Procession of the dead tct-2 Read online

  That sounded more like it! "At any rate, it's better than Uncle Theo's new resting place," I joked.

  "You don't seem too upset by his death," Tasso remarked.

  I shrugged. "I'd only known him a few months. We were in a dirty business, we knew the risks. It's the way things go."

  Ford nodded. "You've got the right attitude."

  "The Cardinal certainly thinks so," I said smugly, "and he's never wrong."

  "No," Ford contradicted me, "he's often wrong. But who's gonna tell him?"

  "What do you think he's got in mind for me?" I asked.

  "I don't know, kid. The Cardinal doesn't confide in anyone. You learn to live with that and take no offense, or you get out quick. Speaking of which…"

  He left and I was alone for the first time that long and unbelievable night.

  I moved about the room in a daze, replaying my conversations with Ford Tasso and The Cardinal. At times I was sure I'd dreamed it all, that I'd died by the docks and this was my final dream. I'd wake up any minute and…

  I realized I hadn't been to the toilet in almost-I checked my watch-nine hours! I rectified that, then washed my hands, brushed my teeth and prepared for bed. I was about to climb under the covers when it struck me that, in all my months in the city, I'd yet to watch a sunrise. I dragged a chair over to the window, pulled back the curtains and sat down for nature's finest show. My head was still spinning and my fingers were shaking from delayed shock. I let my head loll back a moment to relieve the tension in my neck and before I could stop myself I was asleep and the sun was left to rise without an audience.

  airiway

  A maid woke me at seven to say Sonja Arne was expecting me for breakfast at Shankar's in forty-five minutes. If I was late, I'd have to go hungry until lunch.

  I splashed water over my face, scraped the crust from my eyes, brushed back my hair, didn't shave-I'd call it designer stubble-sprayed under my armpits, slipped into my gear from the night before and was set to go.

  The concierge spotted me in the lobby-I don't know how she knew me, since she hadn't been on duty when I arrived-and asked if I required a limo. I said I'd take a cab instead-they were more my style-and one of the bellboys hailed one for me. As I relaxed and stared off into space, I thought I recognized the back of the driver's head. He looked like the guy who'd picked me up half a year ago when I first came to this jungle of metal, glass and brick.

  "Do you get many fares around the Skylight?" I asked, sounding him out.

  "Nah," he replied gruffly. "Most of that lot are too high and mighty for a car like this." He had a curious way of accenting random words. I was sure it was him now.

  "How about train stations? Do you-" I began as he stopped for a red light, but he cut me short.

  "Look," he snapped, "just can it. I want nothing to do with your kind, OK? I'm giving you a ride, let's leave it at that."

  "No need to get aggressive," I grumbled. "I was just trying to be friendly. I didn't mean-"

  "I don't care what you meant," he interrupted. "I'm not interested." He honked at a pedestrian and was getting ready to wind down his window when the lights changed and he had to move on or risk being bulldozed by the river of cars to our rear.

  "You work for The Cardinal, right?" he sneered. "Big man. Throws his money around like confetti. And everybody grabs, smiles and puckers up to kiss his hairy old ass. Sickening."

  "You sound like you've had a run-in with him," I said.

  "Me? Nah. I'm just a cabbie. I've never even seen him."

  "Then what's your problem?"

  "What he's done to this city. This was a good place to live. It had its problems, sure, but the scum knew their place and stuck to it. These days they run riot. Dirt everywhere you look. Everybody on the take. Because of him."

  "Why don't you leave if you hate it that much?"

  "Leave!" If he'd had a cigar, he'd have spat it out. "Why should I? It's my city too. I pay taxes, I earn my living. Nathanael Mead moves for no man."

  "Nathanael Mead," I repeated. "I'll remember that."

  "Do," he sniffed, then let me off at Shankar's a couple of minutes later. I thought he might refuse the tip, me being one of the Anti-christ's footmen, but he took it, albeit grudgingly.

  The maitre d' was all smiles when I introduced myself. He treated me like a favorite regular and escorted me to table nineteen, waving aside the aides who normally seated the guests.

