Clan Novel Giovanni: Book 10 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Justin Achilli

  To that end, Isabel had little interest in talking details with a second-rate yes man. Francis was the man with the plan, but she was his smokescreen, she knew. The Camarilla probably didn’t even know that it was Milliners and not Giovanni who exercised the most influence in Boston. Outside a few individuals, everyone knew that the Giovanni were the preeminent power there. Of course, the Milliners were Giovanni, but such semantic games were the coin of the Kindred realm. Misdirection and subterfuge could take a Kindred much farther than brute force, and Isabel was walking, unliving proof of that.

  “Chas, please. Settle down,” Isabel remarked. He was still headstrong, ostensibly here to deal with the Benito Giovanni affair, and a liability to this discussion. Chas was a testament to the fact that sometimes nasty and brutish did the job, particularly in America. He wasn’t especially strong, powerful, or clever, but he had a mean streak a mile wide and had less and less reservation nightly about showing it to a rival. That had begun to shine through—his eyes had sunk in the few weeks since Isabel had met him, and his once-full lips were pulled back into a perpetual growl or sneer. His hands were always white-knuckled, as if only by the most persistent concentration could he keep the Beast in check. Isabel knew: Chas was bound to snap soon. She had planned to play her cards right, however, and unleash Chas when it was most convenient, watching him go down in a blaze of glory that would no doubt take a few others with him. The key was to do it subtly, however—again, discretion made sure one need not keep escalating her efforts—and to make sure his inevitable kamikaze took place visible only to Kindred eyes and nowhere she’d have to call upon favors to cover up among the media, police, etc. Still, he had a point. The liaison sneered at Chas, who bristled visibly.

  “But don’t let that mislead you—I’m sorry, what was your name again?” She put the diplomat in his place.

  The guest’s eyes narrowed to slits, regarding Isabel coldly. “Gauthier. Jacques Gauthier. Childe of Paul Levesque, childe of Shlomo Baruch, childe of Christianne Foy, childe of Vidal Jar—”

  “Yes, yes,” Isabel interrupted, “very impressive. Archbishop of Canterbury, extract of vanilla, Milk of Magnesia, and so the old joke goes. We realize that you’re here to represent the Camarilla’s interests and that you’re supposed to butter us up and make this seem like the most fantastic deal ever to fall into our laps. But let me offer you my counterposition. Your approval means nothing to us. Your high-handed ‘recognition of sovereignty’ and other quasi-political jingoism won’t work in this room. You’re not dealing with rank neonates. Your Camarilla is not a government, nor is it a military body. It is a simple social convention, a contract supported by its members in the interests of furthering its own ends. Quite frankly, it is a civil sinecure with which bored, effete elders play games and delude themselves. Am I to believe that, if we could not reach an agreement in this room, before the next dawn Boston would face a liveried phalanx of Camarilla shock troops? It’s more likely that a few rowdy insurgents of your sect would swagger among Boston’s Kindred like a mob of drunken soccer hooligans for a few nights until routed by the very same Kindred whose havens they disturb.

  “Your recognition means nothing. Your support means nothing. Your sect is incapable of maintaining the quiet influence it has along this entire coast of one of the most affluent nations in the world, just as it has proven powerless against the unknown Kindred of the East sweeping in from the West Coast. Oh, Jacques Gauthier, don’t be so shocked—I’ve looked into matters. I wouldn’t dream of entertaining an envoy such as yourself without knowing the full ramifications of the relations you propose. When weighed against other options, the only benefit that a loose agreement of support provides is in the hope that the Giovanni of Boston could simply turn their backs on the whole matter and allow the Sabbat and Camarilla fanatics to shred each other in the streets. How does that sound? Is that answer satisfactory?”

  Jacques had risen from his seat, his mouth open wide, his head turned slightly downward and his teeth clenched. At Isabel’s side, Chas twitched, undead veins bulging, like an epileptic bound to his chair in the throes of seizure.

