Clan Novel Giovanni: Book 10 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Justin Achilli

  No, all the evidence pointed to the Nosferatu. Benito imagined that plucked fiend Montrose being involved somehow, and he had certainly been pumped for information during his stay with his captors. But now it seemed they were done with him.

  “What’s going on?” Benito shouted to anyone who might be bothered to answer or might be sympathetic enough to reply. None of that here, though; his outburst only earned him a slap to the head and a gravelly, “Shut the fuck up.”

  Then the acoustics changed. Benito felt himself shoved upward and over, and the sound of the engine changed to a dull roar—he had been put into a vehicle of some sort. A sliding door slammed right next to his head.

  Keep cailm, old boy, Benito told himself. If they needed you dead, they wouldn’t bother taking you somewhere first.

  His captors were quiet from that point onward. Benito didn’t even know if the plural was appropriate; it could have simply been one person charged with delivering this relatively passive cargo to wherever he was headed. Or, the group could have just been operating with the efficiency they had exhibited all along—these were professionals.

  Now that he was close to the outside world again, Benito felt a coolness to the air. The air also felt relatively dry—this wasn’t Boston, to be sure. He couldn’t smell the faint tang of the salt on the breeze or hear the dim rush of traffic from the nearby city. No, Benito knew he was probably in the middle of nowhere, where whoever these fucks were who had him could do what they pleased even in disposing of him, and nobody would be any wiser.

  The vehicle rumbled on for an indeterminate amount of time—Benito hadn’t had access to his watch or even a calendar for so long that he was unable to gauge the period he had been on the road for this little jaunt. To his best guess, it was perhaps ten minutes.

  As if in response to his thoughts, the van slowed, moved a bit laterally (Benito’s weight shifted greatly to the left and then overcompensated to the right), and finally came to a stop. Two doors opened and closed, then the sliding door opened. Benito was jerked out of the back of the vehicle, where he once again felt the outside air—very cool.

  The two unknown captors then hurled Benito to the ground. Delivered a few unavoidable and brutal kicks to his ribs, and drove away, the sound of the transport vehicle dopplering away into the distance.

  Cool, still air. Cool, loose earth below him. Sand? A coyote howling in the distance. Coyotes? Sand? He was in the fucking desert?

  Fine. Just fine and dandy. When he had waited a suitable time to make sure no one had stayed with him, to watch, for whatever reason, that he remained bound and motionless, Benito Giovanni summoned the last reserves of his fading strength to burst the bonds that held his hands. He stripped the bag from his head and looked over the vast expanse of the Nevada sandscape.

  Friday, 29 October 1999, 11:59 PM

  The Mausoleum loggia

  Venice, Italy

  Ambrogino Giovanni laid out his implements before him: a solitary black candle, a length of rough rope knotted into a noose, a strip of burgundy velvet. Putting out the rest of the lights in the room, he struck a match, lit the candle, and waited for the taper to generate a thick column of smoke.

  As the wick guttered and the smoke rose, Ambrogino raised the candle over the noose and spilled a few heavy drops of dark wax over it. He then passed the candle’s flame under his left index finger, slowly moving it back and forth. The skin smoldered, caught fire, blackened, and finally split open, loosing a coarse spatter of blood over the rope, which Ambrogino, wincing in pain, blotted with the velvet.

  Willing his deathless vitae to close the wound, Ambrogino spoke aloud. “By the ferryman’s rede, by the song of Charon, I command thee, William Burke, to appear before me.”

  The candle’s flame blew out as a gust of cold air wisped through the room. “Wot the bloody fuck is it, then?” came a hoarse voice that had no body. “Wot, another trip for me? You have another thing wot needs said?”

  “I do indeed, my malicious lad,” Ambrogino returned. “To the New World again—all the way across the sea.”

  “That’s a load of rot. Oi won’t do it, oi won’t. Yeh cain’t tell Billy Burke wot to do. He’s his own man, he is. Billy Burke takes to none but his own counsel, that’s roight.”

