by Chuck Wendig
– from the Journals of John Atticus Oakes, Cartographer of the Great Below
Werth sits. At a kitchen table at the Boss’s house – one of two kitchens, it turns out. This one has lots of white tile and dark wood, big stainless steel appliances. Two ovens. Pots hanging from a pot rack, occasionally drifting into one another – clunk, clank, clink. Doesn’t look like anybody ever uses this kitchen – though the central butcher block has square-shaped stains on it. Maybe that’s where they put the takeout containers.
He wants to lie down. Take a long nap. A long nap in a deep grave, with roots and worms and cold earth to keep him comfortable for the rest of eternity.
It’s not just the pain – which by now has fought past the Vicodin like a distemper-sick dog chewing through a door.
But that’s not what’s really bothering him.
Haversham said, “The Boss is sick.”
Master of the Obvious over here. But then Haversham said, “Very sick,” and gave a gray-faced look, the look of the tomb, a look of fear. Werth asked how long the Boss had left. All Haversham would say was, “He’s upstairs.”
And then: “Things have changed.”
Now Werth sits. And waits. Not sure what the hell comes next. Did they call Mookie? Is this whole Nora Pearl thing going to fall by the wayside? On the one hand, that’d be a good thing. But Werth wants to put that brat six feet deep.
A tired-looking Haversham rounds the corner. Hands held in front of him like he’s an old woman pinching a coin purse to her belly.
Werth’s about to speak up, but then–
Two more follow him in.
The fedora-and-beige-suit motherfucker. Candlefly. And his “associate” – the slimy one. The Snakeface.
Werth tries to stand. His left leg wobbles, the knee about to hyperextend. Haversham urges him to sit.
“I’ll sit when I’m good and–” He winces. “Ready.”
“Fine,” Haversham says. His fingers working against other fingers. A nervous tic?
“Who the fuck are you?” Werth asks the two men.
“I’m Ernesto Candlefly. This is my associate. Mr Sorago.”
“A Snakeface.”
Candlefly corrects: “A Naga, yes. He prefers that term.”
“I give a shit what he prefers.”
Sorago hisses. Candlefly steadies the Snakeface with the flat of his hand.
The man in the suit continues. “I’ve been brought along to handle some of the business concerns as the Boss concentrates on improving his health.”
Improving his health. It’s terminal lung cancer.
“You. A guy the Boss just met yesterday.”
“We’ve known each other for a while. We’ve been associates at a distance.”
“Associates at a distance.”
“Yes. My family imports Cerulean–”
“You’re an addict.”
“No. Oh, no. I never touch the stuff. But I do think it has value in the… broader market. It’s becoming quite trendy.”
Now Werth’s nervous, too. He’s not a fan of change. He likes things a certain way, and it’s been that certain way for as long as he can remember. He feels like the ground is moving beneath his feet. Like the earth is going to swallow up him and crush him with teeth of stone and tongue of dirt.
Worse, he either has to sit down or fall down. The pain forces him to choose, and so he chooses to sit. The moment he does it, he’s afraid it makes him look weak. But what’s done is done: you can’t put the snakes back in the can.
“Now,” Candlefly says. “We have come across some… information. A troubling secret that was, I’m sure, kept from all of us. Did you know that Mookie Pearl has a daughter? Did you, Mr Werth?”
Shit shit shit. He musters an incredulous frown. “I know he had a family. Has. Whatever.”
“Do you know who this daughter is?”
“Mmnope,” Werth says. He’s a good liar. But Candlefly looks like the type who can smell a lie the way a wolf smells prey from miles away. Still, Werth continues the blustery charade: “No idea who she is. CEO of Who-Gives-A-Shit, Inc.? President and dictator of I-Give-A-Fuckistan?”
“His daughter is the girl seen on the security cameras. The one we thought killed Zoladski’s grandson. The one who calls herself Persephone.”
Werth’s no actor, but he feigns a look of shock and disappointment.
“You don’t think it’s Mookie that killed the grandson.”
“That is what we think. The damage done to the body is in line with the man’s… strength, is it not?” Candlefly laughs again. “He’s positively giant. I don’t know that I’ve seen any human so big.” The laugh dies on the vine. “He’s a murderer and the Boss would like his revenge.”
“I don’t buy it. Mookie’s loyal.”
“Are you sure? He’s not loyal enough to tell us that the criminal and murderer known as Persephone is actually his daughter, Eleanor.”
Now it’s Werth’s turn to laugh. “Not loyal enough to tell us? There’s no us. There’s the Organization, and then there’s you. You come up in here like you’re the new Boss and–”
The assassin moves. He steps past Candlefly, a gun materializing out of nowhere – a Snakeface trick for those who have learned it, for those Nagas in the killer’s caste. The gun is small, a little four-barrel derringer, and by the look of the size of those barrels (big enough for a pinky finger each), it’s a .357 or higher.
Werth winces, shields his face–
But Candlefly steps in. Eases the gun aside. With a gentle head nod, the assassin retreats and goes back to leaning on one of the stoves. Werth looks; the gun is already gone. As if it never existed.
