by Angela Allen
“No shooting in the tunnel, you could kill yourself with a single ricochet,” cautions Tommy as Dmitri stealthily eases a hand to the butt of the AK-47 strapped to his side.
“Stop right there,” yells Tommy in a hard voice of command. “Don’t give us any trouble and there won’t be any problems. We only want to ask a few questions.”
One of the raggedly dressed men, with straggly brown hair and deathly pale skin, gives a high-pitched giggle, the sound echoing in the cavernous tunnel and sending shivers down my spine.
“This is the King’s territory and only his subjects are allowed into the Kingdom,” intones another man, marginally better dressed in jeans and a tie-dyed T-shirt. His hair is a psychedelic rainbow of orange, red and blue stripes.
“Fine, he’s the King of Siam and I’m King Kong,” scoffs Tommy. “We’d like to talk to the King and ask him some important questions.”
The ragtag group huddles together for a few minutes, exchanging furious whispers before their apparent spokesman, Rainbow Hair, reaches a decision.
“His Majesty will see you,” he tells us. “But you must swear to never reveal the secret of the Kingdom to our enemies.”
“Sure, sure, you got it. We solemnly cross our hearts, hope to die, promise to never reveal a thing,” gushes Tommy sarcastically.
“You have to wear blindfolds,” adds Rainbow Hair, pulling several lengths of thick cloth from under his T-shirt. Dmitri throws Tommy a dirty look from narrowed eyes but doesn’t resist as the ragged group surrounds him.
Soon the men are marching us through the hot darkness, our path twisting and turning in a series of concentric circles before reversing course and moving in the opposite direction. Finally, we hear the sound of many voices speaking at once and echoing back as if in a huge cavern. We are prodded up several steps and pulled to a stop.
“Remove the blindfolds,” orders a deep masculine voice.
The cloths are yanked off with more speed than safety and Tommy winces as several strands of brown hair are removed with his blindfold. He blinks owlishly as his eyes adjust to the light flooding the ornately decorated hall.
An interlocking-cross pattern of pale blue, dull yellow and burnt carmine terra-cotta tiles covers the high, vaulted ceiling. The walls are solid marble and the floor is finest granite. A dusty gold and crystal chandelier hangs overhead like a relic of a bygone era of elegance and grace.
“Where the hell are we?” asks an awestruck Tommy, tipping his head to take in the faded glory around him.
“Welcome to my Kingdom,” says the tall, lean man sitting at his ease in the tattered red velvet chair. His vivid hazel eyes set in a face of mocha brown lend him a faintly exotic air.
“I am the King and these are my loyal subjects. They will all be important members of my court when the transition of power is complete,” he pronounces with a regal wave of one arm in the direction of the milling throng.
The crowd is predominantly male, but here and there a lone female can be seen. Most wear cast-off clothing and a variety of scars and tattoos stands out in sharp relief against skin unnaturally pale from the prolonged absence of sunlight.
“This place is beautiful. I can’t believe we’re still in the subway. Where is this?” asks Tommy, openly gawking as Dmitri silently scans the room.
No weapons are in sight, but all around us I can sense the red-hot pulse of anger and the subdued threat of violence.
“This was once the private milieu of the rich, built solely for the purpose of sparing the privileged and the powerful the necessity for sharing space with the unwashed masses,” proclaims the King in mocking tones.
“Holy shit! This is the old train station under City Hall,” exclaims Tommy. “I thought this place was destroyed years ago.”
“It’s been closed for nearly one hundred years but I plan to restore it to its former glory,” says the King, rising to his feet on the makeshift dais.
“The new Kingdom will be filled with plenty for all. There will be an end to corruption and mismanagement,” he adds with religious fervor, his hazel eyes fixed on some grand sight only he can see.
“I will rule by majestic right and dispense justice to my loyal subjects. All will be able to lay their petitions before me and be heard.”
“You’re fucking crazy,” says Tommy flatly.
