by Darren Shan
“Agreed,” I said shortly.
“Good.” He rubbed his hands together and raised an eyebrow at Sonja. She took the hint, stood and awaited permission to withdraw. He turned to me for the final time that night, a king dismissing one of his servants.
“You may go now,” he said. “You begin work tomorrow, whenever Miss Arne summons you. A morning meeting at Shankar’s, I imagine.” He looked to her for confirmation and she nodded. “Mr. Tasso will escort you to your new lodgings. He will also contact you in the near future, depending on how you fare in your day job, and teach you a few things other than insurance. That is all, Mr. Raimi. Learn quickly. Work hard. Believe.”
And that was it. He’d lost interest in me. I rose, heart beating fast, knees shaking, and followed Sonja out to where Ford Tasso was waiting for us.
“Still alive, kid?” he smirked.
“Christ,” Sonja said, dabbing at her forehead with a crisp handkerchief. “You never get used to that. It’s been four years since I was in there last. I didn’t know until he started talking if he’d called me in to promote or kill me.” She smiled weakly and squinted at me. She almost looked jealous. “There was no question of him killing you though. He’s got the hots for you. Even called you Mr. Raimi.”
Ford’s head came up. “ Mr. Raimi?” he echoed.
“What’s so unusual about that?” I asked.
“The Cardinal calls those he likes by their first name. He uses surnames for people he’s doing business with. Only those closest to him get called Mr., Mrs. or Miss. I was with him eight years before he started calling me Mr. Tasso. It’s a mark of approval, a sign you’ve arrived and are here to stay. I’ve never heard him use it with some kid he’s had dragged in off the street.”
He pinched my chin, tilted my head left and right, then grunted. “Looks like you’re going places, kid. I figure it’s just as well I didn’t let Vincent waste you. Come on.” He punched me on the arm. “Let’s get you settled in for the night. How does the notion of a room at the Skylight grab you?”
“Sounds good,” I mumbled, then let him lead the way down to the ground floor, where we collected our shoes and hailed another limo.
Party Central, Shankar’s, the Skylight. They were the three architectural pillars on which The Cardinal’s empire rested. I couldn’t have dreamed of entering any of them just six hours earlier.
The Skylight Hotel was a huge box of metal and glass, encircled by a sea of gleaming cars. The city was full of hotels but the Skylight was where the cream came. Large wide-screen TVs in every room for starters, with a digital video library you could access whenever you liked. Four bars. Three swimming pools. Two gyms. A world-class restaurant. A wireless system and telephone lines which were the safest in the city, regularly scanned for bugs by the best experts money could buy. Free drugs compliments of the management (police never raided the Skylight). A spa frequented by movie stars. Computerized locks on every door. No theft or unauthorized soliciting—the Skylight was guarded by the Troops.
Ford said nothing while we checked in. The girl behind the desk smiled, took my signature and fingerprints, then asked if I had a passport-sized photograph. I didn’t, so she took my photo with a digital camera. A bulb flashed, capturing my startled expression, then she printed it on her PC.
We were there eight minutes max. During that time I saw two TV stars, a big-name actress who’d have been mobbed anywhere else, several gangsters (all at least five times as powerful as Theo had been), more millionaires than I’d seen in my previous six months in the city.
When the receptionist handed me my pass card, a bemused Capac Raimi gazed up at me, his name, prints and room number lying neatly down the left.
“This is your credit bar,” she told me, tapping a thin metallic line. “Present this at any of the leisure facilities and you’ll be taken care of.”
“How much credit do I have?” I asked.
“Unlimited,” she replied.
“Can I afford this?” I asked Tasso.
“The Cardinal’s picking up the tab.”
“Are all his subjects treated this well?”
“Just his pets. Come on. I’ve a bed to get back to.”
The elevator was ordinary compared with the one in Party Central. Large, modern, clean, but unattended and without dramatic operational procedures.
