits for the last seconds of the Mozart song to finish playing, turning his face towards the antique record player to soak in every last haunting note. At the song’s end, he closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, and exhales. His demeanor shifts from passive to predator, and he tears out of the barren apartment into the night.
Despite the recent rooftop bloodbath, the Mardi Gras themed party at the Marriott on Canal Street is in full swing. The Black Jester is in plain sight yet remains inconspicuous as he blends in with the drunken costumed partiers. He slips through the lobby and onto a noisy elevator packed with partying guests, riding it up to the top floor. The last one remaining after the drunks have off loaded onto their floors, he steps out of the elevator and proceeds down the hallway. Having already scoped out the location earlier, he approaches the conference room and stops outside the door, listening. Behind him, another elevator dings and opens slowly. He glances at it and watches as a costumed Red Jester steps out of the elevator and walks towards him. The two silently acknowledge each other with nods. They prepare for their entrance. The Black Jester pauses when he hears the drop of a name from inside the conference room.
Voices laden with heavy Brooklyn accents leak out of the thin walls of the executive conference room. “I don’t care what it takes. Have you found her yet?”
“She’s been seeing this shrink, Vance is his name. He’s on the payroll, if you know what I mean. Says she goes by the name Rose White.”
“Rose White? Christ. All right, tomorrow night, you pick her up. No matter what, you bring her to me, got it?”
In the hallway, the Black and Red Jesters make eye contact once more.
“You got it, boss,” the other voice answers.
Inside the conference room, the suited men have taken their seats at the long oval table. They sip ice water, some fiddling with their cell phones and pagers, while others light cigars and chat amongst themselves as they wait for the meeting to start.
“All right, gentlemen. I’d like to thank all of you for coming tonight. We’ve got a lot to talk about, so let’s get down to business.” The voice belongs to Antonio Strong, a mobster from Brooklyn that has successfully managed to fly under the law enforcement radar and avoided arrest for years.
The lights in the room flicker and completely blacken for a few moments. The men at the table collectively mumble and curse, glancing cluelessly around the room. When the lights flicker back on, the Black and Red Jesters are standing in the room with them.
“What the hell?” Antonio Strong grumbles.
“Who the hell are these guys?” A smoking mobster yells.
The lights begin to flicker off and on again and the mobsters shout angrily.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“Gentlemen, please remain calm,” the Red Jester says in a soothing tone. Hands slide into jacket pockets ready to draw weapons on the intruders, but the Jesters aren’t ruffled. “Forgive the intrusion. If I may have your attention for just one minute.”
The conference room, equipped with a built-in speaker system, begins to fill with the Black Jester’s fight song, Mozart’s Requiem, Lacrimosa.
“What is that shit?” A surly mobster growls. “Antonio, what the hell is going on here?”
“You walked into the wrong room, you clowns! Get out of here before things go very wrong for you!” Antonio warns.
“To the contrary, Mr. Strong, this is exactly the room we want to be in. And … we’re Jesters … not clowns,” the Red Jester says with a laugh.
As the deliberately dooming notes of the deceased composer’s song float around the room like a deadly fog, the scene unfolding is surreal. It happens fast, but to all men in the room except the Jesters, it is a slow motion nightmare.
“Sorrowful day,” begin the haunting voices of the song, in Latin.
The Black Jester springs into action, moving at what seems to be superhuman speed with the athletic prowess of an acrobat. He throws two knives. They plunge into the necks of two mobsters sitting next to each other at the table. Before the others can react, he has snapped the neck of a third mobster and brutally punches a fourth in the temple, causing him to slump over motionless where he sits.
“When from the ashes shall arise.”
Antonio’s right hand man begins pulling his boss away from the chaos towards the nearest door and opens fire at the Jesters. The flashing lights are too disorienting and the bullets hit nothing but walls.
“Guilty man to be judged.”
The Red Jester engages the mobsters, quickly disarming them with two long, slender, lethal swords that move in silver blurs. The Black Jester slaughters two more mobsters. The Red Jester sees Antonio’s escape and sheathes his swords beneath his long red cape. He tries to pry the Black Jester off a strangled mobster.
“God have mercy.”
“The boss is getting away!” the Red Jester grunts, hoping to get the Black Jester to pursue the mob boss instead of choking his victim. “It’s time to go … come on!” It takes all his strength to pry the murdering maniac off of the now lifeless mobster.
“Compassionate Lord Jesus.”
Ripping himself from his consuming rage, the Black Jester releases his victim’s body with the intention of following the Red Jester out of the conference room, but the two remaining living mobsters steal his attention. They are wounded and scrambling to their feet, and they continue their feeble attempts to shoot the Jesters. To the Red Jester’s protest, the Black Jester descends upon them with the ferocity of an attacking lion. He disarms them and with a single knife renders both men mortally wounded before they hit the floor.
Mozart finishes. “Grant them peace. Amen.”
Antonio and his right hand man have escaped down the stairwell and through a lower hotel floor elevator. The Black and Red Jesters do not pursue them but quietly slip out of the hotel without drawing a suspicious eye. The gunshots from the top floor, mistaken for party popper noises, do not alarm anyone. The Jesters pause in a darkened alley behind the hotel before parting ways for the night.
“What’s with the music?” the Red Jester questions his partner in a playful tone.
The Black Jester ignores the question and checks his coat for any remaining weapons. He briefly glances at the Red Jester, then pivots and begins to trot down the dark alley.
“Got somewhere else to be tonight? What about the debriefing?”
The Black Jester says nothing as he picks up his pace and disappears into the darkness.
“Would it kill you to talk once in a while?” The Red Jester calls to his partner but knows he won’t get a r
esponse. He scans the shadowy alley around him to ensure it is clear of witnesses. He pulls out his cell phone and makes the call. “Yeah, it’s done. He and another got away, but the others… understood,” he says, hanging up. The debriefing calls are always short.