by Chanel Smith
“The New World is going to be the most important business location in years to come. Lupein Corp will have a jump-start on the rest.”
John rubbed his heavily-stubbled chin, evidence that a morning shave hadn’t lasted until nearly 7 at night. “Your board of directors,” he said at last. “Who is comptroller?”
“Have to look that up,” Raya said. “Whoever’s doing it now is a good question. We all hate that job, so we rotate through it.”
“I like a man with an eye to the future,” John said slowly. A business card appeared and was pushed under the glass divider separating him from Raya. “Me, I’ve had my own business for well on fifteen years now. Small accounting firm with some dang big clients. Whole reason I took this job…” he pulled himself up short and looked at Raya, one thick grey brow raised.
“You wanted to be in a position to serve as go-between for major government contacts, and one day go out on your own,” Raya finished for him, eyes staring at nothing. “How handy would that be for an accounting firm run by a guy with even a menial government job?”
John grinned. “I do believe you see my point.”
“I do indeed.”
The two men had left the court house and wound up at a small bar on the other side of town, where they’d talked until the bar closed.
The upshot: “Uncle” John had a seat on Lupein Corp’s board, and Raya owned a small percentage of John’s company. Neither man had a reason to regret the move and John was in a perfect position to make some quiet enquiries.
He agreed when Raya asked, and didn’t even push for details. John knew nothing about Raya or the pack’s personal lives, and Raya intended to maintain that.
It took several days for John to find out anything whatsoever about Jean-Paul’s run-in with the government, and John’s face didn’t give Raya a warm feeling when he faced Raya with his news. His tiny eyes were more sunken than usual, and there were heavy bags and black circles indicating lack of sleep. Moreover, John’s usually expansive mouth which appeared to always be on the verge of a grin, was tightened down to a slit.
“Listen here, I don’t know what the fuck y’all done got into, and I don’t want to know,” John began as he hoisted his bulk into a chair in the suite. “Weird shit is going on, that much I do know. My contact in the army didn’t know much either, but what little he did know scared him to death. Seems that certain critters were spotted deep in the swamps, and the army captured one or two. My guy didn’t know specifics: this is all super hush-hush but my guy was on the detail that escorted these critters back to base.”
“What exactly were these creatures?” Raya asked.
“Damned if I know, and my guy said they looked as human as you or me until something right strange happened.” The large round face lost a lot of color, and the dark stubble stood out yet more clearly against the now-pasty color of John’s face. “Guy said that he’d heard some weird shit coming from that wing: swears it was howlin. You know, what wolves do from time to time.”
“Howling?” Raya injected just enough disbelief into the one word.
“You heard me. After that, the whatever-they-weres were transferred to a secure medical facility somewhere up north and that’s all we know.”
Thoughts raced through Raya’s mind. “Where up north?”
“Somewhere on the outskirts of Seattle,” John responded. The two men looked at each other for a moment. “You might think me a stupid old fat man, Raya, and you’d be right on two out of three.”
Raya had to smile.
“There’s something different about you and your entire board of directors, and don’t you think for a New York minute I don’t know that.” Raya stiffened, and menace poured off him in palpable waves.
John stood and held both chubby arms straight in the air. “None of that, now. I don’t know shit and don’t want to: I just wanted you to know that y’all ain’t put nuthin over on me. That’s it.” He paused, then added “well, that and I flat love your Petra! One fine woman who’s smarter than a damn whip.” Once again menace flowed through the air and this time John flat out laughed. “Don’t you worry none: she ain’t my type.” he leaned over and whispered, “I prefer one added appendage and two less than what she’s got.”
It was Raya’s turn to stifle laughter.
When they parted some hours later, they had part of a plan and something else new: a level of trust that had not existed prior to this night. Raya wasn’t sure how that had happened, wasn’t going to blindly accept it either—but was going to play along and see what happened.
He didn’t have long to wait.
Two days later, there was a knock on the suite’s main door. Through the peephole Raya recognized the uniforms: the US Army, clearly. With lots of hardware as well.
That door wasn’t opened until Raya was satisfied about the intent behind those uniforms, via a plain manila envelope marked “Top Secret” in bright red. One man handed it to him and held up a hand as Raya started to ask something. Held up a hand and shook his head.
Raya shut the door in their faces and opened the envelope. Several photos fell out along with a written report. He scanned the latter and immediately returned to the door, ushered in the soldiers.
“What can I do to help, gentlemen?” he asked as they seated themselves on a long couch.
“You’ve applied for citizenship, we see,” the older uniform said. “Uncle Sam would like to help you and your wife with that matter, which can sometimes be somewhat sticky. In return, we need a little information on people you likely knew back home...”
The discussion extended deep into the night. The US Army at topmost levels were interested in a group of bad guys in Europe. From the included photos and several descriptions, Raya discovered that the US were after none other than that dangerous pack his own had run across before coming to the USA.
Now that was interesting: their interests definitely coincided there. The danger lay in what “talents” certain in the American government were sure the European group had, specifically the ability to vanish. And the ability to change into a wolf: something that had been recently discovered via a capture made only months ago. The two soldiers looked at Raya as if waiting for roars of laughter.
