Et Ne Nos Inducas

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Contents 1 Introduction 2 Et Ne Nos Inducas 2.1 I 2.2 II 2.3 III 2.4 IV 2.5 V 2.6 VI 2.7 VII 2.8 VIII 2.9 IX 2.10 X 2.11 XI 3 Appendix

Introduction

Author 

Canto Anathema

Forward

     For ease, we'll just refer to this as "Et Ne". Ideally, what this piece will become is a series of short stories following Shiri's backstory from after Aneko's death, through his time as an assassin, until his first death - approximately from 1920 to 1938, prior to any dealing with any supernaturalism. Since writing a continuous backstory would be boring, both to write and to read, so hopefully using a series of scenes to focus the story will work better. The intent is not to explain Shiri's past so much as elaborate on how his character developed during this period of his life, aspects of which are still very influential on current thread events. As a result, it's a bad idea to start reading this as one would read a normal tC thread. Of course, input is welcome and since I'm writing this slowly and mostly deciding things and scenes as I go, suggestions are appreciated.

     Additionally, for those who are unfamiliar with the basic premise of the character, hopefully most of the information will become apparent as the story progresses, so minimal knowledge is needed. It might help to explain that Shiri (and his sister) is a Japanese-Italian (by route left undiscussed in this story) and, at the onset of the story, has been living in America, in an orphanage for some time. Beyond that, the story ought to provide all the information needed. Hopefully.

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Et Ne Nos Inducas

     e dietro le venìa sì lunga tratta
     di gente, ch’i’ non averei creduto
     che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta

     "And after it there came so long a train
     Of people, that I ne'er would have believed
     That ever Death so many had undone."

     ~ Dante's "The Divine Comedy" Inferno: Canto III

I

     “Santa Maria!” Blessed Mary. It was his mother’s favorite exclamation, usually of defeat or the much less common outburst of excitement. But not this: “Santa Maria!” These ones were not sighed or shouted in joy. Pete winced at each cry, so loud that it seemed to gnash its dirty nails against his eardrums. “Please, sister, please,” other voices implored the shrieker.

     It was even more grating on Pete’s nerves. He had sneaked into the church without being noticed. It had been easy; in fact, he hadn’t really been sneaking at all. Nobody cared. Nobody noticed him and the ease with which he stepped from the outside world into the building was no different than stepping from the street dirt to the curbside. It was confusing. His only conception of a ‘funeral’ was his mother throwing glass bottles against the wall, cursing liquor, women and his father and Pete knowing that at least the last one on that list would never be coming home loudly drunk again. Even though he was just a young boy, with that as his only, personal experience, he still knew vaguely that there was usually more to it than that. Yet as he slunk about the edges of the church, drifting between the arched pillars and skirting past the pews, he watched the scene with a sort of uncertain discomfort.

     The first he noticed were the adults. The women with their black shawls and taffeta dresses hung around, cloud-like, darkly clumped together in their cliques. Their chatter was low and punctuated by falsetto tears that didn’t alter the expressions they wore on their faces. Not that it mattered, their faces were comfortably obscured just enough that you couldn’t be sure they weren’t sobbing their eyes red or, if they were, you couldn’t tell how horrible they looked in their grief. Pete thought all this, thinking that their shriveled hag-faces had never worn the blood-red wildness he had seen himself in the gutter children. Maybe that was how one managed to survive to such an age. Maybe they practiced by visiting funerals like this and demonstrating their prowess at facing grief with the proper masks.

     The men were there too, off to the side in their own groups. But they were solitary, even together. Tall men that, at their side, Pete would scarcely scrape their chests. They were sacked in black suits, long like expensive drapes that Pete had seen through windows some nights. He wondered why they were here. They said nothing, did nothing other than looking grave and stern. It reminded Pete that he wasn’t supposed to be there either.

     “Please, sister.” Voices rose, alternating, “Please” and “Calm yourself. What would the children think?”

     Pete looked to these. They were the nuns, gathered in the midst of the church. Black and white they blended together at a point, especially if you scrunched your eyes. Pete did, but only for a moment before he became self-conscious of it. They seemed part of the church itself; brief flickers of the white of their clothes shone, just like the few candles in the gloomy stone building, against the black cloth. Pete always wondered if they had hair like real women or like his mother’s terrible bramble-bush of brown hair, stringy and coarse. Some of their faces seemed believable. The ones that were marked with creases of frowns and wrinkles from age were definitely natural. He couldn’t trust the soft faces, full lips and smiles. Their gentle words made them angel-like and not to be trusted. Never trust a pretty face.