“No, I’m mad, there is a difference,” he returns. “Mad from years of people passing me by on the street, pretending not to see me as I rot in my own filth. Mad from the indifference of our leaders who promise everything and deliver nothing. I’m mad at the world and determined to take revenge.”
“And so your solution is to hide down here like rats,” I say, drawing his gaze. He strides over to me in two flowingly graceful steps.
The King smiles. “We are not hiding, merely awaiting our time until the true ruler assumes the throne. The transition of power is a tricky thing,” he adds with a wag of his finger. “But enough about the future. What brings you top dwellers below-ground?” he asks.
“Why don’t you ask him?” I say, nodding at the large, bulky man with a bald head and a torn earlobe half-hidden behind the King’s chair.
“Tiny Tim?” he says, turning to glance at the man. “What does he have to do with you?”
“If he’s clean, nothing,” says Tommy. “But if he’s been interfering in Mob business, he’s ours. For starters, I wanna know how he got that split ear.”
“ ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?’ ” quotes the King, shrugging his shoulders in a deliberate show of insolence.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me clearly,” replies Tommy in a menacing whisper. “I said ‘Mob business.’ That means I can snap my fingers and have enough men down here to make this place a distant memory if you don’t stop talking in riddles and start making sense real fucking soon.”
“ ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown when alliances are forged that take their toll in blood,’ ” says the King. “ ‘And always the sword of Damocles hangs overhead.’ ”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Do not ask me to name your enemy. You have only to look among yourselves to find him,” drawls the King in a bored tone.
In a flash Tommy’s gun is out, the gleaming black barrel pointing dead center on the King’s forehead. “I oughta put you out of your misery,” he snarls. Gasps and shouts of alarm fill the air.
“You could indeed but we are many and our name is legion,” says the King, matching his unflinching stare, hazel eyes boring into brown.
As the silent standoff continues, the tension in the room rises until it reaches a perilous plateau, teetering on the breaking point.
“Fucking nut,” says Tommy finally, shaking his head in disgust. “It’d be a waste of good ammo to shoot you.”
As the two men back down from a direct confrontation, the tension in the hall eases and audible breaths of relief are heard. Dmitri’s battle-ready stance relaxes fractionally and I feel my own pulse level ratchet down a notch.
“Look, we’ve lost four men. We just want to ask if you or any of your guys know anything,” tries Tommy, clearly striving to mend relations and appear nonthreatening.
“If the hero would cut the Gordian knot, he must first find its heart,” answers the King enigmatically.
“The hero would gladly fight, but like Julius Caesar on the ides of March, he has been betrayed by one he loved,” I say, wrapping my words about Marco’s death in a metaphor about the famous Roman general murdered by his trusted friend Brutus.
“Ah, beautiful and smart!” he exclaims, moving toward me and smiling into my eyes. “But the general must follow his orders, even though they lead to death. Tell me, my beautiful one,” he whispers, reaching out one finger to lightly trace a path down my shoulder to dangerously near the swell of my leather-covered breast. “Would you yield to Caesar?”
A growl erupts from Dmitri.
“Ah, I see this one is forbidden fruit,” laughs the King, moving away. �
�No matter, I have my lilies of the valley to keep me company.”
“Enough of this Julius Caesar crap. Who’s the bastard who’s trying to bring down the Micelli family?” demands Tommy.
“Anger is outrageous and hatred a pity, but who can stand against envy?” says the King, his slight figure moving with lanky grace as he paces.
“Goddamn it!” explodes Tommy.
“And was this general reluctant to follow these orders?” I quickly cut in, taking a stab in the dark and hoping to draw more clues from the mad King.
“Yes, on occasion I believe that he has been most strongly reluctant to do so,” he answers. “But like the faithful Abraham, we must heed the call. When the mighty Abraham was called to sacrifice his son Isaac, did he hesitate?”
“Let me get this straight,” breaks in Tommy. “You made a deal to go out and whack these guys because if you said no they’d kill you?”
“A clever analogy but not strictly true,” says the King, turning his head to smile at Tommy. “And now, I’m afraid that like the oracle at Delphi, your time for questions is up. I thank you for your visit, but you’ll understand if I don’t invite you back.”
