Clan Novel Giovanni: Book 10 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Justin Achilli

  “What’s a negroni, anyway?” Chas asked, thankful for the change in subject from the decidedly bizarre direction the conversation had just taken. He had to admit it made a twisted sort of sense—if the Kindred still walked the earth, well, why the fuck couldn’t ghosts? The very thought brought to mind some of the tales told by other Kindred he’d met in passing. Stories about the things with which the undead shared the night, whether knowingly or otherwise; other monsters and things even less definable. Chas felt a sharpening of his mind, and sudden epiphany that other forces were at work in the world. And, accompanied by a single, cold drop of blood-sweat between his shoulder blades, he realized that he feared them. He didn’t know them, didn’t know what any other creature of the night—even one as vital to him as Frankie Gee—really had going on in their mind. Mortals were easy. They didn’t even suspect that the monsters from their collective unconscious walked among them. But to be one of those monsters—and to know that others…

  Chas didn’t want to think about it anymore. Best to get back to the issue at hand and deal with the things he could affect. Let the world keep spinning. “What is it? Is that cranberry juice? You didn’t have them fix you up a little blood cocktail back there, did you?” Even before he finished, Chas realized that she might well have. It might be another example of the far-reaching influence the supernal beings of the world possessed. He realized that maybe he didn’t want to know, after all.

  “It’s just gin, vermouth and Campari.”

  Somehow, Chas found the mundanity of it calming. He shook his head.

  “This place is bugging me,” Chas complained. “Can we get out of here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Let’s go to the casino. Nobody’s going to lean on us to order dinner there, and if we don’t gamble, they won’t hassle us to take their free drinks, either.”

  Chas left a pair of twenties on the table as they walked out.

  Wednesday, 30 June 1999, 2:12 AM

  Caesar’s Palace Casino

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  “Let’s not beat around the bush here, Isabel. I need to get moving on this Benito thing,” Chas said quietly. Even amid the racket and ping of the slot machines—the ones they hadn’t replaced with that video-game shit—one had to be careful how loudly one spoke. Vegas casinos were wired to the last inch with video cameras, and some had microphones to boot.

  “Have you met a Kindred named Montrose?” Isabel asked, looking at Chas directly. She still didn’t know him well enough to trust him, and she kept her sharp senses on the lookout for any “tells” he might drop that would tip her off that he was hiding something. Damn this family.

  “That twisted fuck? What’s it got to do with him? I thought he was Rothstein’s bully-boy.” Chas touched his nose briefly, as if to ward away an itch.

  A tell.

  “What made you think that?”

  “He was all muscle and ready to dust knuckles once Victor started playing haughty. He didn’t look too smart, either, like he wanted any excuse to come over and toss some Giovanni salad.”

  “Well, that’s…colorful. Could you do me a favor? Could you take it easy on the street idioms? I don’t mind the cursing, to be honest, but English isn’t my first language and I’d rather not spend time deciphering from English to English. And ‘tossing salad’ as slang means something entirely different in other situations, which I’m sure you don’t mean, but which conjures amusing images nonetheless,” Isabel responded, looking around the room over Chas’s shoulder.

  “You’re talking about that prison fag shit. Yeah, I’ve heard all that before. Now if you want to make an accusation—”

  “Oh, calm down. Let’s get back to Montrose. He’s got more at stake in Benito’s disappearance than Rothstein does. Rothstein’s a front Montrose is using. Of course, Rothstein thinks that he’s using you as a favor to Montrose. Yes, I know, it’s convoluted. Bear with me. Milo Rothstein represents a significant amount of Giovanni influence in Las Vegas, which he thinks will protect him. It won’t: Milo’s made too many enemies by skimming off the top of what’s already being skimmed off the top. It’s actually costing the Giovanni to keep him here, but Las Vegas is still profitable, given the amount of money other Giovanni interests in town generate. You know, other Rothsteins. Their family’s just as complicated as ours, only a bit smaller.

  “Anyway, Rothstein knows that Montrose is in on Benito’s kidnapping, so he thinks he’s putting the Nosferatu in debt by leading you on. The bottom line is that Milo probably doesn’t know the first thing about Benito, but he’s not going to tell Montrose that or Montrose will know that Milo’s fooling him and deserves nothing in return.

