Jason Frost - The Warlord

"It's the spice of life," Eric said.

"What?"

"Variety. It's the spice of life."

"Spice of life? Hmm, that's pretty good. Never heard that before."

"Oh, brother," Molly groaned.

Flex gave her a sharp look. "A fucking smartass nip, huh?"

"Chink," Molly said. "A fucking smartass chink."

He grinned, looking her up and down, "I like you, smartass."

"That makes one of us."

"You got balls, girlie, maybe more than your old leader here. You know, I fucked a lot of girls, but I don't think I've ever fucked a chink before. Have I, Lido?"

Lido thought it over. "There was that dumpy broad in Bakersfield. No, she was French."

Rydell stepped toward Flex. "I think we've heard enough of your mouth, buddy."

Flex laughed, looked at Eric. "Whoa, Slim. You've got yourself a handful here. No wonder you're so easy going. But between you and me," he leaned his head toward Eric, his breath staggering, "I'd keep a muzzle on your friends, or I'm gonna yank their lungs out and piss in the hole in their chest."

"Right."

He reached up and patted Eric on the cheek. "Good boy."

Lido and the knifeman laughed.

"Now, Slim, back to business. It don't matter what you want in this town, you got to pay for it. You want food, booze, whores, water. You pay. You want information, you still gotta pay."

"How much?"

"For that, you talk to the man himself. Savvy."

Eric was truly surprised. The boss of Savvytown was nothing like what he'd expected.

"These are the people I was telling you about," Flex explained, a tone of deference even in his voice. "The ones we found with the runaway. The Jew girl."

They were all crowded into the trailer, standing in front of a beat-up metal desk. A fluorescent desk lamp provided the only light in the room, a wedge of light like the opening in a dense layer of clouds where the sun pokes through. Behind the desk, a bespectacled, timid-looking man sat, a NY Yankees hat jammed low on his head. He reminded Eric of Wally Cox. He was smiling, not maliciously. But friendly.

"I take it you're the spokesperson?" he asked Eric, His voice was nasal, forced at high pressure through his nose.

"Yes."

"You looking for a reward?"

"Pardon?"

"For giving the girl back. You come for a reward?"

Eric shook his head.

"They want information," Flex offered.

"Information?" He leaned back in his chair, gazing at Eric a full minute. "What kind of information?"

"Private."

Savvy grinned. "Okay, Flex, I'll call you if I need you."

Flex hesitated, looking confused. "Okay. Don't need to worry about this one," he nodded at Eric. "He's a sweet pea." He growled out a laugh and left the trailer.

"He's afraid of you," Savvy said.

"I know."

"I'm impressed. Flex doesn't scare easily."

"Maybe. Anybody else been around here lately that put a scare into him?"

"Tsk, tsk." He wagged a finger at Eric. "That question falls in the realm of information. And that'll cost you."

"How much?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On what you've got."

"Not much."

"You'd be surprised," he said, looking at the women with an appraising eye. "It depends on what you're willing to part with. And that depends on how badly you want the information. You might as well sit down while we negotiate."

Eric sat on the metal folding chair next to the desk while the others crowded onto a torn leather couch.

"That's real leather," Savvy said. "A little worse for wear, but real goddamn leather. Two thousand buck easy." He opened his desk and pulled out a battery-operated tape recorder, depressed the play and record buttons. "Hope you don't mind, but I like to tape these conversations."

"For your legal department?"

Savvy laughed. "That's very funny, Mr…"

Eric didn't answer.

Savvy looked annoyed, stabbed the pause button. "You don't have to give me your real name, man. Any name will do. For the record." He started the recorder again, pointed a finger at Eric like a disc jockey cuing a speaker.

"Ravensmith. Eric Ravensmith."

Savvy circled his thumb and finger for an okay sign. "No, this isn't for my legal department. You've already met my legal staff, headed by Mr. Flex Olsen. They handle all my litigation now. No, this is for my biography."

"Is everybody here crazy?" Molly asked.

Savvy laughed. "Good question. And your name?" He pushed the recorder toward her.

"My name is Molly Sing. Homeroom teacher is Mrs. Meador. And I want to be Miss America because-

He punched the pause button angrily. "I'd like to indulge you your fun, Ms. Sing. But batteries are precious."

"You seem to have a lot of electricity," Eric said.

"Wait." He started the machine. "What was that question?"

"You seem to have a lot of electricity."

"Yes. We have several generators. And lots of fuel. In fact, we have-"

Tracy laughed.

"Something amusing, Ms.?…" He aimed the recorder at Tracy.

"Uh, Tracy Ammes. And yes, something is amusing. You and this recorder business. We came here for information, not some ridiculous game. Name your price and we either accept or go on our way."

He looked at Eric. "She speak for you, Mr. Ravensmith?"

"Makes sense."

Savvy nodded, adjusted the glasses on his nose. "Let me explain a few things to all of you. A little history, so to speak. You've probably guessed that my real name isn't Savvy. It's Salvadore Pascalli. Sounds like a fun guy, right? Well, I always wanted a nickname as a kid, you know, something the whole gang called you until only your mother used your real name. But I didn't hang out with other kids when I was young. I studied. When I wasn't doing homework, I was doing piano lessons. So while everyone else in the neighborhood was called Butch or Stinky or Knuckles, I was called, if anybody bothered, Salvadore. Sad story, huh? Gets sadder." He propped his feet on the desk top, pointed at his shoes. "Alligator leather. Illegal now, I think."

"Why don't you check with your legal staff?" Eric said.

"I'll do that. Anyway, back to my life. My parents' nagging about school finally paid off, because I was off to Harvard with a scholarship where I stayed until they gave me my M.B.A. Not bad for a kid named Salvadore, am I right? My parents thought it was wonderful too. They wanted me to do something for the Italian people, to show the world we weren't all Mafiosa. Jesus, they hated the Mafia so much that you weren't allowed to say Francis Ford Coppola in their house." He chuckled, leaning closer to the recorder to make sure the laughter was picked up. "After that it was the usual. Early success marketing Bambino's Frozen Pizza."

"You worked for them?" Season said. "Their pizza tastes like shit."

Salvadore looked offended. "We went to number three in the market while I was there. Another couple years and we'd have been number one. We were buying TV time for the next Super Bowl. That would've taken us over the top." He noticed his voice rising, calmed himself. "But that was a hundred years ago. No wife, no kids. Company man on the executive rise. Until Mother Nature fooled us all. Stuck a firecracker up our ass and said, 'Surprise!' Then it was every man for himself. For real. And you know what, I liked it. It was like starting all over again, only this time the way I wanted. Because I've got news for you-you, too, Mom and Dad, if you can hear me out there on Sullivan Street in Manhattan-I wanted to be in the Mafia. I would have gladly joined them if they'd only asked. But they only ask guys who already have nicknames. Mumbles, Icepick, Trashman."

Eric nodded. "So you gave yourself a nickname, hooked up with some biker lowlifes, and started a little Las Vegas of your own."

"Just learning from history. What's that old saying, 'A page of history is worth a volume of logic.' I just tore a page out of the right book. Because no matter how bad things get, people are going to want certain things. We provide them. Gambling. They buy chips with food, equipment, parts, batteries. Sometimes they fix something and we pay them off in chips. Or we got whores. Men have sold us their wives and daughters for a couple cans of chili and a bottle of booze."