Righty then suddenly felt an insatiable curiosity for the wellbeing of his most trusted associate, Tats. “Let’s go check on him!” Righty said to Harold.
Such would usually be fitting talk only for a drunken fool, but Righty’s whim was made reality. Harold, with one of the full konulan families as company (the rest were divided between their various surveillance duties at the ranch, the garden, and Righty’s home), flew south of Ringsetter, and within less than half an hour they spotted the lone traveler bravely making his way southward towards Sodorf City.
Harold informed him the moment Tats sniffed some Smokeless Green, and Righty felt both guilt and worry, as he realized Tats was likely doing so to fight off fatigue, even though Righty could have landed him at his destination many hours ago. But trust, like physical strength, can only be developed and maintained by vigorous exercise, and in this sordid business even the trust of someone like Tats had to be regularly put to the test.
Nonetheless, he was concerned about Tats’ wellbeing during this dangerous journey, so he asked for ten konulan volunteers to keep a constant watch on him and to report to Righty immediately if Tats was in danger.
Righty returned home and was in bed with Janie before 11:30 p.m. and even managed to squeeze a half-hour or so of pleasant conversation out of her before they both fell headlong into sleep in each other’s arms.
Chapter 16
The next week was a bit of a blur for Righty. He went to the ranch every day after his morning sword practice, and once there he rolled up his sleeves, donned his work boots, and labored feverishly in the fields.
Righty was ecstatic that the barrels of seed managed to supply far more than the five acres he had originally envisioned. Well before the week had passed, a full twelve acres were planted, and Righty would have watered them every day if not for the fact it rained at least two to three times per day there. He was no farmer yet, but this seemed to be about the best terrain he could have hoped for. It was warm, but not scorching hot, and while the rain was regular and kept the ground moist, so far there were no merciless torrents threatening to wash away his nascent crop.
He had decided firmly within just a couple of meetings with these ranch hands that they held infinitely more potential for being a future fighting force than the junkyard gang in case things were ever to get really ugly in this business. They were a lot like him: not criminals through and through, but men that realized sometimes you had to break a rule now and again to get ahead. But more importantly they were hard workers and weren’t used to chasing the quick falon, which he had concluded was the vice of the typical street criminal and the source of his fickle loyalty.
In order to strengthen his bond with the men, he began spending a couple hours each evening engaging in archery contests and sword practice. He was finding the sword practice to be particularly helpful. Although he enjoyed practicing the sword sequences that Pitkins taught him by himself, he felt his physical and mental faculties uniquely challenged in the friendly, yet vigorous, sparring matches. They used wooden swords and donned helmets and other protective gear, which enabled them to spar with enthusiasm yet without injury.
He found the ranchers surprisingly skilled with their swords. He could beat half of them but only with maximum effort. Of the half that could beat him, there were ten who did so barely, and five who did so easily. He intended to request Pitkins that they begin some sort of similar sparring practice in order that he could continue advancing as soon as possible. He also intended to request their training sessions be increased to two per week, rather than the two per month he had been having thus far.
But he didn’t feel his loss to these ranch hands was ignominious. They moved the swords about with the same fluidity as their lassos, which was saying a great deal. It was clear to him that they practiced obsessively, so sharp were their skills.
With the crossbow, he was certainly starting from scratch. His aim was terrible, and there was not a man there who was not many times over his superior, but he was finding even by the end of this first week that his aim was becoming better.
In order to promote goodwill, he paid out of his own pocket for the slaughter of one of the fattest cows, and this provided for some excellent bonfire-cooked steaks to replenish the men after their vigorous sparring sessions.
Righty asked to see each of their swords, and while he was no expert, he could see that they were likely medium quality at best. He told them that if the agricultural part of the business went well for at least six months as a bonus he would get each of them a sword crafted by a master sword smith.
Although no one had the meanness or audacity to laugh at this offer, Righty sensed their skepticism. That led to him brandishing his own hidden sword and then passing it around for their inspection. Both its cunning concealment and masterful design seemed to impress them. Their eyes widened like teenagers ogling an attractive woman as they surveyed the exquisite instrument of death.
As for the junkyard gang, Righty managed only with great effort to sound convincing when he inquired into the Chalky’s absence. He was told he had been killed by some unknown assailant, who had probably been hidden on the roof.
Given that Righty was starting to take a liking to Slim, he surprised the gang by not suggesting him as the most likely culprit, even though they were initially convinced Slim had set the whole thing up.
“I wouldn’t worry about Slim,” Righty advised. “My sources tell me he’s surrounded on all sides by traitors right now, and our departed Chalky most likely fell victim to one of Slim’s ambitious rivals, who felt that by killing one of my men right after he met with Slim I would then take out Slim for him. I don’t fool that easy. We’ll avenge Chalky in due time.”
