by Jack Conner
“You realize you’re dead, don’t you?” McKinley said to Stevrin. His wide, asymmetrical face twisted into a hard grin.
Stevrin shrugged. “You asked for it. You told the sisters at Our Lady we were whoring ourselves out, when all along it was you sellin’ drugs. What gives you the right?” So saying, he stepped closer, counting on his boys to follow suit. To his relief, he heard their footsteps advance behind him.
“I gives me the right,” McKinley said, jabbing a thumb at his considerable chest. His squinty feral eyes narrowed at Stevrin. “I’m leader of the park. I’m a licensed lieutenant of Boss Giotti, only Boss in all the Lowers. Who the fuck’re you? And these boys you got? I see you all hangin’ round day after day, but you don’t do anything. You don’t steal, you don’t beg, you don’t whore. You just sit around, and walk, and talk, conspiring with your stupid selves, but what is it you do? You give me the fuckin’ creeps. I don’t like it, and I’m tired of it. This is my fucking park, and I want you out of it, and now.”
“I give you the creeps? You’re pushin’ to little kids!”
“Least we’re turning an honest buck. What the fuck are you lot up to? One of the other Bosses send you to spy on me? That it? Plannin’ on muscling in on Boss Giotti’s territory?” He mock-winced. “Bad move, boys.”
“Nothin’ of the sort.” Stevrin needed to sound firm, but he didn’t want to start a brawl. “We’re scoutin’ locations to lay down roots. Might even join your gang if you’ll have us. But we need a few more days—”
“I don’t want you,” McKinley interrupted. “I don’t trust you, and I don’t want you. I want you the fuck out, and I want you out now!” His face was even redder now, and his eyes bulged in their slanted sockets.
Stevrin nodded sagely. In his most diplomatic voice, he said, “Your position’s clear. I hope mine is too.”
“Clear as the hole I’m gonna put through your head.”
“C’mon. A few more days, that’s all I want.”
“Yeah, an’ all I want’s a mirror, so I can ram my foot up your ass and see your expression while I do it.”
“Funny.”
“I’m a funny guy.”
Stevrin dropped the smile. In a harder voice, he said, “How many boys’re you runnin’? Three dozen? Four? Well, I’ve got over two dozen. If you wanna make this ugly, we can make it fuckin’ ugly. You might win, but you’ll regret startin’ anything. Half your boys’ll have broken kneecaps.”
“I don’t care what it takes, I want you out.”
“Fine. Then we have two choices. Either all-out war, or ...”
“Yeah?”
“A wristbind.”
McKinley stared at him. He looked Stevrin slowly up and down. Slowly, he began to grin. Stevrin heard fearful whispering behind him.
“You want to wristbind with me?” McKinley said, talking slow, dragging it out.
“That’s right.”
“Then you’re a fuckwit. Fine, whatever, fuckwit. If all I haveta do to get rid of you lot is to beat the fuckin’ tar outta you, then let the fuckin’ beatin’ commence.”
“Are you sure you wanna do this?” Jack asked, when Stevrin’s group had pulled away to huddle. “I mean, he’s huge.”
“He’s not huge,” Stevrin said. “He’s, what, seventeen, eighteen? He’s about the right size. A little bulky, not too much.”
“But you’re ...”
Stevrin looked down at himself appraisingly. He didn’t look too bad, really. About medium-sized, maybe a little taller. But he was spare and lanky, all elbows and knees. A life of physical labor had lined his bones with a reasonable amount of muscle, but not the big slabs McKinley had. He was quick, though. Of course, that wouldn’t help much in a wristbind.
He shrugged. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“He could kill you.”
“Please.”
“That bastard doesn’t look like he’d give any mercy, and he doesn’t have to, not in a wristbind.” Jack shook his head. “It ain’t worth it. Cut and run, I say. Let’s get the fuck out of here before it’s too late.”
“No.”
Jack looked distraught.
“Remember the moves I taught you?” Nimfang said.
Stevrin frowned. He made the fingers of his right hand stiff, then jabbed Nimfang in the shoulder. “Ow,” he said, shaking his fingers.
Nimfang blew out a long stream of air. “Jack’s right,” he said. “Cut and run.”
“Time!” McKinley called.
