A Dozen Black Roses (10 page)
Born 2 Lose frowned at the rival gang jacket. "You want me to wear Spoon colors?"
"Just for a little while."
"I don't get it—why don't we just show up, wack the asshole and take his stash?"
" 'Cause Lord Esher doesn't want the Borges Brothers down on him! Haven't you ever heard of divide and conquer, cuz?"
"No."
"Well, that's what Esher wants, so that's what he's gonna get, okay? Now put on the fuckin' jacket and let's get this damn show on the road!"
Grumbling under his breath, Born 2 Lose did as he was told, removing his Five Points jackets and pulling on the Black Spoon gear.
The stranger watched them from her hiding place with keen interest. What did Esher have up his sleeve?
Whatever was going down tonight sounded important—and far be it from her to miss what promised to be the pivotal social event of the season.
***
"Pico had hisself an accident a few nights back," replied the Black Spoon with the spiderweb tattooed onto his shaven head. "It was very sad. We're still broke up about it."
They were standing in Warehouse 69, on the riverside boundary between Deadtown and the city. The place smelled of coffee beans and machine oil.
The Spoon representative stood with his back to a pile of arabicas in burlap bags, an attaché case clutched in one hand. Borges, a small man with a neat mustache and a middle-age paunch, stood opposite him, carrying a gym bag. He was flanked on either side by two massively built men in dark suits with bulges in their armpits.
Borges shrugged. "My condolences. Do you have the money?"
The Spoon grinned and opened the briefcase, holding it so Borges could see the neatly bundled bills.
"Two hundred grand for four kilos, as per the agreement. Would you like to count it?"
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) Borges smiled tightly and shook his head. "No need. I trust Sinjon. At least when it comes to this." He snapped his fingers and motioned for one of the bodyguards to take the attaché.
Webb yanked the case away, taking a step back. "That may hold true for you—but not Sinjon. No sugar without snow, amigo."
The bodyguard began to reach inside his jacket, but Borges stopped him by placing a neatly manicured hand on his elbow. "The Freemason trains his servants well," he said ruefully. "Very well—as you wish."
He stepped forward, holding out the gym bag. Webb smiled and did likewise, reaching out for the proffered bag with his free hand—then fell to the warehouse floor.
The first bullet caught Borges square in the heart, dropping him like a stag at a watering hole. The bodyguards were sprayed with bullets before they could clear their holsters. Webb picked himself off the bloodied floor and grinned up at his compatriots hidden among the coffee beans, giving them a victorious
"thumbs-up."
Obeah and Born 2 Lose came sliding down from their hiding places, laughing and whooping their war cries.
"Like takin' candy from a fuckin' baby!" Born 2 Lose crowed, kicking the still-bleeding corpse of one of the bodyguards hard enough to flip it over onto its back. Webb kneeled and yanked the dead man's gun free of its holster, studying it casually.
As the flush of adrenaline dissipated, Born 2 Lose glanced at the bodies and scratched his head. "What I can't figure is how come you needed me to pull this job? Looks like you and Obeah could have jacked the sucka on your own, no sweat."
"You know something? You're right," Webb agreed, and fired the dead man's gun point-blank into his companion's stomach.
Born 2 Lose stood there for a long moment, mouth hanging open, staring in dumb surprise at the hole in his abdomen, before dropping to the ground. Webb leaned over and put the gun in the dead bodyguard's hand, then stood up, surveying the carnage as he dusted off his knees. "Yo! Obeah! Time for the voodoo that you do so well," he grinned.
Obeah nodded and reached into his knapsack, retrieving a machete wrapped in oiled cloth. Webb watched as the conjure-man handled the weapon with ritualized care.
"Is it true you chopped off a hundred hands with that thing when you was Tonton Macoute?"
Obeah laughed. It was a rich, dark sound. "Hell, no! It was two hundred!" With that, he drew back his right arm and brought the machete blade down on Borges' neck, severing the head in one blow. He carefully wiped off the blood and rewrapped the weapon, returning it to the knapsack. He then pulled out a large Tupperware container, which he tossed to Webb.
