Darren Shan - City of the Snakes

“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leave them at reception, but Raimi scrapped that asinine rule and the desk where people checked in their footwear has been replaced by a row of computers where execs can surf the Web, work on their files, or kill time playing games.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.