What’s left behind, however, is a bad thought hanging in the air like a rotten stink:
Candlefly is the new Boss.
Which means the old Boss is dead.
The goat-man knew, of course. That Eleanor Pearl was – is – Mookie’s daughter. That’s fine. It irritates Candlefly a little that the man would lie, but the lie is expected. He’d do the same. The irritation is irrational, and Candlefly doesn’t appreciate irrationality, especially within himself.
The half-and-half goat-man, the satyr Werth, is about to speak up – but Candlefly holds up a silencing finger. The old goat is wise enough to heed the gesture, though Ernesto can see his ratty goat-ears flatten in anger.
“Where is he?” he asks James Werth.
“Where’s Mookie? I’m not telling you that.”
“I understand your loyalty to your soldier, but that time is done. Your loyalty goes up the chain, not down it. Does it not?”
“It does.”
“Are you Mookie’s boss? Or is he yours?”
Werth doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, smoldering.
“Pearl has left you vulnerable. Swinging in the wind, as the saying goes. By not telling you, he makes you seem complicit in all this. You’re not, are you?”
“I want to go,” Werth says.
“Can I show you something, first?”
Hesitation. “Mookie didn’t kill the grandson.”
“You seem sure.”
“I am sure. He’s not like that.”
“I want to know where he is.”
“So you can kill him.”
Now, Candlefly’s turn to not say anything.
Werth says, “Sorry. No can do.”
“Like I said: let me show you something. Then we’ll talk.”
“You gonna kill me?”
“It is not part of my plan.”
He sees that flash of uncertainty. The half-and-half doesn’t believe him. That’s OK. Candlefly smiles. Offers up both hands in surrender. “Please. This’ll only take a moment. I want to show you how I learned about Mookie’s daughter. Will you permit a stranger a moment of unearned trust?”
There comes a moment when Werth thinks, maybe I’ll just kill this motherfucker. Candlefly’s gotta go. I’m not a killer, but I’ve killed. I’m older now. Slower. And I hur
t like I just got thrown onto the highway and hit by every truck, bus, and car driving down it – but I can do it.
Part of it is the way Candlefly moves. Something about him radiates gentility – a refinement that suggests he doesn’t have the stones for a real scrap. Sure, he can point his finger and make people do stuff. Anybody with money has that power. But the way he moves is like water following the path of least resistance. Soft-wristed gestures of the hand. The way his head rolls loose on his neck like he doesn’t have a care in the world.
All this in contrast to the Boss, who for an old fucker is still a pit bull. Last year Werth saw Zoladski stick a knife in the arm of Jamarcus Kensie, a thug up out of the Black Sleeves gang. They were sitting across from each other, and Jamarcus was starting to get ballsy, dropping verbal jabs and slinging smart-ass bullshit that was about as subtle as a machete to the neck. The Boss moved quick. Snick-click. Switchblade. It spun in his hand. Blade up, then down, then slammed between the two bones that made up Jamarcus’s forearm.
Kathunk.
Boss said that’s how you do it. Never stick ’em in the hand. Those two bones, you can pin anybody anywhere. Boss said, “That’s how they pinned Christ to the cross, you know.”
The Boss is a tough nut. A hard lump of coal.
Candlefly is a piece of chocolate melting in a hot hand, a long lash of tall grass swaying in the slightest breeze. He’s both a prick and a pussy.
Not impressed, Werth thinks.
So: kill him. That’s what’s got to happen. Except the Snakeface is here. But then: suddenly, he’s not. He stays in the kitchen as Candlefly leads Werth along the downstairs hall. Candlefly walks, head tall. Werth hobbles. And all the while the man in the sharp tan suit is talking, saying, “I understand that you and Pearl have worked together a very long time–”
“Almost twenty years now.”
“That kind of time forges bonds. So, I understand your reticence to give me the location your friend. Have you ever run a business before?”
“Eh. No.”
They get to a door in the hallway. Werth knows where it goes: the wine cellar. Candlefly puts a hand on the knob, but doesn’t turn it. “A business can live by men and their specialties, but it can also die that way. For instance, you have an employee who can do one thing really well. He’s a gifted contract lawyer. Or he knows the ins and outs of your software. Perhaps he folds laundry with great elegance. While you have him, he improves business. But if you lose him? He takes that knowledge with him. This hurts business. You must spread out the knowledge. Create a little redundancy.”
Werth clears his throat. Nods at the door. “We going downstairs?”
Thinks, Soon as he opens that door, I’m going to kick him down those goddamn steps.
But Candlefly ignores him. Keeps holding the door closed. “What we have here in the Organization is a business. But we have those with specialized knowledge. Effective while they’re here, but…”
“You mean Mookie.”
“I do mean Mr Pearl, yes, yes. He runs his own crews. He knows where the veins of Blue are. He knows and does so much in this business.”
“He’s just a soldier. I know everything he does.”
“Do you? Really? Twenty years… I’m sure by now he does things his own way. Without your prompting. And when was the last time you went… downstairs?” He doesn’t mean the basement. “Been a while, hasn’t it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You let him handle things. That OK. It’s a scary place.”
“I’m not afraid of shit, pal.”
