by Darren Shan
“But he cannot control his anger all the time,” she went on. “Every so often it bubbles up and he rips into whatever is closest. If there is furniture and blank walls, he will vent his rage on those. If people are present, they suffer the consequences.”
“He doesn’t look that tough,” I said. “I think I could take him in a fair fight if it was one-on-one.”
She laughed. “Nobody can take The Cardinal. His rage lends him strength. It is frightening to watch. He changes before your eyes. His body does not get bigger but it seems like yours gets smaller. I have seen him punch holes in brick walls, lift men twice his weight above his head. That strength comes from somewhere beyond the realms of fleshly bounds.”
She leaned forward and spoke softly, her face ashen, the only time I ever saw her truly afraid. “He is a god , Capac,” she hissed. “He does things the rest of us could never mimic, manipulates the world and the people in it like a magician. When all is said and done, it is as simple as that. Dorry is a god.”
About a week after the failed meet with Johnny Grace, Adrian dragged me out of the office, bundled me into the car and drove east. He took me further into the city’s heart of darkness than I’d ever been, down streets a vampire wouldn’t stroll alone. I felt uneasy and kept as low in the seat as I could. This wasn’t our ground. These people respected The Cardinal but would think nothing of taking out a couple of his men.
“Are you sure about this?” I asked Adrian.
“Trust me,” he said, turning down a lane barely wide enough to accommodate the car. “This guy knows everything about the city. He’s ancient, over a hundred according to the rumors. He was big, decades ago, before The Cardinal. These days he takes it easy. He’s got a couple of girls working the streets for him—more for information than money—but apart from that he just sits back and talks.”
His name was Fabio and I could well believe he was on the other side of a hundred. When we pulled up he was sitting on the porch in a rocking chair, listening to old jazz music on one of those vinyl record players I dimly remembered from the far past. Adrian hailed the old man, who waved back pleasantly. He warned us with a finger not to say anything until the record was finished. A few minutes later, when the last trumpet had sounded, he examined my face, stuck a pair of false teeth out of his mouth and leered at me. When he sucked them back in he said, “So you ran into Paucar Wami.”
The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. Nobody would tell me who Wami was, not Vincent, Leonora, even Y Tse, who’d normally be quite happy to tell me what color underpants he was wearing.
“You know him?” I asked.
“Sure. Know him from way back, before you were born most prob’ly. He a bad mother, the worst I’ve seen, and I seen plenty of ’em pass in my time. That guy’d kill his own folks, then chop ’em up and make a stew of the bones. Prob’ly did.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“He Paucar Wami.” Fabio smiled. “He got more names than that. Each time he comes back he has a new name. Police have plenty of names for him too. The Black Angel. The Weasel. The Carver.”
“The Carver?” Adrian frowned. “I heard about him. Some serial killer back in the 70s or 80s. I heard Sonja talk about him once.”
“That him. He didn’t kill too many as the Carver, no more’n nine or ten.”
“You’re saying this Paucar Wami has been killing people since the 1970s?” I asked. “And he’s never been caught?”
“He smart,” Fabio said. “Never sticks to one identity too long. Keeps moving. Only comes back here every three or four year, if that. It’s been nearly seven since his last visit.”
“That’s all he is? Just a serial killer?”
“Just!” Fabio laughed. “Murder ain’t enough for you, boy?”
“I mean does he work for anybody? The way he took out Johnny Grace and his boys, it looked like he was on a job.”
“He for hire,” Fabio said. “Sure. Most of the time he does it for fun but he don’t mind killing for pay too. But he don’t exactly advertise. Anybody want him, they spread the word and he gets in contact if he likes. Mostly he don’t.”
“Has he ever worked for The Cardinal?”
Fabio shrugged. “I heard tales, long ago, that he was The Cardinal’s man first and foremost, and everything else was a sideline. But who knows?” A car drove by and Fabio peered in the windows, noting the passengers. “Why you so interested?” he asked when the car was gone.
“I like to know who I’m dealing with,” I said.