  “Ah, Mr. Burke, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. You will indeed do as I ask. You’re no longer your own man, as you can see, and I am a master of your dead ilk.” Ambrogino took great pleasure in summoning the ghosts of murderers, thieves, and the like. He found it to be a great source of irony that he should send these selfish ghosts out to run his errands, deliver his messages, and bully his enemies. William Burke had been a resurrectionist in life, a graverobber who sold purloined corpses to doctors, anatomists and the like who needed fresh specimens upon which to experiment or study. Burke had done such brisk business in Scotland that he soon exhausted the natural supply of cadavers and had turned to murder in order to keep himself in goods.

  “Toss off and the Devil kin tehk you. I’ve run moi last for you.”

  Ambrogino smiled. He sang out to his wraithly guest: “Up the cellar, down the stair; But and ben with Burke and Hare; Burke’s the butcher, Hare’s the thief; Knox the boy what buys the beef.”

  “Cut that drivel out!” roared Burke’s ghost. His partner, William Hare, had committed the grave-robberies and murders with him, in order to keep a doctor named Knox supplied with specimens during the first half of the nineteenth century. Before long, Hare confessed when questioned by police and gave up his accomplice. Burke hung and was publicly dissected, but his vengeful spirit refused to go to its final resting place. The whole incident had survived in infamy as a morbid children’s song, which caused Burke’s specter no end of anguish. “Yeh cocker, wot is it, then? Wot is it? I’ll go an’ do it jess to be awey from you!”

  “That’s a good boy, Burke. I want you to talk to the same Kindred you talked to last time. He’s in the same place. You tell him the one who’s coming to see him—Isabel—she’s to survive the encounter and make it back to me. Let him know that if anything should happen to her, I’ll be quite upset. Understood, William Burke? Do you have it all clear?”

  “This the one with the crown of skulls, then?”

  “It is indeed, William Burke.”

  “Ooh, he’s a cold one, roight. I don’ ken wot truck you have but if it keeps me awey from you an’ him, oi’ll do it and be off.”

  “That’s a good lad, William Burke. Good for you.”

  Friday, 29 October 1999, 10:11 PM

  Highway 95

  Outside Las Vegas, Nevada

  Benito had spent the previous two days under an outcropping of rock. He slumbered fitfully, never sure whether the sun’s movement through the sky would push the shadow of his makeshift haven back and expose him to its rays. Many times during the day he woke, amid a sweat of precious blood which he licked from his fingers, and sluggishly rearranged himself out of the reach of the encroaching light.

  By the time Friday night fell, Benito had recovered as much as possible, given the circumstances. He had fed surreptitiously during the past two days as the opportunities presented themselves, a bit from a lizard at one time, the cold, thick blood of a snake at another. He remembered the lizard whipping its tail in pain, its body holding little more than a mortal’s shot-glass worth of blood. Not enough to subsist on, granted, but enough to keep from starving utterly. He was hungry, that was true, but not so hungry that he needed to devote all his will and attention to fighting back the Beast. Benito had no doubt, however, that such would not be the case tomorrow night. He needed to feed as quickly as possible.

  He walked for a while, and finally got his bearings. The Nosferatu (he assumed) had dumped him about thirty miles out of Las Vegas, so said the mile markers and highway signs. Traffic on the highway—U.S. 95—was still fairly heavy, but he didn’t want to try to hitchhike just yet. Benito knew that he must look like all hell and didn’t want to work some vacationing orthodontist into
a berserk lather and find himself facing down highway patrolmen following an APB for the “madman of the desert!” Surely a gas station would come up before long, where he could use the bathroom to make himself presentable and maybe even catch a bus into the city. Benito knew the Vegas Rothsteins didn’t like him much, but it wasn’t like he planned to stay there and set up shop. Just one night, maybe two, and he could get his act together and head back to Boston, where he belonged.

  Sure enough, just over the next dune, Benito could see the buggy white lights of a gas station. He double-timed as best as he could without exerting himself. It wouldn’t do to show up having sweated out his last reserves of vitae and either frenzy or have those highway patrol cops looking this time for a blood-soaked “madman of the desert!” About a tenth of a mile away from the gas station, he slowed down and walked the rest of the distance.

  It was one of those ramshackle affairs—an old single-proprietorship that was supposed to have vanished in the late ’50s when all of the oil conglomerates either bought them or drove them into bankruptcy. The place looked like the guy who ran it—”Dan,” his nametag said—probably lived there, sleeping in the office and watching Springer during the day while business was slow.

