Darren Shan - City of the Snakes

The Cardinal left behind a trust fund to pay toward the upkeep of the park, and I chip in with my own annual contribution, making up the shortfall, in tribute to the memory of Conchita Kubekik, who was a dear friend of mine.

Thomas drops me at the front of Solvert’s. I’m recognized as soon as I enter and the staff scurry to look busy — nobody wants to get mixed up with a notorious gangster like me. Finally I flag a nurse and ask to see Ford Tasso. She gulps nervously and scampers ahead, leading the way. I could find it myself, but they don’t like visitors walking around unattended. Ford isn’t the only ex-gangster on their books. They worry about assassinations.

He’s sitting outside in a wheelchair, under a leafy tree, enjoying the spring morning. He’s an impressive sight, even from the back and seated, as broad and rocklike as ever.

I relied on Ford heavily when I took over. I’d still be depending on him if a stroke hadn’t rendered him inactive.

I thank the nurse and cough to announce my presence. “No need to throw a fit,” Ford wheezes. “My ears are good as ever. I heard you coming.”

“Hello, old friend.” I bend to shake his left hand. His granite features haven’t softened with time. If anything he looks rougher than ever, his face impassive and deathly gray on one side. The stroke hit him hardest down the right, paralyzing his face and arm, almost destroying his leg. He can get around on his feet when he has to, but walking’s slow and painful, his right leg dragging leadenly with every labored step.

“You must be in deep shit to come here,” he grunts.

I smile wryly. We both know I wouldn’t waste time on a social visit. Sitting on the grass, I grimace. “Deep as it gets.”

He pivots to face me and waits. It’s been four years since the stroke. For six months he wasn’t able to speak. Gradually he learned to produce sounds, although at first his slur was so bad that even his full-time nurse couldn’t understand what he was saying. With untold hours of practice and treatment, he’s trained himself to speak again. He talks slower than he used to, and occasionally he’ll stumble on a word, but he’s more coherent than he has any right to be. The doctors didn’t think he’d survive the first year. I guessed differently. Death will have to go a full twelve rounds with Ford Tasso before it forces him out of the ring.

“How’s life?” I ask.

“Not bad. Still in sex therapy. I sustained an erection for three minutes a couple of days ago. My best yet.”

“Still refusing Viagra?” I grin.

“I don’t mess with voodoo shit like that. Don’t need it.”

“Why are you worried about your staying power anyway?” I ask. “Not like you’re going to get any action here.”

“I like to be prepared for anything,” he sniffs, then fixes me with his left eye (he lost sight in his right but refuses to wear a patch). “Enough of the crap. What’s wrong?”

“You heard about Gico?”

“Him and Cathal killed you and seized control. Didn’t last long.”

“They never do, but that’s not the point. Gico and Cathal were two of my best. I thought I could rely on them.”

“Maybe they got greedy,” Ford suggests, rubbing the flesh of his gray right wrist. His circulation is poor down the right. He has to work on his muscles continuously when he’s by himself.

“No,” I mutter. “Fear motivated them. They thought I wasn’t in control. They saw me as a weak link. If my closest aides don’t have faith in me…”

Ford nods slowly. “I’d heard things weren’t so hot. Tell me more.”

I fill him in on all that’s transpired since my last visit two years ago. The city’s heading for riots. Old gangs have splintered, new gangs have formed, fighting is rife. I’ve tried holding things together, but they refuse to pay heed. I’m the most powerful force in the city but I’m not obeyed as Dorak was. People fear me, but they don’t respect me.

Ford listens silently. When I run out of words, he mulls the situation over, then asks, “And the villacs ?”

“Keeping low. I’m sure they’re behind a lot of the unrest but they’re doing it subtly, without showing their hand.”

Ford grunts. “I told The Cardinal to take them out years ago, but he was always in awe of them.”

“It’s not just the priests. Others oppose me, men who’d never have dared face up to Dorak. Eugene Davern’s one.”

“The guy who runs the KKK?” Ford asks, surprised. The Kool Kats Klub has always been a hive of racists, but we never had to worry about them in Ford’s time. Rich white kids talking big. Harmless.

“Eugene’s moving up in the world. He’s been uniting supremacist gangs under one flag for the last few years. They call themselves the Kluxers. I know,” I laugh as Tasso groans. “Dumb name. But they’re serious. They’ve abandoned the hoods and burning crosses of the Klan. Expanded steadily. Davern’s never once asked for my blessing or sought my approval. He’s an independent operator, and others are following his lead.”

“So eliminate him,” Ford barks. “A dawn raid, corpses galore, Davern’s head on a plate… that’ll put paid to that.”

“We don’t do it that way anymore,” I sigh. “The corporation’s in the process of going straight. Taking Davern out would set us back ten or fifteen years.”

“Maybe things need setting back. Christ knows, you can afford to wait.”

“I guess. But…” I don’t know how to explain it. Bloodshed doesn’t deter me but I want to conquer by intrigue and cunning, not brute force. The game must remain interesting if it’s to entertain me for eternity. My greatest fear is waking up one morning, the rest of time stretched out ahead of me, only to find myself with nothing to do.

Ford reads my thoughts and chuckles mirthlessly. “You have to get real, Capac. Dispose of your enemies. Kill those who look at you crosswise. Be merciless. It’s the old way but the only way.”

“Wise advice.”

“Which you’ll ignore.” We smile at each other. He understands me better than anyone ever has, with the exception of my creator. “So why come see an old fart like me if you’re not gonna listen?”

I shrug. “I thought you might have something more constructive to say. I was hoping the serenity of retirement would have opened your mind to fresh ways of thinking.”

“You can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” he snorts, “and I’m as old as they come. Quit pissing around, Capac. Why are you really here?”

He’s seen through me, as I knew he would. Time to come clean. “I’m frightened, Ford.” A pause. “I’m seeing ghosts.”

Ford doesn’t remember the Ayuamarcans. Like everyone else in the city, he forgot about them in the wake of The Cardinal’s downfall. But I’ve filled him in about them before, so he knows what I’m talking about.

“I’ve been catching glimpses of Ayuamarcans for weeks now,” I tell him. “Y Tse was the first.” Y Tse Lapotaire, real name Inti Maimi, one of The Cardinal’s rare failures. He was supposed to succeed Dorak but he didn’t work out. A colorful figure when I originally knew him, he dressed in robes, daubed himself with paint, wore the most overstated jewelry he could find.

“He was in a crowd of people outside the Skylight. I’d gone over to greet some business associates but I had to wait to get in. Some rock star was staying and groupies had gathered out front. While I was relaxing in the car, I saw Y Tse. He was ten or twelve feet away, staring at me silently. At first I didn’t recognize him — it’s been a long time — but then he raised his arms above his head and bellowed, ‘The time is ripe, friend Capac!’ ”

“That means something?” Ford asks.