Procession of the Dead (14 page)

“What if nobody dies?” I asked. “Executives can’t be dropping like flies. How do you make a call if there aren’t any company corpses?”

The Cardinal smiled like an angel. “They say only God gives and only God takes away. But Cardinals can give and take too. If the Grim Reaper needs a helping hand from time to time…”

As I stared at him wordlessly, he slapped my back and thrust his tools aside. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get back to the office. I don’t know why, having eaten just before we came down, but I feel devilishly peckish all of a sudden…”

Back on the fifteenth floor, he ordered and wolfed down a plate of ribs. A few memo sheets were stuck to his desk. He examined them briefly as he ate. “Miss Arne tells me you’re a natural salesman,” he said, licking sauce from his fingers. “Already one of our best agents. Says you’ll be running her office this time next year.”

I smiled. “That’s nice, but bull. I make my share of sales. But I’ve no stomach for it. As a learning exercise it’s fine, but beyond that…”

“Yes, Mr. Raimi? What lies
beyond that
? ”

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” I said.

“In time,” he said teasingly. “You’ve got a few more tricks to pick up before I think about moving you anywhere. You’re learning quickly. Mr. Tasso told me how you handled our Jewish friend. Impressive. Brutal, merciless, sly. I like that. Most would have beaten the signature out of him—effective but so unstylish.”

“I did OK,” I said smugly. “Better than I fared with Johnny Grace.”

He waved the matter away. “No blame there.”

“You heard about it?”

“I hear about everything, Mr. Raimi.”

“You’re not angry?”

“Better men than you have run up against Paucar Wami. Nobody’s ever come away any the stronger. I would have preferred Johnny Grace alive, but I’m not about to get into a fight with Paucar Wami over him.”

“Wami seems to be a taboo subject around here,” I noted. “Nobody wants to talk about him.”

The Cardinal nodded slowly. “There are people who never worry about walking under ladders, spilling salt or stepping on a crack. Then they meet Paucar Wami and cross themselves whenever anyone mentions his name.”

“Is he as bad as that?” I asked seriously.

“Yes.” He paused. “How much do you know about him?”

“He’s a killer. Been around for thirty or forty years—though he looks much younger. He used to work for you, I think. Maybe still does.”

The Cardinal smiled. “That’s more than most people ever find out.” He gazed at his hands and watched his twisted little finger wiggle about. “Paucar Wami was my greatest…
creation
.” He chose the word carefully. “I discovered him, encouraged him, set him on his way. He’s a lethal killing machine. Death is his coin of choice.

“I used him in the 70s and 80s to rid myself of troublesome opponents, those who stood in my way, who were stronger than me, too well guarded to be attacked in the usual manner. Wami’s unstoppable once he starts. Nothing can deter him. He took out sixteen of the most powerful men in the city in a couple of years. Killed them in their beds, their mansions, at parties for their children.” He shook his head admiringly.

“We haven’t worked so closely since,” he went on. “Wami is too hot for one master to handle. He travels the world, killing for money, for fun. Whatever. He still works for me when I need him, which isn’t often these days.

“Now,” he changed the subject abruptly, “what about a home? You’ve been in the Skylight long enough. Time we did right by you. What are you interested in? I’ll pay for it. No mansion—not yet—but I’ll stretch to a nice top-floor apartment in the business district. Or perhaps you’re a riverfront man?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d let me stay on at the Skylight.”

He smiled quizzically. “What’s the attraction? Do you like the food, the room service, the fact you don’t have to lift a finger? I’m sure you can get a maid when you—”

“It’s not that,” I blurted. “It’s a… a woman.”

He laughed snidely. “I see. A femme fatale has her claws in you at last. It had to happen, an eligible bachelor like you. Enjoy her. I hope it works out. But surely she can move with you? Unless you’re reluctant to commit?”

After a brief hesitation I decided I might as well tell him about Conchita. “It’s not a romance. She’s sick. I’m her friend. That’s all.”

“I didn’t think sick people were allowed in the Skylight. I’ll have to look into this—don’t want people thinking I’m running a health spa.”

“Conchita’s an exception. She—”

“Conchita? ”
he barked, then frowned as if racking his memory. “Conchita…” He stirred in his chair and brought one hand up to rub his forehead. “…Kubelik
?
”

“Kubekik,” I corrected him. “You know her?” I was mildly surprised, but then again her husband had been a gangster and The Cardinal was an expert in his field. This might be my chance to learn more about Ferdinand Wain.

