by Eliza Green
Isobel nodded.
Sal pulled out two cans of food labelled ‘chicken’. ‘While I rustle up something more appetising than fifteen-day-old replicated meat, why don’t you tell me about this husband of yours?’
18
Marcus, Carl and Freddy travelled by car to the market in the Old Jamaica area in Queens, less than three miles from Waverley neighbourhood. An environmental force field surrounded the former warehouse. The clean air cooled Marcus’ skin as he entered the space.
The vendors visibly stiffened as Marcus, Carl and Freddy sauntered down the different aisles, past dozens of stalls. Marcus drank in the fear; the black market and Waverley were the only two places where he felt in control. Enzo had no say over either place. Gaetano had delegated Marcus to run the market and Waverley neighbourhood, and both places would help him to impress the boss of the Kings.
Marcus stopped at a stall to the rear of the warehouse and picked up an apple from one of the display boxes. He polished the skin on his jacket and took a bite. The food tasted so bland, he forced himself to swallow it. Replicators reproduced food with a hint of the food’s original taste. The machine added general shape, colour and size. But the replicator cards, designed to control the flavour and texture, had a shelf life and no technical support. Marcus tossed the apple with the bite mark back onto the vendor’s stall.
‘Take that out of your pay,’ said Marcus to the vendor. The vendor nodded.
Four rows over, he found Jenny Waterson, the self-proclaimed voice for the other vendors. Marcus didn’t like the old woman who acted too superior to him. While she was fit and toned and attractive for her age, she reminded him too much of the Indigenes, with her greyish hair cut short. It was also how she looked at him, like her submission to him was just an act. If an issue started with the vendors, Marcus was sure it would begin with her.
Jenny turned away from Marcus to speak to her husband, Greyson. Marcus had delved into the lives of the pair but had found little, besides Jenny’s previous job as a pilot for the World Government. Greyson wasn’t even important enough to be in the system. Jenny had been blackballed and abandoned on Earth by the very people who’d once employed her. That old regime no longer existed. It was time for Jenny to learn her place, to be taken down a peg or two.
Marcus clicked his fingers and motioned her over to a private corner of the warehouse, away from the other vendors. As much as he hated Jenny, he needed her on his side. He also needed the others to see him controlling her. Carl and his associates continued to harass the other stall owners.
Marcus made himself taller in Jenny’s tall presence. She looked too comfortable with her hands in her pockets.
‘Mr Agostini has ordered the prices up. You are to mark everything up by thirty percent.’
‘Thirty?’ said Jenny, surprised. ‘That will wipe out fifty percent of sales. You realise that?’
He knew what it meant. He might not have received a formal education, but he knew how the rise would affect business.
‘Yes, I do. It’s what he wants.’
Jenny tapped her finger on her lip. ‘We could probably manage a fifteen percent rise. It would be enough to satisfy Mr Agostini and still bring in money.’
‘This is not up for discussion. You need to tell the others. And if you don’t sell your quota of goods this week, I’ll be back here.’
‘Please Marcus, let’s discuss this. The residents can’t afford a thirty percent increase.’
‘I don’t need some old woman telling me how to run my business.’
Jenny lowered her voice. ‘I’m just saying there’s a sweet spot that will keep Mr Agostini happy and keep the money rolling in.’
‘If I wanted your opinion, I’d have asked for it. Now, be a good girl and do as you’re told.’
Jenny nodded, but the flash of anger in her eyes told him she wasn’t finished.
Marcus needed to take back control. He could sense the other vendors watching. He clicked his fingers at her. ‘Show me the books.’
He followed Jenny to her stall. Greyson pulled out the ledger from behind the counter that kept a record of all stock in and out for the entire market. Gaetano didn’t trust technology, and had nobody skilled enough to monitor it. Books didn’t lie. The factions knew exactly how much stock they delivered to the market, and the books recorded how much was on each stall, how much was sold and when. Beside each vendor’s name was a tally of stock, their daily takings and a note on any produce stolen or deemed lost or faulty. Marcus usually paid attention to the stolen, lost or faulty items, to look for high numbers and weak reasons. And when they stole from their own stalls, he enjoyed executing his own brand of punishment. Although he never needed an excuse to dish it out.
