Procession of the dead tct-2

by Darren Shan

  "About what?" I asked.

  "Sound him out. Ask him how he plans to expand. What's in it for us? Whose turf is he after? Will he create problems we don't want to deal with? Is he going to be a threat to our friends? Ask questions, make him talk, find out as much as you can. This is the first of many meetings. You don't have to pump him dry."

  "Any chance he'll attack me?" I asked.

  Ford shrugged. "He knows we'd come after him if he did. But he's a mad Cuban Mick. Who can tell?"

  "Should I take a gun?"

  He shook his head. "You take a gun into a dark alley with Johnny Grace, and things go wrong, you're fucked. Without a gun he'll just kick the shit out of you if he loses his temper. But if he sees a piece…" He didn't have to finish.

  Adrian and I dressed for the occasion in the Skylight. We'd been fitted for new suits earlier that week and eased ourselves into them.

  "I feel like a pimp," Adrian complained.

  "You look like a pimp," I comforted him.

  "Do I have to come?" he asked. "I'm just your chauffeur. I'm not paid enough to get involved with crap like this. Why can't I just drive, like I normally do, and sit it out in the car?"

  "I want you there," I told him. "I might need you if things go wrong."

  "If things go wrong with the Grace Brothers, I won't make the slightest difference and you know it."

  I stopped trying to knot my tie. He was genuinely upset and I couldn't blame him. "Adrian," I said softly, "you're the only friend Ihave, the one person I can rely on. This is a big day for me and I'm about a hair's breadth away from losing my nerve and bolting. I need somebody to hold me in place. You don't have to come. I won't force you. But I'm asking, as a friend, will you help?"

  He considered it. "No," he said, then laughed and pulled up his socks. "You'll owe me big for this."

  "I'll see that you never want for anything again," I promised. "Neither in this world nor the next." I paused. "Which might not be as far away as we'd wish."

  We picked up Vincent in the lobby. He was coming along to observe me in action. He acted as if we were off to the movies. He lay in the back of the car and made us feel at ease with cute little stories. Like, "I saw Johnny Grace chew a man's balls off once. No kidding. He stripped him, went down on him and gnawed the fuckers off!" And, "Don't look at his feet. He's clubfooted and hates it when people stare. You let your eyes drop below his knees, he'll come at you like a pit bull."

  The meet was on neutral territory in a northern section of the southeast. The streets were narrow, clogged with uncollected garbage, refuse from street traders, burned-out cars. Every window was boarded over. The kids were dressed like Third World latchkey children, thin and mean.

  We arrived first. Parked at the head of the alley, paid a few local teenagers to guard the car, and ambled down a dark, rat-infested stretch of street. It was day, the sun bright in the sky, but few rays penetrated the overhanging roofs and clothes-strewn washing lines.

  Adrian and I stood against a wall while Vincent examined the layout. His hand kept going to the space at his side where his gun would normally be. I bet he would have brought one, regardless of orders, if they'd come from anyone other than Ford Tasso.

  "You've never been on a gig like this?" I asked Adrian.

  "Hell no," he said. "I've only been in this business a couple of years. And it's only temporary. A year or two more and I'm out of it. Out of this job, out of this city. I've only stuck it so far because of Sonja. She wants to see me doing well. You know how big sisters are."

  "Can't say I do."

  "Don't have any?"

  "No."

  "Brothers?"

  "No."

  "You're an only child?"

  "Obviously." I glanced at him. "Why the interest?"

  "You never talk about your parents, old friends, school or anything."

  "I don't?"

  "No."

  I scratched my head. "Didn't know you were so interested in my history. Let's see, I was born in…" As I thought about what to tell him, I noticed movement and stopped. "We're in business," I whispered, tapping his arm and pointing. Four men had stepped into view and were heading toward us. Vincent coughed and signaled for us to join him.

  They reached us and stood looking, three or four feet distant. Johnny Grace was small, light-skinned, but muscular. I didn't look at his feet to check if Vincent's story was true or not.

  "Who the fuck are you?" Johnny snapped.

  "Capac Raimi. This is Adrian Arne and Vincent Carell."

  "Where's Tasso?"

  "I'm Mr. Tasso's representative."

