Darren Shan - City of the Snakes

On cue, as my head comes level with the sixth step from the top, I spot a photo standing at an angle. Smiling at the timing, I grab the photo and continue to the top.

“What’s that?” Sines asks, spotting it immediately.

“Someone’s been careless with his holiday snapshots,” I murmur, studying the photo in the harsh light of the crypt. It’s a young, attractive woman. She looks familiar but I can’t place her. Party Central looms in the background. She’s holding a newspaper. I’m sure, once I get it under a magnifying glass, I’ll be able to check the date — the obvious intention of the people who placed the photo there.

“Where was it?” Sines asks, taking the photo from me.

“On the stairs. When was the last time anyone was down there?”

“Yesterday. No…” He pauses. “Late Monday. Four Troops. Lamps, ropes and other equipment had been left at the bottom. They went to retrieve them.”

“They wouldn’t have missed this. It’s been placed here since then, or one of them left it.”

Sines shakes his head. “I was here when they came up. It wasn’t them.”

“You’re certain?”

“Positive.” He hands back the photo.

“Then I won’t bother questioning them.” I start to tuck the photo away. Stop at a memory flash and hold it up to the light. “I know her,” I mutter. “I met her years ago. She worked at…”

The name clicks, but I say it only to myself, seeing no need to inform the good Dr. Sines. Ama Situwa , daughter of Cafran Reed, who ran what was once maybe the city’s kookiest restaurant. I haven’t been there in ten years. I don’t even know if Cafran’s exists any more. But it won’t take me long to find out.

To my surprise, not only is Cafran’s still going strong, but its original owner has held on and is happy to talk with me.

Cafran Reed looks older than his years — gray, stooped, feeble. He spends most of his time in the restaurant — which hasn’t changed much, it’s as gaudily colored as ever — but a manager runs it for him now. Cafran merely mixes with the staff and customers, testing the food, fussing over the music (mostly pop songs from the 1960s and ’70s), waiting for death to claim him.

“Ama Situwa?” he responds blankly when I ask.

“You haven’t a daughter?”

“Alas, no.” He smiles sadly. “I wished for one but it wasn’t meant to be.”

I show him the photo I picked up in the Fridge. “Recognize this woman?”

He has to put on his glasses before he can comment. Studies the photo at length. No hint of recognition in his tired old eyes. “Sorry,” he says.

Cafran invites me to stay for lunch but I reject the offer. Too busy. I’ll eat on the move, a sandwich or bagel to keep me going.

Outside, I use my cell phone to dial the number Tasso gave me yesterday. He answers on the second ring. “Algiers?”

“I want you to check something for me. The list of Ayuamarcans I saw was an old copy my father had stolen from the files of Party Central. Do you have a more up-to-date—”

“I know all the names,” he interrupts. “I used to scan it regularly, hoping a name might jog my memory. Shoot.”

“Ama Situwa.”

He grunts. “One of the last to be added. I asked Capac about her but he never said whether he knew her.”

“Thanks.” I head for home, where I check the newspaper in the photo under a magnifying glass. It indicates that Ama Situwa — an Ayuamarcan, dead ten years — was standing in front of Party Central less than a week ago. I lay the photo aside and don’t worry about it. I know what can be done with digital enhancement. The date on the paper means nothing. I won’t believe the shades of the dead have returned until I see one in the flesh. And even then I’ll reserve the right to be skeptical.

I patrol the streets as my father, flashing photos of Capac Raimi and Ama Situwa, asking people if they’ve seen or know anything of them. My contacts are legion. As Paucar Wami, I’m known to thousands of gang members, store owners, bums, clubbers, pimps, prostitutes and various other creatures of the night. Most fear me and answer openly when I question them, wanting to be rid of me as quickly as possible.

They all know Raimi — or of him — but haven’t seen him since he vanished, nor have they any idea where he might be. No one recognizes the woman. I ask if the blind priests in the white robes have been active of late — I only put this question to the more clued in of my contacts — but nobody’s spotted them on the prowl.

The street folk are worried. Although the city has stabilized since Tasso took control of Party Central — that became common knowledge during the last twenty-four hours — the veterans know the lull is temporary. The keg’s still primed to explode, and those who live or work on the streets will bear the brunt of the blast. I urge them to listen for rumors of Capac Raimi and watch for the woman in the photo, but most are too concerned with their own welfare to focus on anything else. I won’t be able to rely on them.

Thursday passes. Friday. Lots of travel, as Al Jeery and Paucar Wami, covering both the day and night worlds. I’ve never confined myself to the east, but that’s where I’m most powerful and I feel uneasy spreading myself further, covering so much ground. Wami’s known and feared in all sectors, but not as respected elsewhere as in the east. Challenges to my authority are more likely elsewhere. I have to tread carefully. Be polite. Rely on bribes as well as threats. Ask permission of the more influential gangs to canvass their territories. It’d be different if I were tracking prey. I could move in, make my hit, slip out. But this investigation could run for weeks or longer. Some degree of diplomacy is called for.

Between flashing snapshots of Capac and Ama, I study the faces of old men on the streets and through windows, my gaze lingering coldly on those bearing even a passing resemblance to Bill Casey. I don’t have the time to fixate on Bill — I have to concentrate on the quest to find Raimi — but I can’t stop looking for him. I also ask a few discreet questions. If he’s hiding in the city, someone other than Raimi and Tasso must know where he is. If I find the ex-cop by myself, all bets are off. Tasso — anyone — can have me once I’m through with Bill. I’ll be done with this world. It can do to me what it likes after that.

But nobody’s seen him. Those who knew him believe he’s dead. I plant seeds of doubt — say I’ve heard rumors that he survived — and leave them to sprout.

In the meantime I continue hunting for Tasso’s lost leader, pounding the streets, offering bribes, listening to the dark whispers of the city in the hope that they’ll tell me where Raimi is.

Saturday. I leave my apartment early, carrying my bike with me, in Al Jeery mode. I trot down the stairs, whistling, and nod to a disinterested neighbor on the ground floor. They never see me as Paucar Wami — I always exit and enter by the back alley and fire escape. Nobody here knows about my double life. Or if they do — if someone spotted me slipping out of my window one dark but cloudless night, and made the connection — they keep it to themselves, knowing that to cross swords with Paucar Wami is to guarantee the kiss of death.

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.