We got out on the eighth floor. It was a short walk to my room. I ran the card through the scanner at the side. There was a sharp buzz, the door slid open and we entered. It was small, nothing special, a letdown after the glamour of the lobby. A few prints, ordinary carpets, plastic flowers in a vase.
“What do you think?” Ford asked, dimming the lights.
“It’ll do,” I said, trying not to sound disappointed.
“You can order up stuff if you want,” he said. “More pictures. Statues. A four-poster bed. You can even change the carpets. They’ve got a catalogue of extras—you’ll find it in one of the drawers—designed to please.”
That sounded more like it! “At any rate, it’s better than Uncle Theo’s new resting place,” I joked.
“You don’t seem too upset by his death,” Tasso remarked.
I shrugged. “I’d only known him a few months. We were in a dirty business, we knew the risks. It’s the way things go.”
Ford nodded. “You’ve got the right attitude.”
“The Cardinal certainly thinks so,” I said smugly, “and he’s never wrong.”
“No,” Ford contradicted me, “he’s often wrong. But who’s gonna tell him?”
“What do you think he’s got in mind for me?” I asked.
“I don’t know, kid. The Cardinal doesn’t confide in anyone. You learn to live with that and take no offense, or you get out quick. Speaking of which…”
He left and I was alone for the first time that long and unbelievable night.
I moved about the room in a daze, replaying my conversations with Ford Tasso and The Cardinal. At times I was sure I’d dreamed it all, that I’d died by the docks and this was my final dream. I’d wake up any minute and…
I realized I hadn’t been to the toilet in almost—I checked my watch—nine hours! I rectified that, then washed my hands, brushed my teeth and prepared for bed. I was about to climb under the covers when it struck me that, in all my months in the city, I’d yet to watch a sunrise. I dragged a chair over to the window, pulled back the curtains and sat down for nature’s finest show. My head was still spinning and my fingers were shaking from delayed shock. I let my head loll back a moment to relieve the tension in my neck and before I could stop myself I was asleep and the sun was left to rise without an audience.
airiway
A maid woke me at seven to say Sonja Arne was expecting me for breakfast at Shankar’s in forty-five minutes. If I was late, I’d have to go hungry until lunch.
I splashed water over my face, scraped the crust from my eyes, brushed back my hair, didn’t shave—I’d call it designer stubble—sprayed under my armpits, slipped into my gear from the night before and was set to go.
The concierge spotted me in the lobby—I don’t know how she knew me, since she hadn’t been on duty when I arrived—and asked if I required a limo. I said I’d take a cab instead—they were more my style—and one of the bellboys hailed one for me. As I relaxed and stared off into space, I thought I recognized the back of the driver’s head. He looked like the guy who’d picked me up half a year ago when I first came to this jungle of metal, glass and brick.
“Do you get many fares around the Skylight?” I asked, sounding him out.
“Nah,” he replied gruffly. “Most of that lot are too high and mighty for a car like this.” He had a curious way of accenting random words. I was sure it was him now.
“How about train stations? Do you—” I began as he stopped for a red light, but he cut me short.
“Look,” he snapped, “just can it. I want nothing to do with your kind, OK? I’m giving you a ride, let’s leave it at that.”
“No need to get aggressive,” I grumbled. “I was just trying to be friendly. I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care what you meant,” he interrupted. “I’m not interested.” He honked at a pedestrian and was getting ready to wind down his window when the lights changed and he had to move on or risk being bulldozed by the river of cars to our rear.
“You work for The Cardinal, right?” he sneered. “Big man. Throws his money around like confetti. And everybody grabs, smiles and puckers up to kiss his hairy old ass. Sickening.”
“You sound like you’ve had a run-in with him,” I said.
“Me? Nah. I’m just a cabbie. I’ve never even seen him.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“What he’s done to this city. This was a good place to live. It had its problems, sure, but the scum knew their place and stuck to it. These days they run riot. Dirt everywhere you look. Everybody on the take. Because of him.”
“Why don’t you leave if you hate it that much?”
“Leave!” If he’d had a cigar, he’d have spat it out. “Why should I? It’s my city too. I pay taxes, I earn my living. Nathanael Mead moves for no man.”