  He spat into the dust. "Fuck. You hear that?" His three men nodded seriously. "I come here, ready to do business with a man I respect, and get a fucking flunky. You think I'm a nobody? You think Johnny Grace wastes time on fucking boot-boys?"

  "Let's go," I said to Adrian and Vincent. I turned my back on Johnny Grace, praying he wouldn't stick a knife in it.

  "Hey! Where are you going?" His voice was startled, uncertain.

  I half-turned. "If you're not prepared to deal with me and my colleagues, we have no business here. I'll relay your dissatisfaction to Mr. Tasso and maybe next time he'll come personally." I smiled thinly. "To sort things out himself."

  Johnny twitched and looked at his gang. They were all uncomfortable now. I waited. "Shit, no need to get your feathers ruffled," he said in the end. "I was just disappointed, you know? I thought he'd come himself. But he's busy, he's got commitments, I know what it's like. Guess he couldn't make it, huh?" I said nothing. "OK, fuck it, I'm sorry," he shouted. "I apologize, all right?"

  "You want to talk?"

  "Yeah."

  "Good." I started back. "I think we should begin with-"

  Someone dropped from a nearby fire escape. A shadow fell by Johnny's feet, an arm slashed at him, then the shadow was among the other three Grace Brothers. More slashing hands, shouts, confusion. Then all three men were lying in the dirt, silent, still. Their assailant rose lithely to his feet.

  Johnny was staring at me, eyes wide, mouth open. I stared back, stunned. His hands were over his throat but I saw blood pouring through the cracks between his fingers.

  The man who'd dropped from the fire escape turned Johnny around. Johnny's hands fell by his sides. He tried to say something, to express shock, hatred or fear. But he couldn't. Johnny Grace was beyond words.

  The man drove a knife into Johnny's stomach, held it there a second, withdrew, let the body drop, walked past and stopped in front of Vincent.

  Vincent gulped deeply, his face ashen. "Wami," he croaked.

  "You know me?" the stranger asked. He had a smooth, mocking voice.

  "I recognize the snakes," Vincent said. "I've heard stories."

  "You work for…? "

  "The Cardinal. Ford Tasso. I'm with Tasso."

  "Then you may live." The man sheathed his knife and smiled. "Carry a message to Ford. Tell him I'm back. I'm here for my own reasons, but if he wants me, he knows how to get in touch."

  "I'll do that. I'll-"

  The assassin brushed by Vincent and looked at Adrian and me. He was black, one of the darkest men I'd ever seen, about six feet tall, moderately built, completely bald. He had no facial hair but sported a tattoo on either cheek, colorful snakes which streaked down the sides of his face, came up under his chin and met in the center beneath his lips. His eyes were a striking green. He was ageless, maybe thirty, maybe fifty. He was the most terrifying person I'd ever seen, and that included The Cardinal and Ford Tasso.

  "You," he said. "What's your name?"

  "Capac Raimi," I stuttered.

  He smiled. "An Ayuamarcan. I thought so. And you?" he asked Adrian.

  "Adrian Arne. Sir."

  He slid closer and gazed into Adrian's eyes. "Yes," he muttered. "You're one too. A lesser specimen, I suspect. Interesting."

  With that he made his way back to the fire escape. He leaped, caught the lowest rung and hauled himself up. Within secon
ds he'd returned to the roofs of the city and disappeared from sight.

  I looked around at the corpses. I was reminded of the scene with Uncle Theo at the warehouse. Could I expect this every time I attended a meet of gangsters?

  "Fuck!" Vincent spat on Johnny Grace and stormed back to the car. Adrian and I followed.

  "Who was that?" Adrian asked but Vincent ignored him.

  "Who was he?" I repeated but Vincent didn't seem to hear. He was too busy cursing. "Vincent!" I snapped. "Who the fuck was that?"

  He looked up. "That was Paucar fucking Wami, man." He paused and shook his head. "That was death on fucking legs." And he wouldn't say any more during the whole ride back.

  When I wasn't working or hanging out with Adrian, I spent most of my time with Y Tse and Leonora. They'd set themselves up as my sponsors and were doing their best to guide and instruct me. While they weren't the powerful players I'd hoped to be headhunted by, both had been close to The Cardinal and knew him as a man, not a master. They were able to describe at least part of his state of mind, something nobody else in the city could have.

