A studious-looking man glanced up from a pile of papers and said casually, “Un-cuff him and leave us.”
“Chief?”
“Do it.”
Tats felt more confused than the accompanying officers as they dutifully unfastened his cuffs and left the room.
A brief silence reigned, as the chief looked Tats up and down the way a fighter might to an unfamiliar opponent.
“Sit down, Tats.”
Tats did as told.
Another awkward silence.
“Do you know why you’re here?”
Tats felt the desired answer was, Because I got caught with a hundred pounds of Smokeless Green, but he opted to just shake his head.
“Oh, come now, Tats. You didn’t become the number two man in the number one crime outfit in this city by being dimwitted.”
Tats began to wonder what the right answer might be to this seemingly trick question.
“I’ll help you. It’s not because you’re selling Smokeless Green . . . at least, that’s not the whole reason.”
Tats knew he was at a complete loss as to what the chief was getting at, so he decided to grant him a bit of transparency.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”
“No, you don’t, do you?” the chief said as he stood and sauntered lazily towards the window like a man without a care in the world. He looked out for a long moment, before turning back to Tats.
“That’s the problem . . . you don’t know. You don’t know how things work around here.”
Feeling like he had little to lose, given the amount of time he was already looking at, Tats took a verbal plunge into an abyss, mentally ready for a sharp rebuke.
“Is it about money, sir?”
The chief looked at him long and hard.
“You know something, Tats. This situation may not be quite as hopeless as I feared when I asked my men to bring you up here.”
Tats felt a huge weight slip off his back.
“But you’re wrong if you think a bit of money from you is going to make this whole thing go away.”
The chief moved closer and sat on top of his desk, looking down on Tats, resembling a viper ready to strike.
“I don’t normally waste my time discussing business matters with anyone in subordinate status. Sovereigns ought to talk to sovereigns, should they not?” the chief inquired with a steely gaze.
Tats felt his world collapse around him. He wasn’t going to roll on Mr. Brass. Not a chance.
“I can’t tell you who he is, sir. I’ll do the time. We’re done talking.”
“HAA!!!!” the chief exclaimed with genuine amusement.
“How old are you, son?”
“Twenty-two, sir,” Tats replied, not liking the reference to a paternal relationship one bit.
“I’ll forgive you some of your stupidity on account of your youth,” the chief said with what seemed like genuine pleasure.
Then he drew near, placing himself almost eyeball to eyeball with Tats.
“Do you really think I need YOU to tell me who your boss is?” the chief asked, with a look of sincere offense on his face.
“This is my town,” he said, in a low growl. “Your boss is Mr. Brass.”
Tats gulped.
“But, on the other hand,” the chief began, his tone immediately turning cordial, “you’re not entirely stupid for thinking I have less information about him than I would like. Your boss is one elusive fellow. Something tells me I might know as much about him as you do, maybe more,” he said, but with his eyes scanning every square inch of Tats’ face for the answers criminals so often give even when they refuse to do so with their tongues.
“I think Mr. Brass is either a professional boxer or used to be,” he added, still scanning Tats’ face. “He’s turned to crime a bit late in life, and thus, he doesn’t know all the house rules.”
Once again, he moved near Tats’ face. “Most of all, he doesn’t know this is my house. And he doesn’t know that in my house you have to pay to play.”
He then backed away and seated himself calmly at his desk chair and looked directly at Tats.
“I don’t have to keep you here, you know. It’s only a matter of time before the federal boys get a whiff of this, and believe me, the National Drug Police isn’t going to let a bust of this magnitude get handled at the city level without a fight. They would love a fish like you in their net.”
“Suppose you were to give me the chance to ask my boss if he is willing to meet with you . . . would that be satisfactory?”
The chief leaned forward in his desk.
“Something tells me I’d never see you again . . . unless I went looking for you, which I have neither the time nor inclination to do when I already have you right here. Here’s how this works. You tell me where Mr. Brass lives, and I’ll arrange a meet and greet. And if he proves to be a reasonable man, then all this might just turn out to be one giant misunderstanding. After all, with everyone trying to get the largest bust, my agents might have mistaken some loose flower petals in your wagon for a very pernicious, very illegal substance.
“Or, you keep your mouth shut, and you’ll be looking at spending the rest of your miserable life in prison.”
“I could go ask him for a meeting . . . if I was sure you weren’t following me. If he refused, I would return, and you would have your quarry once again.”
The chief felt surprised when he found himself convinced Tats was likely telling the truth, but his response was cold and final.
“Officers! Take this scum back to his cell. Forward his case to the prosecutor’s office first thing . . . tomorrow.” He grinned at Tats when he added this last detail.