     Nuns, in general, pissed him off. The politeness they commanded, under the gentle threatening smiles and wrinkled expressions of goodliness. He couldn’t understand why they got the respect they did. For Pete, respect wasn’t something wearing a strange black and white dress should immediately give you. It was taken – usually by boxing the ears off the other person or giving them a black eye. Pete respected his boss for that reason, same as the other boys. They got called criminals, ruffians and worse by people. But you couldn’t lie in a fight. Either you won or you lost. There was no way to cheat your way out of that respect and everyone in the group knew it.

     So it was strange – no, more than that. It was stupid that a soft-faced nun should get those expressions of adoration, of respect and obedience from people. But she did. One of the young nuns was hovering over the pews towards the front, filled with the other children. Pete grit his teeth, watching how even the ten year olds look up at her with wet eyes, reach out for her clothes like little ducks biting at their mother’s tail-feathers. Weaklings, the lot of them. Vinnie was a ten year old in their gang but he didn’t cling to anyone like that. Pete had seen Vinnie spit out a tooth without flinching and he didn’t pull that ‘orphan’ shit either. Vinnie didn’t have a mother and there wasn’t much of a father to speak of either. But he wasn’t like these children, sitting all in their rows neatly, sobbing softly and hugging each other, grasping for the young nun like she was their savior.

     He slipped past their rows, almost to the front. Nobody noticed. Nobody really cared – the adults passed their eyes over him with fake sympathy, thinking he was one of the pansy orphans. The nuns looked past him to their own wards - the hypocrites. If he wasn’t one of them, he was nobody. The orphans were too wrapped up in their whining to notice anything. Pete made it all the way to the front, confronting the cedar box.

     It wasn’t really impressive.

     Maybe – no, he had been expecting something impressive. A box made out of steel and something tougher. Something that would validate Vinnie’s missing tooth and the boss’ black eye and bruises.

     It was a plain cedar box. The plainness drew his attention, in how he couldn’t focus on it. There were no decorations, no fancy expensive woodwork. He’d seen better craftsmanship in the alley dumps. He caught himself five steps in, his hand outstretched to touch it before he stopped himself. From one of the pews, a girl had stood up and walked up to the front, kneeling right before the coffin. Her hair was covered in a cheap black veil, the sort Pete saw his mother wear on the rare days she disappeared off. But Pete recognized her and was immediately glad that he hadn’t come closer.

     “Hail Mary,” The girl began but all Pete could think of was how Vinnie’s hand had grabbed the girl’s ankle. Hell, he could see the spot, right where the girl’s slip-on ended. The two girls had been running off with the gang’s loot and the one now kneeling had tripped. Vinnie was trying to keep her down, throwing himself on her foot, seizing her ankle. He had been shouting in triumph. Pete grinned a little at the thought. It was fair, after all. If someone took something from you, you couldn’t just expect to steal it back. The gang had won their booty in a fair fight, taking it from the little pansy orphans.

     The girl had been stuck, Vinnie seizing her, the both of them laid flat out. The other boys would have been there in a moment because Vinnie was the fastest of them, faster than even the oldest of them. But the other girl - “Blessed are thou amongst women” Vinnie heard, - had crushed her heel into Vinnie’s face. Smashed his nose. The two girls had taken off running again and Pete was in time to see Vinnie spitting out a tooth, looking for the entire world a bloody, dusty mess.

     Pete clenched his fist. That wasn’t a fair fight, kicking a man while he’s down. And this girl, the kneeling girl, the prayer orphan had gotten away scot-free for it. And the other girl – the boss had caught up with her. While the kneeler-girl had escaped, the boss and the cedar-box girl had danced about the freight trains and cargo boxes. The rest of the gang was hollering murder. The boss seized her, she punched him and climbed up onto one of the freights. They scrambled after her and she jumped, tumbled. Pete had been too far back to see what it looked like when a train hit someone. The only images he had of her was her standing atop the freight, looking down on the boys, or her cool expression as she stomped on Vinnie’s face. “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” and the girl coughed, crying most likely.

