03 City of the Snakes Page 6

  Over the coming months, they realized the ladies’ taste for human flesh wasn’t going to go away. They’d get restless, stop eating, complain and act up. They grew violent if denied their cannibalistic pleasures. The only way to keep them quiet was to take them out, locate a fresh corpse and let them at it.

  So that’s what Jennifer and Rose did.

  The first of the Harpies finishes her meal, staggers away from the others, sits at Jennifer’s feet and burps. It’s Rettie, Jennifer’s sister. One of the Harpies died a couple of years ago. Jennifer never told me what of. I’ve a sneaking suspicion it might have been indigestion.

  I don’t wholeheartedly approve of the Harpies, but they do no harm, feeding only on the dead or those—like the rapist tonight—who are as close to it as makes no difference. It’s a dog-eat-dog world. Who am I to pass judgment on a few mad old women who’ve taken that credo literally?

  I tried curing the ladies of their craving once. I used to be able to help people with mental difficulties. As a younger man, I could absorb their fear and hurt, and ease their pain. But I couldn’t work my charms on the Harpies. Didn’t even get to first base. I think I lost that gift around the same time I abandoned my humanity. Monsters can’t cure, only kill.

  As the others reach their fill and desert the body of the rapist, Jennifer starts toward it with the intention of carting it away for disposal. I stop her with a gentle hand. “That’s OK. I’ll get rid of the remains.”

  “Are you sure?” Jennifer asks.

  “Yeah. Spare your back. You’re getting too old for this. You should hire someone younger to help.”

  Jennifer laughs. “It’s not exactly a post you can advertise for.”

  I grin. “Guess not.”

  “Besides, I can’t complain. Mr. Clarke, God bless him, has relieved me of most of the stress. I have things easy compared with how they used to be. This would be a harsh, lonely life if we had no friends.”

  “Yes,” I sigh, and stand aside as she leads Rettie and the other two Harpies away, to wherever they now call home. I muse on the dark wonders and variety of the world for a couple of minutes, then roll on a pair of gloves, bag scraps of the rapist’s clothes, flesh and bones—not forgetting the dildo—and grab hold of the bloody remains of the dead woman. She doesn’t weigh much now that she’s been stripped to the bone. I hoist her onto my shoulders and go looking for a decent-sized Dumpster or furnace.

  Just another average night in the city.

  2

  old friends

  I sleep in late. Putting an end to the rapist pleased me, and I sleep the sleep of the

  (almost)

  just. I half wake a couple of times, but doze off again without opening my eyes, smiling in the gloominess of my stuffy room, enjoying the warmth and comfort of my bed.

  It’s after midday when I rise and launch into the first set of the day’s exercises. Squats. I’m up to 236 when someone knocks on the door.

  I come to a cautious halt. I’m not expecting visitors, and unexpected guests are rare around here. Religious missionaries don’t venture this far east—they gave up on us long ago—and nobody’s dumb enough to come collecting for charity. My neighbors aren’t in the habit of dropping in—they care as little about my affairs as I do about theirs—and the rent isn’t due for another two months.

  Rising, I pad to the door and pause with my hand on the knob. I don’t have a chain or latch, so I address my visitor through the thin wood of the closed door. “Who is it?”

  “Jerry Falstaff.”

  Unlocking the door, I open it and gesture him in. It’s been three years—more—since he last looked me up. My curiosity’s instantly aroused.

  Jerry walks straight to the only chair in the tiny living room and takes it. “The decor hasn’t improved,” he notes, casting an unimpressed eye around.

  “I was never big on interior design.” I close the door and take up a position opposite him, standing to attention the way I used to when I was one of Jerry’s colleagues in the Troops. Jerry’s come a long way since then, further than either of us ever imagined. The new Cardinal took a shine to him. Jerry mixes with the high and mighty these days, though he doesn’t bear the look of an important man. He’s the same Jerry Falstaff I remember, slightly overweight, clothes a bit loose, a small grin never far from his lips. A bit grayer at the temples perhaps.

  “Looking good, Al.”

  “I keep in shape.”

  “And then some.” Jerry coughs meaningfully and I take the hint.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Thought you’d never ask. Got any beer?”