“I knew her once, yes.” He sounded distracted.

“Her husband was a gangster, right? Ferdinand Wain.”

“Yes.” He half-turned away from me. He looked confused for a moment, but a second later he faced me and his confusion—if it had existed at all—was a thing of the past. “Yes, I knew Ferdinand and his tragic young wife. Conchita Wain was exceptional. She used to light up a room like women do in trashy novels. Every man bent over backward to please her.” He was smiling at the memory.

“Then her disease struck.” He grew somber. “A terrible thing. I tried to help. For once I acted selflessly, put Ferdinand in touch with some of the finest doctors in the country, loaned him the money to pay for their services. But they couldn’t cure her. When all hope faded, I gave her a room on the top floor of the Skylight, so she could at least suffer where no one could bother her. Not many people have found a soft spot in my heart.”

He stopped talking and directed his thoughts inward.

This was an unexpected turn. The Cardinal acting like a human? Maybe he wasn’t so terrible after all.

“Was Ferdinand any relation to Neil Wain?” I asked.

“Cousins, I think.”

“What happened to him?”

“Dead. Long dead. Killed.”

“How?”

“The money I loaned him to cover Conchita’s medical bills? He fell behind on the repayments.”

He said nothing further and I was too shocked to break the silence.
Human? The Cardinal?
Not a chance.

“Anyway,” he started up again, “back to business. There’s an old acquaintance I want you to visit. Cafran Reed. He owns a restaurant not too far north of here. He’s an old adversary of mine. Not a foe, you understand—I like Cafran and want no harm to come to him. We’re sparring partners. Every so often I send one of my agents out to him with a new insurance offer, and every time he sends it back unsigned. It’s a game, an interesting little battle we’ve been staging for years. He’s one of the few men I haven’t been able to get on my side, one of the rare birds I haven’t tagged.”

“Is he wealthy?” I hadn’t heard of him before, and by that time I knew most of the major movers and shakers.

“No. I don’t want to snare Cafran Reed to make money. I want him because of the challenge. He doesn’t want insurance or protection. He believes in taking life as it comes, dealing with crises only as they arise. If you can convince him—by fair means, let me stress again, not foul—that it would be in his benefit to take out one of our policies, I would be most impressed.”

“And if I fail?”

He sniffed. “As I said, I’ve sent my best people to him before. I don’t expect you to win him over. I’m more interested in the manner of your failure than the slim possibility of your success. I want to see how you handle a man like Reed, how you try to crack an impenetrable nut. There will be no penalties. Look on it as a trial test, where the experience is more important than the result.

“Now I’m a busy man, Mr. Raimi.” He motioned to the door but I stayed in my seat.

“I’ve a couple of questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh?” He glanced at his watch, considered tossing me out, decided to humor me. “Very well. Ask quickly.”

“What sort of deal do you want me to strike with Cafran Reed? Any particular policy?”

“No. The cheapest or most expensive, or any in between. Hook him any way you can, as long as it’s legal. Next question?”

I nodded over my shoulder. “The people outside. I wondered who they were, what they were doing here.”

“Informants,” he said. “My eyes and ears in the city. They come from all over, every walk of life, with all manner of tales. They tell me what their neighbors are eating, what their bosses are wearing. If they see a murder, they come here. If they hear a rumor, they let me know. If their spouses change their hairstyle, I get the lowdown first. I’ll listen to anybody who cares to talk. They keep me in touch with the spirit of the city, its mind and emotions. Through them I get to know the people I’m master of, their whims, wishes, fears. I listen, store the information away, let it swirl around inside my head, and occasionally use a byte or two.”

“What do they get in return?” I asked.

“Favors. Sometimes money. Mostly just the promise of a good turn. I’m a worthy ally, a generous friend. These people tell me about their lives and in return I help them if they ask. I get their children jobs, make houses available, swing deals their way. The usual carrots one hangs before a human horse.”

“How do they know to come? Who tells them?”