But he is. He is afraid. Candlefly knows it somehow. Candlefly laughs.
“Oh, I’m afraid of it, too. It’s perfectly normal to be frightened of the Great Below. You know, I have a theory. It’s because of the Underworld that we – we as in mankind – are afraid of the dark. Because down there, the dark is real. Tangible. Isn’t it? Horrible things, unknowable things, hiding down there in the shadows. Sometimes those things come up. Sometimes they eat. Sometimes they kill. Sometimes they…” A cruel twinkle in his eyes – he doesn’t have to finish the sentence: Sometimes they rape young women who end up having little goat babies just before dying. “You come from that place. Part of you. And you hate it. And that’s OK.”
Werth is shaking now. He’s trying not to but he is. He tells himself it’s the Vicodin wearing off, that he needs a hit of Blue to calm him.
“I come from there, too, in a way. And I am not… able to return.” Candlefly’s entire body tenses as if he’s experiencing a small moment of pain. “That’s why I want to know what Mookie Pearl knows,” Candlefly says plainly. “I want him to tell us what you and I do not know. I want to create a little redundancy. I don’t want to kill him. I just want to talk.”
“And then you’ll kill him.”
Another laugh. “No. Not necessarily. You say he’s innocent.”
“And you say he killed Casimir Zoladski. And in this town – in this Organization – we deal with that kind of thing one way and one way only.”
“Maybe it’s not true. Maybe I’m wrong.”
“You really willing to find that out?”
“Of course. A good employer is a fair employer.”
Werth watches Candlefly’s eyes. Another difference between him and the Boss. The Boss has sincere eyes. Hard like bullets. Hot like cigar-tips. Candlefly’s eyes are flashing lights. Shifting left, right, shining bright.
Candlefly’s got liar’s eyes.
Werth nods. Lies right back. “Good. I trust you.”
“Now,” Candlefly says, “before we go into the cellar and I show you something, I just want you to think about what you want out of all this.”
A radar ping in the back of Werth’s mind. A selfish twisting in his gut. “What?”
“Your reward. For being so loyal.”
“Reward.”
“Of course. Employees who go beyond the pale deserve employee bonuses. You want a house here on the Upper West Side? Done. A new crew? Easy. Something new to drive? That can happen with a hand wave. Think about it, won’t you?”
Then Candlefly opens the door.
Werth is left reeling. The gut punch of a sudden promise – the potential for security, for wealth, is dizzying. He sees his moment: Candlefly there at the top of the steps, looking back at Werth with a smile on that handsome face.
“Coming?”
Werth swallows. Would be nice to have a proper house in a neighborhood like this one. All this time, people still treat him like a freak…
“Sure. Yeah. Lead the way.”
And the opportunity slips from his grip as Candlefly descends and Werth follows.
Werth’s still got diamonds in his eyes as they reach the bottom of the basement stairs. Candlefly starts talking again, says, “You know the phrase, carrot and the stick? Some confusion over it. Some believe it’s a carrot tied to the end of the stick – dangled at the front of the donkey’s mouth so he moves the cart ever forward, the foolish ass thinking he’s just one step away from a mouthful of delicious carrot. But that’s not how I take it. I take it to mean that, in all things, we have two options: reward, and punishment. Honey or vinegar. Carrot and stick.”
Werth’s about to say something, but Candlefly turns on the light.
Revealed: the wine cellar. Oaken racks of dark bottles. In the back, a few cases of beer – good beer, not the cheap shit Werth likes to drink.
But none of that is as interesting as the man strapped to the chair in the middle of the floor. Werth knows him. How could he not? Mr Smiley’s one of the biggest information brokers in the city.
He’s a Snakeface. Doesn’t look the part right now because Werth is standing here Blind. Now Smiley’s just a man in a bright blue suit. Nice wing-tips. Manicured nails. And despite bring trussed up like a roast, he’s grinning big and broad.
“Is all of this… truly necessary?” Smiley asks. The smile is strained. Lips trembling to hold their position. Werth can see
that. The grin is big, but the eyes are dark. Suspicious. People tend to smile with their whole face, but this, this is just lips turning upward.
“You know him, yes?” Candlefly asks.
Werth nods. “Hey, Smiley. Surprised to see you here.”
“Werth! My old satyr friend. Will you get me out of this chair?” Werth sees he’s bound up with zip-ties. A lot of them. Ankles and wrists, and then every two inches up the length. Too much for a man. Maybe not enough for a Snakeface. Especially one as slippery as Smiley. “It is dreadfully uncomfortable.”
He’s about to ask Candlefly what the deal is, but Candlefly’s already talking.
“Smiley came to us. He had information we thought valuable. He’s the one who told us that Mookie Pearl has a daughter, and that daughter is an enemy to our organization.”
Smiley nods as much as the zip-tie around his throat and the belt around his forehead allow. “And your hulking associate made a dire mess of my teahouse. Not to mention cracking open the skull of my bodyguard.”
Gorth? Mookie must have been pissed.
Smiley continues: “He didn’t want that information about him and the girl let out. So I knew the first thing I had to do was come here and…” The smile broadens, tightens. “Share.”