     He turned away. Was this how people died? Tossed in a cheap wood box and surrounded by idiots, hypocrites and pansies? He wanted to punch that whore in the face. He gave a glance over the orphans, still sobbing and still clinging. The adults still looked solemn, like quiet show-fixtures. He wanted to punch them in the face.

     “Santa Maria!”

     Goddamned shrieker, Pete thought. She couldn’t shut up for five minutes. He looked for her, this time at an angle able to pick her out down the midsection of the church - a short, portly nun who would not be silent though, continuing her cries. She was alternating between gaping them silently, her mouth wide open and terrifying and then, suddenly, shrieking her Santa Maria’s to anyone who would listen – the sky outside the windows, the cross at the front, the other nuns who were gathered about, trying to calm their fellow sister. But to nothing; it would take a miracle to silence the woman. Even the petition to perhaps restrain oneself, for the love of God, must’ve had no effect. Pete saw the nun was swooped down upon the chair where a boy sat silent, her thick arms about his indifferent figure in an possessive and violently sympathetic embrace. And the boy was already staring at Pete, with one dry and dark eye peering out over the white habit of the wailing Sister.

     “Pray for us sinners now,” Pete heard, “now and at the hour of our death.”

     “Santa Maria!” The cries began anew, trying, in their own way, to fill the silence in her arms while Pete hurried quickly to the side-door of the church and out and out.

II

     Especially when the weather turned, whether it was towards warmer or colder, the children were apt to have nightmares. The shifts from spring to summer or from fall to winter were subtle enough to never raise much trouble; in stark contrast, the thawing of winter into spring and the slow freeze of summer into fall tended to herald trouble. Vague monsters, looming and terrifying villains or simply just 'bad dreams' would send the child shooting out of their sheets with a shout. The most unfortunate of them were those who had neglected the toilet before bed. The embarrassment was the strangest. It took the form of a strange sort of mature responsibility – the child would wake earlier than their peers in the dormitory and strip the wet sheets quickly and quietly. The younger orphans would drag the sheets away aimlessly, uncertain of where to hide the incriminating evidence. The older ones would set to work, doing the laundry themselves.

     Sister Lucille was elbow-deep in water and soap, cleansing the sheets in slow, rhythmic beats. She had shooed away this morning's girl (poor thing, scrubbing furiously, flushed red) promising that "it" would be taken care. It was almost a ritual, in these seasons, to check the washroom and take care of any late-night accidents. She woke early enough to catch them with their hands wrinkled and eyes wet with crying. Some of them were up well before dawn. Even so, they never managed to complete the task before Lucille woke.

     She folded the sheets over the line and ascended from the washroom. The stairs creaked, smelling of old wood. As was her way, she thought of how much it would take to replace the steps. There was the cost of the new wood, the carpentry, the labor and the problems that would arise from blocking the only real entrance down to the basement. It would never be done. At least not until the wood rotted through and the steps caved in under the weight of a wispy old nun.

     "Good morning, sister." The children mumbled coming down from the bedrooms up the stairs.

     "Good morning." She replied.

     "Good morning, sister." The other sisters sang to her as she entered the dining room.

     They were a strange lot, to be certain. The strangeness of them had never eluded Lucille's notice. Everyone settled down slowly around the table, to the tune of chairs scraping and dishes clattering but when prayer began, the only sound was the rolling echo of voices, repeating the same words. After that, the clatter renewed.

     "Boys!" she snapped, "Take off your caps at the table!" The hats were whipped off and placed furtively on laps.

     After breakfast, she snapped, "Boys! Take off those caps and help with the dishes!" This command was something of a thinking problem, as none of the boys wished to let go of their caps entirely but were obliged to carry some dishes. Some of the boys attempted to use the caps as a sling where others would hold a few plates in one hand and the cap in the other. With the exception of a plate or glass, this usually worked.

     If only it had been as easy to get them to carry their school things as it was their silly caps. Lucille was glad she had not taken the responsibility of inquiring within each child's bag. She was not suited to checking after pencils and little things like that. She watched the younger and the older nuns sweep in and out of the row of children, guiding them out the gate and down the street towards the local school. There were twenty-some children and twelve nuns in those rows. Lucille rolled her eyes and did not believe the numbers. Silly children. She snapped from across the yard, “Boys! Wear your caps properly!” and she knew they were pretending not to hear her.

