That obviously put them miles ahead of their other competitors, but it certainly didn’t mean they should be sleeping well at night. Each individual in this trio was at great risk of being murdered by one or both of the others, since success in taking out one competitor would greatly increase his market share and taking out both competitors would likely assure him dominion over Sam’s old empire in one fell swoop. Thus, any of them who were not attended around the clock by competent, loyal guards were dead men walking.
But they didn’t just have each other to worry about. Their seven inferior competitors were no laughing matter. The word on the street was some of them were seeking connections outside Sivingdel. Others were grudgingly buying from the trio. His sources told him this was mostly done on a rotating basis, as they had no desire to help any of the trio in their quest for absolute power. On the contrary, they were merely biding their time until the right opportunity for assassination presented itself.
And there were even a few who hoping to join Mr. Brass’s gang. The fight between these Brass and Sam had quickly become the talk of more than just the underworld. Secondhand and then thirdhand descriptions of the epic brawl to the death between these two juggernauts had already become the stuff of legend. Benson wondered whether it would only be a matter of time before the National Boxing Commission sent out a recruiter to divert this prodigy from a life of crime to a life of societally condoned violence and glory, or perhaps ordered an investigation to see if one of its existing champions was moonlighting as a drug dealer in Sivingdel, so grandiose were the descriptions of Brass’s pugilistic abilities.
This all whetted Benson’s appetite mercilessly to meet the mysterious Brass, and it further reinforced his theory that this was no lifetime criminal. There was no field he knew better than criminology, and men with boxing talent such as Brass’s ended up in championship matches, not duels to the death with rival kingpins.
Every rule had its exceptions, and he had occasionally come across—in his decades’-long career—a talented boxing champion-in-the-making who had deviated from that path due to being kicked out of his local boxing club for troublemaking or even banned from boxing entirely for that reason. Such men earned a name for themselves before turning twenty and then were usually dead or in prison by age thirty.
Brass didn’t fit that profile. He was by all reports a man who appeared to be in his early thirties and who had appeared in the underworld as impromptu as a lightning bolt on a sunny day. Something had pushed this man into a life of crime only recently. Of that, Benson was sure, for otherwise he would have already become a legend long ago.
Perhaps he is an ex-boxing champion who is selling Smokeless Green to support his habit or pay off some debts.
It wasn’t a bad theory, but if he were an ex-champion, he probably would have enough money to buy Smokeless Green at one of the few elite clubs that only permitted gentlemen. But he knew that wasn’t necessarily the case, as these clubs usually only accepted the wealthiest of the wealthy, something that usually didn’t happen to your average ex-champion. An athlete would only find such doors open to him if he were a legend. And because only these elite clubs provided Smokeless Green lawfully, even those men who were legally “gentlemen” under SISA were reduced to purchasing it on the street, although they themselves were committing no crime in the act of doing so.
Still, somehow this didn’t quite fit either. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but this Brass character didn’t seem like the drug addict type. He didn’t have a direct informant inside the Junkyard Gang yet, but what he was able to learn through secondhand and thirdhand sources painted the picture of a calculating businessman, not a wild drug addict.
Benson’s sour mood was also due to the fact that since Sam’s death he had lost the lucrative side salary that he had grown quite accustomed to, and he was eager for a replacement, as otherwise early retirement would be out of the question, and he was already growing displeased with the increasingly dangerous nature of the job.
Crime in almost every category was up.
This was unacceptable. It was one thing to take payoffs from a kingpin with near monopoly control of the underworld. That was not only lucrative but beneficial to the residents of Sivingdel. Crime had actually been going down under Sam’s reign. Something told Benson that Mr. Brass could do even better, but that was a moot point now.
The word was that Mr. Brass was struggling to step in and truly take advantage of the situation, due to supply problems. This was bad both for Mr. Brass and Benson. Here, Brass could probably acquire three of Sam’s former wholesalers without so much as an argument. And once those forces were united, it was likely several more would do the same, as they would rather serve under the man who battered Sam to a pulp than to his erstwhile subordinates, even if for no reason other than vanity.
And once that happened, Mr. Brass would have all the muscle he needed to take care of the others. And better than that, he would have Benson’s full backing. Selective policing was a valuable military tool for an up-and-coming kingpin. Benson was sure he could convince Brass of this axiom and that it was worth paying a pretty falon for.
Brass’s supply problem convinced Benson all the more that this was no career criminal, and in fact he feared Brass might be getting in a bit over his head. He would like to meet him as soon as possible to find out how long this supply problem was going to last. After all, if you didn’t have the proper connections to supply the city, you had no business getting into duels with freakish monsters like Heavy Sam. There was no cash prize to be awarded after such victories, just new market share. And if you didn’t have the product to fill that market share, you not only risked your life in the process of acquiring it, but then put your life at greater risk for having earned a name for yourself.
He wondered if Brass knew just how much trouble he was potentially in. Before, he was barely a dot on the map. Now, he was one of the most well-known players in the city, even though he apparently didn’t have the ability to expand beyond his small-time junkyard clique. With Sam’s death he had gained the chance of a series of subsequent bloodless victories, but every day that went by where he furthered his reputation as unable to provide outside his small circle he put himself in increasing danger.