“I’m not entirely sure I believe in those ‘talents’ you’re describing, but we’ve run into that group on a business level as I’m sure you know.” The soldiers nodded. “We are highly interested in them as well: I’m sure we can work together, as you originally suggested.”
Both uniforms snapped to attention in their seats, then relaxed. “Just a few details...”
In the end, Pack Lupeinescu was working indirectly for the United States government, something that horrified Itchiko down to his very bones.
“Don’t you see,” Raya explained for the umpteenth time, “this will do us nothing but good. We have eyes inside the government now: we’ll know what they know about our species as soon as they learn it, and be in a position to guide their knowledge without them knowing who or what we are. Better yet, keep the pack close and those who would harm it even closer,” he intoned, quoting from the Lupein Codec, which was still under construction.
Itchiko reluctantly gave in, but made plans of his own to ensure Pack Lupeinescu’s ultimate protection. Plans he shared with no one, including his brother.
Even Itchiko was finally convinced of John’s loyalty to the pack when the obese man showed up at the camp Raya had put together where Heureuse was being built. At 3AM, John managed to sneak past booby traps that had taken Itchiko days to arrange to place.
Itchiko in fact awoke to a very large, very hairy face with breath rank enough to knock a buzzard off a shit wagon blowing in his face. “I got what you need. Don’t know what the fuck’s in it: don’t want to, either.”
Itchiko came instantly awake and to his feet before John’s familiar scent gave him away.
“Give your sick buddy this, right in the ass,” John instructed as he pulled a gigantic hypodermic needle
filled with a cloudy yellow substance from his pocket. Then just as suddenly, John vanished back the way he’d come.
Itchiko looked at the bizarre contraption for quite a while. It had a big round steel thing on one end, evidently one pushed on that to inject what was in the tube into the person. He had his doubts if this procedure would even work, but Jean-Paul was visibly declining by the day.
All the shifting was draining him to death, as Itchiko had feared. If this weird thing worked—well, they’d have to see. He walked out of his own crude tent, shifted, and ran to the hotel in town where Jean-Paul and his mate were staying.
He knocked softly on their door, hoping not to alarm them. Andre answered the door so quickly that it was obvious he’d not been asleep. One look at Jean-Paul and Itchiko knew why.
Even in the few days since he’d seen the ailing were last, he’d lost weight. A lot of weight. Andre looked at Itchiko and shrugged helplessly.
“I brought something that might help,” Itchiko said. “No guarantees. The guy I got this from has no idea what it is either, but if he says it’ll work, we need to give it a shot.” He winced. “I could have used better wording there,” he admitted as he pulled the contraption from his pocket.
Andre stared at it. “What on earth?”
“No clue. Give me a moment, it sure can’t hurt at this point.” Itchiko slid the covers off Jean-Paul, rolled the Were onto his side, and rapidly injected the fluid into the Were’s bony ass.
He and Andre waited nearly an hour, but nothing happened. No shifting, though, either. Maybe there was hope after all, Itchiko thought as he took his leave.
When Jean-Paul still hadn’t shifted in three days, his mate Andre and all of the pack were relieved. John had pulled off a miracle, and earned the pack’s respect. Not their trust: that would maybe come with time.
Chapter Eight
Die to Live Another Day
Throughout the next century, Pack Lupeinescu worked with those government contacts and provided them with invaluable information on the ever-growing criminal European pack, based on “knowledge from Lupein contacts inserted into that group.” As both pack and military humans aged, the pack casually introduced sons and daughters who’d graduated from impressive colleges, were working in Lupein Corp already and were ready to enter the agreement with the government. As the pack’s personal government contacts retired, they were introduced to the next generation of Army personnel who were involved with the ‘European Terrorist Group’ program.
At the same time, Petra had worked non-stop on becoming a social success in New Orleans. She’d succeeded beyond her own wildest of dreams, and was now known from tea rooms in Manhattan to kitchens of the newest American craze, movie stars.
It was Petra who introduced the concept of the ‘Lupein silent auction’ in which bids were written on a list at the front of the room by anonymous bidders such as trusted servants. This was the perfect situation when the objects for sale could be embarrassing to bidders such as ancient Japanese netsuke, miniature sculptures invented to hold bags for traditional Japanese robes that had no pockets. Japanese artists had created beautifully carved sex scenes, worth a fortune to collectors but of course not something most Japanese would even admit to possessing. At one of Petra’s auctions, not only were bids placed anonymously, but the increments were set prior to the auction: every half hour the active bidders would come and view the current bids, then change their own or withdraw.
These silent auctions as well as the impressive growth rate of Raya’s Lupein Corporation all moved toward one goal: funding the pack’s newest non-profit, a charity called “A Table” (French for “Dinnertime! Come eat!”). Raya had spent eons thinking of ways to ensure that people, especially children, would all have sufficient food no matter where they lived. And if he could do so by skinning those who had far more money than scruples, all the better. ‘A Table’ was a good start in that direction as chapters had sprung up in more than seventeen countries, more every year.