“Dealing with?” Fabio laughed. “Boy, you don’t deal with Paucar Wami. He the one does the deals.” He rocked forward in the chair and pointed a cracked old finger at me. “And you better hope to shit he never does a deal with you, ’cos his deals always end the same way, him on top, the other dead. You be safer doing a deal with daddy death himself!”
Adrian dropped me back at the Skylight. He was going on to a party. He’d invited me along but I didn’t feel up to it. My head was throbbing and all I wanted was a good night’s sleep.
“You sure you don’t want to come?” he asked for the tenth time. “Liz’ll be there. Remember Liz?”
“Not tonight,” I told him. “Another time.”
“Your loss.”
He drove off, blowing the horn, loosening his tie, firing himself up for the night ahead. I entered the hotel.
I was in the elevator when I saw the woman again. It was a face I’d been glimpsing at odd moments. A woman’s face which would flash across the back of my eyes, leaving a vague impression. When I tried to focus, the image slipped away like a gypsy in the night. There were no memories to go with it. I didn’t know where I’d seen her or why she was cropping up in my thoughts. Probably just my brain playing tricks. I’d more than likely passed her on the street one day and filed her image away for one obscure reason or another.
The elevator stopped, the doors slid open, I stepped out and the shadow of the woman was gone. I tried to focus on it again, couldn’t, shrugged it off and walked to my room.
I checked the TV stations—nothing on. I accessed the Skylight’s movie database and scrolled through the titles. In the end I went for Singin’ in the Rain. I’d seen it a hundred times but great is great. I set it to begin in five minutes, enough time to let me go to the toilet and wash my hands.
I heard it starting while I was soaping up. I rinsed, splashed my face with cold water and hurried back.
There was a girl sitting on my bed, watching the opening credits with wide eyes and a smile. “This is one of my favorite pictures of all time,” she said, her voice curiously tinny and cracked. I thought maybe she’d had her tonsils out recently.
“Uh, yeah,” I replied uncertainly. “Mine too.” I shifted closer to get a better look. She had a bright face, very little makeup. Shiny blond hair, long and sweeping. Heavy clothes covering every inch of her below the head—a polo-neck sweater, long trousers, white gloves. She couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen. A sweet-looking girl.
“I’m not that fond of musicals,” she said. “They’re dumb. People bursting into song every moment…” She snorted. “But not this one. Gene Kelly’s so perfect. I wanted to run out and marry him the first time I saw it.”
“But then you found out he was dead,” I laughed.
“He wasn’t when I first saw it. He was still going strong. I wrote him a fan letter and he sent a lovely reply. I still have it.”
I smiled, dismissing it as a flight of fancy. We watched the players dance and sing for a while, Gene and Debbie and Donald.
“So,” I asked eventually—I was still standing, afraid to sit beside her in case my actions were misconstrued—“have you lost your way? Are you in the wrong room?” I looked at the door, which she’d left ajar when she came in. I was glad of that. I didn’t want to be caught alone in my hotel room with a fourteen-year-old girl and a locked door. For all I knew she could be a trap. You had to stay on your toes when you worked for The Cardinal. Ther
e were a lot of people waiting to bring you down, not least The Cardinal himself, who’d sometimes sacrifice one of his pawns simply for the pleasure of watching them squirm.
“I’m not lost,” she replied blithely. “I like running around the hotel, visiting the guests, seeing what they’re up to. It helps pass the time. I can leave if you want.” She looked at me with sad eyes. “Do you want me to go?”
I did. Like I’d told Adrian, I had a sore head. But she looked so lonely, I couldn’t turn her away. “You can stay until the end of the film,” I told her.
“Thanks.” She rewarded me with a smile that would have broken a choir of teenage hearts. I pulled at the neck of my shirt uncomfortably.
“Won’t your parents be looking for you?” I asked after another couple of songs.
“I don’t have any. They died ages ago.”
“I’m sorry.” She didn’t seem to mind and waved away my condolences. “Who are you staying with?” I asked. “Guardians? Foster parents?”
