I sleep in late. Putting an end to the rapist pleased me, and I sleep the sleep of the
(almost)
just. I half wake a couple of times, but doze off again without opening my eyes, smiling in the gloominess of my stuffy room, enjoying the warmth and comfort of my bed.
It’s after midday when I rise and launch into the first set of the day’s exercises. Squats. I’m up to 236 when someone knocks on the door.
I come to a cautious halt. I’m not expecting visitors, and unexpected guests are rare around here. Religious missionaries don’t venture this far east—they gave up on us long ago—and nobody’s dumb enough to come collecting for charity. My neighbors aren’t in the habit of dropping in—they care as little about my affairs as I do about theirs—and the rent isn’t due for another two months.
Rising, I pad to the door and pause with my hand on the knob. I don’t have a chain or latch, so I address my visitor through the thin wood of the closed door. “Who is it?”
“Jerry Falstaff.”
Unlocking the door, I open it and gesture him in. It’s been three years—more—since he last looked me up. My curiosity’s instantly aroused.
Jerry walks straight to the only chair in the tiny living room and takes it. “The decor hasn’t improved,” he notes, casting an unimpressed eye around.
“I was never big on interior design.” I close the door and take up a position opposite him, standing to attention the way I used to when I was one of Jerry’s colleagues in the Troops. Jerry’s come a long way since then, further than either of us ever imagined. The new Cardinal took a shine to him. Jerry mixes with the high and mighty these days, though he doesn’t bear the look of an important man. He’s the same Jerry Falstaff I remember, slightly overweight, clothes a bit loose, a small grin never far from his lips. A bit grayer at the temples perhaps.
“Looking good, Al.”
“I keep in shape.”
“And then some.” Jerry coughs meaningfully and I take the hint.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
“Thought you’d never ask. Got any beer?”
I fetch a couple of cans from the fridge, one for each of us. Ten years ago I was dry, avoiding all forms of alcohol in the sure knowledge that one slip would be my downfall. These days I can indulge in a social drink (though I rarely do) and leave it at that. I have greater demons to wrestle with.
“Busy?” Jerry asks, sinking a third of the can and burping.
“Yes.”
“Things have been tense lately. I hear you’re keeping a lid on the situation in these parts.”
“I’ve done what I can.”
“Didn’t think community watch was your kind of business.”
“Riots are good for nobody. How are things going with the Kluxers?”
Jerry grimaces. “We’ve forced them back a bit. They’ve established a toehold, but we showed we weren’t ready to let them roll in and take over. It’s an uneasy truce but it should hold for a few weeks.”
“And then?”
“Who knows?” He smirks humorlessly. “Actually that’s what I’m here about.” He pauses, giving me a chance to ask questions, but I say nothing. I can’t imagine what he’s after. “We’ve been good to you, haven’t we?”
“Me and Frank. Ford, before he retired. As a rule we’re opposed to vigilantes. We had every right to crack down on you, especially since you targeted so many of our valued associates.”
I nod slowly. “I can’t argue with that.”
“But we’ve kept out of your way and granted you the freedom of the city.”
“That’s true.”
Jerry sips from the can and speaks over the rim. “You know about Capac going AWOL?”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“He went to the Fridge Saturday before last. Asked to be admitted to Dorak’s crypt. When the doctor who let him in returned, he wasn’t there. Vanished into thin air, or so it seemed. We found a passageway beneath Dorak’s coffin, a set of stairs leading down into a maze of tunnels. He must have gone down—or was taken. We tried to track him but it’s immense, full of traps and dead ends. He hasn’t been seen since.”
“A tragedy,” I mutter drily. Inside I’m thinking that underground tunnels plus an Ayuamarcan plus mysterious disappearance equals villacs.
“It will be if we don’t get him back,” Jerry says seriously. “He has his critics, but Capac’s The Cardinal, the only one who can hold this shit-can of a city together. He…” Jerry shakes his head. “But that’s not for me to say. You’ll be told more later. I want you to come with me, Al.”
“Where?”
“Party Central.”
“Why?”
“Ford’s back. He’s taken control.”
