by Darren Shan
“What do you want?” I snarl.
“That’s ‘Sir’ or ‘Massah’ to you, nigger,” he says pleasantly.
“Call me that again and you die,” I tell him.
“I don’t think so,” he laughs. “You’re smarter than that. You won’t throw your life away just because someone calls you a nigger or a coon.”
“You’re a dead man,” I whisper. “Not today, but soon. That’s a promise.”
“Never met a darkie who could keep a promise,” he giggles, then gets serious. “You know who I work for. Eugene—Mr. Davern to you—requests the pleasure of your company. Pronto.”
“Eugene Davern can go fuck his whore of a mother,” I retort, enjoying the dark cloud that disturbs Wornton’s expression.
“Careful,” he hisses. “Make a crack like that again and I’m apt to start something ugly, regardless of the consequences.”
“Just tell me what you want and quit with the dramatics,” I drawl.
“Your ass in my car, now.”
“If I refuse?”
Wornton shrugs. “It’s obvious I don’t want to start a shooting match. If you don’t come, we walk. But it’s taken a lot of time and money to track you down, to link the feared Paucar Wami to the meek Al Jeery. Now that we have, you’re up shit creek. If you don’t jump when we say, we tell everyone what we know and that’s bye-bye alter ego, farewell hidey-hole. You’ll be exposed, with nowhere to run, and your enemies will descend on you like a swarm of locusts and free your clean white bones of their degenerate black skin.”
“I’d heard you were a Bible-thumper,” I sneer but inside I’m cursing. They have me by the balls. I’d never have survived this long without being able to retreat from the madness of the streets when needs dictated. Even Paucar Wami has to have a place where he can rest up.
“We don’t have to make this general knowledge,” Wornton says. “Only a few of us know about you and we’ve sworn to Eugene that we won’t reveal the truth.” His nose crinkles. “Personally, I’d rat you out as soon as look at you, but Eugene’s the boss and we know the value of loyalty, unlike some races I could mention.”
I ignore the slur and consider his proposal. “What does Davern want?”
“Damned if I know. Maybe he’s looking for a new shoeshine boy.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Hell, nigger, you can’t!” Wornton whoops. “I could give you my word, but my word’s only sacred if given to one of my own. I’d think nothing of lying to a nigger. Still, if it’d make you feel safer…”
“Fuck you,” I snap, then put my gun away. “Give me a few minutes to change. I’ll meet you out front presently.”
Wornton nods to his guards. They edge out backward, not lowering their weapons, and Wornton follows.
“Hyde,” I stop him. “I know you white boys have a thing for black men, so if you want to stay and jerk your chain while I’m changing, I won’t object.”
His apoplexy almost makes me glad that my cover’s been blown.
Wornton doesn’t remove his coat in the car, even though the heat has me sweating through my T-shirt. He sits up front with the driver, while the two other goons sit on either side of me in the back. Nobody speaks. We end up at the Kool Kats Klub, Eugene Davern’s restaurant, which opened in the 1980s as the Ku Klux Klub. It’s remained true to its origins, though the burning crosses in the windows and the occasional hooded customer or waiter are relics of the past.
I’m marched into the restaurant by a side door, past several startled members of the staff, to a room at the rear of the building where Eugene Davern awaits. To my surprise, I’m not relieved of my weapons, merely waved in by a sardonic Hyde Wornton, who mutters, “Best of luck, nigger,” before closing the door after me.
Davern’s hovering in front of a glass display case, full of articles about the restaurant. He’s in his early forties, tall—at least six-five—and in good shape. His dark hair’s swept back with gel and he sports a stylish mustache and goatee. Dressed immaculately in a cream suit. His hands are in his trouser pockets. He doesn’t take them out or step forward to greet me.
“You’re wondering why you haven’t been disarmed,” he says, gray eyes cold and penetrating.
“Yes,” I answer somberly, wary of this intelligent, quietly threatening man.