  Shankar's was owned by Leonora Shankar, the woman behind The Cardinal in his formative years. The hippest restaurant in the city, where everybody who was anybody wanted to eat. But all the money in the world couldn't snare you a seat unless you were part of The Cardinal's crew. It was reserved for his people, from the shoeboys to the Troops to the executives. The food was great, the atmosphere delightful, and The Cardinal always covered the tab. One of the perks of the job. Occasionally the doors would open to a nonmember but outsiders were rare and carefully monitored.

  It was a huge, one-room complex, divided into two levels. The upper floor was made of glass and completely transparent-women with skirts and dignity usually dined below. It was a place of glass, marble and steel. Leonora Shankar was renowned for her cold tastes. There were no carpets or rugs. Lots of people complained about the decor, but when you were getting your meals gratis it was hard to be too critical.

  There was no privacy in Shankar's. Everybody was there on The Cardinal's business and had nothing to fear. It was the safest spot in the city, short of Party Central. Impossible to bug or infiltrate. There was an unwritten law that nothing heard in Shankar's could ever be discussed outside. It was a law everyone paid strict attention to-the cost of breaking it was instant execution.

  There was a man with Sonja when I arrived, as strange a figure as you were likely to find, swathed in sweeping robes and scarves, sandals, hair long and plaited with colorful ribbons, face covered in tattoos which looked real from a distance but were just paint. He sprang to his feet when I reached the table and before I could speak he jabbed a bony finger at me. "Are you Capac Raimi?" When I nodded, he shrieked theatrically and threw his hands in the air. "Too soon!" he yelled, then spun around and dashed off.

  "Who the hell was that?" I asked, bemused.

  Sonja smiled. "He'll introduce himself when the time's right. I'd hate to steal his thunder."

  "That guy works for The Cardinal?"

  "He used to," she said. "He was a highflier once, but then he quit and now he's a nobody. He's left alone on The Cardinal's orders, comes and goes as he pleases. A lot of people would like to see him dead. Ford Tasso's one. There's nothing Ford hates more than a quitter. Personally I like him. I think you will too. Did you sleep well?"

  "Not really. I nodded off in a chair, waiting for dawn to break." I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to massage out the stiffness. "How about you?"

  "Same as usual. Popped a pill and slept like a baby. Do you want anything special for breakfast or do you trust me to order?"

  "I place myself at your mercy."

  She ordered toast and cornflakes, low-fat butter and skimmed milk on the side. "This is it?" I asked, disappointed. I was expecting something more exotic.

  "I believe in simple starts," she said.

  I buttered my toast, milked my cornflakes and ate. "Tell me," I mumbled, "and please interrupt if I'm being rude, but what you said last night-was it true?"

  "About being a prostitute?"

  "Yeah."

  "True."

  "Oh."

  "You don't approve?" she smiled.

  "I thought it was something people fell into when all else failed," I said. "You made it sound like a career move."

  "It was," she said. "I'd never go back, and I wouldn't have started if I'd thought I couldn't move on to something better, but I'm not ashamed of my life. I did what I had to."

  "But surely it affected your love life. What did your boyfriend think?"

  "I didn't have one," she said. "My current girlfriend wouldn't have appro
ved, but I didn't meet her until later, so that wasn't an issue."

  "You're a…?" I coughed uncomfortably.

  "Yes," she laughed as I blushed. "And in case you were going to ask, I didn't turn to women because of my traumatic experiences with men while on the streets."

  "The question never entered my mind."

  "I bet." She poured some milk into a crystal glass, took a sip, wiped around her mouth with her satin napkin. "This is Adrian," she said.

  I turned and looked back. A young man was standing directly behind me, a baseball cap held between his joined hands in a stance of mock respect.

  "Hi, Sis," he said, drawing up a chair. "What's hanging?"

  "This is Capac Raimi. You're going to be assisting him."

  "Nice to meetja," he said, nodding.

  "Likewise. You're Sonja's brother?"

  "Yeah. Can't you see the similarity?"

