None of them looked at Norton. Their eyes went to the perfidious-looking man beside him.
“Traitor!” someone cried out.
“Sorry, boys,” the man said to them with a big grin on his face. “I made arrangements of my own.”
“Go to hell,” one of them said.
“You first.”
Norton stepped between the man and the editors. “You’ve been quite a nuisance to me. First, you attacked one of my carriers and killed him. Then you’ve tried to cut into my business, tried to intimidate my customers. I got off the phone the other day with a local pub that subscribes to the Cascadian, and he informed me that one of your people threatened to kill him if he didn’t subscribe to yours instead.”
“Come on, Norton,” a fat but well-dressed man replied. “This isn’t a grade school playground. This is Seattle. It’s just business.”
“Yes, I know. But it was good business for you, not for me. It has also not escaped my notice that you have been deliberately targeting my operations, but not others. In other words, you’re singling out the Cascadian for destruction. It would be the height of foolishness for me to tolerate a group of men specifically dedicated to my demise. Face it, gentlemen; sooner or later one of us had to go.”
He gestured at the man next to Carl, still speaking to the men. “I take it you all know this fellow?”
“Know him?” one of the distraught editors exclaimed. “He’s my brother!”
Norton paused, glancing at the man next to him. “Is this true?”
The man couldn’t deny the truth, avoiding his brother’s gaze as he shrugged. “Some things in this world are thicker than blood. And like you said, it’s Seattle. It’s business.”
The brother fought back tears, which seemed to have no effect on his sibling’s conscience. Carl slowly inched back from the man, a sense of revulsion developing. He had no interest in the editor, and no qualms killing him once Norton ordered it. But he wasn’t so cynical that he couldn’t tell the brothers had at time been close.
That was then, this was now. It was good for business for one brother to kill the other. It also good business to kill an enemy to the Cascadian.
Norton looked at him, his face silently asking if he were ready to do as ordered. Carl nodded slightly.
“Shoot him,” Norton ordered.
No one moved, including Carl. He couldn’t believe what he heard, even though he knew his editor hadn’t misspoken. His tone had been unmistakably clear.
Not them.
Him.
With the Tommy gun pressed against his hip, Carl turned to the would-be traitor. The man’s face filled with horror as tried to rush Carl. A barrage of gunfire sent him to the ground. He didn’t die right away, clawing at life as like a wounded animal as he gurgled up blood and spat red onto the floor.
Standing above him, Carl diverted his gaze as he fired another round at the man’s face.
The room was still and soundless. Then a cry came out from the editors. It was the brother. He threw himself down by the corpse, holding the body close as he wept bitterly.
Unsure of what he might do, Carl stepped away and moved over to Norton. The men all watched as the editor clutched his dead brother as though he had died protecting him.
He looked up at Norton, his cheeks wet and his eyes red as the blood covering his hands.
“He deserved to die,” Norton said coldly.
“He was my brother!”
“That makes his betrayal all the more unforgivable.”
“I don’t understand,” one of them inquired. “He delivered you to us, didn’t he? He didn’t screw you over!”
Hands clasped behind his back, Norton approached the editors. “Treachery is treachery, no matter who commits it, and no matter who benefits. There are few things I despise more than a traitor.”
“Again, what is it to you? If you’re going to kill us, spare us the lecture.”
Tilting his head to the side, Norton eyed Carl. He expected to hear the order any moment, prepared to pull the trigger and rid the Cascadian of enemies.
But the order didn’t come. After a prolonged time had passed, Carl nudged Norton with his elbow.
“Well?” Carl asked.
“Well what?”
“Shall I?”
The editors inhaled sharply and raised their chests, their heads high in defiance as they readied themselves for death.
Norton spoke in a whisper. “No.”
Carl was as bewildered as the men in front of him. “No?”
“We’re not going to kill them. That is, if they are willing to agree to my terms.”
He ordered the brother off the ground and back with the rest of the editors. His voice resumed a fatherly reproach once again.
“I could have you all killed right now,” he said. “All of you know that. But I won’t. I won’t have it said that I slaughtered my enemies like this. I am a better man than that. However, I am not so foolish as to throw away the opportunity to dispose of a thorn in my side, that thorn being you. So, I am going to make you an offer: You must abandon your newspaper. Go somewhere else. Leave the city. I don’t care where you go or what you do, but you must never return. You had your chance, and you lost it because you trusted the wrong people.”
He paused. “Are these terms to your liking, or shall I have my subordinate provide you with the alternative?”
The editors were speechless, except for the one brother.
“Do you really think we’ll do what you say?” he stated. “We could leave for a while, then come back. What guarantee do you have?”
“The guarantee that it is in your interests to leave,” Norton replied. “Your brother nearly cost you your life, and the only reason you are still breathing right now is by my good grace. If you stay, I assure you that your poor judgment will cost you. If I could get your own brother to sell you out, how much easier will it be to entice others in your organization to give you up?”
An editor piped up, his finger aimed at Carl. “Who’s this muscle you’ve got with you?”
“One of my many loyal people. It is unfortunate you lack them.”
