“I’ll give you two choices, Tats. One, you kill both of them today. Two, you yourself put them under investigation, and within one week you either bring me their heads or your word that they’re clean.”
“One week,” Tats said solemnly.
“We’ve got a meeting in a bit,” Righty said. “How about you show me around this junkyard some and introduce me to some more people.”
Tats nodded.
Chapter 24
As Righty and Tats walked towards the junkyard meeting place at around 7 p.m., Righty was acutely aware that to many a person assessing his deeds—whether it be a person hearing about them through barroom gossip, reading about them one day in the newspapers, or perhaps even studying them in a university class on ethics in some distant century—he would come across as indistinguishable from a common bandit and murderer.
But Righty had analyzed the situation carefully during many a late night poring over a history, economics, or philosophy book and during many a physically exhausting session of sword practice and had come to a radically different conclusion.
The way he saw it, when the government had passed SISA it had done so illegally, given its flagrant unconstitutionality, something which had been confirmed by the district court judge in the nation’s capital recently. And the state’s criminality had only been further exposed by its decision to appeal the sound decision of the district court judge and to furthermore continue arresting those guilty of SISA offenses.
As a result of the state’s illegal behavior, it had created a jurisdictional void inside the geographical realm of Selegania, and anyone using Smokeless Green or in any other way involved in the enterprise of SG was doing so inside that jurisdictional void. In all related actions, SISA violators were neither subject to the lawful prosecution of the state nor beneficiaries of its legal protections. They were in a sense barbarian tribes subject to nothing more than natural law and the laws to which they voluntarily subjected themselves.
For example, self-defense was a natural law, and was something Righty had exercised liberally against would-be robbers and assassins. As for individuals voluntarily subjecting themselves to laws, all members of Righty’s gang were akin to barbarians who voluntarily submitted themselves to the autocratic rule of a chieftain—i.e., a dictator. There was mutual benefit. Under Righty’s leadership, they had far-better protection against enemy tribes—i.e., rival drug gangs. And with the manpower of his willing subjects, Righty had a burgeoning army at his disposal with which to better protect his interests against enemy tribes.
As for the law concerning interactions with enemy tribes, Righty saw this as akin to international law. Since both Sam’s gang and Righty’s gang were essentially two rival sovereign nations existing within the jurisdictional void created by the illegal SISA, Righty believed that any hostilities between the two nations needed to be looked at under the international laws of war, and not national laws, such as robbery, murder, etc. Under any reasonable interpretation of international law, Sam’s nation had declared war upon Righty’s nation when it attempted to assassinate that nation’s sovereign in the alley last night.
Thus, to Righty, from that moment onward—at a minimum; this did not even take into account the hostile incursions into Righty’s territory—a state of war had existed between Righty’s nation and Sam’s nation, and only the rules of war could dictate the outermost bounds of propriety when executing that war. And under Righty’s interpretation of the rules of war, very little was off the table.
As for the autocratic way in which Righty ruled his nation, Righty felt this was justified thoroughly by the fact that the members of his nation had elected him leader without any constraints on his power, and that alone, in his mind, was sufficient to justify all actions he took in a good-faith effort to run his organization successfully within the jurisdictional void of SISA. Righty still considered Selegania to have full legal jurisdiction in all other criminal matters outside of SISA. Thus, robbery, arson, rape, theft, etc., when not related in any way to SISA, would not be tolerated within his organization.
However, to whatever extent he struggled slightly with the exercise of heavy-handed methods, he rationalized that this was due to the barbaric state of development at which his nation currently found itself. It had only recently been founded, and it was surrounded by enemies. According to his reading of history, such circumstances more than sufficed to justify dictatorial rule.
He did wonder, however, if there would perhaps come a day when his power would be so great, and his enemies so few, that he would have the luxury of dealing with problems such as the ones he was dealing with now in a more liberal fashion. That, he decided, was a bridge he would cross if he indeed ever came to it.
“Mr. Brass?”
Righty’s mind returned from its distant journey back to his body’s present surroundings. He had been caught fully immersed in a profound reverie and had barely realized he had reached the junkyard meeting location.
Righty simply looked at Tats and gave a confident, affirmative nod.
Righty walked to the front of the group gathered there, which constituted approximately thirty individuals. Membership had not yet been formalized. That was something Righty intended to deal with in the not-too distant future, but for now there were far more-pressing matters. Furthermore, he saw mostly familiar faces, and while the issue of membership was still an unanswered question, in his mind the question of authority was most assuredly answered. Merely presenting oneself at this meeting location was to subject oneself wholly and without exception to his authority.
Without pomp or fanfare, he began: “We’ve got twenty pounds to move tonight. I consigned all to Tats for a fifty percent down payment. I want it moved tonight so I can get paid tonight and consign another twenty tomorrow. You’ll make payment to Tats, and Tats will pay me. Remember, when you’re dealing with Tats in all matters of payment, you’re dealing with me too.”