“Word spreads, as it always does. I hold court a couple of nights a week. They come. They speak. I listen. You can send the first one in on your way out. Good night, Mr. Raimi.” And that was the end of that.

inti maimi

I
had breakfast with Y Tse and Leonora in Shankar’s the next morning and gave them a full report of the meeting. Y Tse was delighted that I’d been set a test by The Cardinal—more confirmation, if any were needed, that he was genuinely interested in me.

There was still no sign of Adrian. After leaving Shankar’s I called my office, told them I’d be late and went to check his apartment. Thomas drove swiftly and silently, disinterested as ever. I rang the bell a few times when I got there, pounded on the door when that failed and ended up shouting through the mail slot. No answer. I tried peering in the windows but there were heavy curtains draped across them. I was giving serious thought to putting a foot through a pane of glass when a voice out of nowhere surprised me. “Hey! You got business around here?”

I looked around but couldn’t see anybody. I studied the rooms above Adrian’s—he lived on the ground floor of a five-story building—but the windows were shut. Then I noticed a staircase to my left, leading down to a basement. I moved a few feet over and peered into the shadowy recess.

A fat man was glaring up at me. Stubble, unwashed hair, baggy trousers, stringy shirt and suspenders. He spat on the floor—there was a lake of spit down there—and nodded a curt hello. “You got business here?” he repeated.

“Are you the landlord?”

“I’m the supervisor. You want a room?”

“I’m looking for Adrian Arne. He rents this apartment.”

“Uh-uh,” the guy said. “That’s been empty for months.”

I glanced at the number on the door and it was the right one. I began to frown, then it clicked—kids had rearranged the plates.

“Somebody’s been screwing with the doors,” I said. “Switching the numbers.”

“The fuck they have,” the supervisor growled. “I’d crack shinbones if they tried that and they know it. Who were you looking for?”

“Adrian Arne.”

He spat again. “No Adrian Arne here. We got an Aidan Aherne up top. Could be him you’re after?”

I stared at the supervisor, then examined the door again. I’d been here several times and there was a scratch beneath the mail slot that I remembered Adrian making one night when he’d lost his bottle opener. This
was
the right place.

I shuffled down a few steps toward the basement. The supervisor raised a hand to shield his eyes and edged backward, squinting at me suspiciously. “I’ve got nothing any good to you,” he said quickly. “No money, drugs or any of that shit.”

“I’ve not come to rob you,” I assured him. “Could you let me in the apartment to check around?”

“What for? Nobody’s there.”

I reached for my wallet and pulled out a fifty. Snapped it flat a couple of times. “That real?” he asked, taking the note with his fat, greasy fingers, lifting it to his nose, sniffing its creases.

“Real as Christmas,” I said.

The supervisor snorted, spat into the lake, then rumbled to the top of the stairs, muttering about missing a game on TV and crazy crackheads wasting his time. He jerked out a massive bunch of keys, spent a few seconds selecting the correct one, opened the door sullenly, flicked on the light and let me in.

The room was empty. No furniture, TV or video. No mustachioed Mona Lisa grinning from the wall. The bed was gone, the toothbrushes, Adrian’s collection of empty beer bottles. It was as if nobody had lived here in ages.

I turned angrily on the supervisor. “What is this shit? Where’s Adrian?”

“I told you there’d been nobody here for months,” he said smugly. “But you’re not getting your money back, so—” I slapped him before he could say any more. “Hey, stop! Fucking stop it, you—”

He shut up when I slammed him against the wall. I reached down and pinched one of his fat nipples. He squeaked like a mouse. I pinched the other, then lowered my hand and held it inches in front of his sweaty groin. “What happened to him?” I hissed.

“I don’t know,” he said, lips quivering, stunned by this sudden bout of violence. I was stunned myself, hardly aware of what I was doing. I watched as my hand slapped him again. “I don’t know!” he screeched. I undid his fly. “Fuck you!” he screamed as I reached in and pulled his prick out. I held it between the teeth of the open zipper, then pulled the zip half up, catching him firmly and painfully.

“Adrian Arne,” I said calmly. “Where is he?”

“You’re a nut!” he sobbed. “Fuck you! I’m not saying a—” I gave another quick tug and his face went purple.

“A few more notches and you’ll never piss straight again,” I said cheerily. “They’ll have to put a tap in your stomach to let it out.”

“Please,” he cried, “I don’t know any Adrian Arne. I swear on my life, man. On my mother’s life. On—”

“Don’t try shitting me,” I snapped. “I was here not a week ago, and plenty of times before. I’m going to ask one more time. If I don’t hear the right answer, you better hope the ambulances are running on time.”