“I’ve let you keep your weapons because I do not fear you. This is my domain, and here I fear no man. Besides, you aren’t a fool. My men know where you live. You’ve spent ten years living a double life. I have the power to let you continue or expose you. That power must be respected. Killing me would be self-destructive.”
“How did you find out about me?” I ask.
“Irrelevant,” he sniffs. “Let’s talk instead about why you’re here. I wish to strike a bargain.”
I blink, confused. “What sort of bargain?”
Davern steps away from the display case. Gets up close and studies my face, the coiled serpents, my unnatural green eyes. He keeps his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look as hateful as Hyde Wornton, but I get the impression that he’s even more arrogant, that he thinks as little of me as he would an ant.
“You’ve killed men who were important to me,” he murmurs. “Men I’ve worked with for many years. Friends like Dan Kerrin. We grew up together. Closer than brothers. And you butchered him in his bath, leaving his bloody, naked body for his wife to find.”
He voices the accusations passionlessly. I find that more worrying than if he was screaming abusively.
“I didn’t kill Dan Kerrin,” I say evenly. “Or the others.”
“You deny it?” His left eyebrow lifts marginally. “I thought Paucar Wami was a man who boasted of his kills. You even take credit for other hits, don’t you?”
“If people are willing to accredit them to me, I let them—it’s good for business. But I don’t lie. I didn’t kill your men.”
Davern smoothes his goatee with the ball of his left thumb. “Are you hungry? Would you care to break bread with me?”
I’m startled by the change of tone but don’t let it show. “I’ll gladly eat with you,” I tell him, “but only if you swallow before I do.”
Davern laughs and leads me into the dining room, past the day’s first customers—their outraged mutters when they spot me are music to my ears—to one of the private areas where a table is laid for two, overflowing with croissants, cereal, fruit, silver bowls of butter and preservatives, five pitchers of milk and fruit juice, and various loaves of freshly baked bread.
“Rather different from what I assume you’re accustomed to,” Davern says, taking a seat and breaking a fresh loaf of seeded bread in two. He passes half to me, slices his open and smears it with thick, soft butter. I wait for him to bite into it before scraping a thin layer of butter over mine.
“What do you want?” I ask, washing the bread down with a glass of purple juice—again, only after Davern has tested it first.
The owner of the Kool Kats Klub and head of the Kluxers doesn’t answer immediately, but chews on a currant cake. Then he says, “You’re lying about Dan but that doesn’t matter. There will come a day when I’ll seek retribution, but for the time being I wish to talk peace.”
He pauses. I think about denying the charges again, but I’m not that bothered whether he blames me for his friend’s death or not. I’m more interested in this deal of his.
“I know about the Snakes,” he says softly.
“Snakes?” I repeat.
“The Snakes,” he hisses. “I congratulate you on the way you’ve recruited and guided them, keeping them a secret for so long. Such initiative is rare. I’m sure you’re not working alone—armies require funding, and you’re not rich—but in the absence of any other visible leader, I’m prepared to deal with you directly.”
I’ve found through experience that it’s wiser to say nothing when you’re ignorant of what’s being discussed. Let the other person ramble and maybe you’ll learn something. But I’m so dumbstruck
by what he’s saying that before I know it I’m mumbling, “I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
Davern smiles thinly. “Don’t insult me. I don’t know how many you’ve gathered to your cause, or how you plan to deploy them, but I know they exist and that they keep to the tunnels, out of sight and hearing. And I’m sure you plan to unleash them soon, otherwise why kidnap Capac Raimi and target Ford Tasso and me?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what—”
“Don’t lie to me!” he shouts, cheeks reddening. “I won’t sit here and be lied to by…” He stops abruptly.
“… A nigger?” I finish for him icily.
“Now that you mention it, yes,” he says, regaining his composure. “It would be pointless to hide my prejudices. That said, I’ve come to realize there can be no clean division of the races. Black and white have come together, and while I don’t approve of the mingling, only a fool or a romantic such as Hyde rages in the face of it. This city will never again be ruled by one race. It’s time we reconciled ourselves to that and got on with forging new, mutually beneficial relationships with one another.”