“Yeah, our time is up and we’re leaving,” says Tommy. “But if I so much as hear a rumor that we’ve lost another man, your time will be up—forever.”
Lazy drifts of white smoke spiral up from the slim, hand-rolled, Cuban cigar the Doctor holds in one hand while the light sparkles on the beveled crystal edges of the glass of whiskey he holds in the other.
Tommy and I stand stone-faced on either side of the study door, silent symbols of lethal power. He is fashionably stylish in a dark suit that covers both his guns without bulging. My black leather catsuit doesn’t allow for any weapons underneath.
From my position across the room I watch a fleeting trace of longing cross Dmitri’s face as a cloud of fragrant smoke reaches him. He stands empty-handed and at attention in a recessed corner. He is dressed casually in a black sweater and black cargo pants, but his clothes do nothing to disguise the AK-47 assault rifle he carries at his side, the distinctive reddish-brown of the weapon’s plastic magazine visible to everyone in the room.
His presence tonight, along with mine and Tommy’s, is more for show than action. A meeting of the Commission is a formal and solemn occasion where all the heads of all the local Mafia families come together to decide who will be allowed in and who will be turned away.
I don’t know the future, but already I can feel the volatile and angry energy in the air and almost see the black haze of jealousy and hatred mingling with the smoke fumes.
“This evening I put forward my son, Tony Jr., for initiation into La Cosa Nostra,” the Doctor announces now, striking a carefully studied pose in front of the fireplace as all eyes turn to him. “He’s been trained and has proven himself to the family. He’s ready to take the Oath of Omertà and become a made man.”
As if on cue, a handsome young man with striking blue eyes steps forward. He gives a nod of his head as all eyes in the room turn toward him.
“I personally stand for Tony Jr.,” rasps Sal from behind a cloud of smoke, breaking the silence. “The kid is one hundred percent; he’ll make the family proud.”
“Thank you, Sal,” says Tony Jr., a well-rehearsed smile blooming on his face. “I want to let everyone know that I respect the traditions of my grandfather and my father. And I intend to—”
“What’s this shit I hear about the Micelli family can’t handle business no more?” interrupts a large, red-faced man whose nearly three-hundred-pound bulk takes up half the sofa. He looks at the Doctor with all of the arrogance of a man who can and did run the city through an invisible network of bribes and murders.
Like animals on the hunt, the other members of the Commission, lounging on sofas and chairs and leaning against the wall, snap to attention, watching the Doctor’s face like hounds questing for the scent of first blood.
“Jimmy has a valid concern,” begins the Doctor, a look of intense annoyance crossing his face and hardening his eyes. “As some of you know, we have recently lost several employees under less than optimal circumstances. I have received a report from my security team that the killer was a rogue element from a fringe group living underneath the city. They assure me the threat has been dealt with and eliminated.”
“Exactly.” Sal nods. “Don Micelli lost revenue and trained employees but the situation is under control. We might have to whack a few more nuts to keep ’em in line, but it’s finished. I say we move forward with voting on Tony Jr.’s nomination. Everybody in favor—” begins Sal.
“Aspetta momento!” calls Jimmy as a rumble of discontent rolls through the room. “I ain’t made up my mind that this thing is settled. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, see? And I want to know who was behind these murders. If there’s a contract out on the Micelli family, they’re a liability now. If they can’t take care of business no more, people on the street will hear that,” he adds. “Pretty soon, we don’t have no respect and the Russians and the Mexican cartels are taking over our territory.”
“Jimmy’s right,” says one man, looking at the Doctor through narrowed eyes.
“Yeah, we gotta get to the bottom of this,” adds another, nodding his graying head sagely.
Tony Jr. looks to his father, a question in his eyes.
“Gentlemen, there’s no need to be alarmed,” soothes the Doctor, his cordial tone not matching the fury I can see burning in his dark eyes. “I will personally ensure that this matter is taken care of to your satisfaction. My security team will have orders to use whatever means needed to solve this problem—including lethal force.”