Marcus’ finger stopped on two names in Aisle One, the second and third vendors in from the entrance. A hit of adrenaline coursed through his veins. His talk with Gaetano had knocked his confidence and he needed to get it back. Putting the vendors in their place was a good start.
He put down the ledger and pointed at Carl to summon the vendors. He strolled past the others, noting the downcast eyes and looks of fear that made him glad to be on the right side of the business.
Carl dragged the first vendor, a Chinese man, through the door at the rear of the warehouse and Marcus pressed his gel mask to his face as he followed outside. The scared vendor slapped his own mask to his face and fiddled with his oxygen supply. The untainted oxygen hissed into his mask while Marcus sucked in a lungful of clean air from his new canister. It was like a drug. Invigorating.
‘Please,’ said the man, holding up his hands. ‘I did nothing wrong.’
Marcus sucked more oxygen into his lungs. ‘So the books are lying, are they?’
‘No. I mean, yes, they’re lying. I didn’t steal anything, I swear. Two boys stole items from my stall when I wasn’t looking.’
Marcus hid his smile. He’d paid two of the local boys to take items then drop them to Carl. When it came to teenagers, money talked.
‘That still makes it your fault.’ Marcus pulled his brass knuckleduster from his pocket and slipped it over the fingers on his right hand. He made a fist and polished the brass on his coat. ‘You know I can’t give anyone preferential treatment.’
‘Please.’ The man was crying. Marcus could rip the gel mask off his face and wait for him to run out of air. That would be the easiest way. But he preferred to use his fists.
He’d wanted to be a boxer. A stupid kid’s dream really, plus the local gym refused to train him without adult consent. Since his father had never been around, Marcus’ idea languished. Until he and Carl broke into the gym after hours and smacked each other around until one of them was too bloodied to continue. A few bruises on the vendor would remind the market who was in charge.
The brass made a cracking noise against the man’s chin. The vendor screamed into his mask until it had fogged up completely. Marcus went for the stomach next, hitting him hard. The man doubled over. Marcus hit him in the windpipe, not strong enough to break it, but enough that he wouldn’t talk for a few days.
Carl led the broken Chinese man back inside and returned with a second man, a Spaniard.
Marcus drew back his brass fist and was about to pummel the Spaniard when he caught someone peering around the corner.
‘Come out,’ said Marcus.
A boy of about sixteen appeared. Marcus recognised him from Waverley. It was Kevin Lee, Albert’s boy.
Marcus sneered. ‘Come to watch, have you?’
Kevin swallowed hard. ‘I want to help. I hear some boys do jobs for you.’
Marcus laughed hard. Gaetano had asked him to recruit Kevin Lee, but he had no need for the boy; Waverley neighbourhood was under control. But the place also impressed Gaetano the least. Marcus had to find some way to put it on the map, to show his boss what he could do.
He sized up the skinny boy, who, at five feet seven, was the same height as him.
‘Okay, your first job is to hit this
man.’ He took off the knuckleduster and held it out to Kevin.
‘What did he do?’
‘Why does it matter?’
Kevin hesitated, then took the duster and put it on his hand, flexing his fingers.
He looked at Marcus. ‘Where?’
Marcus ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘That’s the spirit. Anywhere you like.’
Kevin aimed for the man’s stomach but his punch barely winded the Spaniard.
‘Come on, you can hit him harder than that.’
This time, Kevin put his weight behind the punch, forcing the man to double over. He aimed another blow at the face and knocked off the man’s gel mask. He hit him again and busted his nose open.
‘That’s enough.’ Marcus snatched the knuckleduster back from Kevin and wiped it clean on the vendor’s shirt. He’d seen enough.
