by Jason Winn
“Thanks,” she called after him.
He returned with a fork and she sheepishly took it, realizing everyone was looking at her and her terrible manners. “Sorry, I’m pretty hungry.”
“That’s fine,” said Lammy. “We ain’t too formal around here, as you can tell.”
“So you guys live here year round?” asked Madison as she tried the steak. It was venison, and it fell apart with the fork. They’d obviously marinated or slow cooked the thing. It was even better than the potato.
“Oh yeah,” said Lammy.
Madison wanted to ask about wives or girlfriends, but bit her tongue.
“It’s not quite ready yet,” yelled Buddy as he came back to the fire. He carried something the size of a soda can, covered in dirt. Madison craned her neck to see the it.
“Don’t matter,” growled Lammy. “Show the lady.”
Buddy knelt down next to Madison and she placed her bowl on the ground, so that none of the dirt on the can thing got into her food. Buddy wrapped his big hands around the top and twisted. A plume of smoke rose from inside as Buddy gave it a little shake, releasing the sound of metal on glass. After taking a quick look inside, Buddy upended the jar and gold coins spilled out into his hand.
“So what? She pays you in gold coins?” asked Madison. She found it hard to believe that Nancy Mosby, even if she was Betty Crocker combined with Indiana Jones, crept up to this place every month to fill a jar with coins. And what if she did…where the hell had she been all these years, paying off hillbillies to watch over the Shiloh Library? None of this made any sense.
Buddy returned the coins to the jar and resealed it, before standing and walking back to the trees.
Lammy swallowed a forkful of steak and cleared his throat. “Jar goes into the ground for a month. Jar comes out of the ground full of those coins. English sovereigns, I think they are.” He intimated his point with his fork, pointing at the ground over his shoulder where Buddy had dug the thing up.
“So who puts the coins in the jar?” asked Madison.
“No one,” said Lammy. He stared at her, waiting for her to understand.
Oh shit, that’s cool. It was clear now that the jar was enchanted somehow. The coins materialized into the jar, slowly over the month. Buddy and Lammy just dig it up as the moon turned, and viola, payment.
“Your grandmother was something else, girly,” said Buddy as he returned to his seat.
Damn right she was.
Madison took another bite of her steak and sat quietly for a moment. The sun had set, the storm had moved off, and the Milky Way was visible above the trees. She wanted Buddy and Lammy to take her to the Shiloh Library right now. The question of what exactly was in the thing had been ruminating for six months. Ever since Langston had first told her about it and then given her the black compass, she’d wanted to see it. “More powerful than a nuclear bomb,” was how he described it.
But what was actually in it? Langston pulled his own disappearing act over the last few months. Madison hadn’t heard from him, directly, in three months, and the last time was to ask for more Moonmilk. Typical—you get what you want and move on. Recently, he’d been sending a tall, dark emissary to collect his monthly order. And that guy didn’t say anything other than “need Langston’s order.”
The vanishing act was what Langston did best, literally. He was a teleporter after all. Still, Madison missed him. He’d taught her so much and without him she’d probably be living with her mother, Helen, which was only slightly preferable to a homeless shelter.
“Go on ask her,” said Lammy.
Madison snapped out of her day dream. “Ask me what?”
“Who owns Blue Petal, now that Nancy is off somewhere?” asked Buddy.
“My father. He hates it.”
“What about her brother, Robert was his name?”
“Robard. He died in a car accident right before he could take over the company. My dad was next-of-kin so he got the company.”
The car accident had been caused by Langston, to prevent the sale of the mansion and subsequent revelation that Nancy Mosby was into some weird shit with the storm brewer in the basement. It had been a difficult decision, but the fallout of someone finding the storm brewer would have been disastrous, not just for Madison but for the entire magical world.
Buddy grunted. “Sorry to hear about your uncle. I never knew him.”