“A touching speech,” I snicker.
“An honest statement of truth,” he counters. “I won’t pretend to like your dark-skinned brethren, but I acknowledge the fact that I have to share the reins of power with them. And I’m prepared to. I’m willing to strike up a partnership with you and your followers. There’s more than enough action in this city for both of us. Once Tasso and his Troops are out of the way, we can discuss an equitable arrangement. The north and west for me, east and south for you? The docks split fifty-fifty?”
I shake my head. “You’re talking of things I know nothing about. I haven’t recruited a gang. I’m just a vigilante. This talk of partnership means nothing to me. I’m not into power games.”
Davern’s expression hardens. “Don’t fuck with me,” he growls. “I’m not a man you fuck with. In ten short years I’ve gone from being a chorus boy in the Klan to head of my own army, second in strength only to the decaying forces of Dorak’s Troops. This restaurant was my sole source of income twenty years ago. Now I run much of the city. You think I came this far by letting punks shit on me? I’ve made a valid proposition. If you don’t greet it with the grace it merits, I’ll have you taken out back and executed like the upstart that you are.”
I nod slowly. “Now you’re talking my language.” I draw my .45 and lay it on the table. His eyes narrow but he shows no other discernible concern. “You want to start a shooting match, go ahead. But this talk of gangs and taking over the city falls on deaf ears. I’m not into that shit.”
Davern cocks his head. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were on the level. You must teach me how to lie so smoothly. Very well, you refuse to discuss an entente. I respect that. There are other players and you don’t want to pick sides too soon. In your position, I’d do the same. But take heed.” He wipes crumbs from his lips with a silk napkin and stands. “I have options too. There are others I can ally myself with. I’d rather link with your Snakes, but if I have to strike a deal with the white-eyed devils, I will.”
His mention of the blind priests intrigues me, but I say nothing, not wishing to start Davern off on another rant.
“You can go when you finish eating,” he says as he leaves the table. “I won’t ask any of my men to drive you back, but there are a number of cab ranks close by. I’m sure you’ll find a hard-up driver who won’t object to giving you a ride.”
“Davern,” I stop him as he reaches the door. “What about Al Jeery?”
He pauses. “It would drive you underground if I went public. I’m tempted to, if only to force you to admit your ties to the Snakes.” He waves a dismissive hand. “But I like having you where I can find you, so we’ll keep your identity a secret for now. But if you don’t play ball, that can change swifter than a hummingbird’s fart.”
He exits.
I linger a while, enjoying the meal, taking advantage of my unlikely host’s hospitality, wondering what Eugene Davern was talking about, why he thinks I’m a competitor and possible ally of his… and who the hell the Snakes are.
7
requiem for a pimp
Sunday, traditional day of rest—but not for me. I spend it as I spent yesterday afternoon, pounding the streets, pumping informants, determined to find out more about the Snakes.
Nobody knows anything. I’m greeted with blank stares and shakes of the head wherever I go. There are several snake-themed gangs—the Fangs, the Serpent’s Kiss, the Coils—but no simple Snakes.
The only known subterranean gang is the Rats. A small gang, nine or ten members, with a demented apocalypse fixation. They’ve been down in the tunnels for fourteen years in anticipation of a nuclear attack. They live on the waste of the city—roast rat’s a speciality of theirs, hence the name—only rarely straying above street level when driven by floods or to forage for clothes and medicine.
I know the Rats—they’ve aided me on a couple of occasions when I’ve chased quarry down the tunnels—and they can’t be the Snakes Davern was talking about. The Rats have as little interest in the world above as the rest of us have in theirs. But thinking about them gives me an idea. They know the tunnels better than anyone. They might be able to put me on the track of the missing Cardinal or help me search for him.