“Nathanael Mead,” I repeated. “I’ll remember that.”
“Do,” he sniffed, then let me off at Shankar’s a couple of minutes later. I thought he might refuse the tip, me being one of the Anti-christ’s footmen, but he took it, albeit grudgingly.
The maître d’ was all smiles when I introduced myself. He treated me like a favorite regular and escorted me to table nineteen, waving aside the aides who normally seated the guests.
Shankar’s was owned by Leonora Shankar, the woman behind The Cardinal in his formative years. The hippest restaurant in the city, where everybody who was anybody wanted to eat. But all the money in the world couldn’t snare you a seat unless you were part of The Cardinal’s crew. It was reserved for his people, from the shoeboys to the Troops to the executives. The food was great, the atmosphere delightful, and The Cardinal always covered the tab. One of the perks of the job. Occasionally the doors would open to a nonmember but outsiders were rare and carefully monitored.
It was a huge, one-room complex, divided into two levels. The upper floor was made of glass and completely transparent—women with skirts and dignity usually dined below. It was a place of glass, marble and steel. Leonora Shankar was renowned for her cold tastes. There were no carpets or rugs. Lots of people complained about the decor, but when you were getting your meals gratis it was hard to be too critical.
There was no privacy in Shankar’s. Everybody was there on The Cardinal’s business and had nothing to fear. It was the safest spot in the city, short of Party Central. Impossible to bug or infiltrate. There was an unwritten law that nothing heard in Shankar’s could ever be discussed outside. It was a law everyone paid strict attention to—the cost of breaking it was instant execution.
There was a man with Sonja when I arrived, as strange a figure as you were likely to find, swathed in sweeping robes and scarves, sandals, hair long and plaited with colorful ribbons, face covered in tattoos which looked real from a distance but were just paint. He sprang to his feet when I reached the table and before I could speak he jabbed a bony finger at me. “Are you Capac Raimi?” When I nodded, he shrieked theatrically and threw his hands in the air. “Too soon!” he yelled, then spun around and dashed off.
“Who the hell was that?” I asked, bemused.
Sonja smiled. “He’ll introduce himself when the time’s right. I’d hate to steal his thunder.”
“That guy works for The Cardinal?”
“He used to,” she said. “He was a highflier once, but then he quit and now he’s a nobody. He’s left alone on The Cardinal’s orders, comes and goes as he pleases. A lot of people would like to see him dead. Ford Tasso’s one. There’s nothing Ford hates more than a quitter. Personally I like him. I think you will too. Did you sleep well?”
“Not really. I nodded off in a chair, waiting for dawn to break.” I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to massage out the stiffness. “How about you?”
“Same as usual. Popped a pill and slept like a baby. Do you want anything special for breakfast or do you trust me to order?”
“I place myself at your mercy.”
She ordered toast and cornflakes, low-fat butter and skimmed milk on the side. “This is it?” I asked, disappointed. I was expecting something more exotic.
“I believe in simple starts,” she said.
I buttered my toast, milked my cornflakes and ate. “Tell me,” I mumbled, “and please interrupt if I’m being rude, but what you said last night—was it true?”
“About being a prostitute?”
“Yeah.”
“True.”
“Oh.”
“You don’t approve?” she smiled.
“I thought it was something people fell into when all else failed,” I said. “You made it sound like a career move.”
“It was,” she said. “I’d never go back, and I wouldn’t have started if I’d thought I couldn’t move on to something better, but I’m not ashamed of my life. I did what I had to.”
“But surely it affected your love life. What did your boyfriend think?”
“I didn’t have one,” she said. “My current girlfriend wouldn’t have approved, but I didn’t meet her until later, so that wasn’t an issue.”
“You’re a… ?” I coughed uncomfortably.
“Yes,” she laughed as I blushed. “And in case you were going to ask, I didn’t turn to women because of my traumatic experiences with men while on the streets.”
“The question never entered my mind.”
