by Darren Shan
“I think they were more worried about famine or flooding, not what it was going to be like on their walk to the office,” I said drolly, but The Cardinal only grunted.
“Since most of the evidence—as such—was pretty flaky, I decided to make up my own rules and applications.” He stopped to pick up a purplish morsel that looked no different from any other part of the unfortunate Simon Spanton’s innards. He studied it curiously, then licked it and smacked his lips together, eyes distant. I came very close to throwing up, but I just about managed to keep my supper down.
“I decided to connect divination to the stock market,” The Cardinal said casually, as if it were no big thing. “I had the corpses of several executives from major companies delivered to me. I sliced them open, studied what I found, looked at how the patterns played when set against the fortunes of their companies before and after their deaths and took it from there.”
“I don’t get it,” I frowned, staring at the guts on the floor. “I don’t see any patterns.”
“It’s all in the eye of the beholder,” The Cardinal chuckled. “Like with a Rorschach test. I look at Simon Spanton’s remains and find a picture of a troubled man. He wasn’t at ease when he passed. Problems at the office. He was stressed, even though he had no obvious reason to be. His company’s been performing well of late, but appearances can be deceptive. I own a substantial share of their stock already and was planning to buy more. But if Spanton’s guts are anything to go by, it’s time to sell.”
I blinked but I still couldn’t see anything. “So you’re telling me this is how you determine what to buy and sell, how you trade? You study the guts of a dead exec and base your plans on what you see in his entrails?”
“Crazy, isn’t it?” The Cardinal grinned. “But it works. Maybe it’s coincidence. Maybe I’m just on the luckiest roll ever. But for fifteen years I’ve yet to make a serious wrong call. I rule markets around the world. This is how.”
“What if nobody dies?” I asked. “Executives can’t be dropping like flies. How do you make a call if there aren’t any company corpses?”
The Cardinal smiled like an angel. “They say only God gives and only God takes away. But Cardinals can give and take too. If the Grim Reaper needs a helping hand from time to time…”
As I stared at him wordlessly, he slapped my back and thrust his tools aside. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to the office. I don’t know why, having eaten just before we came down, but I feel devilishly peckish all of a sudden…”
Back on the fifteenth floor, he ordered and wolfed down a plate of ribs. A few memo sheets were stuck to his desk. He examined them briefly as he ate. “Miss Arne tells me you’re a natural salesman,” he said, licking sauce from his fingers. “Already one of our best agents. Says you’ll be running her office this time next year.”
I smiled. “That’s nice, but bull. I make my share of sales. But I’ve no stomach for it. As a learning exercise it’s fine, but beyond that…”
“Yes, Mr. Raimi? What lies beyond that ? ”
“I was hoping you’d tell me,” I said.
“In time,” he said teasingly. “You’ve got a few more tricks to pick up before I think about moving you anywhere. You’re learning quickly. Mr. Tasso told me how you handled our Jewish friend. Impressive. Brutal, merciless, sly. I like that. Most would have beaten the signature out of him—effective but so unstylish.”
“I did OK,” I said smugly. “Better than I fared with Johnny Grace.”
He waved the matter away. “No blame there.”
“You heard about it?”
“I hear about everything, Mr. Raimi.”
“You’re not angry?”
“Better men than you have run up against Paucar Wami. Nobody’s ever come away any the stronger. I would have preferred Johnny Grace alive, but I’m not about to get into a fight with Paucar Wami over him.”
“Wami seems to be a taboo subject around here,” I noted. “Nobody wants to talk about him.”
The Cardinal nodded slowly. “There are people who never worry about walking under ladders, spilling salt or stepping on a crack. Then they meet Paucar Wami and cross themselves whenever anyone mentions his name.”
“Is he as bad as that?” I asked seriously.
“Yes.” He paused. “How much do you know about him?”
“He’s a killer. Been around for thirty or forty years—though he looks much younger. He used to work for you, I think. Maybe still does.”