“Ford Tasso?” I ask stupidly. “I thought he’d been crippled by a stroke.”
“He’s semi-paralyzed but he can get around. It isn’t easy, and it’ll get harder by the day, but right now he’s the one man everyone’s willing to rally behind. Ford’s name still carries weight. The shock of seeing him stagger out of retirement gave all of our enemies pause for thought. It even drove the Kluxers back—as soon as Davern realized he’d be pitting himself against Ford Tasso, he turned tail. That won’t last—he’s too tempting a target, old and fragile—but it’s bought us time.”
Tasso bossing the gang around at Party Central again was something I never thought to see. I assumed he’d simply pass away quietly and that would be the end of the Ford Tasso legend. Seems he didn’t bother to read the script.
“I’m glad he’s back,” I say honestly. “It’s nice to hear the old bastard’s still up for a fight. But what’s it got to do with me?”
“He wants to see you,” Jerry says.
“Why?”
“I think he wants your help. He seems to believe you might know where Capac is, or how to find him.”
“I don’t.”
Jerry shrugs. “That’s what I figured, but—”
“No buts,” I interrupt. “I know nothing about your Cardinal’s disappearance. I’ve no wish to get involved. Tell Tasso that.”
“Al,” Jerry chuckles, “it hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten how things work. I was told to bring you in, not deliver a message.”
My eyes narrow. “What if I don’t want to come?”
Jerry sighs. “I’m not fool enough to try and force you. But I went out of my way for you once. Put my life on the line.” That was ten years ago, when everything around me was going to hell. Jerry helped me put part of the Bill Casey puzzle together. Unlike many of the players in that game, he wasn’t manipulated by Bill or the villacs. He only got involved because he wanted to help.
“OK,” I mutter. “Do I have time to get dressed?”
“Sure,” Jerry beams, returning to his beer. “You might want to stick on your wig and cover those snakes too. I don’t bear you any ill feelings for the contacts of ours you’ve taken out, but there are some at Party Central not as forgiving. If they see Paucar Wami walk in, they might start shooting.”
Grunting sourly, I go get ready for my meeting with the fill-in Cardinal.
Jerry still drives the same old van that he drove ten years ago, though the engine’s been replaced and new leather seats have been fitted. Traffic’s bad, so it takes us forty minutes to reach Party Central. The fortress is much the same as ever. Twenty floors of reinforced concrete, steel and glass. Raimi made a few structural alterations—such as the balcony on the fifteenth floor—but by and large it hasn’t changed. Two costumed doormen still operate the front doors, but the ten Troops who used to flank them aren’t to be seen. I’d heard the new Cardinal wasn’t as security conscious as his predecessor.
Inside it’s buzzing. The huge tiled lobby’s full of people talking, arguing, booking appointments, waiting to be met. In Dorak’s day everyone had to take off their shoes and leave them at reception, but Raimi scrapped that asinine rule and the desk where people checked in their footwear has been replaced by a row of computers where execs can surf the Web, work on their files, or kill time playing games.
Although the Troops on the doors have been removed, there are more guarding the lobby than ever before, blocking entrances to the elevators and stairs, patrolling relentlessly, weapons openly displayed. By the slight air of confusion, I can tell these aren’t regulars. Tasso must have drafted them in.
“Expecting trouble?” I ask Jerry as we weave through the crowd.
“And getting it,” he replies. “Frank wanted to put guards back outside the doors, but Ford said it would be admitting to the world that Capac was gone.”
“I thought Frank didn’t work here anymore.”
“Capac asked him to step into Gico Carl’s shoes. Frank agreed, on a temporary basis. Now he wishes he’d kept the hell out, but he’s stuck with it.”
“How’s he getting on with Tasso?” There was never any love lost between them.
“Surprisingly well,” Jerry says. “There’s no time for friction. You’d swear they were long-lost brothers if you didn’t know better.”
The private elevator to the fifteenth floor is protected by a dozen armed Troops. They part as Jerry approaches, but their gazes linger suspiciously on me and I hear the creaking of fingers as I pass, tightening on triggers. If I were a man who worried about dying, I’d be very nervous right now.
