City of the Snakes (12 page)

Mounting my bike, I set out to visit Fabio, an ancient pimp who knows more about the seedy secrets of the city than anybody. The old pimp’s on his last legs. If he’s to be believed, he celebrated his 113th birthday this year. Even if he’s exaggerating—and Fabio never was one to stick too closely to the facts—he can’t be far short of that remarkable age. He’s been going as long as anyone remembers. He was a big shot in the days before The Cardinal. When Dorak put him out of business, he turned to pimping and has maintained a stable of women ever since—although in reality these last few years the more loyal of his ladies have been maintaining him, as his strength and eyes have steadily failed. His ears are as good as ever, though.

Fabio’s quarters look no more run-down than they did thirty years ago, and his favorite rocking chair still stands on the rickety porch out front, though he rarely uses it now, as even, getting from his bedroom to the chair is a struggle. Two teenagers—a boy and girl—are on the porch, talking in low voices. I cough loudly as I approach, so as not to alarm them. The boy looks up quickly, identifies me and smiles. “Hi, Al.”

“Drake. Who’s your girl?”

“Name’s Lindie,” she answers, “and I ain’t this fool’s
girl.”

“Are too,” Drake grunts.

“Shut up!” she snaps.

I smother a laugh and ask if Fabio’s in. “Nah, he’s out roller skating,” Drake chortles, then looks guilty. “Don’t mean no disrespect. Sure he’s here. Mom’s taking care of him.”

Flo’s been good to Fabio. Although she still ostensibly works for him, it’s been a long time since she turned a trick. Her and a couple of others tend to the ailing pimp, feed him, wash up after him, keep the house in order. They’re genuinely fond of the old goat—Fabio always treated his women decently—but the fact that he’s rumored to have a fortune stashed away somewhere probably doesn’t hurt.

Flo’s in the kitchen, doing the laundry. She beams and gives me a big hug when she sees me. “Good to see you, Al. Fabio was asking about you only yesterday. He’ll be delighted you’ve come.”

“How is he?”

“No better, no worse.” She shrugs. “A
bit
worse. His voice went last week—couldn’t say a word for a few days—but it came back again. His doctor don’t know how he’s alive—says he should be long dead and buried—but Fabio just laughs and says he’ll go when he feels like it, not a minute before. Tea or coffee?”

“Can Fabio drink beer?”

“He ain’t supposed to, but he does anyway.”

“Then I’ll share a beer with him.”

Flo fetches a couple of bottles. She’s a sweet woman. And Drake’s a good kid. I helped him out some years ago. His brutish father had left him traumatized. My healing powers were functioning then. I got inside Drake’s head and relieved him of his nightmares. He’s never looked back. Last year his father was released from prison and came poking into Flo’s and Drake’s affairs. I warned him off. Didn’t hurt him—for all his faults, he’s Drake’s father, and the boy didn’t want to see him harmed—just told him in no uncertain terms what would happen if he didn’t catch the first train out.

Fabio’s lying flat on his back, eyes closed, breathing shallowly. He looks every one of his hundred-plus years, skin tight around his jaws, skeleton-thin, hands twitching feebly on the bedcovers.

“I don’t want to wake him if he’s sleeping,” I whisper to Flo.

“Too late,” Fabio snaps. He cocks his head—neck muscles quivering
wildly—and grins horribly. “I was having a lovely dream—in a sheikh’s brothel and still able to get my pecker up—but you’ve blown that. Sit down and spin me a few lies while I wait to drop off again.”

I take the chair beside the bed and gently squeeze the old man’s hand. I help Flo prop him up—he complains bitterly until we get him settled
just right
on the pillows—then she opens his beer, sticks a straw in it and leaves. “If he starts choking,” she advises me on her way out, “give his balls a quick tug.”

“See what I have to put up with?” he moans. “Mind, that’s the closest I get to screwing anymore, so I can’t grouch.”

Fabio’s almost completely blind and his eyes stare ahead at nothing while we talk, discussing pills, doctors, old friends, the neighborhood. He’s as up-to-date with local events as always. The fragile pimp might be confined to bed and on the verge of death, but his ear’s as close to the ground as ever.