Webb grinned and stuck a blunt in his mouth as he peeled open the rubber lid of bowl. Obeah scooped up Borges' head by the hair—what little there was of it—and dropped it inside. Webb dug around inside his purloined gang jacket's breast pocket and pulled out a pair of metal spoons. Chuckling to himself, he set the Tupperware bowl down between his feet while Obeah produced a disposable lighter. Webb's grin grew even wider as his friend lit his cigar, then held the butane flame beneath the spoons for a few seconds, blackening their undersides. Webb dropped the spoons inside the Tupperware container, then knelt to replace the rubber lid.
"You gotta burp these in order to lock in freshness," he told Obeah. "We wouldn't want our friend here to go stale when we mail him home."
They laughed all the way to the car over that one.
***
Chapter
6
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) Decima anxiously scanned the floor of the club from her vantage point in the balcony. "Do you think he will accept the invitation?"
"Of course he'll accept," Esher replied confidently. "He has no choice! Ventrue etiquette requires him to respond. Besides, the old reptile is curious to see what I'm up to. I'm more concerned about the Pointers.
Are you certain they're disarmed?"
"I stripped them of firearms myself. But I can tell you they don't like it! The idea of Sinjon and a phalanx of Black Spoons waltzing in here at midnight really pisses them off. I've got five recruits guarding the arsenal, just in case."
"If they feel threatened, then they can mark their turf with piss," Esher sniffed. "I've got too much riding on this to have it spoiled by a feeble mind and an itchy trigger finger!" Esher's gaze drifted across the floor, then paused. "Ah! I see the new recruit has arrived! Have her sent to me, Decima. I would speak with her."
"As you wish, milord."
***
Although there had to be close to four dozen young males on the floor, there was only a handful of women in evidence— and most of those were either chained to the wall or undead. She could feel the Pointers'
eyes on her, but none dared speak, much less make a move. No doubt they'd learned the hard way not to fraternize with Kindred females. Still, the room reeked of testosterone and the madness that infects crowds that have surrendered their free will. The odor reminded her of a cross between a gym and an insane asylum. No doubt Nazi-era Berlin and Jonestown once smelled much the same.
She turned to find herself face-to-face with Decima. The vampiress was glowering at her with open hostility. "Esher wants to see you."
The stranger glanced up at the balcony overlooking the dance floor. She could see the vampire lord seated in what looked like a wooden throne, Nikola hovering by his side. "What does he want?"
"That is beside the point. He wants to see you. You will be seen."
The stranger followed Decima to the back of the club and up a spiral staircase that led to the balcony.
The vampiress tried to trip her as she reached the upper level, but she deftly avoided her outstretched foot.
"You'll have to do better than that, girlfriend," she whispered. "I'm not some doped-up fan dancer you can pinch and poke when daddy's not looking!"
Decima's fangs clicked like dice in a cup, but she managed to keep her voice neutral when she spoke.
"The new recruit is here, milord. Now, you must forgive me—I must see to security."
The stranger watched Decima storm off, smiling crookedly. "I don't think your progeny likes me very much."
Esher laughed. "There's not much Decima does like! I fear she is a possessive creature."
"She said something about security—what's going down?"
"I have invited Sinjon here this evening. He is to arrive at midnight."
"Sinjon? But I thought you and he are worst buddies!"
"We have indeed been at odds in the past."
"So what's the deal?"
"I have decided it is time to declare a truce between our houses. Neither of us can afford a jyhad right now. We waste too much time in petty squabbles and territorial disputes. I have decided to try to mend fences, so to speak."
"Do you think Sinjon will buy into it?"
"He is a reasonable man. Or was so, when he lived."
"So what did you want me for?"
"I want you to be present at the parley, my dear. I think you will work well as a liaison between the House of Esher and the Black Lodge—don't you agree?"
