The Almost Champion

by Daniel Lawlis

  Knuckles disagreed with him, and as he had never seen much benefit in arguments—whether he dealing with superiors or inferiors—his crocodilian brain had instinctively told him he had to either accept it or “fix it.” He fixed it. He had jumped on Steel’s back as soon as he turned around—that was Steel’s unwise method of letting Knuckles know their conversations were over—wrapped his right arm around his throat, grabbed his left bicep, put his left hand behind Steel’s head, and choked him to death on the spot.

  He had been somewhat surprised a week later when Sweet Tooth had told him, “Suitie at the door, mate.” They weren’t used to seeing “suities” in that area of town. That was before they were the Rattlers. That was when they were just a two-bit cabal of thugs clinging for dear life onto several blocks of low-revenue turf. The self-flattering thought had entered Knuckles’ mind that perhaps this was a shop owner who hoped to come and plead his protection money tax down to a lower rate, since, after all, Steel was dead and maybe the gang wasn’t going to be able to offer the same high-quality protection that it used to.

  Knuckles had been fully ready to tell the man off viciously and let him know his rate had just gone up and to bear that lesson in mind should such a foolhardy scheme ever again enter it. To his surprise, a well-dressed gentleman—one whom he had never before seen, and he had made the acquaintance of every shop owner on their turf and that of most shop owners in the surrounding blocks, since Knuckles had already been out sightseeing and sizing up his new potential customers—had entered the small house that Knuckles now occupied (having dispensed with the previous owner), took off his handsome top hat, and then waited calmly, as if he were not so brutish as to step any further into another man’s abode than that which he was explicitly invited to.

  This caught Knuckles attention. He almost told him, Well?! Comin’ or goin’, old man?! I’ve got better things to do than observe what I’ll look like in forty years! But some unseen force had stayed his usually cruel tongue, and to his surprise he found himself saying, “Do come in,” an expression he had occasionally heard polite members of society say to one another, but it was not one that was often directed towards him and had never, to his recollection, been employed by him.

  Entering calmly, as if he had never even considered an alternative scenario to that which was now unfolding, he entered calmly, top hat in hand, and then sat down on the table and looked directly at Knuckles.

  “You did what had to be done,” the man said.

  Somehow, Knuckles instinctively knew the man was talking about Steel, which made him a bit apprehensive, as Knuckles had convinced the rest of the gang that Steel had been killed by a rival gang that, jealous of Steel’s ambitions, planned to send a stern message to them that they would soon follow Steel if they didn’t wise up about their silly notions of expanding.

  Knuckles had told the gang—all twenty of their number, which at that point was referred to as “Steel’s crew”—that they wouldn’t be intimidated and that they would carry on Steel’s vision of expansion. This had served as a surprisingly effective rallying cry for the gang, who beforehand had been rather skittish about expanding.

  To his immeasurable relief, he sensed his guest didn’t seem to feel any further discussion of the demise of Steel was warranted. After all, as the gentleman had said: He did what had to be done.

  “Steel—as do many individuals—paid me thirty percent each month. Unlike the protection racket you peddle, this is genuine. I have contacts in the top tiers of the city and national police forces and am able to make certain recommendations on police priorities. This is no shakedown. This is a one-time, take-it-or-leave-it offer. Truth be told, I had been getting so bored with Steel’s lack of ambition and measly payouts that I was about to consider getting out of the business arrangement altogether, but when I would hear Steel complain to me about you, I took his criticism of your ambitions as a sign there was hope for your outfit after all. Thus, I consider your recent action to have proven my instincts correct.”

  Knuckles’ scowling countenance scanned the bizarre visitor like the nose of a top bloodhound sniffing for any sign of weakness or deception. He at first felt an immense delight when his acute senses told him this man was telling the truth and that he would be an excellent contact to do business with. But then, he detected something else. Something that chilled him to the bone. There was something in the man’s calm gaze that told Knuckles that if at any moment he chose to do so he might produce a weapon from the most unexpected of places—perhaps a kirk from inside that large top hat he had carried so affectionately and placed on the table within easy reach—and slash Knuckles to ribbons if he so much as took a fancy to do so.