     Two hands meant that a person could hold onto two things at once. The sisters in the kitchen could wash and scrub a dish. In the event of a broken window or picture, the children were known to point to someone else with one hand and hide a ball behind their back with the other. Even the oldest and even the youngest of the nuns had two perfectly good hands with which to hold two children. Ten nuns, twenty children. Lucille offered it up and set about her chores.

     The first was the garden. It was a voracious monster, despite being confined within a small roped-off section of the yard. The stalks grew tall and tangled, requiring the most ardent efforts to twist them free of each other. The shorter plants were apt to be eaten by the weeds if not properly watched and Lucille always fought off the feeling that when she worked in the garden for too long, she would become a part of the mess as well. Perhaps she would be found as a hunchbacked creature, hair stringy and dyed green by the bean stalks wrapped unchastely about her hair. She tried to avoid these thoughts. As she dug up a patch of virulent grass, she felt the sudden prick of the vines at her waist and she lashed around. When she calmed herself, she set the wooden poles back in place and threw out the length of stalk she had torn out from the ground.

     In the afternoon, she returned to the kitchen, laden with the spoils of the war and tromping in victoriously with her work boots still on.

     "They just sent word." One of the younger sisters was saying to a senior.

     "Those boys again?"

     The sister nodded. Lucille wasn't interested in what happened at the school but she had not escaped knowing what the two were discussing. There were a few of the older boys who had become repeat escapees from their education. It was a rather pathetic endeavor, Lucille always thought, and it was not entirely directed just at the boys. It had been only a few hours since she had watched the host of her fellow sisters lead the chain-gang of children to school and yet, in those few hours, several of them had already escaped. If that be the case, it seemed hardly worth it to even send that many guards in the first place.

     “I’ll see to them.” Lucille announced and the two nuns who had been speaking started at the sound of her voice. They had not noticed her enter the kitchen or her begin to sort of the vegetables.

     “Oh!” The younger said, in a tone that was equally of surprise and admiration, as she followed up with, “Oh, will you, Sister Lucille?” The elder sister merely watched and Lucille returned the gaze with her own steady one.

     It was the sort of gaze that said she thought nothing of it. She cast it upwards, into the slow eyes of the old nun and the overeager expression of the younger. For many years, she had cultivated the look; it was a strong one. She held them inside it for a few moments before casting a disinterested look to the wall-clock. “If they sneak back any time soon, I shall be in the chapel.” The others nodded, the younger voicing an ‘oh, thank you’ of sorts that was addressed to Lucille’s back as she departed. These nuns, Lucille thought as she went to pray; they would wring their hands for weeks before politely suggesting that there might be something in the orphanage or the dorms that needed to be done. They managed, on that sort of insincerity, but the thought of how many little hands could be kept out of trouble by giving them something to do!-- the thought aggravated her a little.

     She was the devoted daughter. When she found herself without something to do, she sought out more. She kept herself occupied and had never validly been called that dreaded word, “useless”. Lord, let her always be without reproach. She murmured it over again, as she sank into the soft cushion of the kneeler, folding her hands before her eyes. The feeling of the fabric of her attire was comforting. It was a rough, wearable material; warm and yet not overwhelming, like a thin sheet on a bed, pulled up over your head. She donned it each morning luxuriously and it was here, when she was at her most dedicated and focused, that she let her thoughts sink back into her habit’s shelter. It was tough. She liked to fancy it could turn knives although she knew well enough from the mending that the habit was as likely to make you fly as it was to save your life. Yet, in a way, she felt it had such power. She believed that she was safe here, in the absolute quiet of the chapel, and she permitted her head to droop. The tension of scouring sheets white fell from her shoulders as she drifted away.

     She woke on the floor. Her fingers were coiled up about her cheeks, shielding her face, and her hair had gone sprawling out from its shelter. Lucille quickly collected herself, tucking her hair back. She wiped her raw eyes clear of the incriminating evidence, though she would have to bathe to clear the sickly sheen of sweat away. It didn’t happen often. She wouldn’t have it happen again.

     The children were back. She heard their noises well before she saw any of them. It took a short while to find one of the sisters and learn if the errants had been caught. Yes, all but one. They had been caught while trying to sneak in with the rest on the way back home. They were to go without dinner. Sister Lucille felt the need to see to it further and swept away to their rooms. However, a knot dropped into her stomach and her striking urge ceded quickly. It would wait, she told herself. She could clip their belligerent little foreheads after dinner and send them off to school with rosy bumps there, as a warning. At the thought, the knot grew tighter and she hurried to see what she could do for the kitchen instead.

