Procession of the Dead Read online

  “What do you think of the city?” he asked when we were comfortable.

  “Couldn’t see much of it,” I admitted. “It was raining.”

  “It’s huge,” he said. “Growing all the time, like a cancer.” He paused, maybe thinking of death and Melissa. “I’m glad to see you, Capac. I’ve been alone so long. I always hoped I’d have a son to take over, but things didn’t… You know the story.

  “Things have been bleak ever since,” he continued. “I don’t mean the business—that’s grown nicely. I’m talking about family. Family’s what really matters. I’ve been alone since Melissa. My brothers never followed me into the business. They went to college, got proper jobs, real lives. We were never close. My sisters… they write me now and again.” He shook his head sadly. “I’m a lonely old man. Nobody to live with, nobody to live for.” He leaned forward, patted my knee and smiled. “Until now.

  “What do you drink?” he asked, getting up. “Tea, coffee, wine?”

  “A beer if it’s going.”

  “Always!” He laughed and fetched a couple of bottles from the fridge. I gulped most of mine with one thirsty swig and sighed happily. It seemed an eternity since my last one. Theo went slower on his, making it last.

  “How old are you, Capac?” he asked shortly after I’d started my second bottle. “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight?”

  “Thereabouts.”

  “A good age. Not too old to teach, nor young enough to be a nuisance. One of the reasons I chose you. Not the only one—I wasn’t about to pick my successor solely on account of his age!—but a factor.

  “It’s a hard business,” he said seriously. “I don’t know what your expectations are, but it’s not glamorous. The higher you rise, the glossier it gets. But we’re at the lower end. Most of our money comes from protection. We threaten people—small shop owners and businessmen—and collect cash in return for not busting up their premises. If they don’t pay, we have to make an example of them. It’s about violence. Whatever else we profess to be, at the core we’re violent people.

  “But although we’re an illegal business, we are a business. We account to the taxman like everybody else, so we have to keep books they can find no fault with. Neglect the paperwork and they’ll be on us like jackals.

  “There are employees to take care of. We’ve got expenses, overheads and legal fronts to maintain. It’s a hell of a lot harder than running a legitimate business. The bigger teams can afford sharp lawyers to handle that for them, but not us—we have to do it ourselves, be everything, hood, lawyer, businessman, clerk. The profits can be high but only if you run things right, if you don’t screw up and leave yourself open to attacks from the law or your opponents. Or The Cardinal.” He stopped, cocked a finger at me and said, “Never fuck with The Cardinal, Capac. Never. Don’t muscle in on his territory, don’t challenge even his lowest lackey. If one of his men asks to be cut in on a deal you spent months setting up and perfecting, you agree like a shot, even if it means taking a loss. The Cardinal runs everything and owns everybody. A lot of young men get a bit of power, some money and start thinking, ‘That Cardinal ain’t so tough—we can take him.’

  “Those young men die. I’ll say it again, so there’s no confusion—don’t fuck with The Cardinal. Steer clear of his crew as much as you can. If your paths cross, show them all due respect. Because if The Cardinal ever gets on your back, he’ll ride you into an early grave. No surer thing.”

  “Have you had any dealings with him lately?” I asked.

  He hesitated and glanced away. “No,” he said. “We had a word a few months back through a third—hell, a fourth or a fifth—party. But no direct contact. I’m not big enough to be of interest to him.”

  He was lying. I didn’t know why, but I made a note to pry a bit deeper later. I had a lot of respect for my Uncle Theo, and knew I was going to learn a lot from him, but I had my sights set on higher targets. I most certainly did intend to fuck with The Cardinal’s boys if I ever got the chance, regardless of Theo’s warning. The Cardinal was the only route to real power here. If you didn’t take a risk and get involved with him, you’d be running penny-ante protection rackets forever. Theo swirled the beer in his bottle, staring into its golden depths, and promptly changed the subject.

  “Capac Raimi,” he said, drawing it out. “An odd name. I haven’t come across anything quite like it before. A Raimi or two, but they normally have recognizable first names, Joseph or Joel. How’d you get a name like that?”