I recognize the elevator operator—Mike Kones, a friend of Jerry’s. The three of us shared many shifts in the old days. Working an elevator’s not my idea of a satisfying job, but Mike was never the most mobile of men and this is a prestigious position. He looks content. We nod to each other but don’t say anything.
Frank’s waiting for us at the top. It’s been six years since our paths crossed. He’s put on a lot of weight—too many corporate lunches—and his hairline’s receding, but he looks happier and calmer than when he was head of the Troops.
“Al,” he greets me with a genuine smile and a firm handshake. “Great to see you. How’ve you been?”
“Not bad. You?”
He pats his bulging stomach and grins. “Getting by.” He faces Jerry and his smile thins. “Trouble.”
“Pena?” Jerry guesses and Frank nods. “Ron Pena,” Jerry explains for my benefit. “Manufactures designer drugs. Fancies himself as a successor if Capac doesn’t return.”
“He’s making his move,” Frank says darkly. “Ridiculing Ford, saying he’s too old, demanding he step aside. Most of the people who matter are in there—Pena summoned them. If they side with Pena, Ford’s through.”
Jerry’s face darkens. “If Pena takes over, we’re fucked. He’d try and do deals with Davern and his like. Screw everything up.”
“I told Ford that,” Frank grumbles. “I said we should deny his request for an audience. He wouldn’t listen. Told me to admit him. I don’t think he realizes the threat Pena poses. He doesn’t understand that things have changed. The gangs aren’t automatically obedient any longer.”
Jerry chews his lip and glances at me. “Think we should wait out here until it’s over?” he asks Frank.
“No. Ford said you were to enter as soon as you arrived. If we don’t obey his orders, we can’t expect anyone else to.”
BASE—The Cardinal’s office—is jammed with Raimi’s disgruntled generals. Men in suits mingle with hoods in jeans and slashed shirts, but nobody looks out of place. The Cardinal’s empire embraces both the legitimate and illegal, and these people are accustomed to the curious mix.
All eyes are focused on the pair at the center of the room. Ford Tasso sits in The Cardinal’s vacated chair, stony face impassive, right arm slung lifelessly across his waist. Ron Pena circles him like a lawyer, gesturing expansively, a picture of youthful arrogance and strength, berating the old man.
“We know how important you were to Dorak and Raimi,” Pena barks, “but you’re a cripple now. We can’t live in the past. You’re not fit to walk, never mind run a corporation like this. Stand down, for fuck’s sake, and let those of us who know what we’re doing take command. You’re a joke. The only reason you haven’t been attacked is that all our rivals are falling over laughing.”
Tasso sighs an old man’s sigh and shakes his head meekly. The right side of his face is a stiff mask—paralyzed from the stroke—and the eye there rests dead in its socket. “You’re right,” he mutters, his voice a slurred imitation of what it used to be. “I thought I was helping, but I see now it was an old fart’s folly. I wasn’t a man to lead in my prime, so I’m hardly fit for it in my twilight years.”
Sympathetic murmurs and chuckles fill the room. Pena beams condescendingly at the crippled elder gangster and lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. Frank curses beneath his breath and looks away, disgusted. Jerry and I share a wry glance—we know Tasso better than Frank does. We don’t buy the act.
“Help me up, Ron,” Tasso croaks, struggling to rise. “Get me back to Solvert’s. A few of us play poker every Tuesday. I might make the first hand if I hurry.”
“That’s the spirit,” Pena laughs, taking hold of Tasso’s dead right arm and hoisting the old man to his feet. “Stick with your card games. Leave the running of the city to those best suited to—”
Tasso’s left hand strikes for Pena’s throat. His huge fingers dig into flesh and he squeezes. Pena gasps, eyes widening, and drops to his knees. Tasso holds him up, supporting the weight of the younger man’s body with his one good hand, fingers whitening from the pressure as he crushes. Pena makes savage choking noises and slaps at the hand around his throat. Tasso ignores the feeble gestures. Around the room, jaws drop. Nobody steps in to save Ron Pena.
