Darren Shan: Procession of the dead

Wrong. Power came from watching others, standing back, studying, waiting, reacting. Let your mark make his case. Never be first to speak. Plan nothing until you know what your foe has up his sleeve.

The computer records were the worst. Sonja drilled me in the ways of every legal procedure she could access, hammering home law after law, regulation after regulation. She said there were two types of people in any company-those who knew a bit about how everything worked, and those who shoveled shit. She said I'd either learn all there was to know or she'd pimp out my skinny, no-good ass.

An average day would start at seven. Down to Shankar's for breakfast. Back to the office, power up the computer, read until my eyes burned. Douse them with water and read some more. A few trips around the city with Adrian, meeting potential customers, putting the preparation into practice. Shankar's for lunch. More customers and lessons. Late supper at Shankar's. Home to the Skylight to work from my bed until eleven or twelve. Lights out.

I traveled all over the city, though most of my time was spent near the center. It was a different world from the quiet southwest. The streets were full by seven-thirty every morning, clogged with every make of car under the smog-obscured sun. Driving was a nightmare. The city wasn't designed for modern traffic. The roads were built around the buildings, twisting and intersecting at random. They were narrow, badly lit, many in poor condition. Gangs of kids amused themselves every day by rearranging street signs, shuffling them around like paper cards. If you didn't know an area, the rule of thumb was to take a cab.

People were constantly trying to improve the city's image. New buildings, fresh coats of paint, massive renovations, new roads, roundabouts and overpasses. On the outskirts it was working. But here, in the middle, it was a waste. No matter how fast they worked, others worked faster-squatters, gangs, dealers, pimps. They took over new buildings, defaced freshly painted walls, tore down streetlamps, chipped the roads away with pickaxes. This was their city. They liked it as it was.

Brief respites from the insurance world came courtesy of Ford Tasso, who turned up every so often and dragged me out into the field, taking me along on one assignment or another, testing my skills, teaching me a few tricks of the trade. I loved those trips, the men in dark coats and shaded glasses, the slit eyes, the cold guns, the casual stories of death, robbery and old criminals. I felt at home in Ford's company.

I got to know Adrian like a brother. We spent most of the days together and-once I'd settled in and found my stride-often much of the nights, hitting the club circuit. He never seemed to tire, though he worked the same hours I did. He must have napped in the car while I was with customers, though I never caught him.

One night, while we were relaxing in one of the Skylight's massage parlors, I asked what his secret was. He twisted around, wiped his long hair out of his eyes and said, "Cartoons."

I propped myself up on an elbow. "What?"

"I watch a lot of cartoons."

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"We've all got to laugh. Laughing is vastly underrated. Clears the lungs for a start. Did you know there's a supply of bad air in the lungs, a load of crappy gas which accumulates in the lower sacs? That's what causes cancer and loads of other illnesses. Check the statistics-most cancer casualties are people who rarely laughed. Laughter's good for your health. Plus it keeps your blood flowing freely. Clowns don't have heart attacks."

"Bullshit."

"It's in the journals."

"What journals?"

"That's the secret of my vitality," he said, ignoring my question. "I watch cartoons and laugh. I fit in at least two or three hours' worth a day. Any sort, old or new, good or bad. You don't have to watch them the whole way through. A couple of minutes here, a couple more there. They all add up." He lay back and smiled at the ceiling. "You should try it sometime. Man wasn't meant to be serious."

I thought he was kidding me. Adrian liked to spin yarns and you had to take his words with a generous pinch of salt. But a few weeks later we were on the town and got lucky. Picked up two beautiful exchange students, tall, lithe, golden and eager to experience the wonders of the New World. We normally retired to the Skylight on such occasions, but we were closer to Adrian's apartment that night.

They were both called Carmen (so they said). Mine was clumsy in bed-she'd had too much to drink and couldn't concentrate. We messed around for a while, but when she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth, I felt let down. I heard giggling and the low sound of a TV coming from Adrian's room. Grinning, I sneaked over to the door and quietly opened it a crack.

Inside Adrian was laughing and rubbing his Carmen's head fondly as she pleasured him with her mouth. On the TV screen, WileE. Coyote was lugging his latest destructive device from Acme up a hillside.

Shutting the door, I returned to the spare bed, smiling, and made a note to call down for a Bugs Bunny feature the next time I was courting.

There were four classes of people in Shankar's. You didn't notice the divisions until you'd been there a few months. At first it looked like everybody was on an equal footing, no social discrimination. But that was just on the surface.

The first class was small and distinguished. Leonora Shankar, Ford Tasso, a few others. These were people you never approached, the cream of the crop, with inestimable power or influence. They were a law unto themselves, the gods of the company. We'd have sold our souls to get in with them but the Devil had no pull where The Cardinal was concerned.

The second class incorporated the majority. These people came to Shankar's occasionally. They liked the restaurant, some dropping by three or four times a week, but when all was said and done it was just another place to socialize and do business.

The third and fourth classes were regulars, men and women who came every day. To them Shankar's was home. Some stayed from opening until the early hours of the next morning. Others, with work to do, were absent for long stretches, but made at least a couple of daily appearances.

The third class was made up of veterans. The soldiers and generals from the early days, those who'd pushed The Cardinal to the top and had been put out to pasture. This was where they spent their retirement, the one place where they still meant something. They were popular among the younger regulars, sought out for tales from the past, secrets which could be divulged now that they were no longer integral to The Cardinal's operation.

They were a mine of information. They knew everybody, where the real power lay, which avenues were shut and which were worth exploring. They knew all the big deals going down and would make introductions if you asked nicely. You found them all around Shankar's, alone or in small groups, silent, watching, waiting to be approached and activated.

They could have been mistaken for magical statues which mysteriously came to life when the right words were uttered, had it not been for their shaking hands and trembling lips, products of old age and a life in servitude to The Cardinal. They could be spooky at times. I'd look at them and think, Is that me? Thirty, forty years down the road, will I be sitting here, hands shaking on the head of a cane, eyes wet with tears, living off the dreams of somebody else's youth?

I was part of the fourth and final class. There were about forty of us, in our twenties or thirties, hungry-no, starving -for success. We were the dreamers, the Roman conspirators, each hoping to plot and scheme our way to the top. We met every day in Shankar's, friendly, courteous, reveling in the bonhomie, but ready to turn on each other in an instant. We were best friends and bitter rivals. Some of us would, one day, make it to the top we so yearned for, but only at the expense of our companions. We spent our time discussing the ins and outs of the corporation, who was hot, who was fired, who was dead. We followed every twist and caper avidly, treating our superiors like idols, giants to be revered. When Gico Carl offed his father and brothers and took over the western side of the city, we debated his tactics for weeks, dissecting, analyzing, learning. Always learning. When Emeric Hines-one of The Cardinal's best legal minds-went to court, we taped his appearances and replayed them endlessly, marveling at his wicked tongue and shifting strategies, staging our own mock versions of his cases, mimicking, practicing, understanding.