  “My father.” I frowned. “He was a Raimi and, well, I don’t know where the Capac came from, but I guess it’s some old name or they got it from a book. Didn’t my mother tell you?”

  He coughed uncomfortably and a shifty look flashed across his eyes again. “I didn’t see much of your mother after she married,” he said. “We fell out of touch. Families go that way sometimes. What was your father like?”

  “He…” I tried to draw a mental picture of him. “A nice guy. He died when I was young, so I don’t remember that much about him, but he was a good man.”

  “And your mother?” Theo asked, leaning forward, his eyes sharp and unblinking for once.

  “She was… a mother.” I laughed uneasily. “What’s any mother like? She…” I stumbled to a halt. I felt uncomfortable, as if I had something rotten in my past that I wanted to keep quiet. “She was your sister,” I said. “You know as much about her as I do.”

  “Of course,” he said too quickly. “I just wanted to know if she’d changed since I last… since she…”

  He grunted, downed the remainder of his beer, got another couple of bottles and asked no more questions about my family or my past.

  I took to crime as if born for it. I was a natural, learning quickly, acting instinctively. I paid attention when Theo spoke and remembered everything he said. He taught me how to deal with employees, customers (we never spoke of victims, they were always clients or customers) and rival gangs. How to balance the books, use legitimate fronts to funnel our profits, and avoid trouble with the long and many arms of the law.

  The city was a sprawling, multilayered monster, anarchic to the untrained eye, but orderly if you eased up close and studied it in detail. The money was centralized in the north where most of the wealthy lived, whether their funds had been generated legally or otherwise. No class prejudices there—if you were rich enough, you were welcome. The streets were spotless, the lamps always worked, cars obeyed the speed limits. No pushers, no pimps, no street hookers. Nobody ever bothered the good folk of the north at home. Even break-ins were rare—the consequences outweighed the rewards to be reaped. The blacks ruled the east and southeast. They weren’t wholly segregated but were as near as could be. The city had an ugly history of racism. Huge riots back in the early 80s resulted in dozens of deaths and destruction of property on a scale usually reserved for earthquakes. Things had calmed down since and color was no longer the lethal issue it had once been—better schools, improved career opportunities and housing developments had taken the sting out of the race bee—but years of oppression and hate couldn’t be washed away as easily as people wished. Some things were slow to change.

  The center of the city was the business sector, the land of banks, office towers and overpriced restaurants. Huge buildings, most built during the last fifty years, functional and frosty.

  The northeast, south, southwest and west were the suburbs. The wealthier commuters gravitated toward the southwest, the poorer to the eastern regions. The northwest had its share of migrant workers but was largely undeveloped territory, lots of open fields and parks. Several universities nestled out there, an amusement park, a couple of large sports stadiums.

  Along the river stood the factories and warehouses, many old and run down. The city had been built back in the days when boats and power were synonymous. The older factories were being reclaimed and gentrified, but it was a slow process and it faltered with every dip in the economy.

  The other divisions—the gang line
s—were harder to define. The eastern areas were the domain of the black gangs, too many to count, most small and short-lived. A number of leaders had made efforts over the years to organize and unify the smaller gangs, but The Cardinal was quick to eliminate such threats. He preferred to keep the blacks fractured and in conflict with one another.

  Elsewhere it was your usual mix. Strong and weak families, a few large clinical organizations, dozens of street gangs who’d self-destruct before they could amount to anything. Hundreds of drug barons and thousands of pushers. Gangsters built on a foundation of prostitution. Some who’d made their fortunes selling arms. The big thieves who dealt in diamonds and gold, and far more who thrived on protection and petty theft.

  The Italians, Irish, Cubans and Eastern Europeans were well represented, but none ruled. There was only one kingpin in this city, beyond the touch of all others, and that was The Cardinal. He controlled the center directly, the rest as he wished. He was the ultimate individual, proof that one man could do it alone, regardless of the help or hindrance of others.