  “Do not presume that we are so powerless, Isabel Giovanni,” retorted Jacques. “The Camarilla, as you say, is not a military organization, but to believe that that renders us powerless is pure folly. Neither is the Sabbat a military power, but these are not battles fought exclusively in the trenches. For every brawling fool who sees this solely as a matter of martially, three more Kindred behind him make their moves through quieter channels. This is a war of influence, and the resources of the Camarilla are orders of magnitude more than the resources of Clan Giovanni. We are merely interested in minimizing and localizing the influence of our enemies—and your enemies as well—the Sabbat.”

  “The resources of the Camarilla! Absurd. The Camarilla has no resources! The only power it wields is that which is voluntarily afforded to it by its members. Your sect is far more fractious and selfishly motivated than you would have us think. The Camarilla does nothing as an entity, and you know it.”

  “Nor does Clan Giovanni, by that rationale,” countered Gauthier.

  “True; but Clan Giovanni in this case is a community of Boston’s Kindred. We will more than certainly protect our own interests, and put aside our personal grudges when opposed with a greater opposition. Whether that opposition is Sabbat or Camarilla—or both—is irrelevant. I know the man who has sent you here. I know Jan Pieterzoon. He has made quite a name for himself among the Kindred, and I suspect he may one night find himself among the—what do you call them?—archons and justiciars of the Camarilla. But he will not do it by playing the role of firebrand. Rather, he will master the game of politics, promising one thing, delivering another, and then convincing those beneath him that what they wanted in the first place was what he actually delivered. I know that Boston is only part of Pieterzoon’s larger move at this stage, but I’m not going to pretend to know what cards he still holds in his hand. Jan is a much more proficient plotter than I will ever be, but I am far better at seeing the secrets within. Pieterzoon and those like him depend upon Kindred like me to provide the pieces with which they play. I—we, the Giovanni of Boston—may be pawns in that game, but we know that we are pawns. And a pawn that turns against the side that pushes it forward is a dangerous piece, indeed.” Isabel stood straight up, arms crossed high over her chest, staring imperiously at Jacques.

  Gauthier showed no sign of backing down, however. Pieterzoon had charged him with this negotiation—warned him that the Giovanni were deadly as vipers in their nest—and expected no failure. “You’re speaking in metaphors, Isabel. You’re occluding the issue. This is not a game, as you want to rush to conveniently reduce it to. Pawns and pieces and chess allusions are the stuff of florid fiction, and we’re dealing in matters quite tangible. We need your help. In return, we are willing to leave Boston be. You will not receive such a plain or sincere offer from the Sabbat, as their dominance of the East Coast attests. It may be that you are truly prepared to weather the storm. But I have no reason to suspect that you would prefer to stand against this conflict if we offer you a chance to avoid it altogether.”

  “It would seem, then, Jacques, that we are at an impasse for the time being. I will take the details of your proposed alliance back and peruse them. You know where to reach me. I suggest we meet again in a few weeks to finalize the nature of the relationship—should I decide one exists.”

  Thursday, 15 July 1999, 1:48 AM

  Seasons Restaurant, Bostonian Hotel

  Boston, Massachusetts

  “What the fuck were you doing in there?” Chas asked Isabel as they left the building, headed for the silver Audi coupe she had borrowed for the trip. Normally, the car had only a one-point-eight-liter four-cylinder, but Isabel had arranged to “preview” one of next year’s upgrade prototypes with the six-cylinder.

  “Quiet down, Chas. And don’t speak to me like that or I’ll have your tongue. Literally.”

 
; The pair climbed into the car, which was slung low to the ground. Isabel disdained driving, so she handed the keys to Chas. She preferred luxury cars, of course, for their amenities, but in a city that was about to be torn apart by three rival factions, speed and maneuverability were preferable to cabriolet leather.

  “But there’s no way you’re going to cut a deal with the Sabbat, right?”

  “Are you out of your mind, Chas?”

  “No, but why were you busting his balls so hard?

  “Who says I have to throw in with anyone? And who says the Milliners would honor it if I agreed to it?”

  “But isn’t that why you’re here, Isabel? To negotiate the deal?”

  “I’m here because Francis Milliner asked for me. I’m here to get the most out of this little venture with the least investment on my part or the Milliners’. Why are you here, Chas?”