“No! I swear! Fuck it, man, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know. Adrian Arne? Yeah, I know him, sure I do, only please don’t…”

I released his prick and let him tuck it away, his hands trembling. There was fear in his voice, but also honest ignorance. “Tell me truly,” I said, “do you really know him? Don’t lie to me. I won’t hurt you if you tell me the truth.”

He hesitated, considered a lie, then shook his head, hands covering the front of his trousers protectively. “No. But please don’t do that again. Please!”

“Who’s been renting this room?” I asked.

“No one, not since the Moores, I think, or the Sims… shit, it’s been a while. There have been inquiries but the owner tells me not to rent it, so I don’t. I just work here. I don’t make the fucking decisions.” He was growing cockier now that the immediate danger was past. “Come look at the register. That’ll prove it.”

His living quarters stank of beer, piss and vomit. Empty beer cans and porno mags littered the floor. Posters of naked women on the walls. The kitchen was visible from where I stood, but I chose not to look. The TV was an ancient machine with a poor-quality picture and those wavy lines you don’t get on the newer models.

He yanked the register out from under a pile of dirty linen, sat on the couch and opened it. “There. The Moores. I remember them now. The Sims were just before them. You want a beer? I’ve got plenty in the fridge. A man can never have too much fucking beer, right? I’ll get a couple bottles.”

I concentrated on the register while he rooted through the fridge for a beer. Handwritten entries, torn pages, stains and smudges from months back. No trace of any Adrian Arne. Nobody had been in that apartment—officially anyway—for months. I glanced at the supervisor as he came back, sweating, opening the beers. He probably knew nothing, but I called his bluff just in case.

“Do you think I’m a fool?” I snapped. “This has been fixed.”

“No fucking way! Gimme it!” He snatched the register and stared. “Nah, this hasn’t been touched. That’s my handwriting. And that jam stain… I remember making that. You trying to stir up shit, man?”

“Who owns this building?” I asked. “Who pays your wages?”

“Some business corporation. They pay cash. Never volunteered their names and I never asked. I’ve been here six years and never had a spot of trouble. Don’t put up with any shit. Now why don’t you piss off and—”

“I don’t care what this book says,” I told him. “I’ve been here before. With Adrian. You can’t tell me that room’s been empty because I know it hasn’t. Even if he was squatting, you’d have heard him. You’re telling me you never heard any noises from above?”

“Damn fucking straight,” he replied, sipping his beer. “Mister, I’m gonna tell you something and I’m gonna be blunt. You’re fucked in the head. You’ve got the wrong house, wrong city or the wrong fucking world. I check the rooms a couple times a week. Believe me, there’s no Adrian Arne here.”

He took a drink and waited. Could it be true? Had I gotten the wrong building? No! Damn it, they might all look the same from a distance, but they weren’t. I knew one from the other. I knew Adrian’s. There was no mistake and I wasn’t crazy. The supervisor had to be lying. Somebody had put the frighteners on him. Someone so threatening, he wouldn’t crack even when his prick was on the line. An expert got to him and fixed it so he’d never talk about his lodger. It took a lot to put a man in that state. Maybe he had a family somewhere, or a dark secret he could never risk emerging. Whatever it was, I wasn’t going to get anywhere with him.

“Tell them Capac Raimi’s after them,” I said softly. “Tell them Adrian Arne has a friend who won’t put up with this. Tell them I’m coming. I’ll find them and make them sorry. Whoever they are.” I left.

The supervisor came to the door after me. “Fucking nut,” I heard him chuckle. I almost turned back but he wasn’t worth the hassle.

There was a beggar with a tin box standing on the street near my car. He was wearing dark glasses and carried a white cane. “Some spare change?” he asked. I normally didn’t bother with beggars—the city was full of them—but my mind was elsewhere and I tossed him a few coins. “Thank you, Mr. Raimi.”

I was four or five steps past before I realized what he’d said. I stopped. Turned slowly. “How do you know—,” I began.

“—Your name?” He smiled and removed his glasses. His eyes were white blanks and I suddenly recalled the blind man I’d seen outside the station on my first day here, and the one at the building site during the fog. This wasn’t the same guy if memory served me right—he was taller—but the eyes were the same.