  I fetch a couple of cans from the fridge, one for each of us. Ten years ago I was dry, avoiding all forms of alcohol in the sure knowledge that one slip would be my downfall. These days I can indulge in a social drink (though I rarely do) and leave it at that. I have greater demons to wrestle with.

  “Busy?” Jerry asks, sinking a third of the can and burping.

  “Yes.”

  “Things have been tense lately. I hear you’re keeping a lid on the situation in these parts.”

  “I’ve done what I can.”

  “Didn’t think community watch was your kind of business.”

  “Riots are good for nobody. How are things going with the Kluxers?”

  Jerry grimaces. “We’ve forced them back a bit. They’ve established a toehold, but we showed we weren’t ready to let them roll in and take over. It’s an uneasy truce but it should hold for a few weeks.”

  “And then?”

  “Who knows?” He smirks humorlessly. “Actually that’s what I’m here about.” He pauses, giving me a chance to ask questions, but I say nothing. I can’t imagine what he’s after. “We’ve been good to you, haven’t we?”

  “We?”

  “Me and Frank. Ford, before he retired. As a rule we’re opposed to vigilantes. We had every right to crack down on you, especially since you targeted so many of our valued associates.”

  I nod slowly. “I can’t argue with that.”

  “But we’ve kept out of your way and granted you the freedom of the city.”

  “That’s true.”

  Jerry sips from the can and speaks over the rim. “You know about Capac going AWOL?”

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  “He went to the Fridge Saturday before last. Asked to be admitted to Dorak’s crypt. When the doctor who let him in returned, he wasn’t there. Vanished into thin air, or so it seemed. We found a passageway beneath Dorak’s coffin, a set of stairs leading down into a maze of tunnels. He must have gone down—or was taken. We tried to track him but it’s immense, full of traps and dead ends. He hasn’t been seen since.”

  “A tragedy,” I mutter drily. Inside I’m thinking that underground tunnels plus an Ayuamarcan plus mysterious disappearance equals villacs.

  “It will be if we don’t get him back,” Jerry says seriously. “He has his critics, but Capac’s The Cardinal, the only one who can hold this shit-can of a city together. He…” Jerry shakes his head. “But that’s not for me to say. You’ll be told more later. I want you to come with me, Al.”

  “Where?”

  “Party Central.”

  “Why?”

  “Ford’s back. He’s taken control.”

  “Ford Tasso?” I ask stupidly. “I thought he’d been crippled by a stroke.”

  “He’s semi-paralyzed but he can get around. It isn’t easy, and it’ll get harder by the day, but right now he’s the one man everyone’s willing to rally behind. Ford’s name still carries weight. The shock of seeing him stagger out of retirement gave all of our enemies pause for thought. It even drove the Kluxers back—as soon as Davern realized he’d be pitting himself against Ford Tasso, he turned tail. That won’t last—he’s too tempting a target, old and fragile—but it’s bought us time.”

  Tasso bossing the gang around at Party Central again was something I never thought to see. I assumed he’d simply pass away
quietly and that would be the end of the Ford Tasso legend. Seems he didn’t bother to read the script.

  “I’m glad he’s back,” I say honestly. “It’s nice to hear the old bastard’s still up for a fight. But what’s it got to do with me?”

  “He wants to see you,” Jerry says.

  “Why?”

  “I think he wants your help. He seems to believe you might know where Capac is, or how to find him.”

  “I don’t.”

  Jerry shrugs. “That’s what I figured, but—”

  “No buts,” I interrupt. “I know nothing about your Cardinal’s disappearance. I’ve no wish to get involved. Tell Tasso that.”

  “Al,” Jerry chuckles, “it hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten how things work. I was told to bring you in, not deliver a message.”

  My eyes narrow. “What if I don’t want to come?”

  Jerry sighs. “I’m not fool enough to try and force you. But I went out of my way for you once. Put my life on the line.” That was ten years ago, when everything around me was going to hell. Jerry helped me put part of the Bill Casey puzzle together. Unlike many of the players in that game, he wasn’t manipulated by Bill or the villacs. He only got involved because he wanted to help.

