Procession of the Dead (7 page)

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.

The restaurant was our school. We studied, experimented and made our mistakes where they didn’t hurt us. Some of the group actually brought paper and pens along, jotting down notes. I laughed at first, but started doing it myself before long.

Nothing was ever said by our elders—nobody told us we should or shouldn’t be congregating in Shankar’s—but we were aware of the watching eyes, the appraising gazes of the men and women with power. In our line of study there were only two grades—pass or fail. You got everything you wanted or you didn’t. Middle ground wasn’t for us. We wanted it all.

Every day we gathered, gossiped, swapped notes and made plans, all the time looking around with envy at those who had made it, longing for one to pick us out, call us over and make us their own. We all wanted a Ford Tasso or Frank Weld to take us under his wing. No matter how much we learned or how far we progressed, we couldn’t soar until we were summoned. We could make all the moves we liked but until we were handpicked by someone higher up, we couldn’t really exert any control over our futures.

When a call came, and one of our members waltzed off to a new life, the rest of us would group together enviously and measure the apprentice’s prospects, the doors which would open, how high they could expect to fly. Usually it was easy to calculate. If Ford Tasso gave the nod, you were going straight to the moon. If Cathal Sampedro asked you to join his team, your ascent was limited to the lower stratosphere—you’d have a solid but unspectacular career.

Our futures were usually simple to predict, based on the standing of our patrons. But when my call came, nobody knew what to make of it, least of all me.

I arrived late that morning because of the green fog. The city was famed for its unique fog, the light green clouds which blew over the metropolis every so often. It usually lasted less than a day, but sometimes hung on for three or four. Nobody knew where the fog originated—industrial pollution was normally blamed—why it was green or why it hung only over the city.

The one thing everybody
did
know was that the fog made life hell while it lasted. You couldn’t see more than ten or fifteen feet, so traffic ground to a virtual standstill. I was fortunate—the clouds had descended the night before and were beginning to clear, otherwise I wouldn’t have made Shankar’s at all. I hurried to my regular table and hailed a waiter. Before I could order, he bent low and said, “Table fifty-five, sir.”

Every head in my group turned. When we realized who was summoning me, a hush fell. All eyes settled on me, the same question in every pair—
“Huh?”

I smiled an uncertain farewell and left for the new life ahead. It was as simple and final a parting of the ways as that. There was consternation at my passing. I’d only been there a few months, which was nothing compared to the years most spent milling around Shankar’s before their big break. Even so, I don’t think too many envied me. I’d been hailed by Leonora Shankar—the owner of the restaurant—and the mysterious man in the robes, who was the one person none of the older regulars would discuss. Nobody knew what my call meant or where it would lead. It was a bolt from the blue, as bizarre as it was unexpected. Where the hell did Leonora Shankar perch on the ladder of power? She was one of The Cardinal’s closest allies, but what could she do for a young man’s career? How far could you go with a restaurateur for a guardian angel?

My stomach tried to knot itself as I crossed the marble floor but I wouldn’t let it. I’d stood up to The Cardinal without trembling, so I wasn’t about to go weak at the knees now.

Leonora greeted me cordially and kissed my cheeks. The man in the robes said nothing, only smiled like a cobra and watched with glinting eyes as I sat.

Leonora Shankar was a tall Arabian woman, dark and once beautiful. She was old, maybe eighty or more, but she moved with the grace of a woman in her forties. The rumors about her past were legendary. Some said she’d been slave to a sultan and came to the city after killing him, or after saving his life and being freed. Some claimed she was The Cardinal’s mother. A reformed whore. A deposed princess.

Throw a stick and pick one. What
was
known was she’d been with The Cardinal from day one. She’d helped guide him from the gutters to the skies, but nobody knew how much active influence she now had in the growth of his empire, whether she was a pawn on the board or a sly queen watching from the sidelines.

Some said she’d only refined his manners and tutored him in the ways of form. According to others she was the brains behind his early rise. A few claimed The Cardinal was merely a front for the greater genius of Leonora Shankar, a puppet she manipulated to suit her own ends. But nobody knew for sure.

“I am pleased to meet you at last, Capac,” she said, her voice soft and alluring, her lashes fluttering flirtatiously. “I see you here often. You like my restaurant?”

“Very much,” I replied.

“Splendid.” She looked around fondly. “I feel like we are old friends, this room and I. Dorry offered to move me several times. He wanted me to find new pastures and explore new avenues.” She shook her head. “I do not think he ever really understood my compulsion to remain here. To Dorry this was always a restaurant, nothing more.”

“Dorry?”
I frowned.

“The Cardinal. That is how I always call him. From his surname,
Dorak
.”

I’d forgotten he had a real name, that he hadn’t always been The Cardinal. Something-or-other Dorak. I couldn’t remember his first name—wasn’t sure I even knew it.

The robed stranger spoke. “Aren’t you going to introduce us, Leonora?”

“Of course. Capac Raimi, this is my dear friend, Y Tse Lapotaire.”

“A pleasure to meet me,” he grinned, leaning forward to shake my hand. “The time is ripe, friend Capac,” he whispered seriously, clutching my hand tightly. “I greet you with a warm heart and the best of wills.” He pulled back, breaking the grip, and smiled broadly again. “Adrink?”

“Beer, please.” I stared at him quizzically. He was in much the same state as when first I had seen him, covered in mock tattoos, mascara, lipstick and paint. Red, black and green were his favorite colors, teased into every line, smeared around every curve. Purple by the eyes, pink lips, orange streaks down either side of his nose. His ears were covered with plastic rings. He was sporting a turban today, a couple of knitting needles jabbed into it Oriental-style. His robes shifted around him like a school of darting eels, layers and scraps of cloth held together by colorful pins. His toenails were in need of a serious manicure beneath the sandals.

“I’m quite a specimen, aren’t I, friend Capac?” he asked.

“You’re not the sort I’d take home to mother,” I agreed.

“Y Tse likes playing the eccentric,” Leonora said. “But do not be fooled. He is little more than a dull duck dressed up as a peacock.”

“Please,” he winced, “don’t give away
all
my secrets in one fell swoop. Let the boy marvel at my weirdness a while.” He took a sip from the huge yellow cocktail he was drinking.

“You’ve got an odd name,” I remarked. “Is it French?”

He toyed with his glass, ignored the question and instead said, “How are you enjoying life with The Cardinal?”

“I like it. Although I wouldn’t say life
with
The Cardinal. I haven’t seen him since our first meeting.”

“Really?” His eyes enlarged speculatively. “That’s a good sign. The Cardinal only summons you when he thinks you’re doing something wrong. The less time he spends on you, the better.”

“I doubt it’s that,” I smiled. “I’m only an insurance agent. He probably hasn’t thought of me since that first night.”

“Oh, I think The Cardinal has thought of you quite a lot,” Y Tse said softly. “I can tell you right here and now, as sure as my name’s not Y Tse Lapotaire, he has more in mind for you than a life in the insurance business.”

“Like what?” I frowned.

“I don’t know. I have my suspicions but what good are they?”

“How do you know he’s got anything planned for me?” I pressed.

“Your name. I’ve heard things through the grapevine and the like. The Cardinal pulled an unknown off the streets for a personal meeting, then set him up under the guidance of the clever Sonja Arne. But the name would have been enough for me.”

“What’s my name got to do with anything?” I asked, perplexed.

“My real name,” he replied, “is Inti Maimi. I took on Y Tse Lapotaire when I fell out with The Cardinal and wanted to distance myself. Inti Maimi… Capac Raimi…”

“They sound alike, sure, but—”