“I know many names,” he said. “Capac Raimi. Y Tse Lapotaire. Adrian Arne.”

“You know Adrian?”

“Who?”

“Adrian Arne.”

“I’ve never heard of him.”

“But you just—”

“There is no Adrian Arne,” the man said. “Never has been, never will be. There is soil. Air. Blood. Strings. Nothing more.”

“Very poetic,” I sneered. “Now cut the crap and tell me what you know about Adrian.” I took a step toward him. His cane came up immediately and he held it lengthwise between his hands.

“Your search is only beginning,” he said. “You have far to go and the way is hard, but the start is always hardest. Forget about your friend. You have more important matters to consider.”

“Listen,” I said, taking another step. He threw his cane at me. I raised my arms to knock it away, but all of a sudden it transformed and I was covered in plastic wrapping. It swirled around me, encasing me from head to foot. It stuck to my skin, smothered my lips, tripped me. I tore at it angrily, ripped holes in it, and was free in ten or fifteen seconds. But the blind man was gone. The street stretched away in both directions, no sign of any beggars.

I hurried back to the car and asked Thomas if he’d seen what happened. He frowned. “A blind man, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Here, sir? A minute ago?”

“Yes,” I growled.

“No, sir. Do you want me to get out and look?”

I spat on the pavement in disgust, then got into the car. “Just take me back to the office,” I muttered, and covered my face from the sun with a hand. I spent the ride brooding and for once I was glad of the silence up front.

I pulled our files on Cafran Reed and tried to immerse myself. Reed had no middle name, was fifty-four, divorced fourteen years ago, never remarried, a few romantic entanglements but nothing incriminating. He owned his own restaurant which he’d been running for more than twenty years, a small joint, popular with a select crowd, average annual income of…

My mind wandered. Adrian in the trunk of a stolen car, blood oozing out the corners of his eyes, cold, alone, dead. Dumped in the river, strands of his bowels indistinguishable from feeding eels. In a field outside the city, pushing up nettles, ribs home to a family of foxes.

Or was he alive? Maybe he’d skipped town one step ahead of whoever his enemies might be. Maybe he was hiding, waiting for a safe moment to contact me. Shit, he probably wasn’t even thinking about me if that was the case—we weren’t
that
close. Still, he would have said something surely. And what had that blind beggar been mumbling about?

I pushed the papers away. I couldn’t concentrate, not with this on my mind. My right hand flexed and I recalled its grip on the tennis racket. That’s what I needed to clear my head. A few hours on a court. I grabbed the phone to call for Thomas and only then remembered Sonja. She’d know about Adrian. If she was here, not home weeping and planning a funeral. If she wasn’t caught up in the same trouble. Ifshe wasn’t feeding the fishes with her brother.

I rushed up two flights of stairs to her office, suddenly certain she was dead or MIA. I burst onto her floor, alarmed her receptionist and crashed through her door without knocking. She was there. Looked up nervously, a hand snaking to the intercom to press for help. Then she realized it was me and relaxed. “Jesus, Capac,” she laughed, opening her drawer to take out a cigarette. “You nearly gave me a stroke.” She saw my red face and the look in my eyes, and lit the cigarette slowly. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Adrian. He…” I was panting. She told me to sit. Held up a hand when I tried to speak again, said to wait until I had my breath back. I said nothing until I felt myself regaining control, then began again. “It’s Adrian. He’s missing. I went to his apartment and he was gone. The supervisor said Adrian had never even been there, but that’s bullshit, Ivisited him there plenty of times, I know it was the right place, I—”

“OK,” she interrupted. “Calm down. Let’s go through this slowly and carefully. Who did you say was missing?”

I frowned and said it slowly.
“Adrian.”

She tapped her teeth with a glossed fingernail. “Adrian who?”

I said nothing for a moment. Then, bitterly, “Is that your idea of a fucking joke?”

“Adrian
who
?” she repeated.

“Adrian!” I yelled. “Your goddamn brother, Adrian Arne. He’s gone.”

She stared at me, confused. “I don’t have a brother.”

“What?” I said hollowly.

“I’m an only child, an orphan since the age of six.” I could only stare at her wordlessly. Her eyes were filling with tears. “If this is some sort of a prank, Capac, it’s in very poor taste.”