I go looking for the Rats late Sunday but don’t find them. They’re nomads, with temporary bases all over the city’s underworld, so it can take a while to track them down. I leave messages at the four campsites I visit, asking them to contact me, then return to the streets to quiz the late-night revelers for word of the Snakes.
Back home I shower thoroughly—the stink of the tunnels is vile—then crawl into bed and stare at the ceiling until I fall asleep.
Monday. Fabio’s funeral. His grandson pulled strings to bump the dead pimp up the waiting list. They considered having the ceremony yesterday, but delayed it twenty-four hours so that they could contact all of his relatives and friends, giving everyone the chance to attend.
Fabio was Catholic—something I only found out since he died—and there’s a mass said for him in his local church, St. Jude’s. It’s an immense gathering. Thousands of mourners pack the church and streets outside. I’ve never seen such a crowd for a funeral. (There were hundreds of thousands for Ferdinand Dorak, but I missed that, being laid up in the hospital at the time.)
The priest says a Latin mass, the way Fabio requested. I tune out after the first few mystifying minutes. Flo asked me to say some words but I declined. Speaking in public was never my thing.
I sit near the front—Flo nagged me forward—surrounded by three of Fabio’s children and their progeny. The kids behave themselves, sitting silently like little angels. I’m impressed, until one of Fabio’s sons explains as we’re standing outside the church afterward, waiting for the coffin. Fabio set aside a considerable stash over the decades, with orders to share it among the young—but only the ones who behaved at his funeral. I laugh out loud when I hear that, and don’t feel guilty. Most people are laughing and joking, as Fabio would have wanted.
It takes half an hour to get the coffin to the hearse—everyone wants to touch it for good luck, or to express their farewells—and another half hour for the hearse to clear the block. Only a fraction of the crowd has been invited to the crematorium. The chosen few gather on the steps of the church. There are seventy or eighty of us, Fabio’s children (no room for grandchildren, bar one or two favorites) and nearest friends.
When the crowd clears enough for us to push through to our vehicles, we make our way to the crematorium. I’ve brought my motorcycle, even though I virtually never use it when in Al Jeery mode. It’s a long ride and I’d miss the start of the service if I biked.
I park out back, flash my invitation to the guard at the door, and join the rest of the mourners in a large chamber, the walls of which are draped with billowing curtains. Flo and Zeba stand inside the door to th
e chamber, greeting and directing the mourners. I get shunted to the third row from the front on the left, next to the wall. I don’t have a great view of the coffin, which suits me fine. I hate funerals.
When everyone’s settled, the priest from St. Jude’s steps up and delivers a final, heartfelt tribute to Fabio. He avoids hypocrisy—says he knows how Fabio made a living, and as a man of God he can’t approve—but admits respect for the pimp. “He was a man of honor who kept his word and did no harm unto others—unless they did it to him first!”
At the end of his speech, he clears his throat and blushes. “I, uh, normally I’d hang around until the end, but Flo and Zeba have a special send-off in mind and I can’t really…” His blush deepens. “I’ll wait outside,” he mutters and scurries away to whispers of confused amusement.
Zeba faces us. She’s weeping but grinning at the same time. “We all know Fabio was a womanizing bastard,” she grunts, and is greeted by a round of cheers and claps. “His final wish was to go with a flourish, and though he never said what he intended, Flo and I have come up with something we think he’d like.”
As Zeba sits, a door at the side of the chamber opens, the lights dim and “Big Spender” starts to play over the PA. As we crack up, six chorus girls enter, faces covered with masks—life-size photos of Fabio’s face. They kick their stockinged legs high, split skirts parting to reveal flashes of thigh, glittering tops tight around their breasts.
The girls gyrate in front of the coffin, race down and back up the aisle, then gather in a line and strip. Many of the men are hooting encouragingly, some of the women too. Practically everyone’s smiling and laughing, though a lot of the smiles are flecked with tears. The first girl whips off her top to a raucous cheer. Then the second, the third, all the way down the line, until the six are naked from the waist up, dancing lewdly, masks of Fabio still in place, wiggling their breasts and hips.