Righty could swear Spider’s eyes seemed to have beams of pure hatred emanating therefrom potent enough to pierce solid steel.
“I want you to break up into groups of four. Crabs, Chalky, Spider, and Tats will pick their men.”
Righty then called Crabs and handed him five pounds. Then, Chalky, and handed him five pounds.
“Spider,” Righty called.
Spider walked forward, the hatred diminishing partially as he walked towards Righty and faced his direct stare.
“How are you, Spider?” Righty greeted him warmly with an outstretched hand.
Spider coldly extended his own hand as if it were a limp dishrag, which he removed after a very rapid handshake.
Ignoring the insult, and with a grin on his face, Righty said, “I just want you to do me one small favor tonight,” as he handed the five pounds to Spider.
Spider looked up intrigued.
Still smiling, Righty said, “Don’t go giving any of this to Sam’s guys.”
Righty looked deep into his eyes, and he saw terror mixed with guilt. And he knew. He knew.
“Make sure he doesn’t, Tats,” Righty then added calmly, as if an afterthought.
Tats brought the dagger to Spider’s neck from behind, slashing from the get-go, rather than bringing it around to the other side first and only then cutting on the return trip. That had been strictly in accordance with Righty’s instructions, as Pitkins had once explained to him that if you bring the blade to the far side first that gives the opponent a brief opportunity to react and defend himself.
Blood squirted out in some places, while rivers gushed out in others.
Spider reacted in fear and fury, but before he could do anything Righty grabbed both hands and squeezed them so hard the tendons nearly snapped. He saw nothing cowardly in the act. This was not a fight. It was an execution.
Once Tats had finished his slice on the return trip, he then let go and kicked Spider to the ground.
“Friends,” Righty began to address the group. “I want to be very clear. It gave neither T
ats nor me any pleasure to do that, but Spider was working for Sam. He was handing out our quality product to Sam for cash and then handing out crap to our clients. That means our reputation goes down, we lose customers, and we all lose money.
“That was a problem. The problem has been solved. If anyone sees it differently say so right here, right now, in front of everyone, or forever hold your peace. If I hear of anyone so much as disagreeing with my decision on this matter, I’ll deal with it.”
Righty gave a long, hard look around.
Then, he took the second bag off of his back and sent Stitches’ head rolling into the middle of the group. There were a few audible gasps as the ghastly sight introduced itself to the assembly.
“Last night, Tats and I nearly lost our lives. Stitches set us up against twenty armed men in an alleyway in what not too long ago was your undisputed territory. Tats stood by me, and we kicked some ass, but it was a close call. Stitches did this because he too was working for Sam. If he had succeeded, you can rest assured that Sam’s goons would have already swept through this area and wiped all of you out. Or Stitches would have set you up, one by one. But it would have been the same result.”
Righty then grabbed a sharp piece of steel he had previously seen lying in the junkyard nearby and stuck Stitches’ head right on top of it.
“A traitor in your midst is no different than a cobra in your bed. If anyone in this group knows of anyone else working for Sam, now’s the time to come forward. From now on, holding out information that someone is working for Sam will be punished the same as working for him.”
Righty then surveyed the eyes of each and every one of them, searching for the slightest sign of treachery. He saw fear and nervousness but nothing else.
Righty then smiled warmly. “Now, let’s let bygones be bygones. I know there are a lot of good men amongst you, and as Tats can attest, I look out for my people.”
He looked over at Tats. He hadn’t lost the battle with any tears this time—if he had even contended with them at all. His face looked grim and hard. The look of a man who had just done a nasty job that needed to be done but that was no less nasty because of it.
“Mr. Brass saved my life last night when he could have more safely left me there.”
That was all. But there was a strength in its simplicity. No one there had more credibility with the junkyard residents than Tats, and this simple, but firm, voucher quelled any potential there might have been at that moment for a rebellion.
Chapter 25
If Righty had remembered at that time the note Janie left for him, there would have perhaps been an intense mental struggle over whether to return immediately to Ringsetter and leave street prowling and turf wars for another night. Yet, others may argue that the very fact this important message had slipped from his awareness suggests the outcome of the dilemma was never in serious dispute.
Righty had no idea what to expect tonight. Part of him figured Heavy Sam would be irate over his failure and redouble his efforts to strike him dead. Another part of him thought Sam might be a bit spooked by his unexpected escape and might seek to hang back for a moment or two and assess the situation.
Righty went with a group headed by Chalky. He figured it would be good to see new areas and have more people associate Righty’s face with Righty’s men. He wanted to be sure that when his agents were out there moving his product they were firmly aware of the face they would be looking into if they roughed up his crew or otherwise failed to play straight.