Half a minute later, the job’s finished. Tasso lets go of his dead challenger, who flops to the floor. He turns slowly and painfully, his right leg nearly useless, and glares with his working eye at those who moments before were ready to pension him off.
“If anybody else has anything to say about my leadership qualities,” he snaps, and this time his voice is as firm as ever, “say it now, to my face.” Silence reigns. He kicks the corpse at his feet, then hits a button on the desk. “Mags. Send in a disposal unit. Shit needs scraping off the floor.”
“Yes, Mr. Tasso,” comes the voice of his secretary. Seconds later, four Troops march into the room, pick up Ron Pena’s remains and cart him away.
“Well?” Tasso shouts. “Am I in charge of this fucking anthill or not?” There’s an immediate flurry of answers, everybody hurrying to swear allegiance. “In that case, stop wasting time, get out on the street and spread the word that it’s business as usual at Party Central.” The gathered heads of the corporation start to file out. “Gentlemen,” he calls them back. “If I even think that any of you are plotting against me, I’ll have your heads for bowling balls, your wives for whores and your children for house-slaves.” A few of the men begin to chuckle. Then they realize he’s not joking and their laughter dies away in gurgles. Tasso turns his back on them and limps to the balcony for a breath of fresh air.
“A force of fucking nature,” Frank whispers admiringly.
“I told you he’d crack the whip,” Jerry smirks.
Tasso makes his slow way back from the balcony. The strain in the huge man’s face is evident, but so is the relish. He’s loving this.
“Algiers,” he nods.
“Ford.”
“Been a while.”
“You’re looking good.”
He snorts. “I look like a fucking wreck. You two!” he barks at Frank and Jerry. “What are you doing here?”
“Awaiting orders,” Frank says.
“Don’t you have any initiative? I’ve just throttled the chairman of one of the most profitable pharmaceutical firms in the city. The race to replace him has already begun. I want one of our men in there. See to it.”
“Yes, sir!” Frank salutes smartly.
“Right away, Mr. Tasso!” Jerry mimics Frank’s salute.
“Pair of fucking clowns,” Tasso grumbles as they exit, but the left side of his mouth lifts into an amused half-smile. “Take a load off, Algiers.” I grab a plastic chair and sit opposite him as he eases himself into the soft leather chair. “How’s life been treating you?”
“Better than you,” I comment.
He chuckles. “I’m a mess, sure as fuck, but I’ll take punks like Ron Pena any day, crippled or otherwise.”
“Pena was a nobody. Will you be able to take Eugene Davern when he comes?”
Tasso grimaces. “Let’s not dwell on that. Get you something to drink?”
“I’d rather skip the preliminaries and find out why you called me in.”
“As you wish.” Tasso rubs the wrist of his right arm, then moves up to the elbow. “You heard about Capac and the Fridge?”
“Jerry filled me in.”
“Ever meet him?”
“Raimi?” I shake my head. “Saw him a couple of times.”
“A strange kid,” Tasso reflects. “Cold and alien inside. Dorak was a mean son of a bitch, but he was human. I don’t know what the fuck Raimi is.”
Tasso tosses a doll at me. It’s a dead ringer for Capac Raimi. It reminds me that this room used to be full of dolls—absent now.
“I locked them in a cupboard,” Tasso explains as I stare at the bare walls. “Never could stand those fucking mannequins. Had to put up with them when I was playing second fiddle to The Cardinal.”
“But when the cat’s away…”
“Exactly.”
I turn the doll around, examining it idly. “Think he’s dead?” I ask.
“He can’t be killed.”
I smile, keeping my eyes on the doll so that Tasso won’t see the grin. “You never struck me as the gullible type.”
“I’m not. But I’m telling you, Capac Raimi can’t be killed. He’s immortal.”
“I’ve heard the rumors. I don’t believe them.”
“I’ve seen it firsthand. He’s been shot, knifed, blown to pieces, pushed off that balcony. The fucker keeps coming back. I don’t know how, but he does. His remains dissolve away and a few days later he forms a new body and returns. If you think I’m going senile, check with Jerry and Frank. They’ve seen it too.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. “If that’s true, why are you worried?”