  "No." The two were as different as mud and gold. While Sonja was cool and sophisticated, this guy was dressed in jeans and a creased shirt. She was dark, he was pale. Different hair and faces. Plus she was a couple of decades his senior-he couldn't have been much more than twenty.

  He chuckled. "You're thinking of the age gap, right? She looks old enough to be my mother." Sonja punched his arm. "I was a late arrival," he said. "A gift from the gods. Surprised the shit out of Mom and Dad, eh, Sis?"

  "To put it mildly."

  "So, what's the brief?" he asked.

  "Capac's our latest recruit. He'll be under my direct supervision. I want you to take care of him, show him around, introduce him to the fun people and places. See to his needs. Educate him. Be his friend."

  "See?" he whined. "She even tells me who my friends should be!" He pretended to cry, then shrugged indifferently. "I don't care. It'll be nice to have someone my own age around."

  She wiped her mouth, placed her utensils neatly on one of the side plates and got up. "You can start by driving us back to the office, so I can set him up with a cubicle and get him started."

  "Can you wait a couple of minutes? I haven't had breakfast."

  "Tough," she snapped.

  He shook his head sadly and clicked his teeth. "All part and parcel of working for your sister," he sighed. "Family and work should never mix. Coming?"

  "Might as well," I said, finishing my toast. "I wouldn't want to miss my ride." I looked at the table and put a hand in my pocket. "Do we leave tips?"

  "Not in Shankar's. Nor the Skylight. The big guy pays the waitresses top rates. They sign a contract when they join, promising not to accept gratuities."

  "It's strange not tipping," I said. "I feel like a cheapskate, like Steve Buscemi in Reservoir Dogs."

  "Great movie," Adrian said. "They don't make them like that any- more. Don't worry," he said, clapping me on the back, "you'll get used to it. There's lots of differences when you sign on with The Cardinal."

  The next few months were tedious and long. I'd never sold anything in my life, or had to deal with the public face-to-face. Never had to go into a meeting with somebody I knew nothing about, whose trust I had to earn and then slyly exploit.

  I was expected to be a great salesman. I was under orders to pick up in weeks what others spent years learning. Sonja chose my clothes, enrolled me for elocution lessons, worked on my posture. She taught me to read people at a glance, how to scrutinize faces, note nervous tics and shrugs of fake confidence. A couple of nights a week were devoted to security footage. She'd bring home a box full of discs scavenged from some of The Cardinal's many shops and stores. We'd watch face after face, body after body, analyzing, discussing, theorizing, until I wished I'd been washed up on a desert island at birth and never seen another human.

  I blew a lot of my early meetings. I'd lose my way in the middle, the paperwork would become overwhelming, my tongue would run away from me. I'd forget what I was selling. Sonja didn't mind. She said I had one thing most other salespeople would have killed for-the freedom to screw up. I didn't have to worry about a mortgage, my job, a family, bills. This was mere education.

  In time I improved, learned how to read faces, to fish around until I found the right bait to make the sale. Every customer was different, each wanted something unique, and the trick was tapping into that. There was no set patter, no definitive approach. Some needed coaxing, some bullying, some bribing. Sometimes you had to throw every policy in the book at them, in the hope one would stick. Other times you needed to focus on one lone premium.

  The most important thing I gleaned-the reason The Cardinal put me there-was that it's re action which makes a man powerful, not action. I thought plans could take you to the top, that success came from knowing more than everybody else, preparing better, moving faster.

  Wrong. Power came from watching others, standing back, studying, waiting, reacting. Let your mark make his case. Never be first to speak. Plan nothing until you know what your foe has up his sleeve.

  The computer records were the worst. Sonja drilled me in the ways of every legal procedure she could access, hammering home law after law, regulation after regulation. She said there were two types of people in any company-those who knew a bit about how everything worked, and those who shoveled shit. She said I'd either learn all there was to know or she'd pimp out my skinny, no-good ass.

  An average day would start at seven. Down to Shankar's for breakfast. Back to the office, power up the computer, read until my eyes burned. Douse them with water and read some more. A few trips around the city with Adrian, meeting potential customers, putting the preparation into practice. Shankar's for lunch. More customers and lessons. Late supper at Shankar's. Home to the Skylight to work from my bed until eleven or twelve. Lights out.