     There was a saying, favored by the graying father who said their Masses, that anyone who an honest day of work would always find themselves hungry enough to clean their plate. It was a trick to keep the children from taking too much of whatever was proffered, fearing that they wouldn’t be able to finish it and thus, with their sharp eyes, the sisters would know who had skimped on studying or avoided their chores.

     “Mary didn’t recite her spelling.” One of the girls sang from one side of the table.

     “I’m just not very hungry.” Another girl, Mary, protested.

     An old sister shook her head at the first girl, causing the argument to lapse into sullen silence almost as soon as it had begun. Spoons clattered into soup bowls, stirring. There were some soft giggles, from the children who passed secret gestures and silly faces across the tables. A few of the sisters, the younger ones, chatted back and forth quietly. The oldest children mimicked this, speaking not as quietly, about school and classmates. Lucille dipped her spoon into the dark broth, watching it sink.

     “It isn’t very good.” One of the boys said, with a smirk.

     “I’m just not very hungry!” Mary reassured immediately.

     “Children,” another sister chided gently and the involved lapsed into silence yet again, though a bit more belligerent, as the boy kept his smirk. Lucille was torn between pinching the smugness off his face and agreeing with his honesty. It was Mary she was unimpressed with. The girl had demonstrated such ardent sincerity that morning, dragging down a huge bed sheet to the laundry, and her hands – oh, her hands! – had been raw with trying to purge out the taint. Lucille had wanted to embrace the little sister that morning, to grasp her and let her know that with enough sincerity and devotion, anything could be saved. Anyone could be scoured pure. But the Mary of the evening was evading the truth of the matter. Lucille didn’t like that. While she certainly wasn’t cruel enough to expose the child in front of the entire dining room, Lucille found watching the farce to be uncomfortable. It felt like a disquiet stomachache and a strong grip on your skin. It made her shift awkwardly in her seat and take another mouthful of the salty broth, trying to forget the sweat beneath her habit. Mary, you coward, she said to herself.

     Dinner and Mary passed as the evening wore perilously close to night. It dragged the children from their games and books, towards bed. Although it wasn’t yet growing colder, the sisters were mindful to make sure the dragging led past the toilets first. Lucille set about to cleaning the kitchen floor. It had proved a worthy adversary, as it never remained clean long, no matter how much energy was poured into it. Today was particularly difficult, as mud had splattered upon it, hardening onto it since midday. Short spires of encrusted mud rose from the floor in oblong, boot-shaped geography. Lucille took only a glance at it and went to her hands and knees with a scouring brush.

     Night came and rested its feet in the kitchen as well. Most, if not all, the other nuns had fallen asleep, Lucille thought. But she had remained vigilant and stood, proudly, surveying the purified landscape of the kitchen. A clean kitchen meant a clean heart and a clean mind. She would rest securely, undistressed. The door to the gardens eased open and, for a moment, Lucille thought it had been left ajar. A small hand pushed it further though, admitting the last boy to have skipped school. What was more, his shoes were dirty.

     Lucille swept upon him, hand upraised and righteous. By the time he had managed to even look over and see her, she was within a half-step. The knot spiraled down from her stomach into the dank cave of her hips and she froze, hand still in the air. His cheek was swollen and, even in the light from the lamps, Lucille could see his lip was split and weeping. He hadn’t just been out to play, like the other errants. This boy had been getting into serious fights. He was beyond the pale of childishness. Lucille stood there, as if frozen, watching the slow drip from his mouth and nose.

     He watched her for a moment and then looked down. Then he kneeled. With his sleeve, he wiped up the few droplets of blood that had fallen and, when he looked up, there was no hesitation in his eyes. For Lucille, it was beyond her own imagining, the clarity of those saint-like eyes, as he said, out loud, “I’m sorry. I dirtied your floor.”

III

     Crime's eyes were blue. Blue with a slight tinge of greenish grey actually, piercing out from over a strong, almost leonine, curve. Mr. Basso, as he liked to hear himself referred to as, always made note of the slight discolouration whenever anyone would try to pass them off as simply 'blue'. A few exceptions were the particularly poetic versions of blue he had heard, particularly the 'blue like the waters off the Maine crabbing shore, depthless and cold'. It made him sound sinister and that was good. Good for his ego, good for his belly and certainly good for business. For nearly ten years, his eyes and his name had been whispered of in quiet, fearful tones from his home neighborhood, stretching all over the railcar lines in this part of the city. Not because Mr. Basso went around, flapping his lapels open to reveal a gun or knife or anything, though he did carry a gun often enough. He was feared because everyone knew that when the most polite of letters went out to all those whom fortune had smiled upon, requesting a small donation or favor, it was Mr. Basso's hand that had been covered in ink and pressed to the paper.