Madison didn’t want to talk about Robard. She didn’t want to talk about the company she would probably never own. She had her little bakeries, which were just fronts for the Moonmilk operation, and that was probably all she’d ever have that even resembled Nancy’s legitimate empire. Owning some or all of Blue Petal was too much to hope for. One day it would be sold or broken up and that would be the end of another piece of her grandmother. It made Madison sad to even think about it.
“I got to hit the sack,” Madison said to no one in particular.
With a nod, Lammy led her to one of the cleaner-looking cabins which had the only amenity she cared about, a clean bed.
Even though she was exhausted, Madison felt like it was Christmas Eve, and the morning carried the promise of presents, the sort of Christmas Eve where you knew you were going to get that special gift you’ve been wanting all year.
But what the hell is really in there? was the last thought to cross her mind before she drifted off.
Chapter 4
An excerpt from Tape 134 – Conversation between Guido Morano and Peter Tramonti recorded at the Jacob Street Social Club
Recording time: 11:34pm
Recording date: 11/23/1990
Property of the Pennsylvania State Police - Organized Crime Division.
Morano: Contessa’s been talking about some crazy shit, I tell ya.
Tramonti: Like what, boss?
Morano: I don’t know. Something with psychics and some widow. She gets going and I just tune her out, like when your goomah starts talking about their hair and nails or some shit.
Tramonti: *inaudible*
Morano: And she’s smoking again. I fucking hate that. After thirty-four years of smoke-free marriage, the house stinks again.
Tramonti: You should do something about that, boss. *inaudible*
Morano: Don’t fucking tempt me. I’m already at my wits end.
***
The eight main hallways of Bearing House converged into a single, large ballroom, known as the Tempus Room. Tempus being Latin for season. The octagonal cavernous room could hold several hundred people with room for staff, buffet tables, bars, a dance floor, and a dais should Contessa decide to speak at any point during her lavish masked balls.
Bearing House was once the property of John Morgan Bearing, a Philadelphia steel magnate, who preferred to travel the country by private train. The structure served as a locomotive garage, complete with a turntable to rotate locomotives and direct them into their respective garages.
When the steel industry began its slow demise in the mid-1970s the structure, along with the entire railyard, was purchased by an anonymous entity. The property was sealed off and renovations converted the structures into a residential estate. Don Guido Morano took up residence in 1981. Ten years later, he was found dead of asphyxiation in the drawing room. No signs of strangulation. No signs of struggle. The mafia boss of south Philly had simply choked to death on thin air. No suspects were ever charged, no vendettas ever sworn; business continued and no one lost a penny in the rackets, gambling dens, or whorehouses.
In a soundproof room, with nothing more than a chair and a dim light, Contessa Morano waited patiently in a leather wingback chair. Shadow covered most of her face. The chair faced the room’s only door, way on the other side of the room. So many problems had been solved in “the room.” The house staff was forbidden from entering. They whispered about hearing screams coming from inside. Contessa liked that—it kept them scared. Scared people were easier to control. The only people who ever joined her were her special helpers, the big str
ongmen, Clipper and Desmond. But not her son, Corrado. He was too delicate to see what happened inside the room.
Hearing footsteps approach, she withdrew a cigarette from a pouch dangling from a chain around her neck. She lit it. The flame reflected in the lenses of her sunglasses and made her long black hair shimmer.
The smoke wafted away from her mouth and nose in the still air and formed into tentacles that crawled across the floor. One found a wrinkle in the plastic sheeting spread across the floor. The tip of the tentacle smoothed it before continuing to grow.
“Where are we going?” a man shouted.
The younger version of Contessa would be giddy to hear the men dragged to her, knowing they were shitting their pants. But today she felt a twinge of fear. These two could carry an empire-shattering harbinger. She could feel it. For the last eight years she’d pretended this day would never come. Another puff of her cigarette and she forced herself to relax.
Shadows darkened the light coming in from the hallway and four men appeared. Two wore black sacks over their heads. The hulking frames of Clipper and Desmond pushed the hooded pair across the floor, their heavy footsteps rustling the plastic. The smoke tentacles parted around their feet.