  Nonetheless, a deeper instinct told him that he was a businessman first and foremost and would only kill if it made business sense to do so. Knuckles felt that perhaps there was no better kind of man to do business with, and so he had heartily agreed to the arrangement and kept his word to him ever since. To Knuckles’ immense satisfaction, he noticed that other gangs in the city were harassed somewhat frequently by the police, while his operated with virtual impunity.

  However, he usually only saw the gentleman once every few years. He would draw considerable satisfaction from these visits because to him this gentleman, with his keen, sometimes savage eyes, represented a bigger world. A world beyond small-time rackets. A world of immense power—hidden power. And it was perhaps the hidden nature of it that he was so enamored with.

  Usually, once a month, the gentleman’s servant would come to Knuckles’ abode, give a signature knock on the door—RAP RAP RAP, RAP, RAP, RAP—and then one of Knuckles’ underlings would open it, make a visual confirmation of the servant’s identity, and then give him a sack of gold coins.

  Thus, it was with immense surprise that Knuckles received a visit from the messenger weeks before the usual day, and it perplexed Knuckles still more so when the messenger explained to him that Sir Charles wanted to see him. When he had given Knuckles the address for their meeting, his notorious scowl had helped disguise what in reality had been a tsunami of shock that had crashed down upon him.

  Somehow, he managed to grunt, “I’ll be there,” as if it were no big thing, but it was a big thing. Every year when he met with Sir Charles, he felt like a child might who has been sent away to a boarding school and who once a year sees his father for a single evening and who hopes against hope that his father will be thrilled to see him—so thrilled that he will tell the child that he wants to see him more often and that he will see him more often. Yet, although Sir Charles continually complimented him on the growing enterprise over which Knuckles presided, the meetings always left Knuckles feeling a bit empty.

  He wanted more—much more. He didn’t know what “much more” meant, but he knew that for starters it meant living in a mansion rather than in some dingy hideout in one of the city’s worst neighborhoods. Sure, the inside of his dingy hideout was adorned with all the fine accoutrements that might be found inside a well-bred gentleman’s house: fine leather upholstery, servants, fine food, etc. But he felt that he couldn’t leave the neighborhood, because, as the saying goes, when the cat’s away the mice shall play. He didn’t feel he could keep sufficient control over his gang if he moved away to some plush neighborhood.

  And he wasn’t quite there financially either, although he was well on his way, given the gang’s increasing expansion. But he suspected that perhaps there was something deeper. Maybe he was just afraid he couldn’t fit in with high society. He wondered if, upon being dressed up in a nice suit and decorating his hand with a gentleman’s cane, he would feel something like a pig dressed in a tuxedo and sprinkled with expensive cologne. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be more than a two-bit leader of a two-bit gang of hoods, but he wanted to be. He felt like being in Sir Charles’ presence was akin to basking in the sun. He often found that after their meetings he would adopt certain phrases and mannerisms that Sir Charles used,
the way a child might mimic his father.

  Thus, it was with great trepidation that he donned his finest suit, finest boots, and even a shiny new top hat that he had purchased just for the occasion, bid adieu to the rabble (he was beginning to sometimes think of his subordinates as such, even though almost all of them were from the same neighborhood), and took off towards the address. He did, however, permit ten of his most vicious rabble to escort him to the first coach, something that must have presented the spectacle of a fine gentleman being stalked and harassed by a relentless gang of toughs. No observer would have guessed they were his entourage.

  Chapter 43

  When Knuckles arrived at Sir Charles’ mansion, he was greeted politely by a well-dressed servant who bid the guest to enter and invited him to sit down.

  To the immense surprise of Knuckles, several minutes later he heard a voice that he recognized say, “Please admit Mr. Hathers.” If any of his subordinates had ever called him anything but Knuckles—an appellation that he was particularly proud of when in their presence—he would have reminded them of his real name by using those blunt instruments upon their heads.

  But in the presence of Sir Charles, he had always felt an immense sense of honor when being referred to as “Michael.” Now, to hear this man that he regarded as a near deity refer to him as “Mr. Hathers” was such an honor he nearly fell to the floor. His rapture was almost unbearably intensified when the servant came out and said, “Mr. Hathers, Sir Charles will see you now.”