  Benito made the store rounds quickly, picking up a bar of soap, a razor (he had been Embraced with a five-o’clock shadow and shaved each night after rising—that is, each night after rising when he wasn’t detained by a thug squad of Nosferatu vampires), and a touristy T-shirt, which had the distinction of not being covered with who-knows-how-long’s worth of desert grime and blood. Then he brought his bounty to the cashier, who eyed him with a kind of wary mirth.

  “You a vampire or a hitman?” asked “Dan” from behind the counter.

  “I beg your pardon?” Benito looked incredulously at the attendant.

  “Vampire or hitman?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Aw, never mind. It’s just that I get some weirdoes in here sometimes. You wouldn’t believe the crazy crapola they tell me.”

  “Well, I can assure you, I am neither a vampire nor a hitman. I ran into some rough company and they dumped me in the desert, but with just a little attention to hygiene, I’ll be on my way and better off without them.”

  “Hell, mister, you want I should call the cops?”

  Oh, no you don’t. I am not the madman of the desert. “No, that won’t be necessary. I don’t want to push my luck.” Benito couldn’t help but smile, however ironically.

  “Okay, then. That’ll be twenty-four ninety-seven.”

  Shit.

  “Um…” Benito fumbled about himself. Money! Heaven forbid the goddamn Nosferatu should leave him in the desert with any semblance of dignity.

  “Twenty-four ninety-seven,” “Dan repeated.

  “Yes, I heard you. It’s just that…” Benito cut himself off. No sense adding insult to injury.

  “Oh, yeah; the ‘rough company.’ I forgot.”

  Benito winced. “Look, pal. You got an honest face. I’ll tell you what. You leave me your driver’s license and I’ll let you come back in the morning and pay me back.”

  “I, uh… They didn’t even leave me with my driver’s license.”

  “You wanna make a phone call? Have your wife or your buddies come out and give you a hand?” “Dan sure wanted this sale. Still, using the phone couldn’t hurt. Not that he knew anyone’s number in Las Vegas, but he could call back to Francis Giovanni in New York or even have his secretary, Ms. Windham, dig up one of the Rothsteins’ numbers. “Er…okay.” “Dan” handed the phone over to him and Benito dialed his Boston office.

  “Good evening; Boston Financial; may I help you?” Ms. Windham, thank God.

  “Ms. Windham! A pleasure to hear your voice!”

  “Mr. Giovanni?”

  “The same! I apologize for my absence. Things must certainly have taken a turn for the strange there, am I correct?” Benito turned to “Dan,” who wore a look of sympathy crossed with a shit-eating grin. He tucked the phone away from his mouth and asked, “Can I get Western Union here? “Dan” nodded.

  “Oh, things have been just crazy since you were called away, sir! Mr. Lorenzo has been beside himself for the past four months and none of us knew if you were ever coming back.” Four months? Jesus. “Is everything all right?”

  “I suppose, Ms. Windham, that everything is as all right as it can be, given the circumstances. Now, can you do me a favor?”

  “Yes, Mr. Giovanni. What is it?”

  “I need you to wire money to me. I’m at—say, ‘Dan,’ what is this place?”

  “Nussbaum Fuel,” “Dan” beamed proudly.

  “You hear that, Ms. Windham? Nussbaum Fuel outside Las Vegas. Please wire me one hundred twenty-four dollars and ninety-seven cents. Thank you.”

  “Yes, Mr. Giovanni. I’ll take it out of petty cash and have it there in half an hour.”

  “Thank you again, Ms. Windham.” That should get Benito cleaned up, into a cab, and into the city, where he could call upon either his credit-card company or local hospitality in order to procure a room.

  True to her word, Ms. Windham had the money wired within thirty minutes. Benito paid “Dan” and borrowed the key to the restroom.