He had then gone on to explain that it would probably be prudent for them to just stick to doing business with their retailers for now. After all, even if it was speedier to sell the twenty pounds Righty could provide daily to a single wholesaler, they ought to take into account that these retailers had been loyal customers while Slim was still the employee of Heavy Sam. While they should be prepared to forgive Slim’s past association to Sam, they should not turn their back on those who had been clients beforehand. Soon enough, he would have plenty for all, Righty assured them.
Secretly, they were a bit relieved. While it was faster selling to Slim—in fact, it took them the better part of a night to move twenty pounds amongst their retailers—they ended up making far more money when they sold the product in smaller quantities amongst a larger number of people, as they could more thoroughly take advantage of the bulk discount Mr. Brass was giving them.
“I also want to make it clear,” Right told them, “that we never cut our product. I’m not unaware that our product is starting to get a name for itself, and in the long run that means we can have some bloodless victories. We’ll let the quality speak for itself and the customers come to us. Anyone who dilutes the product with coffee or anything else will be betraying all of us,” he said sternly, not needing to explain the consequences.
To Righty’s relief, all of his associates seemed sincere when expressing their agreement with this new rule.
It was October 10, around 7:00 p.m. Righty had begun making the junkyard meetings earlier, as he saw no reason to put his marriage at risk by coming home late even when it was completely unnecessary, and since the junkyard gang had reported no problems with any of the retailers, he hadn’t felt his presence on the streets was needed.
As Righty was about to leave the junkyard and ride Harold home, he saw a lone horseman approaching. Suspecting it might be Tats, he told Harold in a calm voice—who was hundreds of feet above—not to come down yet. Minutes later, Tats arrived, looking thoroughly exhausted.
He seemed happy though when he looked at Righty.
“Tats! How are you?” Righty asked sincerely.
“Good!” Tats replied. “And I’ve got even better news.”
Chapter 17
Righty was a bit nervous when the carri
age driver dropped him off in front of the dark mansion at around 7:45 p.m. the evening of October 12. As he approached the gate in his promised black hat and light blue shirt, he was quickly greeted by several Rottweiler-faced security guards whose eyes growled at him.
One of them quickly stated, “Help you with something, sir?”
“I’m a friend of a friend wishing to talk to a friend.”
The guards looked at each other briefly, before opening the gate. One of them approached him rapidly and said “Lift ‘em” with a casualness that suggested he had long ago grown accustomed to the mundane task of frisking visitors to the estate of Rucifus.
“Not so fast, mister,” Righty said, taking a step back. “I’m one man stepping unprotected into an unknown fortress. If that’s an insufficient display of good faith, then this meeting is hereby cancelled.”
The man tried to stare Righty down but looked away after surviving only a few moments of Righty’s steely gaze.
“Watch him!” the man growled. Righty noticed he had a large moustache, and he went off in a huff into the darkness, leaving Righty under the supervision of his subordinates.
About twenty minutes later, Moustache came back, and made a “come along” gesture to the men, who then quickly surrounded Righty on all sides and began escorting him into the darkness.
Once they got a little further along the path from the gate towards the house, there were lamps alongside that gave Righty a pleasing view of the luxurious lawn that Tats had seen with even greater clarity, thanks to the fullness of the moon.
As he neared the door, he saw it was already open, and there were at least a dozen armed men surrounding it. As Righty looked at the light escaping from the house and disappearing into the ravenous darkness outside, he couldn’t completely discredit the possibility this was a divine sign whose meaning was that by the time he left this house whatever light that was left in him would be similarly consumed by darkness.
But his rigid resolve to proceed with what he believed was his destiny overrode unease inspired by the ill omen. Nonetheless, hairs stood on end on his forearms in a way they hadn’t since sitting around a campfire late at night telling ghost stories as a kid.
He couldn’t know whether he was still reeling from the aftereffect of the unpleasant augury or whether there was some new noxious stimulus tormenting his senses, but as he entered the palatial mansion, he could not fully shake the feeling that he was outside his body witnessing himself enter into a house of horrors. He felt grateful he had called the guard’s bluff about disarmament. Remembering his quick access to a razor-sharp sword calmed his senses slightly.
They walked through several hallways of opulent luxury, all of which served to make him feel like a subject entering into the domain of his sovereign. Finally, they entered a room that had no visible means of egress other than that through which they had entered, and so Righty knew he must be nearing his destination.
Then, he saw her.
Bathed in sparkling jewels, seated like an empress of legend on a large chair decked with gold, she dismissed with a single gesture the small army of fearsome bodyguards, with a lightness that suggested she saw them as little more than children acting a part.