  Theo worked the southwest. It was where he’d grown up, along the streets his first boyhood gang— the Pacinos! —had patrolled. It was one of the quieter areas, not as much money to make as elsewhere. But there were bank managers and bored housewives with vices, lots of youngsters coming through with expensive habits. The police could be bought cheaply enough and the local councillors were eager to please. There were worse places to get an education.

  Theo and I were together most of the time. He was preparing me for the day I’d be able to operate by myself. He figured another six months and I could start running the show for him, guided but with an increasing degree of autonomy. Until then I was his charge. He kept me under close watch, in his company most of any waking day, his literal right-hand man.

  We were uncomfortable around each other at first. We’d gone, in the space of a day, from being strangers to partners. Like an arranged marriage. It was difficult spending so much time with a person you didn’t know, thrust into a relationship where loyalty, honesty and trust were automatically required. But as the weeks rolled by, we got to know and genuinely like each other. After a month we didn’t have to pretend to be friends—we were.

  Theo was a strict mentor. He forbade involvement with women. Sex was fine, prostitutes and one-night stands were acceptable, but nothing more. He said it was too soon for romantic commitment. There was a time for love and a time for learning. This was the latter. A woman would distract me at this stage, take my mind off work and confuse my sense of purpose. I didn’t agree but he was the boss andI’d made the decision to take his word as law, so I bit my tongue and followed his orders.

  Anyway, I was so busy, I doubt I would have had time to chase the ladies. Love requires time and energy, neither of which I had much of following my laborious daily chores and lessons.

  Our patch expanded while I was working for Theo. We took over a couple of old rundown areas and implemented plans to build them up and attract new businesses. We bought out retiring or weak bosses, recruited their forces, assumed responsibility for their debts, collected their dues. We moved into drugs, feeding the addictions of the city’s dream-chasers. We got involved in a bit of gun-running and smuggled a few caches of arms into the city. Like Theo had said, it was a dirty business, and the better things got, the dirtier it became.

  Though my role was primarily that of an observer, I couldn’t help but get involved. You couldn’t move in these circles without bruising your fists every now and again. Fights would break out unexpectedly and I’d have to stand my ground and deal with the situation. Addicts were the worst. Everything could be going fine, you had the merchandise and they had the money. You’d be talking, smiling, closing the deal, and they’d suddenly whip out a knife or a chain, and off it went.

  I was able to handle myself. In my time with Theo, I never took a bad beating. I kept fit, ate sensibly, worked out at home every night. I had quick reflexes and a quicker eye. I took a few hard blows, but mostly to the stomach where they didn’t mark me. My face was as pristine as the day I arrived, nose straight, ears unchewed. I’d get caught eventually—everybody did—but so far I’d gotten away lightly.

  I hadn’t killed anyone. I’d smashed many bones, clubbed a few heads, tossed a couple of souls from speeding cars. But Theo held me back from killing. He said he didn’t want to throw too much at me too soon. It was one thing teaching a crazy crackhead a lesson he’d remember, another to pull a gun and end his learning forever. Killing was sometimes necessary, but should always be delegated where possible. He’d only killed two men personally in all his years. He said it was two too many.

  “Deaths come back to haunt you,” he often muttered. As worthy an epitaph as any.

  The big fish was The Cardinal and everything we did (despite Theo’s warning that first day) was designed to bait him. There was only so much we could do as an independent organization, only so far we could go on our own. If we were to grow and move in stellar circles, The Cardinal had to acknowledge us. Until that happened, until the call came to visit Party Central or attend dinner at Shankar’s, we were trapped in the shoal marked small fry.

  The call to greater things came on a Tuesday. It was nearly six months since I’d arrived. We’d toiled like slaves, building, plotting, planning for the future. We worked well together and brought out the best in each other. I’d rekindled Theo’s desire to be successful, and he’d taught me what was possible and what wasn’t, separating my wiser ideas from my foolish fancies. His experience and my hunger made us a potent combination.