While Righty was out that night, he noticed the looks he got were a bit different from the night before. It appeared that a little back-alley gossip had gotten around, and every time he said the name Brass, he got a look from the person he was speaking to like he had just seen a ghost. He couldn’t recall having heard the word “sir” or “mister” as a form of address more than once or twice last night, whereas tonight the situation was reversed. And even those one or two individuals seemed to have a more polite bearing about them than they would have otherwise.
As for Righty, he typically used “sir” with those he was meeting, as he figured they would get his respect by default and would find out about the price to pay if they lost it.
Chapter 26
“On a bird?!” Sam asked, irritably, but not screaming.
Heavy Sam was talking to Chief Lloyd Benson of the Sivingdel Police Department, and thus, Sam tried to refrain from yelling to the extent his irascible disposition permitted. If there was one ally Sam definitely did not want to lose, it was Chief Benson.
“That’s what I said,” replied Chief Benson, seemingly unoffended by the incredulity in his host’s tone. “But not just any bird,” Benson continued. “It looked to me like a pholung.”
“A pho what?!”
“A pholung. They’re far larger than eagles, capable of carrying a man by the talons or letting one ride on his back, though I must say it was the first time I ever saw the latter.”
Sam looked confused, so Benson helped him. “Don’t feel bad, Samuel” (as the chief tended to call him) “for finding this odd. You’re a city boy. I spent the first twenty years of my life in the country. You see a thing or two out there that would sound just plain crazy to city folk. That’s why I don’t have an all-points bulletin out on a large pholung carrying around a suspect in the Sivingdel Massacre.
“When I was six years old, I saw a man carried off by one. He went away hollering and screaming something terrible. Locals said it was revenge because he had swiped the pholung’s chicks. The pholung had followed the scent back to his farm, and, although it was too late to save the chicks, apparently the pholung decided revenge was second best, so he carried that man up in the sky until he was about the size of a small acorn and let him drop right on top of his house.
“I saw it with my own eyes and so did about six or seven other people, but if you go a dozen blocks down to our fine city’s university and talk to a zoology professor, he’ll tell you that pholungs stay away from people under all circumstances, period. Well, the professor’s got his books, and I’ve got my experience, and I’ll take my experience any damn day of the week over his book learning.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, with a nasty snarl on his face. “It’s all very interesting, but what’s this business about ‘the latter’? You sayin’ that you saw this man riding on the back of the bird?”
“If you were a newspaper reporter or government official, I would tell you, ‘This is a clear-cut case of a gang fight with no survivors. Our police officers sifted through every square inch of that alley and saw no sign of anyone having escaped.’ But you’re not a newspaper reporter, and you’re damn sure no government official, so I’ll give it to you straight. Yes, yes, and hell yes, that’s what I saw. He was crouched low, but there was no mistaking him. But then the weirdest thing happened.”
Sam was beginning to feel like he was five years old again, sitting around the campfire telling ghost stories. Had any other man come to him with this porridge and told him to drink it, he would have cracked his skull in under the best of moods.
“He returned into the alley.”
“What? Did he come flyin’ at you guys?”
“No, the bird just swooped down and picked up a barrel and flew off. Maybe there was money in there. Maybe drugs. Maybe he had a comrade hidden in there. Beats me. But that’s what I saw.”
“Chief, this beats all. I’m flyin’ blind here, and this guy’s flyin’ a damn bird. What am I payin’ ya for?”
The chief knew better than to answer such questions. He viewed Sam as a wealthy, ill-tempered five-year-old trapped inside the physical body of a ferocious lion. Such creatures must be given some room to vent.
Sam let out a long, loud sigh that also happened to release a cloud of cigar smoke so thick that if one did not know its source he may have mistaken it for an impending storm.
“Where’s Stitches? He’s been my main eyes in that group ever since Scorpion got his head whacked off.”
&
nbsp; The chief paused for a moment. He had typically felt safe in his interactions with Sam based upon the fact Sam needed him to keep the police off of his back and onto the backs of every crook not affiliated with his gang. That had been a wise investment strategy on Sam’s part from the day he was able to afford it and had accelerated his meteoric rise. But Sam had been seeming increasingly unstable lately, something Benson attributed to his worsening Smokeless Green habit, coupled by his uncontrollable addiction to several potent muscle-building herbs.
His police baton could readily be converted into a dagger so vicious it blurred the line between sword and dagger, and, truth be told, whenever he practiced with it on his wooden dummy at home, it was more often than not one or more vital portions of Sam’s ghastly frame that he imagined himself sinking the blade into.
“I’m afraid that with Stitches, there may be some more bad news, although, unlike the alleyway phenomenon, it is not something I can speak of with certainty.”
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