“I bet.” She poured some milk into a crystal glass, took a sip, wiped around her mouth with her satin napkin. “This is Adrian,” she said.
I turned and looked back. A young man was standing directly behind me, a baseball cap held between his joined hands in a stance of mock respect.
“Hi, Sis,” he said, drawing up a chair. “What’s hanging?”
“This is Capac Raimi. You’re going to be assisting him.”
“Nice to meetja,” he said, nodding.
“Likewise. You’re Sonja’s brother?”
“Yeah. Can’t you see the similarity?”
“No.” The two were as different as mud and gold. While Sonja was cool and sophisticated, this guy was dressed in jeans and a creased shirt. She was dark, he was pale. Different hair and faces. Plus she was a couple of decades his senior—he couldn’t have been much more than twenty.
He chuckled. “You’re thinking of the age gap, right? She looks old enough to be my mother.” Sonja punched his arm. “I was a late arrival,” he said. “A gift from the gods. Surprised the shit out of Mom and Dad, eh, Sis?”
“To put it mildly.”
“So, what’s the brief?” he asked.
“Capac’s our latest recruit. He’ll be under my direct supervision. I want you to take care of him, show him around, introduce him to the fun people and places. See to his needs. Educate him. Be his friend.”
“See?” he whined. “She even tells me who my friends should be!” He pretended to cry, then shrugged indifferently. “I don’t care. It’ll be nice to have someone my own age around.”
She wiped her mouth, placed her utensils neatly on one of the side plates and got up. “You can start by driving us back to the office, so I can set him up with a cubicle and get him started.”
“Can you wait a couple of minutes? I haven’t had breakfast.”
“Tough,” she snapped.
He shook his head sadly and clicked his teeth. “All part and parcel of working for your sister,” he sighed. “Family and work should never mix. Coming?”
“Might as well,” I said, finishing my toast. “I wouldn’t want to miss my ride.” I looked at the table and put a hand in my pocket. “Do we leave tips?”
“Not in Shankar’s. Nor the Skylight. The big guy pays the waitresses top rate
s. They sign a contract when they join, promising not to accept gratuities.”
“It’s strange not tipping,” I said. “I feel like a cheapskate, like Steve Buscemi in Reservoir Dogs .”
“Great movie,” Adrian said. “They don’t make them like that any- more. Don’t worry,” he said, clapping me on the back, “you’ll get used to it. There’s lots of differences when you sign on with The Cardinal.”
The next few months were tedious and long. I’d never sold anything in my life, or had to deal with the public face-to-face. Never had to go into a meeting with somebody I knew nothing about, whose trust I had to earn and then slyly exploit.
I was expected to be a great salesman. I was under orders to pick up in weeks what others spent years learning. Sonja chose my clothes, enrolled me for elocution lessons, worked on my posture. She taught me to read people at a glance, how to scrutinize faces, note nervous tics and shrugs of fake confidence. A couple of nights a week were devoted to security footage. She’d bring home a box full of discs scavenged from some of The Cardinal’s many shops and stores. We’d watch face after face, body after body, analyzing, discussing, theorizing, until I wished I’d been washed up on a desert island at birth and never seen another human.
I blew a lot of my early meetings. I’d lose my way in the middle, the paperwork would become overwhelming, my tongue would run away from me. I’d forget what I was selling. Sonja didn’t mind. She said I had one thing most other salespeople would have killed for—the freedom to screw up. I didn’t have to worry about a mortgage, my job, a family, bills. This was mere education.
In time I improved, learned how to read faces, to fish around until I found the right bait to make the sale. Every customer was different, each wanted something unique, and the trick was tapping into that. There was no set patter, no definitive approach. Some needed coaxing, some bullying, some bribing. Sometimes you had to throw every policy in the book at them, in the hope one would stick. Other times you needed to focus on one lone premium.
The most important thing I gleaned—the reason The Cardinal put me there—was that it’s re action which makes a man powerful, not action. I thought plans could take you to the top, that success came from knowing more than everybody else, preparing better, moving faster.