Stevrin muttered his farewells to his boys and strode over to his opponent. One of McKinley’s lads served as referee, and he was there with the rope. “Out with your weapons,” he said. Reluctantly, Stevrin tossed his knife to Jack, while McKinley tossed his knife and his length of lead pipe and piano wire and iron knuckles to one of his lads. “Are you both righties?” the referee went on in a semi-official air. Stevrin and McKinley nodded. “Then stick out your left hands.” They did so. The ref wrapped the thin rope around their wrists, binding them together tightly, so tightly Stevrin’s fingers began to lose feeling in that hand. “No crotch grabbing, no eye gouging. Everything else is fair game.”
“Yeah yeah,” McKinley said impatiently.
“This fight’s a binding agreement,” the referee continued, obviously enjoying this. “The loser agrees that the winner’s terms will be met, no matter what. If Master McKinley wins, you lot—” he cast an ugly glance to Jack and the others “—will leave these parts for good. If you win, you can stay, for a few more days only. Any longer than that, and it’s war.”
“Agreed,” McKinley snarled.
“A-fuckin’-greed,” Stevrin said.
McKinley’s fist rocketed into his face. The world dimmed. His head rang. He stumbled back, would have fallen, but McKinley jerked him forward by way of their bound wrists. Off balance, Stevrin ran right into McKinley’s next blow. He heard a crack, felt the world tilt. His ears rang. Everything started to darken.
He was about to pass out, he realized vaguely. Any second now and McKinley’s third blow would lay him out, and after that he was a goner.
He jerked to the side, feeling a whoosh of air pass by his left ear. With all his strength, he punched upward. Soft flesh dented under his fist, enfolded it. McKinley’s breath exploded in his face. It stank of gin.
Stevrin’s vision began to return, though dimly. His eyes stung, and he knew blood dripped into them. Gritting his teeth, he delivered another uppercut into McKinley’s belly. McKinley was large, but he had led an essentially easy life, with no heavy lifting, endless walking up and down stairs, or any other particularly vigorous activity. Stevrin grinned tightly. He’d found McKinley’s weak spot. He drew back his arm for another gut-punch.
Powerful fingers seized his throat. Choking, he stared into McKinley’s eyes. The bigger boy’s face was red and sweaty, and his feral eyes seemed to glow eerie green. A rictus snarl warped his already strange, asymmetrical face.
“Fuckwad,” McKinley gasped.
Stevrin lashed out with his free fist. McKinley shoved him as far out as he could get, and McKinley’s arm was longer.
Stevrin couldn’t breathe. Sparks danced before his eyes. He beat at McKinley’s elbow.
McKinley grunted and heaved Stevrin off the ground. Stevrin flailed helplessly. McKinley’s fat fingers dug into his throat, crushing his windpipe. Stevrin felt his eyes bulge. He gasped for air but couldn’t find it. The sparks grew busier in his vision, filling it. He felt himself start to grow limp. His arm fell slack at his side.
Laughing, McKinley shook him like a doll. “Now we’ll see how long it takes you to die,” he said, drawing Stevrin in closer so he could speak directly into his ear—a mistake. Stevrin kicked out with all the strength he had left, right into McKinley’s kneecap.
McKinley howled and dropped him. The big man crouched over his knee.
Wheezing, Stevrin clutched at his windpipe and doubled over. He sucked in great lung-fulls. Slowly the s
parks receded. He wanted time to collect his breath but knew he didn’t have it. Had to deal with McKinley before he recovered.
Balling a fist, he punched McKinley as hard as he could on the side of the face. Drew blood. Glaring, McKinley turned up to stare at him. Stevrin punched him again, right in the nose. Something broke.
McKinley howled and launched himself at Stevrin. The larger boy’s weight drove Stevrin him into the mud, then begin to crush him. McKinley’s arm drew back for a blow. It seemed to eclipse the sky. Stevrin knew if that blow landed, the fight was over.
He punched McKinley in the gut. McKinley gasped. His arm dropped. He struck out at Stevrin, but the blow lacked the force it would have. What followed was a bunch of desperate rolling and slugging in the mud. Stevrin punched and kicked and bit and cursed. Blood filled his mouth, most of it his own. His head rang with blows. Mud covered him from head to foot. Distantly, he could hear the other boys chanting rhythmically, “Go! Go! Go!”