The pack itself had created or bought countless businesses, both individual and held concurrently by the pack itself. By the beginning of the 20th century, Raya had become involved in searching for businesses either failing or run by ‘wrong types’ as he called them. His own Lupein Corp would acquire such enterprises and the fun would begin.
Raya far preferred to turn new enterprises over to new management, chosen from a pool of carefully-chosen people who’d been down on their luck, yet had powerful drive to succeed all the same. He had world-wide eyes looking for such prospects. Yes, a couple of businesses created and run in such a fashion had failed- but the lion’s share had not only succeeded spectacularly, but succeeded in giving back to ‘A Table’ in the process. Raya was happier than he’d ever believed possible when a call came in that would change not only his life, but the lives of the pack themselves.
Chapter Nine
Rats
Cine inventeaza o noua lumanare arsuri 100 acum sau ceasuri satul arde mai târziu.
He who invents a new candle burns 100 now or watches the village burn later.
—A Romani saying
The call came from one of Raya’s army contacts and regarded what Raya now called the RRP (Real Rat Pack,) the renegade criminal pack in Europe who had developed into talented thieves, assassins, mercenaries—all for anyone with sufficient funds. They’d become infamous during WWII when they’d operated for whichever side had paid them best at the moment. Several times they’d even swapped sides as soon as one operation was ended. Ever since, their successes had been labeled “extraordinary” by both the press and a fascinated group of Hollywood actors.
The pack was shunned by Weres everywhere for many reasons, including their sheer numbers. eight was the ‘magic’ number for a wolf pack, nine at most. The RRP, however, added indiscriminately to their pack, even reaching three digits—beyond one hundred Weres—on occasion. It was enough to turn Raya’s stomach.
The current situation involved a pack of four wolves who’d barely escaped from Europe and the RRP with their lives. It wasn’t clear how this small pack had tangled with the RRP in the first place, and that gave Raya an uneasy feeling.
He did know that the small pack had booked passage on a tramp steamer bound for Ripero, New Jersey. The name of the city alone sparked a fleeting memory as Raya had heard somewhere that Ripero , ‘shelter’ in Italian, was a model city built by the Cavello Corporation, well known for their motto ‘where garbage becomes treasure.’ Everyone knew that the Cavello Corporation was a shiny front for a bunch of none-too-shiny characters better known as the Italian mafia, namely the Gambini family.
Cavello Corporation consisted of squeaky-clean business types who’d graduated from Harvard Business School and the like. In truth, one old Italian who lived by his own code was single-handedly responsible for every major move or decision at Cavello: a certain Don Gambini.
The don was determined to prove that several revolutionary new chemicals created by Cavello’s top chemists would treat any landfill and create a clean, safe location where a city could then be built. So many landfills existed across America, but that land was considered ‘lost’ and ‘unusable.’ Anyone who proved able to recover those millions of lost acres would be heralded as a hero, and make a fortune in the process. The Don, who preferred to live in the shadows, cared nothing for the ‘hero’ designation but was more than interested in the fortune to be made. Although far from poor, another one of the Don’s cherished mottos was ‘there’s never enough.’
The first city to actually be built atop a landfill, and an enormous landfill at that, was Ripero.
Cavello’s scientists had invented a chemical which reduced most non-recyclable garbage into a water-permeable substance almost as hard as cement. Cavello named this substance GarTres. Ripero itself was oblivious to what lay beneath it, a sizeable hill of pure GarTres covered by fifteen feet of the best dirt money could buy.
The story had appeared in one tabloid or another and of cours
e Petra had spotted it as her weakness was reading those rags. She delighted in the absurd and surprising Raya with the latest. Ripero’s tale had hit on all cylinders: built on trash by trash! Who could resist, she’d told Raya several weeks before as she provided details with wicked glee.
Raya’s phone rang again, interrupting his thoughts. Now the terrified European pack were down a wolf, as there’d been a confrontation between the Weres and some sort of security force in the streets of Ripero. One of the werewolves had been shot and killed. When the others attempted to flee the area, this mysterious security group had blocked every possible egress, forcing the Weres to find a place to hide within the city itself.
Raya hung up, called Petra in her studio and asked her to gather the pack for a trip to New Jersey in the morning.
Chapter Ten
Ripero: Treasure City
One man’s trash is another’s treasure.
—Unknown
If the Cavello Corp, and the Italian brains behind those puppets, had had any idea of the repercussions behind that one Were’s death, the entire situation would have been handled far differently.
Cavello Corp remained in blissful ignorance, though, and events rolled on to an inevitable conclusion.
As Cavello concentrated its considerable forces on finding the remaining three hapless Weres, a small group of Cavello scientists were uneasy for an entirely different reason. In their large, pristine lab several stories below ground level, Dr. Ricky Helton was squinting at his computer screen and rubbing his bald pate. His assistant, Jennie, walked in with fresh coffee.
“Dr. H, drink this. You need a break,” Jennie said.
“Break, shmake,” Helton replied. “That Ripero, I tell you it’s going to—”
“Enough already,” the exasperated woman said. “You’ve had those feelings for what, six years now? And look at Ripero! Less illnesses on an average than any other US city. Less crime. Less—”