  Saturday, 30 October 1999, 10:54 PM

  Outside New Orleans

  New Orleans, Louisiana

  “I have a question for you.” Isabel came out of the blue with her statement. For almost fifteen minutes, neither she nor Chas had said anything, preoccupied as they were with the monumental task facing them. The time for planning was over—the two of them, sorely outmatched if things became anything other than observational or conversational, were knowingly, consciously headed into the lair of what might very well be a Methuselah. Few vampires would undertake such a thing lightly, and the gravity of the situation cast a pall over the mood in the car. Quite possibly, they were driving to their Final Deaths. Equally as possibly, the ancient Kindred, which had secreted itself in the ghostly Underworld that co-located to the desolate swamps of Louisiana (which might have still been unexplored territory at the time of its self-imposed exile), could have something utterly incomprehensible in mind for them. Would it bat them around as playthings? Turn them into pawns for one of its next maneuvers in the Jyhad? Destroy their bodies and enslave their souls? It was impossible to tell—until they arrived.

  “I guess you’d better ask, then. Never know if you’ll have a chance after this,” Chas replied, his mood of fatalism evident in his voice.

  “You’ve been having some trouble of late, no?”

  “That’s your fucking question?” Chas shot Isabel a cross look over his shoulder. She noticed his hands tensed around the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening and his arm twitching beneath his jacket.

  “Don’t be a bastard. You know you don’t have to come along for this. As a matter of fact, I’m not exactly sure why you’re coming along. Don’t misunderstand me—I certainly appreciate your being here—but what is it?”

  “Okay, is that your question?”

  “No, but go ahead and answer it anyway. It might give me a little background when I finally get around to asking.” Isabel smiled, hoping to set her companion at ease.

  “Well, if this were a movie, now would be the part where I tell you I love you.”

  “Oh, Chas, don’t—”

  “Relax, relax; I’m just fucking kidding. It’s all I can do anymore, freak out and screw around.”

  “Well, that’s my second question. Or my first, really. What made you lose control back at Prudhomme’s school?”

  “Oh, that. Nothing. Just some fucked-up shit from when I was younger.”

  “Well…?”

  Chas licked his lips and paused a bit before continuing. “It’s this fucking family. When you’re part of the Giovanni, some decisions get made for you. You don’t always have the chance to control your own destiny. One night, some crazy guinea—no offense—on high gets a wild hair
up his ass and someone completely uninvolved ends up paying for it.”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying. Well, I have an idea, but what do you mean specifically?”

  “Okay, but you have to keep this quiet. It’s not common knowledge.”

  “Please,” Isabel rolled her eyes.

  “All right. Back before they decided to Embrace me, I had already started a mortal family. Pretty wife, house in Jersey, everything I own registered in someone else’s name, church on Sundays, couple of kids—the regular Mafia-guy package, you know? Then, all of the sudden, Frankie Gee shows up—I’ve been working for him off and on, more cowboy shit than him being my capo. He says he wants to bring me in full-time, make me part of the crew. Now, I know I’ll never be made because I’m one-sixteenth Spanish or something and those Lagos want you to be one-hundred-percent Italian, but getting into a crew is getting close. It means I don’t have to do any day-job bullshit anymore—I’ll get a piece of any racket that comes up and I’ll be more than a mook. People will come to me when they have capers they need pulled and I’ll get to pull my own. It’s being with someone; it’s being protected from all the other motherfuckers out there who want to rip off the small guys, you know? I mean, I did some little bookie shit every now and then, back in the day, and if one of the connected guys, made or not, decides not to pay you for six grand he owes you, tough shit. He’s with the crew and someone like Frankie Gee will whack you if you get lippy about it—he’s got to protect his guys, see?

  “So, part of Frankie Gee’s pitch to me was sacrifice. You give up the security of your day job for the big scores. You give up the insurance unions and pension funds and all that old-school shit—I don’t even know if people in the modern world even get that shit anymore, it’s been so long. You sacrifice, and you live a better life for it, or you make a better unlife for it; whatever. In this case, since I was part of the family, they wanted to proxy me; make me a ghoul, you know? Give me a test to see if I was worth a damn, and then they could make me Kindred. So, I pass that test with flying colors and all. It was something simple, some bullshit truck hijacking and then running around afterward making sure the goods went where they wouldn’t cause any trouble from the people who bought them, and getting paid on them. The heist was my trial for the mob shit as well as seeing if I deserved to be part of the Kindred. Pretty easy if you ask me.