  “The problem is that Montrose already knows Milo’s a patsy, and is, in turn, keeping that a secret from Milo. Montrose is playing you through Milo and Milo through you.”

  Chas, squinting one eye a bit, cut in. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Which is why he’s doing it. To keep you pointed at each other, when he’s the real problem to both of you.”

  “How’s he a problem to Milo?”

  “Think it through, Chas. Milo has other Giovanni coming into his town to investigate the Benito affair. You’re not the only one. The Scots have someone here, too. Since Milo’s skimming too much, having any outside Giovanni here puts him in the position of having that maybe found out.”

  “But how do you know that?”

  “Well, Jesus, Chas, you think I’m not as clever as Montrose, at least? I play this game, too. You’d better learn if you have any intentions of staying involved very long.”

  Chas raised his eyebrows.

  “Okay, but one more thing.”

  “Yes, my darling nephew?” Isabel made a crooked smile with one half of her mouth.

  “How do you know it’s Montrose who’s behind the whole thing? Or at least behind the part he’s, um, behind…of. You know what I mean.”

  “Because he’s sloppy. The night Benito was kidnapped, security at his building reported a delivery attempt by Trans-State Expediters, and that the delivery vehicle returned after about five minutes but didn’t attempt to drop off its shipment. Trans-State Expediters is a subsidiary of The Architects’ Group, which is a venture-capital consortium here in Las Vegas. Sitting on its board is one Theodore Benedict, an alias maintained by Las Vegas’s Kindred prince, Benedic.”

  “So? Is Montrose also the prince? No, wait, it’s another alias.”

  “No,” Isabel smiled smugly, “Benedic doesn’t have anything to do with it. Benito crossed Montrose a few years back on an art deal or something that went sour. I think Benito had offered Montrose an investment opportunity on a cache of hidden originals that his ghouls had found in Nice, France. Apparently, someone had hidden them to keep them from falling into the state’s hands during the French Revolution. There’s a Millet among them, I think, and maybe a David. It doesn’t matter. Benito edged Montrose out of the deal before it became final, so Montrose has a grudge. Also, Montrose had recently been found out for putting one of his spies in the prince’s haven, so he’s obviously got a grudge against Benedic, too, or he at least wants to even the score. In light of that, my guess is that Montrose was either setting Benedic up to catch some of the flak in the Benito affair—possibly making Giovanni matters here very touchy—or he was just setting up another layer of blinds between himself and the game’s pawns.”

  Chas stood, staring at Isabel.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me…” he said, trailing off at the end to indicate that surely she was kidding. Isabel just rolled her eyes coyly.

  Isabel said earnestly, “It’s not so difficult once you put a few of the pieces in place. Then you start to see the big picture.”

  Chas shook his head. “Yeah, but that’s some series of guesses you’ve turned into pieces. Even hearing all that, I don’t know if you’ve put together a big picture, or just a stack of little pieces that’s part of one even larger piece, or
whether it’s all just a stack of shit that doesn’t mean a damn thing except that it’s easy to tell a good story with a handful of speculation.”

  Isabel smiled. “Well, nephew,” she chimed, kissing her hand and planting it on his forehead, “I suppose we’ll just have to see.”

  With that, she waved, turned, and walked into the Las Vegas crowd, leaving Chas to wonder if this was a second kiss of death this night.

  Wednesday, 30 June 1999, 2:47 AM

  Caesar’s Palace, Room 2604

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  “Frankie, how do I get a hold of Milo Rothstein?” Chas knew he had only a few minutes before the sun came up and Frankie had to hide himself from its deadly rays. Time zones were a vampire’s greatest enemy when it came down to business.

  “Jesus, Chas, you know what time it is here?”

  “Of course I know what time it is, but it’s an emergency. Remember what you told me about those Giovanni up the ladder? Well, they’re out here, or Isabel is, and Milo’s in the way. Our man Benito’s mixed up in something that stretches pretty far and Milo’s running cover for whoever’s got his number.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, Chas?”