‘I could have hit him longer,’ said Kevin, panting. ‘I’m not even tired.’
‘And have you ruin my best weapon with his blood?’ Marcus nodded at Carl who led the Spaniard back inside the warehouse. ‘Save your strength, Kevin. I’ll need you for other jobs. How good are you at breaking into safes?’
Kevin held his chin up. ‘What do I get in return?’
‘What do you want?’
Kevin pretended to think about it. But Marcus already knew the answer. The boys only wanted one thing.
‘I want to be an associate. I want to live at HQ.’
Marcus flashed him a smile. ‘You’re a long way from that. How about we pay you in cash. Would that work for you?’
Kevin seemed disappointed, but he nodded.
Marcus dropped the act. ‘Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to steal money from that old bat, Sal. You know the one. From that little safe she keeps in the back of her cottage. Crack it open and take just enough to plunge your neighbourhood into debt. Then I’ll use that leverage to exert control over Waverley again. And if you do well and keep your mouth shut, you’ll be rewarded. If you don’t, I’ll kill your entire family, including that adopted brat your grandfather prefers over you.’
Kevin’s jaw clenched at the mention of Ben Watson. Marcus knew he’d hit the boy’s weak spot.
‘Well?’
‘How many jobs must I do to become an associate like you?’
‘Depends on how well you do this one. Don’t run before you can walk, okay? Do the job tonight and meet me after curfew at the back of your old man’s tavern.’
Kevin nodded and ran off.
With their business done, Marcus, Carl and Freddy climbed into the waiting car.
As the car sped away, Carl turned to Marcus. ‘So, how much are the prices going up by?’
‘Thirty percent.’
‘Thirty? Agostini’s gonna freak. I thought you were comin’ to a better agreement with the old witch.’
‘I got sidetracked,’ said Marcus. He stared out the window. Thirty percent. What was he thinking? Jenny was right; fifteen percent was a better percentage. But he couldn’t bear to give her the upper hand. Now he risked having Gaetano on his ass over it.
‘Calm down. I’ll change it back to fifteen percent tomorrow. Just make yourself useful and remind me when we return.’
19
Marcus rubbed the back of his tired and sore neck. Sometimes he enjoyed the grunt work so he could see the terrified looks on people's faces. Other times he wished he could sit in a fancy office like Gaetano and have the grunts work for him. He was more skilled than Enzo or Carl or most of the other associates working out of the Deighton Mansion. Yet after eight years he still did slave labour. He and Carl headed out for their usual evening patrols to pick up Waverley’s strays out after curfew.
Enzo never lifted a finger, other than to point at various associates before he assigned them jobs. Marcus had paid his dues for long enough, been loyal to the Agostini family since before the World Government’s departure. It was time for Gaetano to move him to a better position of power.
The car pulled over to the side of the road just outside Waverley neighbourhood. Marcus sat in the back while Carl stayed up front; Marcus liked to pretend Carl was his driver.
Ten minutes of curfew remained and Marcus waited the time out before heading inside to collect the stolen money from Kevin. It was a good plan. Losing three month’s earnings would send the neighbourhood into a tailspin and the residents would beg for Marcus’ help. When people begged, they usually agreed to anything he asked. The generators were next on his list to break if the stolen money didn’t do the job. A few weeks without light or heat would drive the residents insane. But Earth wasn’t as cold as it used to be and the residents had gotten used to little or no light.
The money idea had to work. Marcus needed a way to get Gaetano’s attention.
Carl fiddled with the car controls. The sound irritated Marcus.
‘Would you sit still, for Chrissake? This isn’t a holiday, you know.’
Carl turned, one arm draped over the back of the seat. ‘What’s got your knickers in a knot? The kid’ll show. Jus’ relax, will ya?’
Marcus gritted his teeth. It wouldn’t take much to put a hole in his childhood friend’s head. His hand hovered over his holstered Buzz Gun.