  I traveled all over the city, though most of my time was spent near the center. It was a different world from the quiet southwest. The streets were full by seven-thirty every morning, clogged with every make of car under the smog-obscured sun. Driving was a nightmare. The city wasn't designed for modern traffic. The roads were built around the buildings, twisting and intersecting at random. They were narrow, badly lit, many in poor condition. Gangs of kids amused themselves every day by rearranging street signs, shuffling them around like paper cards. If you didn't know an area, the rule of thumb was to take a cab.

  People were constantly trying to improve the city's image. New buildings, fresh coats of paint, massive renovations, new roads, roundabouts and overpasses. On the outskirts it was working. But here, in the middle, it was a waste. No matter how fast they worked, others worked faster-squatters, gangs, dealers, pimps. They took over new buildings, defaced freshly painted walls, tore down streetlamps, chipped the roads away with pickaxes. This was their city. They liked it as it was.

  Brief respites from the insurance world came courtesy of Ford Tasso, who turned up every so often and dragged me out into the field, taking me along on one assignment or another, testing my skills, teaching me a few tricks of the trade. I loved those trips, the men in dark coats and shaded glasses, the slit eyes, the cold guns, the casual stories of death, robbery and old criminals. I felt at home in Ford's company.

  I got to know Adrian like a brother. We spent most of the days together and-once I'd settled in and found my stride-often much of the nights, hitting the club circuit. He never seemed to tire, though he worked the same hours I did. He must have napped in the car while I was with customers, though I never caught him.

  One night, while we were relaxing in one of the Skylight's massage parlors, I asked what his secret was. He twisted around, wiped his long hair out of his eyes and said, "Cartoons."

  I propped myself up on an elbow. "What?"

  "I watch a lot of cartoons."

  "What's that got to do with anything?"

  "We've all got to laugh. Laughing is vastly underrated. Clears the lungs for a start. Did you know there's a supply of bad air in the lungs, a load of crappy gas which accumulates in the lower sacs? That's what causes cancer and loads of other illnesses. Check the statistics-most
cancer casualties are people who rarely laughed. Laughter's good for your health. Plus it keeps your blood flowing freely. Clowns don't have heart attacks."

  "Bullshit."

  "It's in the journals."

  "What journals?"

  "That's the secret of my vitality," he said, ignoring my question. "I watch cartoons and laugh. I fit in at least two or three hours' worth a day. Any sort, old or new, good or bad. You don't have to watch them the whole way through. A couple of minutes here, a couple more there. They all add up." He lay back and smiled at the ceiling. "You should try it sometime. Man wasn't meant to be serious."

  I thought he was kidding me. Adrian liked to spin yarns and you had to take his words with a generous pinch of salt. But a few weeks later we were on the town and got lucky. Picked up two beautiful exchange students, tall, lithe, golden and eager to experience the wonders of the New World. We normally retired to the Skylight on such occasions, but we were closer to Adrian's apartment that night.

  They were both called Carmen (so they said). Mine was clumsy in bed-she'd had too much to drink and couldn't concentrate. We messed around for a while, but when she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth, I felt let down. I heard giggling and the low sound of a TV coming from Adrian's room. Grinning, I sneaked over to the door and quietly opened it a crack.

  Inside Adrian was laughing and rubbing his Carmen's head fondly as she pleasured him with her mouth. On the TV screen, WileE. Coyote was lugging his latest destructive device from Acme up a hillside.

  Shutting the door, I returned to the spare bed, smiling, and made a note to call down for a Bugs Bunny feature the next time I was courting.

  There were four classes of people in Shankar's. You didn't notice the divisions until you'd been there a few months. At first it looked like everybody was on an equal footing, no social discrimination. But that was just on the surface.

  The first class was small and distinguished. Leonora Shankar, Ford Tasso, a few others. These were people you never approached, the cream of the crop, with inestimable power or influence. They were a law unto themselves, the gods of the company. We'd have sold our souls to get in with them but the Devil had no pull where The Cardinal was concerned.