“What’s his name?”
“My name is Carl Farrington,” he declared. “What’s it to you?”
“You sound pretty bloodthirsty for someone so young.”
“I’m not. I’m just not adverse to killing when it needs to be done.”
“Ah, a born killer. ‘Killer Carl,’ eh?”
“It would do you well to remember that,” Norton replied.
The brother snarled and went to speak, but remained quiet.
“Leave,” Norton reiterated. “You have until the end of tomorrow. And I will be watching. If you are not out of this city by then, I give you my word I will find another way to get to you, and when that happens I will not spare your lives. Do not be fools and try to take advantage of my mercy, or I will show you how much of a barbarian I can be when necessary.”
With that, he gestured to Carl and together they went back to the wall and closed the section behind them, locking the mechanism so that they could not be followed. As they descended the stairs he listened for any indication of what the editors would do. All he heard were sobs from the one man, his cries lingering in the air like the moan of a deceased spirit.
As they headed to the vehicle, Norton placed a hand on Carl before their associates could see them. His words made Carl swell with a new sense of pride.
“Well done, my boy. Well done.”
Norton seemed clever as he winked. “You might consider writing an advanced piece about the departure of the Tribune editors. I’ll talk to Childs and make sure there is space for it on the front page of the news section.”
***
Two days later, Carl stood among a throng of Cascadian reporters inside the Fighting Sailor, hand after hand clapping him on the back or the arm or the shoulder
Standing in the center of the crowd, Carl held the day’s copy of the newspaper in hand. Th
e front headline read: TRIBUNE CLOSES AFTER OWNERS DEPART.
Several rounds of beer later, the room thundered as the men applauded Norton’s arrival. Remaining calm, he accepted a beer from Fred and hoisted it into the air.
Tom approached Carl with an ale in hand. He had already given his congrats. There was no hint of jealousy in his eyes, only a sense of sadness.
“Life is good,” he said. “Is it not?”
“Completely.”
“I just wonder what will come of this whole thing.”
“We keep on going,” Carl declared. “Nothing can stop us. Nothing will get in the way.”
Someone struck up a song. Carl and Tom stood side by side with Duong, Ian, Fred, and the others, all of whom he knew and trusted implicitly.
As they were winding down from a song, the door to the pub opened, and a man stepped inside without drawing attention to himself. Carl looked over at the man, stunned to see Tony “Ten Lives” meandering through the room.
Tony took off his broad-brimmed hat and surveyed the pub, checking out some of the women by the bar counter. One of them he recognized and called to by name in a hinting tone. A perpetual grin apparent, he seemed to enjoy the men’s bewildered looks, flashing a set of white teeth that complemented his olive oil skin and matching green eyes.
Waltzing over to Norton, he held his arms out wide. “May I approach you?”
Reporters formed a line in front of their editor, but Norton admonished them to clear a path, allowing Tony to come forward. Fred took out his pistol and aimed it at Tony, drawing the hammer back noiselessly.
Standing in front of Norton, Tony bowed low. “My father sends you his greetings. He wanted me to personally congratulate you on your success. He is certain you will appreciate our reasons for why we too celebrate the Tribune’s demise.”
Every eye in the room was fixated on Norton, awaiting his response. He ordered Tony to stand up and look him in the eye.
Tony did so and continued with his message. “My father also wanted to inform you that he applauds your gallantry toward your enemies. He is not one to let such a chivalrous act go unnoticed.”
The words had a strong effect on Norton, whose demeanor became so friendly that Fred lowered his pistol. “I continue to be impressed by your father. You tell him I accept his congratulations and wish him well. I hope we never find reason to have hostility exist between us.”
Unable to hide his suspicion of Tony, Carl moved through the crowd and approached him, his hands in his pockets.
“Ah,” Tony said, bowing slightly in front of Carl. “A delight to see you again.”
Carl was quiet.
“He doesn’t speak much here, does he?” Tony said to Norton.
“He speaks with his gun,” Norton replied with a grin. “You will keep that in mind, won’t you?”
“Of course, of course.”
Putting his hat back on, Tony bowed to the men and made his way out. He was pushing the door open when Kaylyn bumped into him. He briefly apologized and left. She turned to watch him leave, knitting her eyebrows as she walked over to Carl with three other women accompanying her.
“Who killed the party?” she asked.
“You,” Fred joked. “Someone needs to jump-start it.”
“Then I’ll do it,” she said. “None of you know how to sing properly, so I’ll show you boys how it’s done.”
Removing her coat, she handed it to one of her female companions and sat on the edge of the bar, pushing aside the men’s drinks. Rocking back and forth, she undid the knot in her hair and threw it back over her shoulders. Her long skirt covered her legs, but that didn’t stop every pair of male eyes in the room from admiring them as they dangled in the air.
A fiddler in the back started on a tune and she began singing. Her voice wasn’t especially strong, but her cheerful enthusiasm made up for it. The men were silent, hanging on every chord.
Except for Carl, who dismissed her attention-seeking behavior as he confided with Norton. “Who is this Tony, and what’s the deal with his old man?”