Chapter 6
Righty was headed out of his large barn where he now had, quite literally, multiple tons of Smokeless Green packed and assembled into tight packages of various sizes and for various destinations, all with their weight and addressee engraved in code. The ranchers who assisted with this knew the codes for each weight, and while they also engraved the various codes Righty instructed them for each addressee, they did not have the faintest idea as to what personage, or even what city or country, was signified by the cryptic abbreviations.
Righty planned on doing some light warming up with his sword before he and his men began their daily martial exercises, and his mood was carefree and upbeat, the state of mind humans usually experience right before stormy weather reveals the perilous nature of happiness.
Before he got more than a dozen feet a konulan whizzed right by his ear making an emphatic “Chirp!” before heading straight into the barn. A feeling of doom emerged from his soul and passed straight down his spine. He would have turned and sprinted into the barn, but he didn’t want to alert any nearby ranchers. He compromised with one of those rapid walks that blur the line with jogging, and mere moments later he was inside the barn with the door closed.
Once inside, he did not hesitate to do a quick sprint here and there to scan for any inadvertent—or intentional—eavesdroppers, but curiosity quickly demanded that this exercise cease, and Righty, with sweat pouring from his forehead and his pulse marching like a fervent army about to close with the enemy, inquired the urgent news.
His heart sank, and he nearly felt sick, as he discovered Tats’, Crabs’, and several others’ arrest.
“Meet me at the cabin in ten minutes,” he told the konulan.
Righty mounted a horse tied outside the barn and rode up to his men and told them, in what he hoped was a calm voice, that some tedious paperwork was going to rob him of today’s exercises and that he was not to be disturbed at his cabin except in the case of an emergency. They, however, were to proceed with all zeal in their exercises.
He then galloped off towards his cabin with an alacrity that showed he either found today’s paperwork to be of a particularly stimulating nature or that there was indeed some calamity of which perhaps even they should be alarmed.
Righty di
smounted in front of his cabin like a courier carrying news of an approaching enemy army, dashed inside, slammed the door, and was relieved to find the konulan waiting dutifully as instructed.
“Tell me every last detail! Every last one!” Righty shouted, not with malice, but with panic. “Starting with why only you came!” he added.
“We agreed that one can relay news as well as four, but one cannot surveil as well as four,” the konulan said calmly.
“Shrewd little things you are,” Righty said, giving the konulan’s head a gentle pat.
The konulan then informed him that he had surveilled only up until the time Tats was being led away to the police station, but he treated every detail of what he had seen with the most minute attention.
“Fly, little friend,” Righty said. “I need updates! I will remain here. Tell the next messenger to fly straight in through the chimney!”
The konulan, perhaps wishing to test the feasibility of this route, or perhaps not noticing the open window right behind him (which Righty himself had either forgotten about or decided he might need to shut later to keep the conversations private), took off like an arrow and disappeared inside the chimney.
Righty felt his whole body tremble, for it seemed as if all the woes of the world had descended upon his shoulders.
Chapter 7
It was not until late that night that the next konulan arrived. And by that time Righty felt as though he had aged at least a year.
The konulan explained that there had been too little to report. Tats had been processed without saying much, and then they had lost track of him, due to the fact they could only conduct surveillance from outside the windows.
Harold had ordered them to spread out around the building and listen through all windows for any mention of the name “Tats” or even the term “Smokeless Green” so that they could position themselves if he came near.
“You’re going to need backup,” Righty said tersely. “Go get two dozen konulans and tell them to help out.”
“Yes, sir,” the konulan responded and took off.
Righty passed a sleepless night, and although he knew Janie was going to be worried, this simply had to take priority. He knew that he was on the verge of losing everything he had worked so hard for in Sivingdel, and it would only be a matter of time before Rucifus inquired about her brother.
Sure, he could lie to her for a while, but that wasn’t the way he preferred to do business. She’d find out sooner or later anyway, and when she did, he would not only lose that connection but likely acquire a bitter enemy in the process. Surely, she would blame him for failing to rescue her brother.
That meant having a big ranch full of a product he couldn’t sell . . . that is, unless he wanted to start from scratch by waltzing into some other crumby part of Sivingdel and convincing some unknown hoodlums via a few rounds of fisticuffs that he was someone to take seriously, and hoping he didn’t get stabbed or clubbed to death in the process.
But there was a sentimental issue as well. If the roles were reversed, he would hope his boss would do everything in his power to extricate him. Tats had been loyal, given him an unimaginably lucrative international contact, and had saved his life in at least two nasty fights. Tats was like family.
Somehow, some way, he was going to have to fix this.
Chapter 8
“Word for word?” Righty asked.
“Yes, sir,” the konulan said, having relayed to Righty the contents of Tats’ conversation with the police chief.