Clipper, an old crooked cop, was tall, bald, barrel-chested and wore a goatee with streaks of gray. Desmond stood taller than Clipper, but not by much. He strolled with a Texas swagger, never in a hurry. Burn scars covered his face, a reminder from his time in the Army.
Both of her men wore thug-business casual: open-collared shirts, slacks, and sport jackets flecked with blood, all accented with gold and diamond jewelry.
“On your knees,” growled Desmond as he kicked his man in the back of the legs.
The prisoners fell into clumps before Contessa. She waved her hand and the sacks were pulled off of the men’s heads. Neither fought against the duct tape on their wrists.
Their eyes went wide. Contessa recognized Cedric Wolfe from the old days, when she was a satellite in the Rose Widow’s empire. She didn’t recognize the other one though. Which was understandable, since his face had been beaten black and blue and his eyes were swollen shut. The veins in their necks pulsed, and there was the faintest odor of piss in the air.
Clipper dug into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small plastic box. He flipped open the top, revealing several plastic tubes. A smoky tentacle rose and wrapped itself around the box, bringing it close to Contessa for inspection.
She didn’t need to pull the vials out to know what they were, purple Moonmilk, the Rose Widow’s, signature color. Contessa took another drag and blew smoke toward the kneeling men. The tentacle tossed the Moonmilk back to Clipper.
Not yet, she told herself. You can’t kill them yet. Maybe one can live. These two needed to talk, maybe even come to work for her. Good couriers were so hard to find after all. The work was simple, take the Moonmilk to the customers and collect the money. They kept a comfortable barrier between brewers, like her, and the customers.
Contessa regarded the men for a long while, letting the fear soak in. She let them watch her as she drew on her cigarette, allowing the bright light from the tip to give the men a brief view of her thin face.
“Cedric,” she said pointing to the pudgy, gray-haired one. “Remember me?”
Sweat poured down Cedric’s cheeks, even though the room was cool. “Contessa? I thought you were dead.” He squinted to get a better look at her face in the shadows.
She snorted, “I bet you wish that were true right now.”
“Yes. I mean no, no, not at all. Glad to see you’re still with us.” Cedric forced a smile.
“Still a snake.” She turned to the other man. “Who’s your friend here?”
Cedric ignored her, choosing instead to scan his surroundings. Clipper made a move as if They control Washington he was going to beat an answer out of Cedric, but Contessa waved him off. Cedric flinched anyway.
“You know how this goes, Cedric. You tell me what I want to know and maybe you won’t get a new plastic sleeping bag.” She motioned to the floor, in the unlikely event the men had missed that they were kneeling on drop cloth.
“Kim. He’s my bodyguard,” said Cedric.
“I hope you didn’t pay him in advance. Right then,” she said with a sigh. “Why are you trying to sell Moonmilk in my territory?”
The smoke tentacles started to coil around Kim. He let out a muffled shriek and tried to get up, but the smoke enveloped him and lifted him off the floor, where he hovered a few inches over the plastic.
“I was just asked to come up here,” said Cedric, his eyes locked on Kim, who squirmed against the cloud around him.
“And by whom, Mr. Wolfe?”
Kim’s eyes bulged in his head. Smoke streamed into his mouth and nose as he gasped for air.
“Oh, Jesus,” exclaimed Cedric.
“Get a good look now, Cedric. I remember you used to work for the Rose Widow. I believe you even came to one of my parties a long time ago. Focus, please.”
Another smoky appendage came up and grabbed Cedric’s chin. It twisted his face to look at Contessa’s shadowy one.
“It’s Madison Mosby. She’s selling the Moonmilk. She figured out the recipe. I, I told her I knew some sorcerers up here and maybe we could get some new customers. Because, you know, uh, I didn’t think any brewers were still up here.”