"I don't know—do you think that's such a good idea?"
Esher's eyes flashed as he spoke. "What do you mean?"
"Don't get me wrong, milord! It's not that I don't want the job—and I appreciate the trust you've placed in me—but don't you think it might be a little, I dunno, impolitic? I mean, I did snuff three of his progeny earlier tonight. He might still be a tad sore about it."
"You're right—I'd forgotten all about that! Perhaps it would be better for all concerned if you made
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) yourself scarce. I'll bring you into play once Sinjon has had time to forget the incident." He smiled, flashing her some fang. "I can see you'll be a useful addition to the enclave already, my dear—? I'm sorry, but I don't seem to have gotten your name?"
The stranger opened her mouth, but before she could speak, Esher's attention was drawn to one of the television monitors. "Aha! Sinjon's car has just arrived outside the club!"
"I'd best be going then, milord," she said.
The canned music thundering from the club's speakers came to an abrupt halt. Warily, the patrons of Dance Macabre turned their eyes to the red' vinyl front door. A phalanx of Black Spoons, walking with the caution of tigers in a lion's den, entered the club, forming a human corridor. The rival gangs glared at one another, their body language screaming hostility, but neither side spoke or made a threatening gesture.
And, at precisely the stroke of midnight, Sinjon entered the building.
Compared to his leather-clad bodyguards, the vampire lord cut a peculiarly genteel figure. He was dressed in a high-waisted double-breasted royal blue cutaway coat, with a high-standing collar and pointed lapels. Cut square across at the waistline, the coat's skirt sloped into tails. A cambric ruffle showed from the cuff of the coat sleeves. Underneath that he wore a shorter cutaway blood-red waistcoat with the front extending downward in two V-shaped points. About his neck he wore a jabot, the double frill of silk spilling as white as snow from the front of his vest. He wore tight black satin breeches that extended to just below the kneecap, and long white silk stockings. About his waist was tied a blue-and-white silk apron boasting gold fringe, on the front of which was embroidered the symbol of the Freemasons—the eye in the pyramid. On his head was a powdered wig, the pigtail bound with a red ribbon, and a tricorn hat. On his feet were elaborate diamond buckles that could support a small town for a year. In one hand he carried a cane with a large amber knob and a tasseled cord. All in all, Sinjon was quite the clothes horse—circa 1776.
Esher greeted his rival in the middle of the dance floor, flanked by his elite guard. "Welcome to my club!
I am pleased you are here, Sinjon," he smiled.
"I could not ignore such a gracious invitation, Esher. You are right; there is much we must discuss."
Esher nodded and motioned for Sinjon to join him. "Come—let us retire to my private box. We can talk undisturbed there."
"I trust your men are unarmed?"
"Indeed. I trust yours are as well."
"Of course."
The stranger watched the elaborate charade of cordiality between the two rival lords. Despite their viciousness—or perhaps because of it—the ruling classes of the Kindred observed rigid rules of conduct when dealing with one another. One of which was ritual politeness. Since she had come of age on her own, she had never been absorbed into Kindred society and did not accept its labyrinthine codes of behavior. But she had learned to exploit it for her own uses.
One thing she knew from past experience was that while they were eternal, the Kindred were not creatures of change. Most were like Sinjon— elders who preferred the garb and customs of centuries long dead to the age in which they currently dwelt. Given time, most would succumb to such anachronistic eccentricities. After all—who could bother keeping up with human fashions? Those who remained in the past too long eventually found themselves out of touch—and under the heel of the younger, more vital Kindred.
As she watched Sinjon and Esher exchange their ritual pleasantries, she knew at once which of them was the stronger. Doubtless, so did Sinjon. That's why he had come in the first place.
The stranger turned away from the stage and headed for the exit. She already had a good idea of what Esher was pulling—or trying to pull—on his rival. Now it was up to her to see if she couldn't put her own personal spin on the situation.