  “OK,” I mutter. “Do I have time to get dressed?”

  “Sure,” Jerry beams, returning to his beer. “You might want to stick on your wig and cover those snakes too. I don’t bear you any ill feelings for the contacts of ours you’ve taken out, but there are some at Party Central not as forgiving. If they see Paucar Wami walk in, they might start shooting.”

  Grunting sourly, I go get ready for my meeting with the fill-in Cardinal.

  Jerry still drives the same old van that he drove ten years ago, though the engine’s been replaced and new leather seats have been fitted. Traffic’s bad, so it takes us forty minutes to reach Party Central. The fortress is much the same as ever. Twenty floors of reinforced concrete, steel and glass. Raimi made a few structural alterations—such as the balcony on the fifteenth floor—but by and large it hasn’t changed. Two costumed doormen still operate the front doors, but the ten Troops who used to flank them aren’t to be seen. I’d heard the new Cardinal wasn’t as security conscious as his predecessor.

  Inside it’s buzzing. The huge tiled lobby’s full of people talking, arguing, booking appointments, waiting to be met. In Dorak’s day everyone had to take off their shoes and leave them at reception, but Raimi scrapped that asinine rule and the desk where people checked in their footwear has been replaced by a row of computers where execs can surf the Web, work on their files, or kill time playing games.

  Although the Troops on the doors have been removed, there are more guarding the lobby than ever before, blocking entrances to the elevators and stairs, patrolling relentlessly, weapons openly displayed. By the slight air of confusion, I can tell these aren’t regulars. Tasso must have drafted them in.

  “Expecting trouble?” I ask Jerry as we weave through the crowd.

  “And getting it,” he replies. “Frank wanted to put guards back outside the doors, but Ford said it would be admitting to the world that Capac was gone.”

  “I thought Frank didn’t work here anymore.”

  “Capac asked him to step into Gico Carl’s shoes. Frank agreed, on a temporary basis. Now he wishes he’d kept the hell out, but he’s stuck with it.”

  “How’s he getting on with Tasso?” There was never any love lost between them.

  “Surprisingly well,” Jerry says. “There’s no time for friction. You’d swear they were long-lost brothers if you didn’t know better.”

  The private elevator to the fifteenth floor is protected by a dozen armed Troops. They part as Jerry approaches, but their gazes linger suspiciously on me and I hear the creaking of fingers as I pass, tightening on triggers. If I were a man who worried about dying, I’d be very nervous right now.

  I recognize the elevator operator—Mike Kones, a friend of Jerry’s. The three of us shared many shifts in the old days. Working an elevator’s not my idea of a satisfying job, but Mike was never the most mobile of men and this is a prestigious position. He looks content. We nod to each other but don’t say anything.

  Frank’s waiting for us at the top. It’s been six years since our paths crossed. He’s put on a lot of weight—too many corporate lunches—and his hairline’s receding, but he looks happier and calmer than when he was head of the Troops.

  “Al,” he greets me with a genuine smile and a firm handshake. “Great to see you. How’ve you been?”

  “Not bad. You?”

  He pats his bulging stomach and grins. “Getting by.” He faces Jerry and his smile thins. “Trouble.”

  “Pena?” Jerry guesses and Frank nods. “Ron Pena,” Jerry explains for my benefit. “Manufactures designer drugs. Fancies himself as a successor if Capac doesn’t return.”

  “He’s making his move,” Frank says darkly. “Ridiculing Ford, saying he’s too old, demanding he step aside. Most of the people who matter are in there—Pena summoned them. If they side with Pena, Ford’s through.”

  Jerry’s face darkens. “If Pena takes over, we’re fucked. He’d try and do deals with Davern and his like. Screw everything up.”

  “I told Ford that,” Frank grumbles. “I said we should deny his request for an audience. He wouldn’t listen. Told me to admit him. I don’t think he realizes the threat Pena poses. He doesn’t understand that things have changed. The gangs aren’t automatically obedient any longer.”

  Jerry chews his lip and glances at me. “Think we should wait out here until it’s over?” he asks Frank.