The Cardinal smiled. “That’s more than most people ever find out.” He gazed at his hands and watched his twisted little finger wiggle about. “Paucar Wami was my greatest… creation .” He chose the word carefully. “I discovered him, encouraged him, set him on his way. He’s a lethal killing machine. Death is his coin of choice.
“I used him in the 70s and 80s to rid myself of troublesome opponents, those who stood in my way, who were stronger than me, too well guarded to be attacked in the usual manner. Wami’s unstoppable once he starts. Nothing can deter him. He took out sixteen of the most powerful men in the city in a couple of years. Killed them in their beds, their mansions, at parties for their children.” He shook his head admiringly.
“We haven’t worked so closely since,” he went on. “Wami is too hot for one master to handle. He travels the world, killing for money, for fun. Whatever. He still works for me when I need him, which isn’t often these days.
“Now,” he changed the subject abruptly, “what about a home? You’ve been in the Skylight long enough. Time we did right by you. What are you interested in? I’ll pay for it. No mansion—not yet—but I’ll stretch to a nice top-floor apartment in the business district. Or perhaps you’re a riverfront man?”
“Actually, I was hoping you’d let me stay on at the Skylight.”
He smiled quizzically. “What’s the attraction? Do you like the food, the room service, the fact you don’t have to lift a finger? I’m sure you can get a maid when you—”
“It’s not that,” I blurted. “It’s a… a woman.”
He laughed snidely. “I see. A femme fatale has her claws in you at last. It had to happen, an eligible bachelor like you. Enjoy her. I hope it works out. But surely she can move with you? Unless you’re reluctant to commit?”
After a brief hesitation I decided I might as well tell him about Conchita. “It’s not a romance. She’s sick. I’m her friend. That’s all.”
“I didn’t think sick people were allowed in the Skylight. I’ll have to look into this—don’t want people thinking I’m running a health spa.”
“Conchita’s an exception. She—”
“Conchita? ” he barked, then frowned as if racking his memory. “Conchita…” He stirred in his chair and brought one hand up to rub his forehead. “…Kubelik ? ”
“Kubekik,” I corrected him. “You know her?” I was mildly surprised, but then again her husband had been a gangster and The Cardinal was an expert in his field. This might be my chance to learn more about Ferdinand Wain.
“I knew her once, yes.” He sounded distracted.
“Her husband was a gangster, right? Ferdinand Wain.”
“Yes.” He half-turned away from me. He looked confused for a moment, but a second later he faced me and his confusion—if it had existed at all—was a thing of the past. “Yes, I knew Ferdinand and his tragic young wife. Conchita Wain was exceptional. She used to light up a room like women do in trashy novels. Every man bent over backward to please her.” He was smiling at the memory.
“Then her disease struck.” He grew somber. “A terrible thing. I tried to help. For once I acted selflessly, put Ferdinand in touch with some of the finest doctors in the country, loaned him the money to pay for their services. But they couldn’t cure her. When all hope faded, I gave her a room on the top floor of the Skylight, so she could at least suffer where no one could bother her. Not many people have found a soft spot in my heart.”
He stopped talking and directed his thoug
hts inward.
This was an unexpected turn. The Cardinal acting like a human? Maybe he wasn’t so terrible after all.
“Was Ferdinand any relation to Neil Wain?” I asked.
“Cousins, I think.”
“What happened to him?”
“Dead. Long dead. Killed.”
“How?”
“The money I loaned him to cover Conchita’s medical bills? He fell behind on the repayments.”
He said nothing further and I was too shocked to break the silence. Human? The Cardinal? Not a chance.
“Anyway,” he started up again, “back to business. There’s an old acquaintance I want you to visit. Cafran Reed. He owns a restaurant not too far north of here. He’s an old adversary of mine. Not a foe, you understand—I like Cafran and want no harm to come to him. We’re sparring partners. Every so often I send one of my agents out to him with a new insurance offer, and every time he sends it back unsigned. It’s a game, an interesting little battle we’ve been staging for years. He’s one of the few men I haven’t been able to get on my side, one of the rare birds I haven’t tagged.”