“Tony Marconi? His father runs the Fremont paper.”
Carl’s face was blank. He felt like a fool.
“What’s up with the ‘Ten Lives’ nickname?” Carl asked.
“I couldn’t say. But I’m sure you’ll find out. He seems like someone you take an interest in. If he is anything like his old man, you’ll have your hands full. Trust me.”
Chapter Eleven
Tony Marconi’s name drew a fascinating response from Usher. Enjoying his hookah, he immediately set it down and brought Carl into a separate room inside his house. He threw off his smoking jacket while pouring two glasses of ice wine.
“How do you know Tony?” he asked.
“Met him once on an assignment. Then I met him recently at the Fighting Sailor when he came to congratulate Norton for getting rid of the Tribune.”
“On his father’s behalf, no doubt.”
“Know anything about him?”
Glass in hand, Usher sat down and sipped on it. He then formed a church with his hands.
“His father’s name is Santino Marconi,” he said. “If there is something the government has banned, he’s sold it. Narcotics, cigarettes, moonshine, and now newspapers. He was born in Sardinia, but he’s been living here for half his life.”
“What kind of man is he like?”
“He loves as much as he hates.”
“Is his son like that?”
“Which one?” Usher laughed wryly.
Carl set down his ice wine. “What do you mean?”
“I know you meant Tony. However, that boy has probably got fifteen siblings, half siblings I should say. Anywhere Santino traveled, he left a pregnant woman when he left.”
“What about Tony? Where did he get the ‘Ten Lives’ tag?”
“Tony is the only child who has ever been able to have any kind of relationship with Santino. The rest either went their own way or wanted nothing to do with him. But Tony thought he was special. The trouble was, his mother didn’t have any idea where Santino had gone. It took him years to track his father down. He got his nickname because he’s nearly died nine times. Regardless, the boy worships the ground his father walks on.”
“What do you think of Tony?” Carl asked.
“I wouldn’t underestimate him. Nor would I provoke him. He’s not going to bother you, though. He knows your ‘reputation,’ and Santino has a long history of preferring to settle disputes at a table and not on the streets. At the end of the day he’s a businessman and wants to make money, and bullets cost money. If he doesn’t have to spend them, he won’t.”
“Yet,” Usher added as he leaned over the table. “He’s a shrewd man. He didn’t get here by being a simpleton. And I’m certain you can tell from what I’ve said that his son is similar. My advice for you is to keep the peace - but expect a fight at some point.”
***
For the next year Carl followed Usher’s advice whenever he saw Tony. The Fremonty sometimes tried to initiate conversations or approach him to talk, but Carl kept his distance and insisted he didn’t have the time.
However, over time Carl began to wonder if the cordial behavior was genuine.
Their relationship reflected the overall relations between the various newspapers as they settled into their respective territories following the Tribune’s demise. Having secured the Tribune’s territories, Norton had split it up with the Fremont paper and left several areas as neutral and explicitly forbade their reporters from using their weapons to prevent the other from getting a story.
Fearful of violence from clashing newspapers, several neighborhoods declared themselves to be neutral and insisted no one had the right to use violence unless they were attacked first. There was no specific punishment for violating these rules, but no one was interested in testing those limits.
Over time, most of downtown was declared to be off-limits in the hopes of preventing unnecessary conflicts.
/> Strangely, the police adhered to those rules, too.
It was a quite a sight for Carl to see driving down the street, to see people with the latest copy of the Cascadian in hand and read it in front of a cop, who could do nothing about it. It took him a while to get used to the sight of crowds casually walking past cops with newspaper tucked underneath their arms.
The officers sometimes stopped to question them or give them a hard time, but the scare tactics stopped once Norton and the downtown association intervened.
Over time, Carl’s work schedule fell into a routine; an early morning breakfast before reporting to the newsroom with Tom at seven thirty; a briefing and then out in the field by eight. The time between then and their afternoon deadline was easily filled by frantic searches for contracts, meetings with Usher, research, careful prodding from sources, then a draft and a final draft just in time for a copyeditor to sweep it up as he sat back and traded verbal jabs with Tom, and if not him there was Fred or Duong or Ian and whoever else happened to be in the office.
As soon as deadline was over, they were off to the Fighting Sailor, though every now and then they raised hell at another local pub. Wherever it was, they would drink too much, sing too loud, tell too many stories, and drink even more.
Carl never grew tired of it. To him, the daily rhythm and ritual was the heartbeat pumping energy throughout every man in the organization.
His intensity had a swift influence over his reputation. Within the year, the name “Killer Carl” had reached every street and alleyway in Seattle. Even the young children knew it when they saw him on the street.
That image didn’t harm his appeal to women.
The situation was rather different for Tom. He kept to himself and had no nickname. He was known well enough among the Cascadian reporters as competent and reliable, but to outsiders he was relatively obscure.
In some ways, he preferred a level of anonymity. A simple drink at the end of the day or a puff of a cigarette during a moment of solitude was enough to keep him happy along with the occasional girl whom he was willing to take with him at the end of the night.
He didn’t read much, either. Solitude was entertaining enough for him.
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