She pointed to a seat that had been placed directly in front of her and pointed to it.
As Right made his way to it and began to sit, he noticed she was looking at him with all the intensity of a cobra studying a mouse.
A period of time that might be called longer than a moment elapsed in awkward silence, during which Righty was sure she would introduce herself or otherwise take the lead, giving that they were in her house.
Finally, she did so, but it only served to make Righty feel weaker about his position.
“May I help you with something, sir?” she said. Not quite flippantly, but her eyes had a gleam in them that implied this was every bit a trick question.
Righty froze for a moment, wondering what in the world would cause her to ask such a stupid question. Then, he remembered his insistence on a greeting in code, something he had forgotten about as soon as it was made clear he would be meeting her at her house.
“Heavens, isn’t it a blessed day,” Righty said, feeling utterly foolish as the words left his mouth.
“You could say so,” she replied. Her eyes smiled. As he looked into them, he felt sure he was looking into the eyes of a killer and wondered how many people’s last sight on earth was those same two eyes peering mercilessly at him now. And she didn’t look like just any kind of killer. He himself had crossed that threshold long ago, but he could at least soften his conscience with the knowledge it had been in pure self-defense or preemptive self-defense. His gut instinct was adamant, however, that this was a person who enjoyed killing and never bothered her conscience with an explanation.
Righty was on the verge of telling her that he had only told Tats that they should speak in code because he assumed they would be meeting in a semi-public place, but before he could she said, “I like dealing with a man who has attention to detail.”
Righty felt a bit emboldened by the compliment and decided it would be a good moment for him to show some spine. After all, this lady had changed the meeting date, and he had acquiesced. He was interested in a business relationship, but he wasn’t going to be bullied.
“I sell at $10,000 velurs per pound,” Righty said.
“But you sell for $10,000 falons per pound. Velurs are worth more.”
She had gotten this info from Tats clearly, but he couldn’t be mad at Tats for being transparent about something she could have soon discovered independently of him anyway.
“Transportation costs,” Righty said tersely.
“Is that for premium product, like what you gave me via my brother, or was that just to reel me in?” she asked.
“It’s the same,” he responded.
“Let’s see.”
A bit uneasy, Righty pulled out a pound and handed it to her. She pulled out and opened a switchblade faster than most women could extract a mirror, stuck it inside, and extracted a small amount. She put the edge of the blade towards her nose and inhaled just a tiny portion.
Her face quickly became animated, though it did nothing to reduce her aura of malevolence and arguably enhanced it.
She handed the pound back to Righty smiling.
“How many did you bring?”
He had agonized over this part. Tats had suggested he bring ten because they needed to at least provide ten to their retailers each night; anything less than that was likely to strain their loyalty.
“Ten,” Righty responded calmly.
“All the same quality?”
“Every last one,” he replied.
Rucifus snapped her fingers and whispered something into the summoned bodyguard’s ear. He then quickly scurried away. He returned a few moments later with a thick wad of currency.
“Count it,” Rucifus instructed Righty.
Righty saw they were all in denominations of one-thousand velurs. He counted a hundred and then handed Rucifus the ten pounds.
“This is a new area of business for me,” Rucifus said. “My brother’s probably already told you. But your product has impressed a lot of wealthy people and left them wanting more. You’ll be making quite a few of them happy by tomorrow. Would it be too presumptuous for us to schedule a meeting for a week from now at the same time?”
Righty had to blink a couple times to make sure he was looking at the same person. It was as if she were now another. Gone was the predatory stare he had beheld at the inception of their meeting, as was aggressive tone. Her eyes brimmed with intelligence, but her countenance seemed to have none of the malice he had previously observed. Instead, something bordering on friendliness was there. The sudden change made him feel relaxed and comfortable even though a deep part of his subconscious told him he was being deceived.
“Absolutely,” was his calm reply. In fact, this couldn’t be better. The connection was established, and yet she herself w
ould need at least a little time before demanding large quantities on a more frequent basis. In the interim, his plants would be growing, and if her demand exceeded his supply, at least he had the peace of mind knowing that every day that passed was another day towards seeing his immense crop of Smokeless Green come to fruition.
She warmly hugged him after a few minutes of small talk about her days in Sivingdel, and then the guards—now quite deferential to him—escorted him out with a liberal employment of phrases such as “Let me get that door for you, sir,” and “Turn right this way, please, sir.”
As he stepped outside into the darkness, he felt pure ecstasy at the conclusion of the successful meeting, and the memory of the ill omen had vanished from his mind as abruptly and mysteriously as Rucifus’s maleficent energy.
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