Darren Shan - City of the Snakes

Coming out of the bathroom, I wipe my hands dry, get down on the floor and launch into a punishing set of squats, hard and fast, thinking, Machine. Machine. Machine. Al Jeery grimaces as I break the hundred mark. Paucar Wami licks his lips and asks for more. His wish is granted. Two hundred. Three hundred. Four…

The New Munster hotel, 14:00. Three ground-level rooms packed with booksellers and buyers. Long tables overflowing with first prints and rare editions. Very little in the way of popular or pulp material — this is a fair for serious collectors. Most of the clientele are middle-aged and formally attired. Very little cash exchanges hands. It’s all credit cards these days.

I mingle unobtrusively with the rich as they fawn over the tomes, discussing print runs, volume conditions and prices. They also talk a lot about other fairs. Apparently Paris is the hot city at the moment, wonderful finds lying in wait on dusty shelves for those prepared to look. They take no notice of me, assuming — if they assume at all — that I’m with security.

I’ve removed my contact lenses and covered my tattoos with flesh paint, and I wear a wig of tight black curls. A shabby but acceptable suit. Neat shoes. Sometimes it’s better to go abroad as Al Jeery. These people would flee in terror at the sight of my nocturnal face.

I’ve been to dozens of fairs over the years, and I visit all the bookstores in the city on a regular basis. Books were Bill’s great love. He had a massive collection of first editions, a collection many of the people here today would happily steal, mug or even kill for. When he disappeared ten years ago, he took the books with him. That’s how I knew he

( probably )

wasn’t dead. He often said he didn’t care what happened to his books once he died, so since he’d taken the time to spirit them away before blowing up his house, I assumed it was because he hadn’t yet finished with life.

I don’t really expect Bill to show his face at a fair like this, but I come anyway, to mingle, observe, hope. These people get around — some have flown in from distant cities and countries, just to circulate for a few hours in search of a missing volume — and they tend to know, or know of, everybody within their exclusive circle. Maybe one of them has run into Bill, or knows somebody who has, and I’ll overhear them talking about him. A thin straw to clutch at, but when you’re as desperate as I am you’ll clutch at anything.

I spend four hours in the dry, studious, murmur-filled rooms, circling silently, eavesdropping, studying faces. I ask no questions of the buyers — I tried that in the early days, but it only aroused people’s suspicions — though sometimes I’ll stop by a quiet table stacked with the sort of books Bill favored (Steinbeck, Hemingway, Dickens) and linger a few minutes, prompting a bored proprietor to start a conversation. On such occasions I’ll casually steer talk around to an old friend of mine—“Bill Casey. A police officer. Had a full set of Hemingway firsts”—and gauge the reaction. Some recall him, but all believe that he died in the blast. Nobody’s heard word of him in the decade since.

As the fair draws to a quiet close, I make my exit. I’m not disappointed but I feel downhearted. It’s at times like this that I realize just how blindly I’m casting about for my old friend. He has all the world to hide in, and I’ve no clue where he might be. The odds against my finding him are immense. If I were in control of my senses, I’d cut my losses and call it quits. But I’m not. Haven’t been for ten years. So I’ll continue, like the senseless, dogged, single-minded beast that I am.

The city’s an ancient, sprawling, troubled beast. Founded by Indians, it’s been built up over the centuries by the Incan priests who fled from the conquistadors and made their home here. They rule from the shadows, which maybe explains why the city is dark and menacing at heart. Chaos flourishes here, nurtured by the villacs , who ladle power out among the various gangs, pitting black against white, Italian against Spaniard, Irish against everybody. Street laws hold the gangs in check, but those laws change abruptly in accordance with the dictum of the priests.

The last weekend’s been especially rough. Major clashes in the northwest between the Kluxers and Troops. The Kluxers are an offshoot of the Ku Klux Klan, led by Eugene Davern, the guy who owns the Kool Kats Klub. Five years back I’d have said Davern was crazy if he thought he could take on the Troops. But power’s been slipping through the new Cardinal’s fingers. Individuals have defied him and he hasn’t cracked down hard. The belief on the street is that Capac Raimi’s weak, out of touch with the pulse of the city. Revolt’s been in the cards for ages.

Davern and his Kluxers are the start. I hate those KKK sons of bitches — I’ve strung up more than a few of them these past nine years — but they’re a powerful force and Davern’s a shrewd leader. I doubt they can defeat the Troops alone, but if other gangs riot and Raimi’s forces are split, they might just pull it off.

Not that The Cardinal will notice. Word has strengthened over the weekend. It now seems certain Raimi’s no longer running the show. Some say he’s been killed, others that he quit, more that he disappeared mysteriously. Whatever the truth, he’s not in situ at Party Central any longer. I don’t know who is in charge, but I don’t envy him. The city’s facing its worst bout of mayhem since the race riots of some decades back. I pity the fool charged with the hopeless task of averting it.

It’s almost dawn, Monday, and I’ve been on the go since Saturday evening, bar a few hours of sleep yesterday. Although most of the trouble’s been confined to the northwest, there’s been a domino effect all over, especially here. Eugene Davern may have rid the Kluxers of many of their icons — they’ve abandoned the white hoods and burning crosses — but leopards don’t change their spots. If they overcome the Troops and annex the northwest, the next area they’re likely to target is the black-dominated east.

People in this part of the city are edgy, and that edginess manifested itself over the weekend in violence. Gangs are fighting to expand their boundaries and recruit new members, preparing for the war they think is coming. Street kids are mugging freely, making the most of things while the going’s good, before the lynchings start. A police precinct was besieged when one of its officers remarked in a radio interview that the Kluxers’ taking over would be the best thing that ever happened.

The city hasn’t erupted — the Troops are still the force all others are measured by, and they’ve been working hard to hold things in place — but it isn’t far off. If Davern can drive the Troops out of the northwest, expect ballistics.

I’ve spent the weekend doing what I can to calm things locally. I’m known and feared all over the east. I’m the Black Angel… Mr. Moonshine… the Weasel. I kill mercilessly (very few know that I only punish the guilty — I take credit for the deaths of innocents whenever possible). I’m a creature of the night, a son of the shadows. Unstoppable. Utterly vicious.

I’ve taken advantage of my reputation and patrolled the streets relentlessly, breaking up fights and gatherings by intervening directly or simply showing my tattooed face and coughing ominously. I shouldn’t interfere. My father cared nothing for the welfare of others. To truly be him, I should focus only on killing. Paucar Wami relished bloodshed. Setting myself up as a vigilante is counterproductive. I should leave the east to the gangs, keep my head low.

But this is where I grew up. These are my people. Even though I have few friends, and mix with the locals as little as possible, I feel attached. There isn’t much of the old Al Jeery alive within me, but just enough lingers somewhere beneath my skin to make me do what I can to help between executions.