“He’s never been gone this long. Normally he returns within three days. At a stretch, four. Never longer. This time he’s disappeared. I don’t know where he is. And I don’t think he’s going to make it back on his own.”
“But if he can’t be killed…”
“I don’t know how to explain it!” Tasso roars. “If I could, I wouldn’t need to turn to you.”
“Speaking of which… What do I have to do with your missing Cardinal?”
Tasso’s left hand creeps to his right shoulder and he kneads the flesh firmly. If he were sitting at an angle to me, the right side of his face would show all the vitality of a corpse.
“Capac came to see me the week before he vanished,” Tasso says. “He was agitated. The city’s going to hell and he wanted to halt its slide. He believed the villacs—they’re blind priests—”
“I know who they are,” I chip in softly.
“—Were responsible for the unrest. This wasn’t the first time they’d clashed. Capac had his own way of doing things. The villacs didn’t approve. He felt they were undermining his authority. He asked me to step in for him, freeing him to deal with them. I refused. The following weekend he wound up at the Fridge and nothing’s been seen of him since.”
I dwell on that a while. “Why return to the hot seat now, when you wouldn’t before?”
“Guilt,” he answers directly. “I thought Capac could handle things. I didn’t take his offer seriously. If I had, maybe he wouldn’t be on the missing list and this city wouldn’t be on the brink of war.”
“It’s a bit late in the day to put things right.”
Tasso shrugs (only his left shoulder rises). “If I’m late, I’m late. Point is, I’m here and I need your help.”
“I still don’t understand what you think I can do. I have no idea where Raimi is.”
“You can find out,” Tasso says evenly. “I think the villacs have him and I think you’re the one person who can deal with those blind sons of jackals and persuade them to set him free.”
“Why would you think that?” I frown.
“Stuff Capac told me over the years. I know about the Ayuamarcans, your father and how, aside from Capac, you’re the only survivor of Dorak’s phantasmagoric army.”
“You remember Paucar Wami?” I hiss.
“Not clearly, but Capac told me all about him.”
I’m trembling. That won’t do. I need to be composed. I count silently until I’m in control. When I reach twenty-two and my hands are still, I speak. “Even if there’s a link between Raimi and me, what makes you think I could find him?”
“I’ve been here since Friday,” Tasso says. “But it was only last night, when this was dropped on my desk, that I thought about you.”
Tasso tosses an envelope to me. Warily, I slide the flap open. A large playing card slips out—the jack of spades. An ordinary card in most respects, except two tiny photos have been glued over the faces of the jacks, one of Capac Raimi, the other of me, in Al Jeery guise. Across the middle of the card runs a printed message, written in red ink on a white strip of paper. THE BLOODLINES WILL MERGE.
I read the message twice, glance again at the photos, then place the card back in its envelope and return it to Ford.
“You’re right,” I say quietly. “The villacs have him.”
“Any idea what it means?” he asks. “About bloodlines merging?”
“The priests have a vision. They want to make this city the center of the world. They believe in a sun god, and they think he’ll bless them if the conditions are right and ensure their longevity until the end of time. That can only happen if three bloodlines come together in a chakana of blood—Blood of Flesh, Blood of Dreams, and Flesh of Dreams.”
“I haven’t the slightest fucking clue what you’re babbling about,” Tasso says.
“Raimi told you how the Ayuamarcans were created, how Dorak and the priests wove them out of thin air, molding their features after people he saw in dreams?”
“Yeah,” Tasso says cautiously.
“Capac’s supposed to be a creature of the dream world—hence, Blood of Dreams. The villacs are human—Blood of Flesh. As the spawn of an Ayuamarcan and a human, I’m meant to be the blood of Flesh and Dreams—Flesh of Dreams. The way they told it, if I hooked up with them and Raimi, and we worked as a chakana—a three-tier team—this city would be ours and we’d rule forever.”