At last Stevrin made a fist with his thumb folded into it, the knuckle jutting out, forming a crude spike. He reached around to the side and jabbed McKinley repeatedly in the kidney even as the other boy smashed him about the head and shoulders. At last Stevrin hit the right spot, or with the right pressure, just as his consciousness started to fade. McKinley screamed. His head arched back, exposing his throat. Using his last bit of strength, Stevrin punched him in the apple.
McKinley fell back, gagging, pulling Stevrin with him. Stevrin punched his throat again, and again. Still gagging, McKinley began rocking back and forth. His hand flew to his neck protectively. He tried to speak but couldn’t.
Stevin straddled his chest and painstakingly forced away his protecting hand, then sat on it with a knee.
“Do you fuckin’ yield?” Stevrin shouted. He could barely hear his own voice his head rang so badly.
McKinley glared at him with bulging eyes. He did not respond.
Stevrin snapped his teeth in the other’s face. McKinley flinched. “Do you fuckin’ yield or do I have to bite off your filthy godsdamned nose?”
At last, McKinley nodded.
“Fuck!” said the referee. Then: “All right, fight’s over! The outsiders win.” He produced a pocket knife and roughly cut the cord that bound Stevrin and McKinley. Swaying, Stevrin staggered back to his boys.
Jack and Hasting’s eyes were wide. Nimfang looked impressed, but disappointed; evidently he’d lost the bet. All of them exclaimed loudly, though, and threw their arms about Stevrin, even as he felt himself collapse. “You’d better get me outta here,” he whispered. “I think I’ve got about three steps in me.”
“Wait!” called the boy who had played referee. Stevrin turned to see him bent over a still-wheezing and gagging McKinley. McKinley whispered something in his ear and pointed to Stevrin and his gang. “Boss wants to have a drink with you.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, he’s serious. No tricks.”
Stevrin turned back to his crew. “Think we can trust them?”
“Doubtful,” said Jack.
“He wouldn’t lose face in front of his boys by lying,” Nimfang said.
Hastings signed, Why not? Some of the bruisers looked optimistic.
“I guess we’ll give it a go,” Stevrin said. “But be on your guard.”
Vallie walked in out of the dark. Her eyes were wide and adoring as she gazed on Stevrin. “I saw the whole thing,” she said. “You were magnificent.”
Hastings glowered.
* * *
“You used to be a boy-whore?” Stevrin asked, incredulous. He spoke through bruised, torn lips. Alcohol dulled the pain, but it dulled his tongue, too.
McKinley nodded, equally drunken. When he spoke, his voice was raw and strained, but that didn’t stop him. “’at’s right. Only we call ‘em bum-lads, not boy-whores. Though sometimes we call ‘em assfucks,” he added contemplatively. “I wasn’t the on’y one.” He gestured grandly to the other boys and girls sitting on rotting blankets in the big main tent. Rain still pattered on the roof, complimenting the sound of snores rising from most of them. Vallie slept with her head on Hastings’ shoulder. Stevrin and McKinley looked to be the only ones still awake, though from time to time one of the boys or girls would crack an eye. Stevrin thought it must be the adrenaline of the fight still running in their veins that kept the two combatants up.
“Really?” Stevrin took a swig from the bottle he was drinking and burped loudly.
“‘at’s how I got ‘ere. ‘ored for awhile, till I was big enna to take on the enforcers. ‘ventually ‘came one m’self. Got big enough to take on crew boss. Took fucker on.” He smiled slyly. “Son of a bitch, he got his, sure enough.”
“What’d you do?”
“’came his lieutenant. Trusted me more than any o’the other boys, I made sure o’ that. He sent me to make reports to Boss Giotti. ‘ehind ‘is back I stuck doubts ‘bout him wi’ th’ Boss, made Boss think he might be holdin’ out. Then I planted some money I’d stole into his personals, had Boss check ‘em. He found ‘em and—” he smiled “—it wasn’t pretty. That was the end for Strutting Tim Genard.”
“Sounds personal.”
McKinley’s s malice drained away, to be replaced by sadness. “Fucker killed m’brother. Didn’t know he was mine, o’ course. Sonny was jus’ somethin’ for Tim to screw. To hit. Well, he picked the wrong laddie to take ‘vantage of, I saw to that.” His eyes gleamed, and he took a long drink.
“That why you sell drugs, ’cause you think it’s better than what Tim did?”