  “No. Ford said you were to enter as soon as you arrived. If we don’t obey his orders, we can’t expect anyone else to.”

  BASE—The Cardinal’s office—is jammed with Raimi’s disgruntled generals. Men in suits mingle with hoods in jeans and slashed shirts, but nobody looks out of place. The Cardinal’s empire embraces both the legitimate and illegal, and these people are accustomed to the curious mix.

  All eyes are focused on the pair at the center of the room. Ford Tasso sits in The Cardinal’s vacated chair, stony face impassive, right arm slung lifelessly across his waist. Ron Pena circles him like a lawyer, gesturing expansively, a picture of youthful arrogance and strength, berating the old man.

  “We know how important you were to Dorak and Raimi,” Pena barks, “but you’re a cripple now. We can’t live in the past. You’re not fit to walk, never mind run a corporation like this. Stand down, for fuck’s sake, and let those of us who know what we’re doing take command. You’re a joke. The only reason you haven’t been attacked is that all our rivals are falling over laughing.”

  Tasso sighs an old man’s sigh and shakes his head meekly. The right side of his face is a stiff mask—paralyzed from the stroke—and the eye there rests dead in its socket. “You’re right,” he mutters, his voice a slurred imitation of what it used to be. “I thought I was helping, but I see now it was an old fart’s folly. I wasn’t a man to lead in my prime, so I’m hardly fit for it in my twilight years.”

  Sympathetic murmurs and chuckles fill the room. Pena beams condescendingly at the crippled elder gangster and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. Frank curses beneath his breath and looks away, disgusted. Jerry and I share a wry glance—we know Tasso better than Frank does. We don’t buy the act.

  “Help me up, Ron,” Tasso croaks, struggling to rise. “Get me back to Solvert’s. A few of us play poker every Tuesday. I might make the first hand if I hurry.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Pena laughs, taking hold of Tasso’s dead right arm and hoisting the old man to his feet. “Stick with your card games. Leave the running of the city to those best suited to—”

  Tasso’s left hand strikes for Pena’s throat. His huge fingers dig into flesh and he squeezes. Pena gasps, eyes widening, and drops to his knees. Tasso holds him up, supporting the weight of the younger man’s body with his one good hand, fingers
whitening from the pressure as he crushes. Pena makes savage choking noises and slaps at the hand around his throat. Tasso ignores the feeble gestures. Around the room, jaws drop. Nobody steps in to save Ron Pena.

  Half a minute later, the job’s finished. Tasso lets go of his dead challenger, who flops to the floor. He turns slowly and painfully, his right leg nearly useless, and glares with his working eye at those who moments before were ready to pension him off.

  “If anybody else has anything to say about my leadership qualities,” he snaps, and this time his voice is as firm as ever, “say it now, to my face.” Silence reigns. He kicks the corpse at his feet, then hits a button on the desk. “Mags. Send in a disposal unit. Shit needs scraping off the floor.”

  “Yes, Mr. Tasso,” comes the voice of his secretary. Seconds later, four Troops march into the room, pick up Ron Pena’s remains and cart him away.

  “Well?” Tasso shouts. “Am I in charge of this fucking anthill or not?” There’s an immediate flurry of answers, everybody hurrying to swear allegiance. “In that case, stop wasting time, get out on the street and spread the word that it’s business as usual at Party Central.” The gathered heads of the corporation start to file out. “Gentlemen,” he calls them back. “If I even think that any of you are plotting against me, I’ll have your heads for bowling balls, your wives for whores and your children for house-slaves.” A few of the men begin to chuckle. Then they realize he’s not joking and their laughter dies away in gurgles. Tasso turns his back on them and limps to the balcony for a breath of fresh air.

  “A force of fucking nature,” Frank whispers admiringly.

  “I told you he’d crack the whip,” Jerry smirks.

  Tasso makes his slow way back from the balcony. The strain in the huge man’s face is evident, but so is the relish. He’s loving this.

  “Algiers,” he nods.

  “Ford.”

  “Been a while.”

  “You’re looking good.”

  He snorts. “I look like a fucking wreck. You two!” he barks at Frank and Jerry. “What are you doing here?”