  “Come on, Frankie, I’m trying to help you out here. Isabel thinks that playing hardball with these motherfuckers will flush them out and let us know where we stand. I agree with her. I mean, fuck, it’s not like we have anything to lose. Milo and his crew are already on the outs, you said, and I got lucky finding out this little bit. It’s going to let me do what you told me.”

  Chas knew Frankie wasn’t one to fall for the false jingo ruse, but it was all he had. He’d pick up the pieces later and sort this all out once they made it back to New York. Right now, his concern was keeping a step ahead of the game, because he knew Milo wasn’t about to let Frankie Gee’s bloodhounds leave town with Benito’s trail on their minds.

  “Chas, this is fucked up. I’m going to give you the number and I’m going to pray you know what you’re doing. You do know what you’re doing, right? This shit just can’t wait until tomorrow night?”

  “No, Frankie. We still got three, four hours before dawn here, and I don’t want to give those fucking Rothsteins the benefit of first move. Even if nothing happened tonight, their people are all over this town, you know? They’ll have a good sixteen hours on us before we can even step up to bat. Vincent’s good in the clutch, but we don’t know this town and nobody’s in our pocket.”

  “Why don’t you guys back off the situation then and let it cool down?”

  Chas stopped for a moment. Frankie wasn’t one to change gears if a golden opportunity presented itself. What was this hesitancy all about?

  Frankie didn’t have any love for the Rothsteins—it was old-world greaseball shit between the Giovanni Italians and the Rothstein Jews. Even though the Rothsteins were part of the Giovanni clan, they weren’t family. What was good for the pocketbook wasn’t necessarily good for the table conversation, as Frankie used to say. The Giovanni turned good money from the Rothstein connection, just like they turned good money from the Mafia guys, just like they presumably turned good money from their other interests. It all came down to that.

  So, what was Frankie’s beef? He’d already said that Chas might need to take Milo out of the picture— what was the cause for reversal? The whole situation had changed in so few hours. What was supposed to be a quick and forgettable bit of pressure had turned into a crisis in just a few hours, with those few hours marking a total reversal on Frankie’s position.

  “Come on, Frankie, you’re leaving me out like half a fag over here. You told me that Milo can go if he needs to and he does. What’s the problem?” Chas knew he was overstepping his bounds a bit, but he relied on Frankie’s lack of time and hopefully confusion over the situation to give him something to go on.

  Chas heard a few clicks from the other end of the phone and then a quick inhalation.

  “All right, Chas, listen and listen good.” Frankie’s voice had become husky, like he was leaning over and whispering and tucking the phone in toward his body so someone else wouldn’t be able to hear. “I can only tell you this once. You talk to Milo and you make it perfectly clear to him that if he doesn’t give you the straight dope on Benito’s situation, you’re going to do him. If he doesn’t tell you where Benito is, you do just that—you put a big, long hurt on him; tell him it’s for me—then you make sure he don’t see no more moonrises, capice? And then, even if he tells you where Benito fucking Giovanni is, you kill him anyway. Here’s his number.” And Frankie whispered the ten digits (or actually seven, as the area code was a unique secret—**#—held by Giovanni Kindred, who needed secure lines).

  Blinking twice, Chas hung up with no parting good-bye. He had written down the number, though only half was visible. Cheap fucking hotel pens. But he had indented the paper enough to have everything that mattered. He tore off that sheet, ran the sink, and threw the rest of the tablet in the water. Nobody else needed that number. Or they wouldn’t after tonight.

  Frankie Gee had never told Chas to kill anyone before. It had always been a matter of opportunity or survival. If someone got in the way and Chas couldn’t work around them, then maybe they got hit hard enough to never get up again. But this time was different. This time it was a mandate. Frankie had killers. Chas was more of a menacing mouthpiece. But Chas was the only one there, and Frankie wasn’t about to have Victor do the deed. Victor wasn’t even full family—some Giovanni somewhere had married his sister twelve, thirteen years ago. No, Frankie trusted Chas to do this all by himself. What was going on back at Frankie’s that made everything so delicate?