     The local La Mano Nera, the Black Hand, was not known for being particularly violent. Few deaths had ever been recognized as originating from stubborn pride in the face of their threats and even fewer had ever been reported. But what had made them terrifying was the arrival of the, then much younger, Basso. It was he, with his determination to make every head tip politely to him, every shopkeeper smile and greet him pleasantly, that had wrought the small group of thugs into a true extortionist ring. By masking his threats with politeness and a black inked hand, he could smile death. But it was by delivering such notes to any and every person, regardless of whether they would pay two dollars or a hundred, he established his domain. Now, ten years after his first step into the world of crime, Basso felt a thrill of pride as even the new proprietor of a tailoring shop within Basso's domain smiled and shook with fearful respect. He had carved his niche into the tree of life and no man was more content than he.

     It was easy to pick out who the thugs were. Adonis sighed, ripples forming across the top of his coffee. They were the ones who looked around with arrogant glances, trying to use their pride as cover for their fear. After all, who knew when someone might just bump up against you and leave a knife in your belly. Guns were worse but the extortionists knew just how noisy it could be, pulling a gun in the middle of a street. Nobody wanted to risk that. They weren't stupid, Adonis thought appraisingly. Not like the mad-dog gunman and common punks that he'd seen before. This Basso fellow ran a tight ship for an extortion ring and, while that made him a business rival, it was something to respect. It was why, as outsiders coming in from the upstate, Adonis was in no place to simply order the man's murder. Originally the plan had been to approach Basso with the lucrative offer of handling the Family's more questionable operations in this neck of the woods, with Adonis serving as the administrator and go-between. But something had come up that had sparked Adonis' more private ambitions.

     Apparently, Basso's black hand feared not even God and he had set his eyes on skimming a bit off the local church and the affiliated orphanage. This would have earned the man instant disapproval from the Family and, rather than have his work be slowed down by deliberation and such, had decided to not make any mention of it. However, a curiosity had arisen from it that would shift the blame for Basso's death off of Adonis and still enable him to take over the entire new operation himself. A child had showed up at his offices, demanding with few but sharp words to see him. Of course, Adonis had been surprised but he knew how rumors went. But he hadn't expected a kid to show up. He'd expected someone older, honestly even Basso himself, to arrive and ask what he was doing, moving in on someone else's domain.

     He suppressed a chuckle in an effort not to spill the coffee he was drinking. The kid had a good look to him, dark eyed and serious. Adonis liked him but, honestly, no tact whatsoever. You never ask outright for someone to be killed. It's bad manners and shoddy business. He'd told the kid that. What mattered was that the kid listened.

     "How should I ask?"

     "Politely. Respectfully." He had laughed, gesturing to himself and to the kid. "A man of respect to a man of respect."

     But, as likable as the kid was, Adonis wasn't going to throw away all the planning that had been done. There was a meeting planned with Basso the next week after all and if Adonis ordered his men to kill him, the bosses would lay the blame on Adonis, for causing more trouble than was needed. An alternative, however, came to Adonis' mind just before showing the kid out.

     He took a gun from his desk, one that belonged to someone that certainly wouldn't need it anymore. "Here. If you want him dead, do it yourself."

     The kid had looked at the piece for a few long moments. Then he'd taken it. Awkward, obviously - Adonis knew the recoil would leave the kid unable to write for a week - but he didn't shirk away from it. Just stood there, holding it, looking at it silently until he'd nodded, thanked him and left. Adonis got word that one of the men had given him some tips on shooting, which he approved of, but he couldn't honestly appraise the whole thing as more than a rather morbid joke. At best, he expected the kid to run in, shoot up Basso then get killed himself. That'd work perfect really. But for a week nothing had happened. Not until the kid had left a message that the job (Adonis kind of wondered about that. It had never been a 'job', so to hear the term used...) would be done, leaving the location. How he had acquired information about the Black Hand's movements wasn't in question. Adonis wasn't stupid. The kid was a local and if someone had received a threat or been promised a visit, they would be far more likely to tell a familiar face than the gruff gangster-types. But a time would have been nice. Adonis had been sitting in the coffee shop since seven that morning and was starting to feel an ulcer building up from all the coffee. Now that Basso had arrived, there was only the hope that somebody hadn't lost their nerve and that the show was still on.