Show no weakness. It’s what Gaetano had said to him. But the boss couldn’t afford to lose any men, not with the threat of a takeover from the opposing criminal families.
Marcus removed his hand. Waverley was the weak chain in Gaetano’s empire; Marcus would prove yet that the neighbourhood could be turned into an opportunity.
‘Fucking piece of shit!’ Carl banged the dashboard with his fist.
Marcus slipped his Buzz Gun from his holster and pointed it at Carl. Just one more word. I dare you.
Carl turned around and glared at Marcus, then at the Buzz Gun. ‘Put that thing away, will ya? Wait until I tell you about the prozzies Enzo’s lined up fer later. Some a’ them are pretty, according to Enzo. An’ not just legs pretty, but face, too.’
‘Where? At the house?’
‘Nah. We’re driving to Greenwich.’
Marcus holstered his gun and sat back. He’d threatened to shoot Carl too often. Together they’d proved their worth to Gaetano and Alfonso after Erico’s death.
Marcus massaged the back of his neck again. ‘What time is it?’
Carl checked the clock. ‘Time to move, I’d say.’
The car idled outside the front of Lee’s tavern, its bright lights pointed at the front of the building. Marcus instructed Carl to use the infrared beam and run it over the entire property. ‘They’re all accounted for,’ said Carl. ‘One of them is climbing out of a top window.’
Marcus pressed his gel mask to his face. ‘Stay here.’
He jogged to the rear of the tavern to see Kevin climbing down from the flat roof at the back of the property. The boy dropped to the ground, light as a feather, barely making a sound.
Marcus held out his hand and a grinning Kevin pulled wads of cash out from under his jumper.
Marcus counted the money. It was more than he expected, probably the equivalent of five months’ earnings at the market. A hefty sum for Waverley to lose.
‘I didn’t think you’d have the balls, but I’m impressed.’
Kevin smiled. ‘When do I get paid?’
‘When I say so. I’ve a few more things for you to do first, so let’s not get cocky, okay?’ He slapped Kevin’s cheek. Kevin huffed and dropped his gaze.
‘Save that anger for another time. Now back to bed. I’ll call on you soon.’
Marcus pocketed the money and walked away. He climbed into the car and with a quick command from Carl, it drove back to HQ.
☼
There was a buzz back at the mansion. Carl had been right about the plans for the evening. Some associates had even taken showers to prepare for meeting the girls. A strong whiff of aftershave in the hall forced Marcus to pinch the end of his nose.
‘Okay, what smartass took a bath in some floral shit?’
&nb
sp; Enzo stepped forward, a hint of mischief behind his almost black eyes. ‘That would be me. What of it?’
Marcus didn’t feel like a confrontation. ‘Nothing. Just smells like a flower shop in here.’
The others laughed and Enzo thumped Marcus on the arm.
Prick.
‘Quite the sense of humour you have,’ said Enzo. ‘You coming with us? We’re leaving in ten.’
Prostitutes made Marcus nervous ever since an older woman had gone down on him and almost bit off his dick. Now he was selective about who got near his parts. But if pretty boy Enzo had made the effort, these girls could be worth a look.
‘Okay, let me wash up first.’
Enzo laughed. ‘Don’t bother with your face. They won’t be looking at it.’
Marcus ignored him and ran upstairs. He heard Enzo call after him. ‘It’s nine minutes now!’
Marcus’ room was on the second floor. He shuddered as he passed by the stairs leading to the third, where the Indigenes were crammed into the attic space. The shock collars kept them submissive, but the locked titanium door gave him peace of mind at night.
He hid Kevin’s stash of money under a loose floorboard, changed his shirt and ran a cloth over his face to remove the grime from the stale external air. He checked himself over in the mirror. Except for the nasty scar on his neck, he wasn’t bad looking. Not Enzo material, but better than the rest of the ugly fuckers downstairs.
He joined the group who were on their way out the door.