“Heard you been hired by Ford Tasso to hunt for The Cardinal,” he says after a while. I shouldn’t be surprised but I am.

“Where the hell did you hear that?”

“I got my sources,” he chuckles. “That’s a bad business, Algeria. Those guys play for high stakes. You don’t want to get stuck in the middle.”

“I know,” I answer softly, “but I don’t have a choice.”

Fabio’s head tilts sideways. “Now, I
know
you can’t be bribed or blackmailed. And I’m pretty sure threats don’t work. So how can it be that the fearsome
Paucar Wami
don’t have a choice?”

“Tasso has information which I must have. He’ll only exchange it if I find Raimi for him.”

Fabio thinks a moment, then says, “This to do with Bill Casey?”

“Are you sure you’re dying?” I ask suspiciously. “You’re too sharp for an ancient son of a bitch with one foot in the grave.”

He laughs delightedly. “Body might not be worth shit, but I still got a brain. Only thing you’ve cared about this last decade is finding that dead man’s living bones. Ain’t nothing else I can think of that’d get you skittering about on Ford Tasso’s business.”

I nod wearily. “Tasso says he’s alive and in the city. Won’t tell me any more unless I return Raimi to him.”

“Could be lying,” Fabio notes.

“I doubt it. He knows what I’d do if he played me for a sap.”

“Ford Tasso ain’t the sort who worries about retribution.”

“He does where Paucar Wami’s involved,” I contradict him, gently stroking my left cheek, careful not to disturb the paint. “Everyone fears Wami.”

An uneasy silence descends. Fabio’s never understood my need to become the legendary killer, and he feels uncomfortable whenever the topic’s raised.

“Anyway,” he breaks the silence, clapping my forearm with a frail hand. “You didn’t come to pass the time of day. You want to know if I’ve heard anything about Raimi?”

“Yeah. Though I’d have come regardless. I was overdue for a visit.”

“Can’t argue with that,” he smirks, takes a sip of beer through his straw, and leans back further into his pillows. “Don’t have much to tell. I know he went missing in the Fridge, through an underground passage, and I don’t think any of the gangs are behind it—nobody ’round here knows shit about who took him or why. Other than that, I can’t help.”

“Any theories on who’d have it in for Raimi?” I ask.

“Hell, Algeria, everyone has it in for The Cardinal. They need him—he holds this shit together—but that don’t stop them hating him.” He pauses. “Mind, there’s a hell of a difference between those who’d wish him gone and those with the balls to take him on. Eugene Davern might be powerful and dumb enough to try. Those blind priest friends of yours could have done it too.”

I grunt neutrally and let the reference to the
villacs
pass. “You think Davern could be involved?” I ask instead.

“Maybe. Doubt he is, not by the way he backed down in the northwest when Tasso took over, but if Raimi don’t return and warfare erupts, Davern’s the most likely to ride it out. That gives him good reason to want Raimi out of the way—and extra good reason for you to be careful if you go sniffing around after him.”

I spend a further half hour with Fabio, talking over old times. He’s deteriorated a lot since my last visit. His voice cracks every so often, and there are times when his thoughts wander. Resilient as he is, I doubt he’ll
see out the summer. Death’s been a long time coming for Fabio, but now that it has him in its jaws, it’s swiftly grinding him down.

Talking tires the ancient pimp. When he starts to doze, I trail off into silence, then rise silently and leave. I slip Flo some cash, tell her to call me if she needs anything, let myself out—Drake and his girl have moved on—and stroll away, idly planning for the funeral that is surely close upon us.

I hadn’t seriously considered the possibility that anyone other than the
villacs
had abducted The Cardinal. I still believe the priests were behind it—the card Tasso received supports that theory—but perhaps they operated through a third party. If they did, Davern seems as logical a choice as any, and as worrying—if the Klan-spawned Kluxers come to prominence, they’re bound to target the black gangs in the east.

