Pure Dead Magic (6 page)

P
ronto right-hand man to Don di S’Embowelli Borgia, knocked on the door of his master’s study and entered, gliding inward as if on oiled wheels. The Don was bellowing down the telephone, his back to the door, unaware of Pronto’s silent arrival.

“You’re telling me that the New York sector is down as well?”

A tiny voice on the other end squeaked and shrilled, bleating excuses and apologies.

“I don’t care what time it is there,
nobody
sleeps unless I say so—unless they want to sleep with the fishes investigating their concrete overshoes. Do I make myself clear?”

The faraway voice chittered nervously.

Pronto risked a respectful cough. “Maestro?”

The Don swung around to glare at him.

“Your half brother, Maestro.”

The Don barked a hideous Latin threat into the receiver and slammed it back in its cradle. “What about him?” he spat.

“It’s time. We’ve had him locked up for a month. He’s demanding better food and a telephone to call his lawyer. We’ve hosed him down, given him a shave, and he’s downstairs, waiting for you, Maestro.”

Shackled to a bronze throne in the middle of a vast chamber in his half brother’s palazzo, Luciano Strega-Borgia gazed around himself in a state of total bewilderment.

Over the years, his contact with his half brother had deteriorated: Lucifer hardly ever replied to Christmas cards or e-mails, his
omerta
-like silence giving rise to much speculation on Signor Strega-Borgia’s part as to the murderous nature of his half brother’s business dealings. Still … for a simple mafioso, Lucifer had done well for himself. Signor Strega-Borgia’s first glimpse of the palazzo mirrored in a cypress-rimmed lake had filled him with amazement. A brief hobble in leg irons along marble corridors had brought him to this opulent room where he caught his reflection staring back at himself from hundreds of gilt-framed mirrors. Massive portraits of Borgias long dead lined the walls. His eye fell on an oil painting of a spectacularly ugly man with a nose of titanic breadth, a nose that reminded Luciano of the nasal appendage of an elephant.…

With an earsplitting crash, a far door flew open, and in strode Don Lucifer di S’Embowelli Borgia. As usual, his nostrils entered the room at least three seconds ahead of the rest of his body. Luciano stood up to greet his long-lost half brother.
His legs shook, his outstretched hand trembled, and his voice emerged as a squeak. “Lucifer, how … how nose to see you.” He had the faintest suspicion that this was not the best thing to say.

Don Lucifer glared at Luciano. He had half a mind to feed the moron to the piranhas immediately and forget the rest of the plan. But no. There was work to be done. And done quickly. He needed to persuade this lily-livered goose of a man to sign a will favoring him, Don Lucifer, and then … well … the piranhas
were
a little peckish.…

Fixing his half brother with a smile devoid of any warmth whatsoever, Don Lucifer kissed him on both cheeks. “Baby brother. Little Luciano,” he hissed, “I’m ssso glad we could drag you over here.”

Signor Strega-Borgia began to protest.

“But,” interrupted Don Lucifer, holding up his hands as if to ward off his half brother’s words, “but, why, you must be ravenous. Something to eat, yes? PRONTO! Get the shark steaks on the barbecue NOW.” He produced a key from his pocket and, with a twist of his wrist, freed Signor Strega-Borgia from the bronze throne. “And now,” he said, cozily wrapping his arm around his half brother’s trembling shoulders, “we have so much catching up to do. Your boy. Titus. The little runt, excuse me, the fine young man—why, he must be, what, ten? Eleven? Almost of an age to inherit Poppa’s money; the stupid old, I mean, may he rest in peace.…”

“Twelve, actually,” muttered Signor Strega-Borgia, “twelve years since …”

 … Lucifer and Luciano last met on the night of their father’s death, in the crowded bedroom where the old man lay, his heart running
down like an overwound clock. Don Chimera had called his sons to his bedside, where he was propped up on pillows, saying his farewells. Around him were the eleven Mafia dons (who, together with Don Chimera, divided and ruled the underworld), three lawyers, and an assortment of mayors, police chiefs, and politicians who had come to bid their old friend goodbye.