  He supposed that, while he didn’t really know if there was such a thing as heaven after you died, he now had adequate proof at least of the concept of a state of pure ecstasy, for if the house had fallen down upon him at that moment, he would have died content.

  The sensation only grew more and more—almost to the point he wished someone would slap him, pinch him, or give him a dirty look . . . something to make him snap out of an ecstasy so powerful he almost felt as if he were under the power of some potent drug. Yet he knew that couldn’t be the case, as he had neither drunk nor eaten anything intoxicating.

  “Please be seated, Mr. Hathers,” Sir Charles said so calmly that Knuckles almost forgot he had ever been referred to by another name.

  Knuckles sat down. The power of the moment was now so great it almost effaced the protective scowl from his countenance.

  Almost.

  Any observer would have concluded, upon watching Knuckles carefully, that he was in a rather foul mood and was hoping the visit would not be a long one. That is, with the exception of Sir Charles. To Knuckles’ discomfort, he felt the keen eyes of Sir Charles boring through him like a nail through paper, and Knuckles didn’t doubt for a moment that his feeling of helpless intoxication was written in large bright letters inside his soul, to which it seemed Sir Charles’ eyes had access.

  “Do you ever play chess, Mr. Hathers?”

  Knuckles would have liked to lie—to say, Of course, who doesn’t? But I really don’t have time for games, gramps, so let’s get on with it, shall we? But he dared not lie to this man any more than he would to his creator.

  “No, Sir Charles,” he heard a meek voice respond.

  “You should, Mr. Hathers. For it is the game of kings and those who live like kings. I find living in the second category pleasant enough and consider myself lucky not to have the burdens that a real king would have. Mine are sufficiently vexatious.”

  He then studied Knuckles closely, his keen blue eyes penetrating deeper and deeper.

  “You’re a smart man, Mr. Hathers. Much different from the others I normally deal with in my line of work. If you had been born into a different family, you would now be a shrewd politician or a business magnate, moving around millions of falons like the pieces on this board,” Sir Charles continued, moving around a couple of rooks to demonstrate the point.

  Knuckles’ state of ecstasy now was so overwhelming he almost considered jumping headfirst off of the large veranda on which they were currently seated on the third floor of this exquisite mansion, overlooking a marble floor issuing from the wall below and giving way to well-manicured grass and beautiful plants, many of which were of a species Knuckles had never even heard of before, much less seen, in his shabby neighborhood. He felt that it would almost be better to die right now while he had this feeling rather than endure the plummet back to earth he knew would inevitably come after his meeting with this deity had concluded. Perhaps euphoria such as this was not meant to be experienced in this life.

  He felt himself pinch his own finger so hard he almost drew blood. To his immense satisfaction, his ecstasy lowered just enough that he felt he had a semblance of control over his state of mind.

  After a game or two of chess, Sir Charles said, “Mr. Hathers, you have demonstrated important traits to me throughout the years we have worked together: honesty, punctuality, and ambition. You’ve never cheated me on one red cent. You’ve never been a day late in payment. And you’ve continually grown your enterprise. I deal with some very wealthy individuals, Mr. Hathers—far wealthier than I” (Knuckles found himself immensely grateful at Sir Charles’ compassion by not saying “far wealthier than you,” although that would have been a much truer statement, he believed). “Some of them would perhaps look at you and ask me, ‘What do you see in him?’ To which I would respond, ‘I see what can be, not merely what is.’”

  Knuckles’ head was swimming.

  “Mr. Hathers, there are times when a man must use his pawns in order to further a larger objective. Does that make sense?”

  Knuckles felt his head nod and his mouth stay sealed shut.

  “I would like to bring to your attention a proposal that I believe may be crucial to you in the further growth of your enterprise.”

  Knuckles felt his head nod again.

  Several hours later, Sir Charles said, “Well, Mr. Hathers, what do you think?”

  Knuckles nodded.

  “Excellent!” Sir Charles said. “Another game of chess?”

  Nod.

  Knuckles was not in the slightest aware of the enormity of what he had just agreed to. Historians would later view it as the singular act that steered Selegania towards destruction.

  End of The Almost Champion

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  The next volume, Mr. Brass, is now available online!