     A wheelbarrow - gone missing from a construction yard - squeaked as it rolled down the street, edging along the sidewalk. It was piled high with coal, which looked ridiculous given that the load and the wheelbarrow it was carried in were obviously far too much for the coal boy who pushed it. Which explained how dirty he was, clad in raggedy pants, dirty vest and a oil-stained cap pulled low, who every so often would stop to pick up what fell from his load. He looked like he was about to cry, with how he bit his lower lip, eyes covered self-consciously. Basso's two guards did notice him, with half-sympathetic and half cruel looks. Adonis didn't even notice him; from across the street all the random passerbys seemed to melt together. Only when the wheelbarrow veered, catching a small pothole, and got stuck a few steps from the Black Hand's car did the three disconnected men notice the boy. Suspicion for a moment, as the coal boy lingered, shoving at the wheelbarrow until he checked the wheel. But as one of the guards took a step forward, he looked up, tears shining in the dark brown eyes and he darted away to the nearest alley.

     Adonis sighed and reached for his wallet. The two guards exchanged looks and laughed. Basso came out at that moment, giving his men an odd look and asking in Italian what was so funny. The coal boy peeked around the corner from the alley, watching as Basso stepped alongside the wheelbarrow towards his car. He wasn't quite so humored as his compatriots. Peeking out from the alley mouth, Shiri breathed deeply and lit the end of the string. It took flame, the hissing spark snaking quickly down the street. Basso was getting into the backseat of the car, one guard already in the driver's seat and another standing alongside. The fuse burnt down, a moment flickering as it passed across the cobblestones causing Shiri to flinch, panicked that it might go out. But it kept on burning. Basso saw the moving flame and leaned out his window to see what it was, just as it disappeared beneath wheelbarrow.

     Five sticks of dynamite, which Shiri had, with some difficulty, stolen from a local construction yard and strapped beneath the wheelbarrow, took flame. Adonis found himself on his ass as the explosion shook the ground, tearing a chunk of the boulevard up with it. The instinct to throw his arms up over his face spared him a few nasty cuts as the flying coal and bits of metal shrapnel shattered the coffee shop's windows. Crawling up and peeking over the counter, he watched the scene. The car was a mess. The front half looked like someone smacked it with a truck and what the explosion hadn't done, the flying debris had finished - including Basso and his men. It was a mess now, people screaming - some injured, others just terrified - and the stretch of street looked like a warzone, with the storefronts on both sides of the street completely trashed. Adonis looked at the alley to find Shiri but the boy was gone.

     He found himself laughing as he sank back down on his rear. If it had been a morbid joke at first, it was Shakespeare now. A twisted play that had just finished its first scene. They were just going to love this upstate.

IV

     While Manhattan in the winter was bad, even the worst city snowstorms didn't compare to trying to drive through middle-of-nowhere New England after a blizzard. Vincent wasn't really steering so much as aiming the car at the where the middle of the road might be. Possibly. There wasn't a road so much as a flat strech of snow that occassionally had the faint impressions of tires that had risked these backroads earlier that morning. At least the black tree trunks formed something like a wall, keeping him from being completely lost to the white. It was the worst. And It was always like this too! There was a reason Vincent tried to avoid having to bring him out during the winter. It was more trouble than it was worth. But sometimes, like now, Vincent didn't have a choice.

     However, questions like why he was doing it, why he was the one doing it and if it really worth all the cost and trouble had long since been swept under the rug in Vincent's mind. Not to say he hadn't thought them. He'd been one of the most vocal and most skeptical of all...

     Back then, Vincent had done some jobs with that Adonis - before the guy got sent down the coast to scope out new ventures and Vincent got promoted to heavier, dirtier jobs. Vincent respected the guy. But respect didn't change the fact that Adonis was better suited to the desk work, the legal hoity-toity, rather than the messy stuff. He just didn't have the gut for it. So when Adonis came back with a goddamned kid in tow, saying how he was a regular mafioso - well, Vincent had laughed harder than ever. It was true that most of the family had started young, as tough little snots who stole and fought before coming into their own place. But to actually kill someone, that was the final test before admission - the thing that proved a made man. The kid was a fourteen year old.