In the background, a nurse fluffed pillows, smoothed sheets, and made her patient as comfortable as possible. The crowded room was stifling, full of the smell of fear and imminent death. Lucifer, immune to the heat, sat by the fireside, roasting chestnuts in the embers and eagerly waiting for his father’s death rattle. Then, at long last,
he
would become the new don, Don Lucifer di S’Embowelli Borgia, eldest son of the recently departed Don Chimera di Carne Borgia. Chestnuts had never tasted so sweet.

Lucifer happily planned his first day in power: item first, he thought, dispose of dumb half brother.

Item second, buy that Porsche he’d dreamt of ever since the words
brrm brrm
had crossed his lips.

Item third, computerize the gambling, drug-running, and extortion rackets that had made Don Chimera his millions.

Item fourth, bulldoze this old ruin and find a palazzo.

Item fifth, find a good plastic surgeon for his nose.

Item sixth, ask that gorgeous nurse to marry him.

Item seventh …

The door to his father’s bedchamber burst open, revealing his sobbing half brother with a tiny baby in his arms.

“Poppa!” cried Luciano. “I came as soon as I heard. Look, Poppa—I bring you your first grandchild!”

The sea of bodies parted to allow Luciano access to his father’s bed. To a man, the assembled dons, lawyers, mayors, police chiefs, and
politicians shuffled, coughed, and examined their fingernails intently.

Holding out his bald infant to its grandfather, Signor Strega-Borgia said, “Poppa, look the baby has your hair!”

The old man choked, spluttered, and laughed like a blocked drain.

“Don’t get him too excited, Signor,” cautioned the nurse. “He’s very frail.”

Don Chimera reached out, took his grandchild in his hands, and tucked the baby safely in the crook of his arm.

“May I?” he wheezed.

“Please, Poppa—I’d be honored.”

The old don began to carefully unwrap his grandchild. The baby stopped crying and gazed solemnly at the old man.

“Look—I stop the crying. What have we here, little one? No clues here at all, only one white layer after another, no, the last one is
not
white, it is caca yellow, like your uncle Lucifer’s eyes, no?”

By the fireside, Lucifer ground his teeth.

The baby’s deep blue eyes never blinked as Don Chimera unwrapped the diaper and gazed within.

“A boy!” he crowed. “My grandson …?”

“Titus,” supplied the proud father.

The baby opened a mouth innocent of teeth and bestowed upon his grandfather a smile of such infant perfection that the old don seemed to rally a little. “Signor Dombi, I have need of you.”

One of the lawyers detached himself from the crowd and came to the bedside. “Maestro?”

“I wish to change my will in favor of my new grandson.”

“Poppa … there is no need,” interrupted Signor Strega-Borgia. “Don’t be so morbid, we’ll have you better in a week or two.”

“Luciano, don’t be ridiculous. In a week or two, I’ll be compost. Now shut up and let me finish.”

The nurse drew Signor Strega-Borgia to one side and whispered in his ear.

“He’s right, you know, Signor. Don’t waste time arguing with him, just say goodbye properly, he won’t see the night out.”

In the background, they could hear the subdued murmur of the lawyer and the old don, and the artificial silence caused by everyone in the room straining to overhear what it was they were discussing.

Lucifer sat stunned by the fireplace. This couldn’t be happening to him.

That bald caca factory was going to inherit what was rightfully his? It was insufferable. Something had to be done. Don Chimera had to be stopped before the new will was written. He stood up, intending to call a halt to this nonsense.

It was at this point that two dozen forgotten roasting chestnuts exploded in a fusillade of what sounded remarkably like machinegun fire. Instantly every man in the room dived for cover and simultaneously let rip with all the firepower at their disposal. All was chaos and screaming confusion. Windows shattered, wood splintered, and feathers flew. For a minute nothing could be seen but plaster dust, gun smoke, and duck down. As the air cleared, a figure appeared in the middle of the room, baby in arms, miraculously undamaged.

“Have you all taken leave of your senses?” it inquired in a voice hoarse with terror. “Poppa needs peace and quiet.…”

“He doesn’t even need that, Signor, “muttered the nurse, emerging from behind a medicine cart. “I’m afraid he’s gone.”