Having slipped back into Paucar Wami’s flesh, I spend the rest of Saturday learning more about Eugene Davern. I know him by reputation only, and though I’ve taken out a few of his men in the past, those I killed were peripheral to his operation, and he had sense enough not to make an issue of their deaths. He’s an easy man to investigate. My contacts practically line up to spill the beans on the ex-Klansman. Within hours I know the whereabouts of several of his hideaways, the names and addresses of three of his mistresses and the nights he visits them, how many men he has with him at any one time in any one place. He guards himself cleverly, but if I need to get to him, I can.

If Davern authorized the kidnapping of Capac Raimi, there are very few men he would dare trust with such a charge. According to the grapevine, there are only four he trusts implicitly. His younger brother, Ellis. His best friend since childhood, Dan Kerrin, who isn’t a Kluxer. And two of his closest lieutenants, Hyde Wornton and Matthew “Millie” Burns. If I don’t come up with anything else, I’ll start shadowing the quartet in case one of them is sitting on Raimi.

I’m exploring a warehouse of Davern’s on the docks when my phone vibrates shortly after midnight. I check the digits but don’t recognize them. That troubles me—strangers shouldn’t have access to my number—but I answer anyway.

“Yeah?” I grunt, not giving my name away.

“Is this Paucar Wami?” a man asks nervously.

“Who wants to know?”

“Terry Archer. I’m night manager of the Skylight.”

I know him. Haven’t seen him in a long time. No idea why he should be ringing me or how he got my number. “What do you want?”

“Ford Tasso told me to call and gave me your details. We…” Archer stops to lick his lips.

“Go on,” I prompt him.

“There’s been a murder. One of our customers has been killed. A woman. Her back was sliced up into a sun-like symbol.” I go cold, my mind snapping back ten years. “She was killed in room—”

“—Eight-twelve,” I finish, staring ahead blankly into the darkness of the warehouse.

“Yes,” Archer says, surprised. “How did you know?”

“I’ll be with you as soon as I can. Don’t let anybody near the body.”

“I’ve already sealed off the room. Nobody gets in without my—”

I cut him off. Within a minute I’m out of the warehouse and on my motorcycle, tearing across the city, propelled by the spirits of the bloody past.

The Skylight underwent a renovation last year. It was shut for almost six months while old rooms were demolished and rebuilt, walls repainted and papered, fresh carpets laid, new furniture moved in. The Skylight’s reputation as the city’s key draw for the rich and famous had dwindled since Ferdinand Dorak’s death, but now it’s streets ahead of its rivals again, more luxurious than ever, up-to-date with all the latest technology and boasting five extra floors.

One thing hasn’t changed—no CCTV. Anonymity is guaranteed in the Skylight. The doors are guarded by Troops, but that’s it as far as security goes.

Terry Archer’s waiting for me in reception, puffing on a Marlboro. Life goes on as normal around him—word of the murder hasn’t leaked yet. I draw startled stares and a few gasps when I enter—people don’t expect Paucar Wami to walk boldly into the Skylight—but nobody interferes.

Archer’s flanked by two Troops, who grip their weapons tightly and
eyeball me mercilessly. I’m sure they’re two of his best, versed in the ways of fighting and killing. I’m just as sure I could take them without moving into middle gear.

“Mr. Wami,” Archer greets me, ditching the cigarette and extending a hand.

I ignore it—Paucar Wami doesn’t shake hands—and snap, “Eight-twelve. Now. And lose the bodyguards.”

Archer gulps loudly, then nods at the Troops. “I’ll take him up myself.”

“Are you sure, sir?” one of them asks. “Maybe we should come along to—”

“Ten of you couldn’t save him if I had murder on my mind,” I cut in, then start for the elevators ahead of Archer, who wastes a moment chastening his Troop before hurrying after me, catching up as the doors slide shut.

We say nothing until we’re on the eighth floor. I march toward the room, remembering the way from before. Eight-twelve was where my girlfriend, Nicola Hornyak, was left to die. It’s also where my ex-wife, Ellen, was murdered.

“When was she found?” I ask.

“Less than an hour ago,” Archer says, trotting to keep up. He’s put on weight since I last saw him. “I rang Mr. Tasso immediately—that room has a history and I guessed he’d want to know about it—and he put me on to you.”

“Was the room signed out to anybody?”

“Yes, but…” He grimaces.