  Fuck it. Answer that later. Right now, Milo awaits.

  “Let’s go,” Chas called to Victor, who had watched the whole thing but obligingly tuned out what he wasn’t supposed to hear. Good boy. “Grab the bag.”

  Victor’s eyes widened. The bag meant trouble. “What’s up, boss man?”

  “We’re going down to the lobby to make a phone call and to wait on our fella Milo Rothstein. Then we’re going to go somewhere good and discuss the matter like gentlemen.” Chas cocked an eyebrow.

  The pair took the elevator to the lobby. A bank of telephones stood just outside the public restrooms. Chas took the one farthest from the facilities, turned away from the doorway and dialed the number Frankie had given him.

  “Milo.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Rothstein, this is Earl. I’m Mr. Sforza’s attendant, from the conference room earlier?”

  “Yes, Earl. I’m curious how you came across this number.”

  “Well, Mr. Rothstein, it’s Mr. Sforza. He’s got some kind of problem with, um, the home office and he said it would be best to call you and arrange for some other accommodations.”

  “He did? That’s very strange. It would seem that our Mr. Sforza has had a change of heart.”

  “That’s not for me to say, sir.” Come on, shitbag. Drop the niceties and send a fucking limo.

  “Well, I’d like to hear what has Mr. Sforza so worked up at…three in the morning. I’ll send a car that will be there shortly. Have your things and be waiting in the lobby. You said Caesar’s Palace, correct?”

  Shithead. How stupid do you think I am? “I didn’t, sir. Mr. Sforza said that in your meeting this evening.

  “Ah, yes. In any event, wait in the lobby. My man will be there soon.”

  “Thank you, sir. We’ll be waiting.”

  Monday, 21 June 1999, 9:17 PM

  Boston Financial Corporation

  Boston, Massachusetts

  A white panel van rolled up to the loading dock of the office building that housed the main offices of the Boston Financial Corporation, Ltd. The night manager of the security team came out to wave the driver away and inform him that it had to make deliveries in the morning. As the security officer left the building, however, a black-wrapped form stole inside quietly, catching the door with long, slim fingers and sliding almost like a liquid across the concre
te piling that made up the dock’s ingress.

  The van’s driver nodded, waved goodnight, and drove away.

  And around the block, returning not quite two minutes afterward. Upon his return, he pulled the van up to the dock, parked it, and proceeded to jack a pallet out of the back.

  The pallet contained six long, rectangular cases bound together by plastic shrink wrap. The driver returned the jack to the van and drove away again, this time for good.

  The quiet intruder crept through the dock’s shadows, clinging as closely as possible to the walls. It made a wide circuit of the dock area, remaining out of sight and finally ducking around a corner, where it silently exited the building from a bay of normal-sized service doors. Taking care to tape the retainer lock down before letting the door close, it jogged spring-legged to the pallet of rectangular cases, where it proceeded to peel away the shrink wrap with a long knife. It then opened three of the cases, from which swiftly emerged three similarly dressed shapes. Like bats or tattered cloaks they looked, a group of ragged, quiet skeletons, all tall and thin. Without so much as the grate of concrete across metal, they opened the taped door and swept inside, like trash blown in the wind.

  Once inside, the shapes made a beeline for the service stairwell. Up and up they climbed, by turns bounding like rats and scuttling like insects. The wan fluorescent light glowed horrifically on their skin, some pallid, some greenish, some mottled and tight. They had decided to take the staircase because of its lack of evening traffic. Also, the stairwell had no security cameras—although they could easily have hidden from the living eyes of the building’s night staff, the coarse machines would have caught their every movements—a pack of tatter-wrapped skeletons clambering unquestioned through the halls of the building. No, such sloppiness would have brought down the wrath of other Kindred, should this ruse ever come to light. The Masquerade, held so dear by the undead who wished to remain unnoticed among the mortals around them, was far more important than the abduction of Benito Giovanni. In the end, even Benito was a mere pawn of the game, while the Masquerade was a rule observed by all sensible Cainites. Especially the horrid and twisted members of Clan Nosferatu, who looked so much like the monsters that other Kindred pretended they weren’t.