  "Always stick by your guns," Y Tse told me. "Stand up for yourself and say what you think. Everybody here"-he waved around the restaurant-"wants things done the correct way. They want you to obey their rules, follow orders, think and speak as they dictate. They don't want dissent.

  "You've got to ignore that. Be prepared to spit in their faces and laugh at their rules. Discreetly if possible but openly if not. You can't let them order you about. If you do, you become their servant. You might go further faster by being a yes-man, but The Cardinal has thousands of them, so what's one more?"

  "I've got to confront and antagonize him. Take no shit."

  "Yes." He sounded uncertain. "But you mustn't push him for the sake of it. I'm not telling you to fire him up whenever you get the chance. Just speak your mind. If he asks for your opinion, give it. You don't want to make an enemy of him, but you mustn't be afraid to risk his wrath by contradicting him."

  "You cannot play safe, Capac," Leonora added. "Dorry will kill you or king you. If you are determined to strike for the top, you must accept that it has to be one or the other."

  Another day she told me how to deal with The Cardinal's fits of rage. "He can fly off the handle any moment. There is no logic to his tantrums. He does not care who is present, what he says or does. Dorry cannot control his temper. There is a fury in his soul which can neither be explained nor quenched. It drives him on. In an earlier age he would have carried a sword and ravaged heedlessly. In these more civilized times he has to channel those urges. He does. Barely.

  "It is not easy. When I first met him, he was a teenager, yet already he had killed more than twenty men. He was roaring through the streets, out of control, on his way to an early death. I was able to calm him. I taught him to suppress his anger, keep his fists in his pockets and fight his inner enemies. The effort almost broke him but he kept struggling and eventually he reached a point where he could sit at a table with a foe and debate their differences, rather than rip the other man's jugular out with his teeth, which is his natural reaction."

  Her eyes were soft. Even describing him at his worst, enraged, bloodthirsty and murderous, she spoke of him fondly. She lovedhim.

  "But he cannot control his anger all the time," she went on. "Every so often it bubbles up and he rips into whatever is closest. If there is furniture and blank walls, he will vent his rage on those. If people are present, they suffer the consequences."

  "He doesn't look that tough," I said. "I think I could take him in a fair fight if it was one-on-one."

  She laughed. "Nobody can take The Cardinal. His rage lends him strength. It is frightening to watch. He changes before your eyes. His body does not get bigger but it seems like yours gets smaller. I have seen him punch holes in brick walls, lift men twice his weight above his head. That strength comes from somewhere beyond the realms of fleshly bounds."

  She leaned forward and spoke softly, her face ashen, the only time I ever saw her truly afraid. "He is a god, Capac," she hissed. "He does things the rest of us could never mimic, manipulates the world and the people in it like a magician. When all is said and done, it is as simple as that. Dorry is a god."

  About a week after the failed meet with Johnny Grace, Adrian dragged me out of the office, bundled me into the car and drove east. He took me further into the city's heart of darkness than I'd ever been, down streets a vampire wouldn't stroll alone. I felt uneasy and kept as low in the seat as I could. This wasn't our ground. These people respected The Cardinal but would think nothing of taking out a couple of his men.

  "Are you sure about this?" I asked Adrian.

  "Trust me," he said, turning down a lane barely wide enough to accommodate the car. "This guy knows everything about the city. He's ancient, over a hundred according to the rumors. He was big, decades ago, before The Cardinal. These days he takes it easy. He's got a couple of girls working the streets for him-more for information than money-but apart from that he just sits back and talks."

  His name was Fabio and I could well believe he was on the other side of a hundred. When we pulled up he was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair, listening to old jazz music on one of those vinyl record players I dimly remembered from the far past. Adrian hailed the old man, who waved back pleasantly. He warned us with a finger not to say anything until the record was finished. A few minutes later, when the last trumpet had sounded, he examined my face, stuck a pair of false teeth out of his mouth and leered at me. When he sucked them back in he said, "So you ran into Paucar Wami."

  The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. Nobody would tell me who Wami was, not Vincent, Leonora, even Y Tse, who'd normally be quite happy to tell me what color underpants he was wearing.