Sam had only agreed to duel him because Sam was larger than three average men glued together, he was embarrassed by his failed assassination attempt, was restrained by Benson from carrying out an all-out invasion and massacre within the junkyard, and he had underestimated Brass’s fighting capabilities. Benson knew that Brass was unlikely to settle any future quarrels by a semi-fair, one-on-one duel. Furthermore, Benson had no control yet over any of these vying kingpins. This meant that the moment they stopped seeing Brass as a potential boss they would see him as a target to be eliminated by assassination.
Benson wasn’t sure how much time Brass had before that happened, but Benson had his own timeline he was dealing with. He had told his officers not to look the other way anymore when it came to brazen drug dealing, since all bribe money had dried up (he called this “their bonuses”).
He didn’t want any of them needlessly risking their lives arresting violators of The Gentlemen’s Law, as he called it. Yet he knew that the violence between the vying kingpins was likely to start picking up in intensity very soon, and he wasn’t going to stand by and let his city get turned into a battlefield.
The underworld needed consolidation . . . and fast.
Chapter 14
Chalky was walking down the street towards his agreed-upon meeting location with Slim Face. He had Crabs and three others with him for backup, but he wasn’t expecting anything too dicey. Slim had been a straight shooter so far.
Chalky walked ahead of the fivesome with the cool confidence of a man who had been elected leader long ago and had never so much as brooked a dissatisfied look from a subordinate. He took a sudden right turn, leading the group down a dark alleyway. The location for each meeting had been changing regularly lately, suggesting Sli
m was worried about too many people knowing his location on any given night.
Once they got near the end of the alley, Chalky performed a series of knocks that seemed anything but random: rap rap RAP rap rap rap RAP.
A window shade raised just enough to allow a pair of dark eyes, like those of an alligator peering slyly above the water, to gaze distrustfully at them. Then, the window shade fell.
The door opened about a minute later, and Slim appeared, surrounded by about a dozen bodyguards.
“Product,” Slim said tersely.
“My man, Slim!” Chalky said good-naturedly, reaching for Slim’s hand, but this gesture was met only by a fierce stare from the tall, wiry Slim, who looked like this meeting couldn’t draw to a close soon enough for him.
“All right, all business as usual . . . I can dig that!” Chalky said, somewhat obsequiously.
But then his gaze became as hard as Slim’s, and he said, “Money!” with a challenging look in his eye.
Slim didn’t flinch, nor did he seem offended. He kept his eyes glued on Chalky unblinkingly, but one of Slim’s associates revealed a thick wad of thousand-falon bills.
There seemed to be a bit more tension in the air tonight, though no one seemed to know why. Crabs felt that perhaps Chalky was getting a little too big for his britches lately, Slim was perhaps sensing it, and the result was two street dogs sizing each other up.
“Well, let’s do half at a time then,” Chalky said, tossing ten pounds of Green towards Slim.
Slim caught it without shifting his gaze an inch from Chalky’s.
One of Slim’s men looked at him anxiously and interpreted his silence as acquiescence to the proposal. He then handed $130,000 falons to Chalky.
Chalky then tossed the other ten pounds to Slim. His lackey looked up again at Slim, like a man looking towards the top of a tree, and once again he interpreted his silence as a go-ahead signal. He handed the rest of the wad to Chalky, who immediately began counting the money greedily.
“You know the only reason I’m buying from you, don’t you, Chalky?”
Chalky’s greedy expression turned sour. He suspected an unpleasant answer was imminent, and he didn’t intend to help coax it out of his tormentor.
“It’s because Mr. Brass sells the highest-quality product in this city. People are realizing that rather quickly. The Trio think they’ve got it made going to Sam’s old connection while greedily hiding that source from their former equals, but the way I see it they’re going down the wrong trail. I know of a connection in Selgen who will sell to me a hell of a lot cheaper than you, but Mr. Brass sells top quality. I could cut it many times over and still keep my customers happy, but why do that when I can charge extra and make them ecstatic?”
Silence.
“I sure wish I could do business with Mr. Brass directly.”
The mood was far more sour than it had been even just a minute ago. Crabs wondered why Slim was being so gratuitously rude to Chalky. Perhaps they had beef he didn’t know about, but he suspected the reason was he was hoping his words made it back to Mr. Brass so that he could impress him with his flattery and start dealing with him directly.
“Right now, I’m the number two guy!” Chalky said vehemently. “And don’t go putting Brass on a pedestal. He’s a better boxer than gang leader. What I sold you just now was all he could come up with tonight. He told me he’s hit a snag or something, and that twenty pounds is all he can do.” Chalky was silent for around five seconds before letting out a loud “Hah!!!!” and began laughing.