  “Benito thing.”

  “That’s right. So why don’t you worry about that and I’ll worry about this, okay? Have you made any progress on Benito’s disappearance?”

  “No,” Chas had started to scowl, his hands gripping the steering wheel with a new fervor.

  “Were you expecting to get something out of that meeting?”

  “I figured maybe they’d offer some information about Benito as part of the deal.”

  “And maybe they will, Chas. Now you see? Putting Jacques over as many barrels as I can means that if he really wants this support arrangement to go through, he’s got to give me what I want. Pieterzoon wouldn’t suggest this unless it was necessary, so I know I’ve got a lot of leverage. And Pieterzoon didn’t want to come himself, so he sent that little lickspittle so it would look like this is no big deal. So, he thinks I think this is nothing. But that’s not what I think, get it?” She smiled. Chas was playing the same game of “she thinks I think” with her and she had called him on it, if only allegorically.

  The Audi swung around a corner, its wide tires grabbing the road and holding tight as the chassis rolled low to keep the turn radius tight.

  “In the meantime, Chas, I’ve got a side project for you. It’ll teach you some fundamental investigation skills.”

  “Whoa, hang on. I’m not here for you on this deal. I’m still working for Frankie Gee.”

  “Yes, well, you need the practice. I’ll bill Frankie later.”

  Chas sighed, pointedly, as if to remind Isabel that since he didn’t breathe, he meant something by it.

  “That’s my boy. So tomorrow night, you find out what you can about Jacques Gauthier. And tell me who calls the shots for the Sabbat in this city.”

  “I already know part two. It’s Max Lowell.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Shit, my haven’s in New York. Boston’s just a shot up the road. Frankie’s moved more stuff through Lowell than I care to think about. Fuck, if this shit comes down to a shootout, it’ll probably be with Frankie’s guns.”

  Isabel looked unwaveringly at Chas.

  “See,” he said with a smirk, “I’m not so stupid as I pretend.”

  Nope, Chas thought to himself as he boarded the T to ride back to his hotel, I’m not so stupid at all. And when he arrived, he dialed Frankie’s number— the one with the **# area code.

  Tuesday, 6 July 1999, 9:48 PM

  A subterranean grotto

  New York City, New York

  Calebros set down the report dealing with the strange phenomenon of unusually aggressive rats. Rats hostile—to Nosferatu! What was the world coming to?

  What, indeed.

  He placed the report on his desk, atop one of the precarious stacks of thousands of other reports on any of hundreds of dissimilar topics. The data were flying fast and furious these nights: The Camarilla non-resistance in Washington, D.C., had finished crumbling within the past week, with the exception of the Tremere chantry which had circled the wagons and not lifted a finger to save the city. The insular warlocks had dispatched a particularly mid-level representative, one Maria Chin, to Baltimore, where Prince Garlotte was attempting to create some sort of order from the chaotic streams of refugees inundating his city. His task was made no easier by the maneuverings of Victoria Ash, Toreador ne’er-do-well, socialite, and eye candy.

  But now, by the dim, flickering light of his desk lamp, Calebros pondered a matter that was considerably nearer and dearer to his heart.

  Saturnday, 17 July 1999, 9:51 PM

  Forgotten Worlds Gallery

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Chas Giovanni was not happy.

  Whoever the fuck wanted to know where the fuck Benito Giovanni was should just leave him wherever he was and be done with it. Milo Rothstein died because of it. Victor died because of it. No telling how many of the Nosferatu shitbags who’d black-bagged Benito in the first place met the Final Death because of it. And tonight, new news. While Chas was in Boston, Frankie had heard that Benito had turned up in New Orleans. The moment he heard it, Chas knew it was bullshit—Benito had disappeared from here and then showed up in Vegas. Unless those Nosferatu were setting up a touring Benito Giovanni Petting Zoo exhibit, there was no good reason in the world for him to have surfaced in New Orleans. If he had escaped his captors, he would have gone home or called someone from the road. If he was still in someone’s possession, he’d be locked down tight in either Vegas or Boston until whoever kidnapped him made whatever demand it was they planned to make. The whole thing didn’t make any sense.