“Is he wealthy?” I hadn’t heard of him before, and by that time I knew most of the major movers and shakers.
“No. I don’t want to snare Cafran Reed to make money. I want him because of the challenge. He doesn’t want insurance or protection. He believes in taking life as it comes, dealing with crises only as they arise. If you can convince him—by fair means, let me stress again, not foul—that it would be in his benefit to take out one of our policies, I would be most impressed.”
“And if I fail?”
He sniffed. “As I said, I’ve sent my best people to him before. I don’t expect you to win him over. I’m more interested in the manner of your failure than the slim possibility of your success. I want to see how you handle a man like Reed, how you try to crack an impenetrable nut. There will be no penalties. Look on it as a trial test, where the experience is more important than the result.
“Now I’m a busy man, Mr. Raimi.” He motioned to the door but I stayed in my seat.
“I’ve a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh?” He glanced at his watch, considered tossing me out, decided to humor me. “Very well. Ask quickly.”
“What sort of deal do you want me to strike with Cafran Reed? Any particular policy?”
“No. The cheapest or most expensive, or any in between. Hook him any way you can, as long as it’s legal. Next question?”
I nodded over my shoulder. “The people outside. I wondered who they were, what they were doing here.”
“Informants,” he said. “My eyes and ears in the city. They come from all over, every walk of life, with all manner of tales. They tell me what their neighbors are eating, what their bosses are wearing. If they see a murder, they come here. If they hear a rumor, they let me know. If their spouses change their hairstyle, I get the lowdown first. I’ll listen to anybody who cares to talk. They keep me in touch with the spirit of the city, its mind and emotions. Through them I get to know the people I’m master of, their whims, wishes, fears. I listen, store the information away, let it swirl around inside my head, and occasionally use a byte or two.”
“What do they get in return?” I asked.
“Favors. Sometimes money. Mostly just the promise of a good turn. I’m a worthy ally, a generous friend. These people tell me about their lives and in return I help them if they ask. I get their children jobs, make houses available, swing deals their way. The usual carrots one hangs before a human horse.”
“How do they know to come? Who tells them?”
“Word spreads, as it always does. I hold court a couple of nights a week. They come. They speak. I listen. You can send the first one in on your way out. Good night, Mr. Raimi.” And that was the end of that.
inti maimi
I had breakfast with Y Tse and Leonora in Shankar’s the next morning and gave them a full report of the meeting. Y Tse was delighted that I’d been set a test by The Cardinal—more confirmation, if any were needed, that he was genuinely interested in me.
There was still no sign of Adrian. After leaving Shankar’s I called my office, told them I’d be late and went to check his apartment. Thomas drove swiftly and silently, disinterested as ever. I rang the bell a few times when I got there, pounded on the door when that failed and ended up shouting through the mail slot. No answer. I tried peering in the windows but there were heavy curtains draped across them. I was giving serious thought to putting a foot through a pane of glass when a voice out of nowhere surprised me. “Hey! You got business around here?”
I looked around but couldn’t see anybody. I studied the rooms above Adrian’s—he lived on the ground floor of a five-story building—but the windows were shut. Then I noticed a staircase to my left, leading down to a basement. I moved a few feet over and peered into the shadowy recess.
A fat man was glaring up at me. Stubble, unwashed hair, baggy trousers, stringy shirt and suspenders. He spat on the floor—there was a lake of spit down there—and nodded a curt hello. “You got business here?” he repeated.
“Are you the landlord?”
“I’m the supervisor. You want a room?”
“I’m looking for Adrian Arne. He rents this apartment.”
“Uh-uh,” the guy said. “That’s been empty for months.”
I glanced at the number on the door and it was the right one. I began to frown, then it clicked—kids had rearranged the plates.
“Somebody’s been screwing with the doors,” I said. “Switching the numbers.”