“That’s some man you’re so impressed with, Slim. I’m gonna have to go buy from Razors tonight just to take care of my retailers, and because I hooked you up with the good stuff, they’re gettin’ the normal stuff. Which means they ain’t gonna be too happy. In fact, they’re gonna be pissed. But nonetheless, Brass says I’m gonna owe him a ten percent tax on anything I sell, even if I buy it with my own money. Tell me, Slim—where’s Mr. Brass right now? At home, maybe with his wife and kids? Going to bed early?
“I’m telling you, Slim, you admire the guy too much. This is the street, not a boxing ring. So, he whipped Sam. I’m impressed. I really am. But this is business, and he can’t deliver, yet you practically worship this guy you’ve never even met. Let me tell you something, Slim, what I buy and sell with my own money ain’t getting’ hit with no tax, much less ten percent!”
He looked at Crabs and the others laughing, hoping to see them joining in his derision of Brass’s orders earlier that night. Instead, they look pale-faced.
“These cowards . . . I tell you, Slim—they must think Mr. Brass is a ghost or somethin’ and can spy on us anytime.” He then turned a vicious eye towards Crabs and the others. “What—are you gonna rat me out if I make a few falons without Brass picking my pocket? Why let this SOB push us around?”
Crabs and the others were looking down, to the side, and in any direction other than that of Chalky. He seemed to have lost his mind, but they didn’t want to cross Chalky either. This was all happening too fast.
“Tell Mr. Brass I’m honored he permitted you to sell me these twenty pounds, even though that means his retailers are going to suffer. Tell him I’ll make it up to him by selling his product to his retailers until his snag is over. I’ll swallow my pride and buy from The Trio in order to take care of my own retailers, and that way I’ll prevent you from doing anything stupid like buying and selling without paying Brass’s tax. I’m saving your life, Chalky. You should say thanks.”
“You arrogant . . . stupid . . . son of a bitch!” Chalky fumed. “First of all, Brass doesn’t even know his product is better, and yet you’re falling all over yourself trying to kiss up to this so-called businessman just because he beat Sam in a fight. Look, they don’t call him Brass for nothin’. He hit Sam with brass knuckles, which means he won by cheatin’, and that ain’t exactly winnin’.”
“I was there, you inflated, no-account egomaniac, and Brass didn’t use any weapons until after Sam was already dead. And you’re not second-in-command. Tats is second in command, and I hear he’s gone on business. No one ever elevated you to anything, but these guys here apparently don’t have the spine to oppose your self-election. I just hope they tell Brass about this conversation we had tonight. I’ve been saying everything I’ve said for their benefit. On your account, I wouldn’t even waste my breath.”
Boom. The door slammed shut.
An icy chill descended upon the sixsome as if a pound of snow had just been stuffed down the back of their shirts. No one dared breathe a word.
After about half a minute of awkward foot shuffling and people looking at Chalky until he looked back at them—at which point they quickly looked away—Chalky decided to break the ice.
“That guy’s got some nerve thinking he can cozy up to Brass like that! Brass works with whomever he pleases.”
Awkward silence.
“Can you believe the nerve of that guy—saying he’s gonna go sell to Brass’s retailers without his permission? That guy’s lookin’ for trouble. That’s what he’s looking for.”
To their relief, Chalky began walking towards the end of the alley. The treasonous words they had heard come from Chalky’s mouth weighed about their necks like invisible chains attached to large cement blocks. To tell Brass was to kill Chalky. To not tell Brass was to commit treason against a man they admired as much as Slim claimed to and thereby put their own lives at risk.
As they gloomily walked towards the street, their melancholic introspection was interrupted by a loud SMAACK!!
In front of their eyes, Chalky’s head exploded into a cloud of blood, and a large rock went smashing into the ground. He never even made so much as a peep. Four of the five survivors went sprinting off like antelope that have smelled a lion, but Crabs somehow had the presence of mind to reach into his deceased associate’s left jacket pocket and extract the $260,000 falons he had just acquired.
Then, he ran as swiftly as his fellows, but after a blo
ck he began to walk slowly and casually, sensing that a sprinting man was likely to attract unwanted attention from the police, after which he would likely lose the companionship of the money currently lining his pockets.
Chapter 15
“Just Chalky?” Righty asked Harold. They were on the peak of one of the mountains surrounding his ranch. Words could not express the love he had for the combination of beauty, solitude, serenity, and power he felt atop the voluptuous body of one of these magnificent creations.
“You said to use my discretion,” Harold replied and then explained everything he had overheard while circling high above the alleyway in pitch blackness like a mythical demonic creature listening for the slightest traces of treason with a large stone in each talon, ready to inflict the sentence of death upon whomever he deemed it fitting.
Righty felt particularly intrigued by Slim’s positive remarks, given that he had no reason to believe Righty had a spy present, but he wasn’t going to seek him out as a client just yet, not until his supply problems were alleviated. He felt relieved Harold had overheard the treasonous words because, while his gut instinct had told him that Chalky was a snake in the grass whose head needed to be crushed before it inflicted a fatal bite on Righty’s ankle, he wasn’t comfortable passing out death sentences based upon mere gut suspicion.
The Republic of Selegania Boxed Set: Volumes One through Four Page 66