  Who made the tip, Chas wanted to know. None of Frankie’s other people could answer. Speaking of being unable to answer, Frankie hadn’t picked up his phone in almost twenty-four hours, despite Chas and any number of other goombahs calling him nonstop.

  Then the call came in from Italy, to Isabel. Frankie Gee was dead. She told Chas, conveyed the appropriate words of condolence, and bought a plane ticket to meet some contact of hers in Atlanta.

  “That’s nice, Isabel. Any idea why you got the call before me, and why Italy knows but no one in New York or Boston knows yet?” Chas demanded.

  “Don’t take that tone, Chas. I didn’t have to tell you at all. As to why I found out, it relates to something I’m doing here.”

  “You’re here to fucking handle the Camarilla negotiation for the Milliners. What the fuck does that have to do with going to Atlanta and getting calls about my dead capo?”

  Isabel had had enough of Chas’s continually worsening attitude. “You know what, Chas? That’s right. I was here to talk to Pieterzoon’s people. And I did it. You, however, are here to find out where Benito Giovanni has gone, and you haven’t done that. So, while I have handled two separate affairs for the family, you still haven’t finished your first, and you’re racking up an impressive body count to accompany your failures. Victor, Frankie, and I’m sure there are more. So please, before you get all heavy-handed and indignant, just sit quietly and wait for me to get back.” She knew he had become frustrated with the lack of anything leading him to Benito, but Chas was being unconscionable, and it showed no signs of abating.

  “Fuck that, Isabel! I’m just supposed to sit here and wait? I’m coming with you to Atlanta to do whatever it is you’re doing down there.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re going to stay here and accompany the person I’ve hired to handle the rest of the talk with Gauthier.”

  “You want me playing backup for someone else while you take your little vacation? Bullshit. Fucking bullshit. I’m not here working for you. In fact, I guess I’m not working for anyone anymore. There’s no way I’m running second man to some punk-ass Kindred you talked into doing Milliner’s—”

  “Oh, she’s not Kindred,” Isabel interrupted. She flashed him a charming smile that became insidious given the circumstances. “She’s quite alive. Works for Milliner as an account executive. She knows all about our kind, though, and I’ve given her all the details. You’re going with her to make sure she doesn’t get hurt, and to let Gauthier and Pieterzoon know that we’re not taking their side, or the Sabbat�
�s.”

  “What? I’m right hand to a fucking kine?” It was one thing to play Victor’s angle in Vegas—that was to mislead Rothstein. But backing up a mortal who was nothing more than a mouthpiece for the snot-nosed Milliners, without having it be some kind of ruse, that was inexcusable. “I’m not going to fucking do it. Fuck yourself, Isabel.”

  She turned around and slapped him, hard, across the face. “You will not speak that way to me, understood? That’s fine—if that’s what you want to do, you’re free to leave. You don’t owe me anything, you don’t work for me, and you don’t work for the Milliners. So, crawl back to New York and let all the Giovanni and wiseguys know that not only could you not handle a simple assignment, you got one of your men and your boss killed on top of it. Go right ahead.” One hand on her hip, she waved the other at the door.

  That’s why he wasn’t happy.

  Chas knew Isabel was right—in order to come out of this with any dignity at all, he had to see the matter through. If that meant attaching himself to Isabel until she was able to bring more pieces of the puzzle to the table, well, that’s what he’d have to do. It was absurd that she expected him to be effectively Milliner’s diplomat’s retainer, but he didn’t want to consider what would happen if he returned to New York with nothing but obituaries to accompany him.

  It didn’t help that Milliner’s new go-between was a grade-A bitch. Even her name was pretentious: Genevieve Pendleton. Of course, she had been college-educated, which automatically made her arrogant toward the rough-edged Chas. Apparently, she’d been on the Milliner managerial staff for a few years, and they’d allowed her to be a part of the operation without making her a ghoul. That wasn’t how they did things in the Old World, and it wasn’t how Frankie and his ilk had adapted their racket to the New World. When you let people know what you were, it was either right before you whacked them, or right before you made them a ghoul—or a Kindred. Anything else left too many loose ends.