McKinley glared at him, then softened. “It’s a business, y’know. A big machine, an’ we’re just playin’ our parts. Someday I’ll go on to the next level in the machine, or someone will take me the fuck out. Same with them,” he added, gesturing at his goons. “Someday they’ll make it to the next cog up, or they won’t. Least they get to eat in the meantime. An’ it ain’t like the aristos would suddenly go clean if we closed up shop. There’re others around, same as me.”
“I still think it’s fucked. People die because of those things.”
“Yeah, but not many, and we’d die if we didn’t sell ‘em.”
Stevrin lowered his voice. “Would you really have killed me?”
McKinley didn’t even hesitate. “Fuckin’ yeah I would.” Stevrin shuddered, but the other boy went on: “Can’t show weakness, man. You know that. You run your own crew, though I still don’t know what the fuck it is you do. What is it you do? And don’t give me that bullshit story ‘bout scoutin’ out territory.”
“Never mind. I’d have to lie to ya, and I don’t want to, not anymore. It’s nothin’ to do with you or your Boss, though.”
McKinley nodded reluctantly. “Anyway, you can’t show weakness. Least, I can’t. I showed weakness, word would get back to Boss Giotti, and he’d take me the fuck out himself. Or one of my own boys would. We rule by fear, Stev, and there ain’t no other way to do it. Our lads don’t fear us, then they’ll make us fear them. An’ you know what the sick thing is, Stev? They want to fear us. They do. They fear us, then they have to do what we say, and the worl’ goes round. Makes ev’rything simple. Gives order to their lives. So when they see us gettin’ soft, it throws their world outta balance. I’ve seen it before. They start grumblin’ behind your back, then before you know it it’s a knife in the liver, or rat poison in your beer. All because you didn’t punish someone hard enough. Then they appoint a new leader, someone they can fear. And they like it like that!”
Stevrin was impressed by McKinley’s philosophical streak. “So what’re your thoughts on all the fuckery lately? The quakes, yellow mists, disappearances.”
McKinley rolled his large shoulders. “Fuck if I know. We ain’t had any quakes in the Lowers. It’s only in the Uppers. Poor bastards. All I know is that if I see some yella mist comin’ to boil my brain, I’m headin’ the other way!”
Stevrin leaned forward. “Have you noticed anything ... unusual ... about the Guild
of Alchemists lately?”
McKinley frowned, and a shadow passed across his face. “Why do you ask?”
“Just ... curious.”
McKinley nodded, as if he understood the need to be cautious. “Well, unusual with that lot is what’s usual. But yeah, maybe I’ve seen a few odd things. Weird guys sending runners into the Guild, an’ such.”
“Weird how?”
“Just weird. Grayish skin. Creepy. An’ sometimes the high Ministers’ll pile into their fuckin’ limos and light out for somewhere ...”
Stevrin swallowed, thinking of the boys he’d sent to pursue the Ministers. “Do you know where?”
McKinley pursed his lips, and for a moment Stevrin didn’t think he was going to say anything further. “The Ivies,” McKinley said, and Stevrin understood he was referring to the posh Ivy Quarter. “Somewhere in the Ivies. There’s been reports of weird sounds.”
“Like what?”
“Screaming. Maybe singing. Some bad shit’s going down there. That’s all I know.”
A large dark shape appeared at the tent flap. McKinley jumped. A hand fumbled at the pistol that lay on the ground beside him.
Stevrin laughed. “Don’t shoot him. He’s just Duncan.”
“He looks like a fuckin’ ghoul!”
“And you, sir, look like a mutated potato with all those lumps on your head,” Duncan said. To Stevrin, he said, “May I have a word? In private.”
It took some doing for Stevrin to force himself to his feet, and even more to stagger through the flap. Once there, he clutched at Duncan to steady himself. The man smelled reassuringly of pigeon offal.
“What’s the word?” Stevrin slurred. The world swam around him.
It was dark, the lamps extinguished, but even so he could tell Duncan’s face was grim. The Lord of Bird-Shit Hall gestured to the shadows, and several of Stevrin’s boys stepped forward. Between them they carried two forms rolled up in blankets. Delicately, almost reverently, they sat the forms down on the ground. Stevrin stared at the blanket-shrouded figures, feeling his buzz drain away. Suddenly he was quite sober.
“No,” he said. He spoke around the knot in his throat. “No ...”
