Darren Shan - City of the Snakes

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.