“Good,” agrees Jimmy. “Because until you do, there’ll be no vote.”
“I think I know who’s behind the killings,” I say, riveting all eyes on me as I step away from the doorway and farther into the room. “I believe it’s someone here in this room—someone on the Commission.”
“Who is this woman?” asks one man incredulously. “If she was a man, I’d have her killed for insulting my honor.”
“You’ve got balls, sister,” laughs the fat Jimmy, his belly shaking with genuine mirth.
“I told you she’d be trouble,” mutters Sal, a scowl on his face.
“Sheila, you do understand that you have just accused a member of the Commission of breaking their oath of loyalty to La Cosa Nostra?” says the Doctor somberly. “If what you say is true, there is a traitor among us.”
“It’s true and I can prove it beyond a shadow of doubt,” I say, meeting his gaze.
“You have twenty-four hours to bring me proof.” Addressing the group, he continues, “The Commission will meet here again tomorrow night. If what she says is true, we’ll deal with this according to the code of La Cosa Nostra.” He pauses before adding, “But if what she says is not true, I’ll kill her myself.”
I have only twenty-four hours to find a killer. The King’s cryptic comments about an enemy float through my mind. According to Sal, the traitor in the family was Marco. But Sal killed Marco more than a month ago…right around the time the Micelli family started losing couriers. It can’t be a coincidence that the killings started after Marco’s death. I must go back to the beginning, tracing the trail of blood back to Marco’s grave.
The small boating dock is deserted at this hour, the small creatures of the night the only witnesses to our arrival. Any other eyes are wise enough to look away and quickly forget anything they might see here.
With the ease of long experience, Tommy and Dmitri ready the boat for travel. They have both been here before. I have not. This place is anathema to my kind, the presence of our enemy too near. Tonight, I brave the beast in search of the answer to a riddle. What memories lie in the mind of a dead man.
The roar of the motor drowns out Tommy’s voice as we pull away from the deserted dock, the small fishing boat darting around a line of fluorescent orange safety buoys and picking up speed as we hit the open water. At
low tide the water is calm and the current smooth.
“I’m going to open up the motor to full throttle,” he yells now, suiting action to words.
Neither Dmitri nor I answer him, Dmitri out of habit and me out of fear. I am afraid that the act of speaking will further drain my dwindling strength.
We have only begun our journey to the private island where Marco is buried and already it is all I can do to remain upright. Next to sunlight, open water is the most dangerous foe of any vampire. Dying by sunlight is a clean death, quick and instantaneous, over in an instant. But crossing running water is cruel torture, sapping our great strength and weakening us until our bodies simply stop functioning. Even now my senses are so weakened I can no longer hear the trip-trip of Tommy’s heart or the deeper thud of Dmitri’s pulse behind me.
My power leeches away the farther we travel from land. When the last hint of horizon disappears from view, my eyes close and I feel myself slump forward, my head too heavy to lift, braids falling down to veil my slack face as I direct all my energy to drawing air into my oxygen-starved lungs. Like a puppet on a string, I feel my boneless body gathered up and cradled close to a hard, male body. Foreign words in a strange tongue are whispered in my ear, the deep voice stealing inside me and filling me with warmth and heat, surrounding me, protecting me, lending me strength as I fight the devouring pull of the sea.
“Hold on, Sheila! It’s only a little way more,” yells Tommy.
Long minutes later, I dimly hear waves breaking on shore. The drone of the motor dies away and the boat rocks wildly for a moment before it steadies. I feel myself picked up and carried. I am gently placed on a patch of soft grass, the odor of living things rooted in the soil floating into my nostrils. Strength and vitality slowly seep back into my limbs, quickening my heartbeat and flooding my muscles with adrenaline. I open my eyes to see a worried-looking Tommy leaning over me. Dmitri stands aloof at a distance, smoking a cigarette and looking out over the water.
“Hey, are you okay?” Tommy frowns with concern. “I swear I never saw anybody get so seasick so fast.”