“And you’re sure he refused to give my name, but the chief already knows my alias?”
“Yes, sir,” the konulan replied, unwavering.
Righty’s feelings of obligation and duty redoubled.
“Bring Harold here,” Righty ordered.
“That won’t take long,” the konulan said, with a smile in his voice if not on his beak. “He’s hiding in the woods nearby. He was hoping you would want to talk to him but was unsure if you would be angry he hadn’t continued supervising the konulans.”
“Tell him not to worry. I need his advice.”
Righty went ahead and opened the door and braced for what he rightly suspected would be a rather dramatic arrival.
Minutes later, a puff of wind nearly knocked Righty over as Harold entered rapidly through the doorway only to flare his wings out immediately afterwards, although he did leave a few gouges in the wood with his claws to assist his stop.
“One day, sooner or later, I think we both knew it would come to this, but it never made for a pleasant conversation now, did it?” Righty said, trying to laugh, but nothing escaped but a light sigh.
Harold said nothing, his keen, warlike eyes showing that he was simply ready to hear and obey.
“Should I show myself, Harold? And meet the police chief?”
Harold simply nodded. He knew Righty well enough by now to know Righty wasn’t going to hang Tats out to dry.
“Could I go to the police chief’s house? I would feel I had the upper hand that way.”
“Due to my size, I could only surveil the konulans from about five hundred feet up without drawing attention to myself. I asked each of them, and none of them got so much as a glance at the chief. We don’t know what he looks like, so there was no way we could follow him home.”
A konulan spoke up: “The chief sounded like he meant business when he said he was going to refer the case to the prosecutor’s office tomorrow. He also sounded serious when he mentioned the federal police might be showing up at any time to try to take the case from the city police.”
Righty looked at the konulan. “Are you absolutely sure?”
The konulan nodded.
Righty felt a wave of self-hatred crash upon him as he realized his stupidity for not having previously given the konulans the task of surveilling the city’s police and familiarizing themselves with the names, faces, and home addresses of all the top ranks. And as for the federal police, the self-hatred was even more intense. He didn’t even know what agency was being referred to, much less where they were headquartered, what their numbers were, etc.
Now, he had to risk exposing himself in a police station today. If not, by tomorrow, the entire matter could be even more complicated, with formal charges having been filed against Tats and the others and with the federal police potentially involved. While his heart had been in the right place keeping dozens of konulans watching his home, Ringsetter, and his ranch separately, his mind had not been.
“Friends,” Righty began, looking at Harold first and then at the numerous konulans in the cabin, “I might be enjoying one of my last moments as a free man. I want to ask of you—not order you—that, if this is a trap of some kind, you do whatever it takes to free me and keep my family safe. In my absence, you answer to Harold. He will tell you what you need to do.”
A somber mood filled the room. Righty then directed his discourse directly towards Harold, whose eyes appeared somewhat moist. “We’ve been through a lot, friend. I want you to know that if I am arrested today, a war begins.”
Harold’s eyes went from moist to boiling to bone dry in seconds, like a frying pan sizzling and evaporating the moisture that dared tread its surface.
“I have sought, and will continue to seek, a peaceful existence with my fellow man while I pursue what I know in my heart to be a great destiny, but to those who seek to harm my friends, my business, my family, my person, or my liberty, they will learn the consequences of my wrath and feel their frailty against a roaring lion.”
Harold’s eyes now gleamed with a pleasure that under any prior circumstances would have unnerved Righty. But Righty knew that, even by his mental decision to proceed forward with this plan, he was no longer the same person. A threshold had been passed. The game was now all or nothing. He thought of the rock climbing coach in his dreams.
You’ve got to reach the top.
You sure as hell won’t make it down.
You alre
ady long since entered the death zone.
With a knowing gaze between him and Harold, Righty’s final statement merely accentuated what was already known: “No rules, Harold.”
Chapter 9
Benjamin and Willis were two of only a dozen or so National Drug Police Agents in Sivingdel. Senator Hutherton, viewing the capital city as his backyard and therefore more worthy of vigorous police efforts, had instructed figurehead Chief Rulgers, of the NDP, to concentrate policing there. Had it not been for the massacre in Sivingdel, even these agents might not have been here.
They were currently in high spirits, having just received a tip that—in spite of the nonchalant attitude of the Sivingdel Police, whom they hated and distrusted vehemently—one of the biggest drug seizures to date had just happened, leaving the former record so far behind it wasn’t visible with man’s most powerful telescope.
They knew the chief was a corrupt old dog and had been on the payroll of Heavy Sam. They also knew that a new kingpin, far more subtle than the freakish giant, had slowly but surely established near-total dominance of the city’s black market and quite possibly without having had the courtesy to make so much as a small donation to the city police department in the process.
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