“Friends,” she replied, then made a face. “Not real friends. Ferdy just pays them to act that way. Do you have a girlfriend?” she suddenly asked, throwing the full weight of her young but alert eyes on me. I was on guard immediately.
“No.”
“Could I be your girlfriend?” she asked swiftly.
“Christ, no!”
She looked hurt. “Why not? Am I too old?”
“Too… ?” I laughed. “Girl, I don’t know what movies you’ve been watching, but you’re definitely not too old. You’re too young. Way too young.”
She pouted. “That’s what’s wrong with men today. They want rich old ladies they can sponge off. I bet you play up to grannies, right? Won’t touch one below seventy for fear she might spend her money before she dies and leaves it to you in her will. Am I right?”
I shook my head and laughed. “My name’s Capac Raimi, by the way. What’s yours?”
“Conchita Kubekik,” she replied airily. “ Miss Conchita Kubekik. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“Likewise, I’m sure.”
We watched the rest of the film, laughing and singing along. It was a tonic, just what I needed, and my headache bubbled away long before the rain dried up and the singing stopped.
I flicked off the set and coughed. “Isn’t it time you should—,” Ibegan, only to have her hush me with a flick of a wrist.
She rushed to my phone and dialed room service. Lowering her voice, she mumbled, “An egg and salamander sandwich for Room 863, please.”
She handed me the mouthpiece and raised her eyebrows competitively. Without thinking I said, “And a goose and snuff salad on the side.” I hung up and we laughed at the silly prank.
“Who’s in Room 863?” I asked.
“A dirty old man,” she said. “I wandered in there a few weeks ago and he was lying on his bed, naked, with a pile of smutty magazines. He smiled when he saw me and waved me over with his dick. Dirty old pervert. I was half-tempted to go and punch him in the balls, but he might have caught me and had his wicked way.”
She was young and had all the appearance of innocence, but she was no frail snip of a girl. She was well acquainted with the seedier side of life. Wise beyond her years.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“A couple of hours,” she replied with a smirk.
“Ha, ha. You know what I mean. How long have you lived at the Skylight?”
“A couple of months shy of forever. Guess how old I am.”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s why I said guess ! ”
“Thirteen?”
“Nope.”
“Fourteen?”
“Not even close.”
“Fifteen?” My final attempt.
“I’m fifty-eight!” she roared, her voice almost shattering.
“You look well,” I complimented her, playing along with the game.
“I bathe in magic water every day,” she told me in tones of strictest confidence. “Imported from Egypt. The water keeps me forever young, beautiful and virgin.” She cocked an eyebrow in my direction. “Though that last needn’t be a permanent condition. The right man, the right place, the right time…”
“Careful,” I warned her. “You don’t know where games like that might lead. What if I was one of those perverts like the man in 863?”
“You’re not,” she said. “Bad guys don’t watch musicals.”
I didn’t push the point. She’d find out for herself one day how deceptive appearances can be.
“Do you know any good games?” she asked.
“Chess?” I couldn’t remember playing chess before, but as I said it I saw a checkered board and lots of pieces. In my mind I was sitting beside an open fire, the woman opposite laughing, taking my queen with her bishop, unaware I’d tricked her and was two moves away from mate. How the hell did I—
“Pooh! Chess! No thank you,” Conchita said, holding her nose with one hand, waving the other underneath, fanning away the stench of the idea and breaking my train of thought. “Chess stinks. I like Chutes and Ladders, Twister, fun stuff like that. Have you got any of those games?”
“No, but I have a pack of cards. We could play snap.”
“Yes!” She clapped her gloved hands with delight. “I’m great at snap. I’m the world champion!”
She could have been too. I let her win the first few hands, the way adults do when they play with kids, but when I tried to win a few back, I couldn’t. She was lightning-fast, with a steady eye and hair-trigger reflexes.
“I’m bored,” she yawned after winning the umpteenth game. “You’re useless. Are there any other games we can play?”
“Poker?”