  We knew we were on the right track when Neil Wain contacted us. Wain wasn’t one of The Cardinal’s men, but he was a ganglord of some note. You had to be wary if you got on the wrong side of him. He had The Cardinal’s seal of approval and in the city that was everything. Dealing with him brought us one step closer to Party Central. Wain was a test—we were being sounded out. If we proved ourselves competent, there’d be more to come. Wain was the door to a new world of upper-echelon corruption, politics and total control. The world of Cardinal crime.

  He wanted us to handle a drug shipment. He’d arranged for it to be brought into the city but there was too much for him to distribute by himself. We were to take a third, pay the bulk up front and cut him in for a percentage of our profits. He was asking a lot but money wasn’t the issue. We wouldn’t make much out of the deal in the short run, but long term it could be our most profitable move ever.

  We met him at an abandoned wharf warehouse, late Tuesday night. It had been a struggle getting the money together in so short a time—part of the test—but we cracked a few heads, called in favors and did it.

  Theo was excited beyond words. His eyelids were blinking up and down so fast, you almost couldn’t see them. His hands were twitching and I could hear his heart beating from ten feet away. “This is it, Capac,” he told me, squeezing my arm. “I never thought it would come so soon. It’s because of you. Don’t deny it! We were going good until you came along, but you’ve made us go great.”

  “You’re flattering me,” I protested. “All I do is follow orders. I’m nothing special.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” he said. “Whatever we get tonight, wherever we go from here, it’s down to you. This is your night. Enjoy it. Hell, relish it.” He bit his lip to stop his eyes from watering. He hadn’t been this emotional since our first encounter. “Come on. Let’s go meet our destiny.”

  We left our limo—hired for the day because you simply had to have a limo if you wanted to be a real gangster—and walked into the abandoned warehouse with three of our men. Wain was waiting for us, standing patiently beside his own car, briefcase in hand, smile on face. Theo broke into a near-trot and strode ahead of us, arms outstretched, too thrilled to maintain a solemn, businesslike air. “Neil!” he boomed. “Neil, by Christ, it’s great to see you! How long’s it been since—”

  Bullets tore his chest apart as if it were a paper bag. His arms
flailed and his legs buckled. Blood sprayed in all directions. The gunfire continued, even though he was obviously dead. He was spun around like a whirling dervish. I saw his face and the bewildered expression he was to carry into the next world. Then a couple of bullets wiped it away, expression, face, everything.

  Two of the three men with me acted calmly and professionally, diving to the sides, reaching for their holstered guns as they moved. The other soiled his pants, fell to his knees and sobbed for mercy. They all died, caught in a lethal hail of metal pellets from the heavens.

  Five seconds later I was standing in a pool of blood with four corpses beginning to steam in the cool night air. The echoes of gunfire were dying away, the walls swallowing the sounds hungrily.

  I was stunned. Five seconds earlier I had been on my way to fame and fortune. Now I was a standing corpse-to-be. I looked at my uncle, limp and lifeless, and wondered where we’d gone wrong. We’d had no quarrel with Wain. Our paths had never crossed. What was his beef?

  I realized, after a few hazy moments, that I wasn’t dead. I looked around the warehouse, blinking stupidly. The snipers were strolling down the stairs from the second landing, smoking, laughing, claiming kills. Neil Wain was standing the same as before, unruffled by the bloodshed. He gazed at me without any apparent interest, then turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  A burly man came out of the shadows, a face like granite. He nodded curtly at Wain, walked past and stopped before me. He looked me up and down. “You Capac Raimi?” he asked.

  I stared at him, mouth open, about half a light year behind the action. I had to be dreaming. I’d wake up in a minute and—

  He slapped my face hard. “Are you Capac Raimi?” he asked again, louder this time, not used to repeating himself. I saw murder in his eyes, death if I kept silent. But I couldn’t speak.

  Another man crossed the room. He wasn’t much older than me and had the look of a society gangster. He laughed as he considered me, spat at my feet and cocked his hat back at an angle. “This ain’t him, Tasso,” he said. “This’s just a bum. Let’s kill him and split. I’ve got a date.” He raised his gun so the muzzle was pointing a centimeter beneath my chin. “Can I do the honors?”