That solved the mystery of the disappearing customers. Finale, that miserable group of Euro-trash, wasn’t the only thing impacting her business. Now, there was a new competitor on the scene? Customers had grown too rare to allow competition as of late. This Madison was giving them all what they wanted, apparently.
“Is she Nancy’s daughter?”
“No, granddaughter.” Cedric was trying to look at what was going on with Kim as he coughed and gagged. His voice trembled.
“Interesting. Does she know where her grandmother is?”
“I don’t know.”
Kim’s body began to pop and crack as bones gave way under the pressure of the constricting cloud. Muffled screaming broke through the smoke.
“Please,” said Cedric. “I don’t want to die.”
“No one does, my dear boy. Would you like to come to work for me?”
Kim groaned and fell to the plastic, sounding like a giant fish being dropped. Cedric’s chin was finally released and he turned to see his former bodyguard. Jagged bone protruded from his skin in several places. Blood poured from a dozen wounds and pooled on the plastic.
“Yes,” Cedric gasped. “Anything. Yes.”
This was quite a coup, Contessa thought. Finding a competitor before the other cartels, and one who possessed the highest quality product, was incredible. She felt invigorated. All the tension evaporated like the cloud that had just squeezed the life from Kim over there.
“Tell me, how is this Madison dealing with the Preens? They control Washington the last I checked.”
“I heard she killed them, but their son is still alive. She nabbed their customer totems.”
So the new Preen kid can’t even get in touch with his customers. How terrible for him.
The little, twitchy thug, Louis Preen, would be here with the other cartels this afternoon. She’d called the meeting to discuss measures to consolidate their organizations, and Preen had been invited in the off chance that he was running his parents’ operation.
“Lock him in the room, next to my son,” said Contessa to Clipper.
However, instead of uniting the cartels, this turn of events called for something else: a war.
***
The upper floors of Bearing House were quieter than the main floors. Less staff mingled through the bedroom suites up there. The guards in front of Corrado’s room nodded in obedience and Contessa’s eyes noted the deadbolt on the door, seeing it was in the locked position. There was no need for him to be out now, so it was best for him to stay in his room—less things for him to screw up that way. Life was so much easier when you could just lock your prob
lems away.
She strolled to the end of the hallway and opened a suite door without knocking. The room was dim, save for the flicker of a television casting bright flashes across the sleek, deco furniture.
A middle-aged woman with thick arms and skin pockmarked with acne scars jumped in her chair as Contessa entered. Nurse Potts craned her neck and shifted her thick glasses to get a better view.
Across from Nurse Potts and an array of bandages and needles sat a stick-thin Japanese girl with bright red hair. She wore a baggy T-shirt and pink cat-shaped sandals on her feet. The large flat-screen television held her attention. Japanese cartoons flashed on the screen, which looked a lot like the pastel-colored figurines on the bedside table. An IV tube ran from her arm to a bag suspended on a hook above her head. It was feeding time for Jitsuko.
“Momma,” said Jitsuko, her face lighting up.
“Yes, baby. Momma’s here,” Contessa replied, even though the girl was no more her daughter than Nurse Potts. She was relieved to see her alert, instead of in her normal semi-vegetative state, hypnotized by her phone or tablet.
Jitsuko started to get up, but Nurse Potts put her finger on her shoulder, stopping her.
“Sit down, girl,” Potts said, in a gruff voice. “You’ll pull your IV out.”
“Listen to Nurse Potts, baby doll. You haven’t many good veins left.”
Jitsuko looked down. Lines of scabs and collapsed veins ran up her arms.
The affectionate term of “baby doll” was the first thing Contessa had thought of when Clipper brought Jitsuko to her several years ago. Contessa didn’t have any female daughters. With her perfect skin and demure physique, Jitsuko looked like a five-foot living doll. She was pulled from a group of girls destined for the whorehouses in the Roxborough neighborhood, having met the strict qualification of “small,” no more than ninety pounds.