“The fuck they have,” the supervisor growled. “I’d crack shinbones if they tried that and they know it. Who were you looking for?”
“Adrian Arne.”
He spat again. “No Adrian Arne here. We got an Aidan Aherne up top. Could be him you’re after?”
I stared at the supervisor, then examined the door again. I’d been here several times and there was a scratch beneath the mail slot that I remembered Adrian making one night when he’d lost his bottle opener. This was the right place.
I shuffled down a few steps toward the basement. The supervisor raised a hand to shield his eyes and edged backward, squinting at me suspiciously. “I’ve got nothing any good to you,” he said quickly. “No money, drugs or any of that shit.”
“I’ve not come to rob you,” I assured him. “Could you let me in the apartment to check around?”
“What for? Nobody’s there.”
I reached for my wallet and pulled out a fifty. Snapped it flat a couple of times. “That real?” he asked, taking the note with his fat, greasy fingers, lifting it to his nose, sniffing its creases.
“Real as Christmas,” I said.
The supervisor snorted, spat into the lake, then rumbled to the top of the stairs, muttering about missing a game on TV and crazy crackheads wasting his time. He jerked out a massive bunch of keys, spent a few seconds selecting the correct one, opened the door sullenly, flicked on the light and let me in.
The room was empty. No furniture, TV or video. No mustachioed Mona Lisa grinning from the wall. The bed was gone, the toothbrushes, Adrian’s collection of empty beer bottles. It was as if nobody had lived here in ages.
I turned angrily on the supervisor. “What is this shit? Where’s Adrian?”
“I told you there’d been nobody here for months,” he said smugly. “But you’re not getting your money back, so—” I slapped him before he could say any more. “Hey, stop! Fucking stop it, you—”
He shut up when I slammed him against the wall. I reached down and pinched one of his fat nipples. He squeaked like a mouse. I pinched the other, then lowered my hand and held it inches in front of his sweaty groin. “What happened to him?” I hissed.
“I don’t know,” he said, lips quivering, stunned by this sudden bout of violence. I was stunned myself, hardly aware of what I was doing. I watched as my hand slapped him again. “I don’t know!” he s
creeched. I undid his fly. “Fuck you!” he screamed as I reached in and pulled his prick out. I held it between the teeth of the open zipper, then pulled the zip half up, catching him firmly and painfully.
“Adrian Arne,” I said calmly. “Where is he?”
“You’re a nut!” he sobbed. “Fuck you! I’m not saying a—” I gave another quick tug and his face went purple.
“A few more notches and you’ll never piss straight again,” I said cheerily. “They’ll have to put a tap in your stomach to let it out.”
“Please,” he cried, “I don’t know any Adrian Arne. I swear on my life, man. On my mother’s life. On—”
“Don’t try shitting me,” I snapped. “I was here not a week ago, and plenty of times before. I’m going to ask one more time. If I don’t hear the right answer, you better hope the ambulances are running on time.”
“No! I swear! Fuck it, man, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Adrian Arne? Yeah, I know him, sure I do, only please don’t…”
I released his prick and let him tuck it away, his hands trembling. There was fear in his voice, but also honest ignorance. “Tell me truly,” I said, “do you really know him? Don’t lie to me. I won’t hurt you if you tell me the truth.”
He hesitated, considered a lie, then shook his head, hands covering the front of his trousers protectively. “No. But please don’t do that again. Please!”
“Who’s been renting this room?” I asked.
“No one, not since the Moores, I think, or the Sims… shit, it’s been a while. There have been inquiries but the owner tells me not to rent it, so I don’t. I just work here. I don’t make the fucking decisions.” He was growing cockier now that the immediate danger was past. “Come look at the register. That’ll prove it.”
His living quarters stank of beer, piss and vomit. Empty beer cans and porno mags littered the floor. Posters of naked women on the walls. The kitchen was visible from where I stood, but I chose not to look. The TV was an ancient machine with a poor-quality picture and those wavy lines you don’t get on the newer models.