With impeccable timing, the infant Titus began to cry.

Twelve long years had passed, then, mused Don Lucifer, propelling his half brother toward the dining room. Twelve
highly productive years of extortion, terror, and many murders. Don Chimera’s millions lay in a bank vault, entrusted to the care of the lily-livered Luciano, waiting for Titus to reach the age of thirteen. Don Chimera’s will had specified that Titus would come into his inheritance as soon as he became a teenager, the dying grandparent believing that wealth was wasted on the old. Don Lucifer ground his teeth at the prospect of Titus inheriting anything. However, he thought, a smile playing around his mouth … if Luciano, in a fit of brotherly love, was to sign all the money over to Lucifer … and if Titus was to meet with some regrettable accident before his thirteenth birthday … well, that would be just …

“Excellent!” roared Don Lucifer, dropping Luciano into a chair in front of the laden dining table. “What a feast for the prodigal brother, eh?”

Nil by Mouth

M
rs. McLachlan was cold. The dungeons had that kind of an effect on warm-blooded creatures, and trying to spoon-feed griffins with dribbly ladlefuls of cold stew hadn’t exactly helped.

She sat at the kitchen table trying to warm up over a cup of tea, watching Latch as he ironed the day’s paper in readiness for Signora Strega-Borgia’s return from the Advanced Witchcraft Institute.

“Anything of note in the news, dear?” she asked.

Latch looked up from the ironing board. “I’m just doing the horoscope page if you’re interested. When is your birthday, Mrs. McLachlan?”

“Next week, Latch,” she answered sweetly, “my one hundredth actually. Do you think we’ll have enough candles?”

“That makes you a Leo, doesn’t it?” he said, undeterred by her sarcasm. “It says here, ‘Beware of unwelcome guests. Swift action is required to eliminate them.’ ”

“The children must be going to catch head lice,” muttered Mrs. McLachlan to herself.

Latch, oblivious, read on, “ ‘A cool head will be required when all around are losing theirs’ … how very mysterious, don’t you think? Of course these horoscopes are all a load of codswallop, but sometimes there’s a grain of truth in what they say.”

“Will that be all, Latch?” said Mrs. McLachlan, absent-mindedly scratching her head.

“Take mine, for instance,” he continued, doggedly sticking to his theme. “ ‘Immense courage will be required to achieve your goals, but a tendency to rush in where angels fear to tread could have amusing consequences.’ Well, I ask you, who wrote this garbage?” He threw down the paper, dumped the iron on the range next to a bubbling pan of Brussels sprouts, and folded the ironing board into a cupboard.

Marie Bain retrieved the paper and scanned the columns for her own horoscope. Against a backdrop of rising billows of sprout-scented steam, she resembled an apron-clad infernal ferret, her little eyes darting snakily along rows of type. Oblivious to the bubbling pans behind her, she read on.

Mrs. McLachlan jumped up in an attempt to rescue the supper. “Marie, dear, shall I drain the sprouts? They must surely be done by now.”

The cook’s eyes barely rose above the newspaper. Turning slowly to the crossword page and producing a tiny pencil stub from the pocket of her apron, she replied, “Another twenty-five meenots, Meesuss McCacclong, then they be verr soft, chust how the Seenyora like them.”

Mrs. McLachlan rolled her eyes heavenward and collapsed back into her seat. Latch bent over her shoulder and whispered,
“Eet ess writted in the stars, under the sign of Mush, the overcooked wegetable, that due to a planetary eclipse of the great star Sprout, and a cosmic collision between the constellation Lumpy Spud and Leathery Haddock, that tonight might be a good time for a little clandestine french frying. What say you?”

“The stars never lie, Latch,” answered Mrs. McLachlan. “You peel and I’ll sneak downstairs later and fry them.”

Up in the observatory, Titus was scanning the skies, looking for his mother. So far he’d spotted three passenger planes, their lofty vapor trails gradually dispersing in the lilac dusk. The crescent moon shone from the still waters of the moat, its reflection curled elegantly round a water lily that was pulling its petals close against the night.