  "You know him?" I asked.

  "Sure. Know him from way back, before you were born most prob'ly. He a bad mother, the worst I've seen, and I seen plenty of 'em pass in my time. That guy'd kill his own folks, then chop 'em up and make a stew of the bones. Prob'ly did."

  "Who is he?" I asked.

  "He Paucar Wami." Fabio smiled. "He got more names than that. Each time he comes back he has a new name. Police have plenty of names for him too. The Black Angel. The Weasel. The Carver."

  "The Carver?" Adrian frowned. "I heard about him. Some serial killer back in the 70s or 80s. I heard Sonja talk about him once."

  "That him. He didn't kill too many as the Carver, no more'n nine or ten."

  "You're saying this Paucar Wami has been killing people since the 1970s?" I asked. "And he's never been caught?"

  "He smart," Fabio said. "Never sticks to one identity too long. Keeps moving. Only comes back here every three or four year, if that. It's been nearly seven since his last visit."

  "That's all he is? Just a serial killer?"

  "Just!" Fabio laughed. "Murder ain't enough for you, boy?"

  "I mean does he work for anybody? The way he took out Johnny Grace and his boys, it looked like he was on a job."

  "He for hire," Fabio said. "Sure. Most of the time he does it for fun but he don't mind killing for pay too. But he don't exactly advertise. Anybody want him, they spread the word and he gets in contact if he likes. Mostly he don't."

  "Has he ever worked for The Cardinal?"

  Fabio shrugged. "I heard tales, long ago, that he was The Cardinal's man first and foremost, and everything else was a sideline. But who knows?" A car drove by and Fabio peered in the windows, noting the passengers. "Why you so interested?" he asked when the car was gone.

  "I like to know who I'm dealing with," I said.

  "Dealing with?" Fabio laughed. "Boy, you don't deal with Paucar Wami. He the one does the deals." He rocked forward in the chair and pointed a cracked old finger at me. "And you better hope to shit he never does a deal with you, 'cos his deals always end the same way, him on top, the other dead. You be safer doing a deal with daddy death himself!"

  Adrian dropped me back at the Skylight.
He was going on to a party. He'd invited me along but I didn't feel up to it. My head was throbbing and all I wanted was a good night's sleep.

  "You sure you don't want to come?" he asked for the tenth time. "Liz'll be there. Remember Liz?"

  "Not tonight," I told him. "Another time."

  "Your loss."

  He drove off, blowing the horn, loosening his tie, firing himself up for the night ahead. I entered the hotel.

  I was in the elevator when I saw the woman again. It was a face I'd been glimpsing at odd moments. A woman's face which would flash across the back of my eyes, leaving a vague impression. When I tried to focus, the image slipped away like a gypsy in the night. There were no memories to go with it. I didn't know where I'd seen her or why she was cropping up in my thoughts. Probably just my brain playing tricks. I'd more than likely passed her on the street one day and filed her image away for one obscure reason or another.

  The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, I stepped out and the shadow of the woman was gone. I tried to focus on it again, couldn't, shrugged it off and walked to my room.

  I checked the TV stations-nothing on. I accessed the Skylight's movie database and scrolled through the titles. In the end I went for Singin' in the Rain. I'd seen it a hundred times but great is great. I set it to begin in five minutes, enough time to let me go to the toilet and wash my hands.

  I heard it starting while I was soaping up. I rinsed, splashed my face with cold water and hurried back.

  There was a girl sitting on my bed, watching the opening credits with wide eyes and a smile. "This is one of my favorite pictures of all time," she said, her voice curiously tinny and cracked. I thought maybe she'd had her tonsils out recently.

  "Uh, yeah," I replied uncertainly. "Mine too." I shifted closer to get a better look. She had a bright face, very little makeup. Shiny blond hair, long and sweeping. Heavy clothes covering every inch of her below the head-a polo-neck sweater, long trousers, white gloves. She couldn't have been more than thirteen or fourteen. A sweet-looking girl.

  "I'm not that fond of musicals," she said. "They're dumb. People bursting into song every moment…" She snorted. "But not this one. Gene Kelly's so perfect. I wanted to run out and marry him the first time I saw it."