Tasso looks perplexed. “I’m still not sure I follow. But you’ve confirmed what I thought—you and Capac are mixed up with the villacs and thus with one another. That’s why you’ve got to look for him. If I send others, the priests will kill or repel them. Those bastards only spare those they have a use for. If they have a use for you, you might be able to go places the rest of us can’t.”
“Maybe,” I concede guardedly. “But I’m not interested in Raimi or the priests. The less I have to do with them, the better.”
“You’re turning me down?” Tasso asks blankly.
“Nothing could make me throw in my lot with those blind bastards,” I answer directly. “Money won’t sway me and threats won’t scare me. I won’t get involved and that’s all I have to say about it.”
I rise, aware that I’m taking an enormous chance, prepared to fight if I have to, sure I won’t get very far. But Tasso makes no move to stop me. He lets me get to the door, then says, just loudly enough for me to hear, “Bill Casey.”
I come to a halt, eyes closing as I groan. Deep down I knew he had something up his sleeve. I just didn’t think it would be this compelling.
Turning to face him, I wait for him to continue.
“You fascinated Capac,” Tasso says. “When you adopted Wami’s look and name, he had you investigated. He found out everything he could about you, much of it from Dorak’s files—the old Cardinal had a shitload of material on you.
“Bill Casey admitted in a letter to the cops that he fucked up your life. He told them he masterminded the murders of your girlfriends and ex-wife. But he never provided a reason. Capac guessed it was linked to your father. He figured Paucar Wami hurt Bill Casey, and this was Casey’s warped way of hitting back at his tormentor—through his son.”
“Smart thinking,” I comment icily.
“Capac’s as cunning as they come,” Tasso huffs. “What he didn’t understand was why you assumed your father’s position. Casey tormented you, but he died in the explosion that almost killed you. That should have been the end of it. Unless, of course, he wasn’t really dead.”
Tasso slides the photo-decorated jack of spades out of the envelope and studies it while elaborating. “Capac figured Casey must have rigged the explosion and walked away, that your Wami disguise was a ruse to tempt him out of hiding, so that you could settle the score.”
“A certified genius,” I snarl.
“There’s more,” Tasso says, laying the card down. “As The Cardinal, Capac had informants everywhere, ears and eyes in places the rest of us don’t even know about. He set his people looking for Casey.” A carefully calculated pause. “They found him.”
My strength deserts me. I stumble against the door and pant for breath, eyes shut, fighting off the madness bubbling to the surface. “Bill’s alive?” I wheeze.
“And living in this city.”
My eyes open. Everything goes cold. “Where?”
Tasso stares at me evenly. “I’ll only tell you that once Capac’s been safely returned.”
“No!” I bellow. “Tell me now!”
I start toward the old man in the chair, insane with vengeful desire, not about to be denied. I’ll tear Tasso limb from limb if that’s what it takes. If he thinks he can dangle Bill in front of me like a carrot, then snatch him away, he’s seriously fucking mistaken.
“Don’t do it, Algiers,” Tasso says softly, and the unexpected gentleness in his voice unnerves me. “If you attack, I’ll fight to the death. I’ll kill you or you’ll kill me. The latter’s the more likely outcome, but it won’t get you Casey’s address. It’ll only earn you an early execution at the hands of my Troops.”
There’s no arguing with that. I wish I could throttle it out of him, but I know him too well. Violence isn’t the answer, not this time.
“A deal,” I growl. “The address first. If it’s on the level, I’ll see to my business with Bill, then search for—”
“Negative,” Tasso barks. “Capac first, then Casey. That’s the offer. Take it or leave it.”
Inside my head I count to ten. Thinking of Bill and his sad expression when he explained how he set about wrecking my life. Twenty. Remembering the explosion, the aftermath, slowly coming to the realization that he might still be alive. Fifty. Dwelling on ten years of murder and craziness. Eighty. Looking ahead, exploring alternatives, seeing only one way forward.
On ninety-six I let out a long breath. “If you’re bluffing…”
“I’m not.”
“OK.” I pull up the chair I was using earlier and position it in front of the makeshift Cardinal. I sense eager demons gathering around me, in anticipation of the chaos and bloodshed that’s sure to follow. “Tell me where you want me to start.”