Dap Deals With Death
Copyright© 2026 Drew Bourrut
Chapter 22: The Manager’s Last Stand
The air in the tenement apartment tasted of boiled cabbage and failure. It was the kind of room that didn’t just house a man; it held him hostage. The Diner Manager sat on the edge of a sagging cot, his hands trembling so violently that the cheap metal bed frame rattled in rhythmic protest. Dap stood over him, a mountain of wool coat and shadow, blocking the only path to the door. Outside, the city hummed with the indifferent energy of a million souls, but in here, the silence was thick enough to choke on.
“You’ve got a choice, pal,” Dap said, his voice as rough as gravel hitting a tin roof. He tapped the ledger against his palm. “You can talk to me, and maybe you see the sunrise. Or you can keep your mouth shut, and I leave you to the tender mercies of the men who don’t care if you live through the night.”
The Manager wiped a film of cold sweat from his upper lip with a grimy sleeve. He looked everywhere but at the detective. His eyes darted to the window, then to the cracked linoleum floor, then back to the flickering lightbulb that swung overhead like a hangman’s pendulum. “You don’t understand, Slade. These people, they aren’t just some two-bit hoods. They’re the architecture of this city. They own the concrete, the steel, and the guys who sign the paychecks for the guys who sign the warrants.”
Dap leaned in, his shadow swallowing the smaller man’s face. “I don’t care if they own the moon and the stars. I want to know about the manifests. I want to know why a guy who serves hash and eggs in Queens is acting as the ledger-keeper for a ghost fleet. Give me the Mayor’s connection, and maybe I can keep you breathing.”
The Manager let out a wet, wheezing laugh. It was the sound of a man who had already looked into the abyss and realized the abyss was looking back with a hungry grin. “The Mayor? You’re chasing shadows, detective. You want the truth? The truth is a luxury nobody in this town can afford. If I tell you what I know, I’m a dead man walking. If I don’t, I’m just a dead man waiting.”
Dap grabbed the man by his lapels, hauling him up until his feet dangled inches off the floor. The Manager’s eyes bulged, his face turning a shade of purple that matched the bruises on the city’s reputation. “I’m not in the business of waiting,” Dap growled. “I’m in the business of finishing. You’re going to talk, or I’m going to make sure you remember this conversation for the rest of your short, miserable life.”
The Manager’s resolve crumbled, not out of courage, but out of sheer, unadulterated terror. He began to babble, the words spilling out like grain from a torn sack. “It’s the docks! Pier 42! The ships don’t just carry blueprints. They carry the future, and they’re selling it off in pieces to whoever has the deepest pockets. The Mayor, he isn’t the boss. He’s just the salesman! There’s a group, a syndicate of high-level”
The sentence never reached its conclusion.
A sharp, metallic crack split the air, louder than a thunderclap in the cramped room. The window glass shattered inward, a spray of diamonds dancing in the dim light. The Manager’s head snapped back with the force of a hammer blow. He went limp in Dap’s grip, his eyes rolling back into his head as a dark, wet bloom blossomed across his forehead.
Dap dropped the body, his instincts screaming for cover. He dove behind the heavy oak dresser just as a second bullet splintered the wood where his chest had been a split second before. The room fell into a sudden, eerie stillness, punctuated only by the distant wail of a siren and the ragged sound of his own breathing.
He crawled toward the window, keeping his head low. Across the narrow alley, in the darkened silhouette of a crumbling brownstone, a muzzle flash winked like a predatory eye. The sniper was good, patient, and professional. This wasn’t a warning; it was an execution.
Dap peered through the jagged remains of the windowpane. The alley below was a labyrinth of trash and shadows, a perfect place for a ghost to vanish. He checked his revolver, the weight of it a cold comfort in his hand. He had the ledger, he had the name of the pier, and he had a dead man who knew too much. The city was laughing at him, a low, guttural chuckle that echoed off the brick walls.
He moved away from the window, keeping his back to the wall. The Manager was gone, taking his secrets into the dark, but the game wasn’t over. The Syndicate had fired the first shot in this new round, and they had made the mistake of thinking it would be the last.
Dap stepped over the cooling body of the man who had been the key to the entire operation. He looked down at the ledger, still clutched in his hand. The ink seemed to mock him, a tangle of numbers and codes that pointed toward a truth so ugly it could tear the city apart. He stood in the center of the apartment, the smell of cordite mixing with the stench of the dead. He was alone, outnumbered, and marked for death, but the fire in his gut burned brighter than the fear in his heart.
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