“I don’t know how to play. I used to, but it was such a serious game, and Ferdy got sore when I beat him and took his money. I gave it up and made myself forget. I know how to play strip poker… but it wouldn’t be fair on you. I’m so good, I couldn’t lose, and it would be so embarrassing for you, stripped bare in your own apartment, humiliated on your own turf.”
“Besides,” I said, “you’d have an unfair advantage.”
“How so?”
“All the clothes you’ve got on. Why do you wear so many? Cold-blooded? Afraid of catching germs? Or could it be…”
I stopped. Her smile had vanished and her confidence evaporated. She’d become a frightened bird, ready to flee at a second’s notice. I’d somehow touched a nerve. She said nothing for a while, deciding whether to leave or stay. Eventually, tentatively, in a voice so small it was painful, she asked, “Can I trust you, Capac?”
“Sure.”
“I mean really trust you, with the most important secret there is? I’ve never shown anyone. Apart from the doctors. They said I should show my friends but I didn’t have any, not like you. I’ve only known you a couple of hours but I feel like I could trust you with my life. I don’t know why but I sense it. Will you promise not to tell anybody, ever, if I show you?”
I knelt down before her. “I give you my word, Conchita. Whatever it is, I’ll say nothing to anybody. Honest Injun.”
She took a deep breath, glanced around the room, then peeled off one of her long white gloves. The hand beneath was wrinkled, covered in brown splotches. The fingers bent inward arthritically. It was an old woman’s hand. I knew now why she kept herself covered and why she seemed so mature. She had a disease. I’d read about it in magazines. I didn’t know the name but it was where the body grew old prematurely. I’d seen a picture once, of a young boy all shriveled up, a ten-year-old trapped in an old man’s body, a kid who looked like a dried-out dwarf. The disease hadn’t touched Conchita’s face—she’d been spared that part—but the rest of her…
“Is it like that all over?” I asked gently.
She nodded slowly. “All over. From my toes to my neck. Every bit except…” Her voice caught. “Except for…” Tears were brimming in her eyes and she was starting to shake. “Except for my face,” she whee
zed, then fell to the floor and sobbed.
I stood by helplessly, not sure if I should step forward and embrace her, keep silent or what. In the end I bent, picked up her exposed hand, raised it to my lips and kissed it.
She stopped sobbing, looked up and stared at me, shocked at first, then delighted. A tiny smile broke through the tears. She threw her arms around my neck, hugged and kissed me, a little girl’s innocent kisses.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you. Thank you. I knew you were a good guy. Lovely and kind. I used to think Ferdy was like that but he wasn’t.”
“Who’s Ferdy?” I asked softly. She’d mentioned the name three or four times. I thought he must have been her father.
“Ferdy’s my… he used to be my protector. He’s gone now. Will you be my protector instead? I thought I was all alone and would be forever, nobody to look out for me when nights are dark and cold. Will you protect me, Capac?”
“Yes,” I said, patting the back of her head. “I’ll protect you. I promise.” I stroked the back of her poor diseased neck, not really knowing what I was saying, aware only that a small, fragile girl had asked for help. I was in a vicious business but that didn’t mean I had to be a vicious man. Not all the time anyway.
Afterward, when the tears dried, we cemented our friendship by going into the bathroom to play the Singin’ in the Rain game. We stood in front of the mirror, one concealed behind the other, and performed. First up, I sang “Blueberry Hill” while she mimed it. Then I took to the stage and mouthed “Great Balls of Fire” while she sang behind me. I didn’t know all the words but neither did she, so it evened out over the course.
“What do you want to be?” she asked as we sat down to The Wizard of Oz later. “More than anything else in the world, what do you really want to be?”
“A gangster,” I smiled.
“You mean like Marlon Brando and Al Pacino in The Godfather ? ”
“Maybe more like Cagney, a villain with a heart of gold.” I stuck my hands out and did a rotten Jimmy Cagney impression. “I liked Cagney the best. He always made good right at the end of the movie.”
“He didn’t in White Heat ,” she said.