     But his capo, "Padre" Contadino, thought differently. His nickname came from the way he cared for the men under his command; true to the core an old Sicilian father. For the first time, Vincent wondered if maybe that was a weakness. Untested, beyond Adonis' ridiculous story, Contadino took in the kid. For most, the soldiers shrugged it off as just a kindhearted adoption but Vincent had the guard shift at the house fairly often. He actually saw this supposed killer and he wasn't impressed. The kid was dark-eyed and quiet, too subdued to have any real personality. He even seemed skittish of the cleaning lady, when she'd brandish her broom at him. And then it got ridiculous. Contadino arranged for the kid to go to a boarding school, away from the city. Even Vincent knew those were expensive. But what was worse was that the capo asked for Vincent to be the driver. It took over four hours and was the kid dead silent the entire ride. The snot just stared out the window, clutching his suitcase like a baby. Vincent remembered slamming the door shut behind the kid and driving off. He was thankful that the nonsense was over and that the kid was set far, far away.

     Fewer trees along the side of the road made it a bit more difficult to judge where the ditches were, drawing Vincent's focus for a bit. It had happened a few times, when there was a storm or something. Working the tires out of a muddy ditch in the middle of a downpour was hell and attempting the same, in the foot-deep snow wasn't exactly appealing. Gradually, the trees became more thick, the snow a bit more merciful.

     Unfortunately, it didn't even take a month before the fact that the kid was so very far away became a bad thing. A really, godawfully bad thing. But it was a request directly from the capo, without the lieutenant as an intermediary. That respect couldn't be ignored and Vincent had driven all the way back out the school and, dressed in his Sunday best, delivered the letter to the principal and got the kid out of class. Lucky snot. Still, Vincent got a week off for it so it wasn't entirely a waste. After the break though, it was the four hour drive again all the way out to the hoity-toity school again. He should've thought about getting used to it then and saved himself the irritation when it happened again and again. When he had gotten to know the principal, the school counselor and a few teachers by name, he started to worry he was just becoming a nanny for the spoiled brat. What made it worse was that every single trip was made out to be something important. Contadino seemed to view them as matters of the utmost secrecy and, while it worked out fine for Vincent - honestly, he wasn't going to tell anyone he just drove a kid around - it still cast his entire life into doubt. What the hell was he doing, living a life like this? But he kept his malcontent to himself. Mostly. There had been a night of some heavy boozing with the others that had loosed his lips. It had just been that once and only the lieutenant had heard. At the time, he had been thankful the lieutenant was a good sort and had actually sympathized with him, instead of reporting his unhappiness to the capo.

     Later that week, the lieutenant had taken him out to lunch. But his sober self wasn't as inclined to whine about his job. On the other hand, the lieutenant seemed all the more earnest about his own unhappiness. They had parted that day, with the lieutenant suggesting that if Vincent was really unhappy, he should stop by sometime. There might be something a bit more interesting for him to do. The lieutenant knew people, outside of their family. Vincent couldn't help but feel a bit uneasy by that vague offer. Leaving the family had never even occurred to him but, as another trip out to the countryside came up, he had plenty of time alone to think about it. On the way back, he glanced at the kid. The pale, quiet, dark-eyed little snot who had somehow found his place in the family as a bosses' little pet. How much had the capo paid to take care of this baby? If this was where things were going to be, he didn't want to be a part of it.

     The day after he dropped the kid off at "Padre"'s home, Vincent went to see the lieutenant and hear what sort of thing his friend had in mind. As he pulled in front of the apartment, he reminded himself that he did owe the family a lot so, whatever he decided to do, he'd pay his respects to his boss. That feeling, he would remember. Going inside, he didn't actually know what apartment it was, so he went into the little office on the first floor to check with the landlord. Finding out the number, he turned to head to upstairs, just in time to see that kid come downstairs and head out the front door. Vincent knew that the lieutenant didn't know the kid. Contadino had always been careful to mention that the matter of the kid was just between Vincent and himself. So why the kid was there, Vincent had no idea. Had he suspected his friend or even wondered a bit more about his vaguely mentioned 'connections, Vincent would've been more alarmed than he was then. But as it was, he just headed upstairs and was startled to find the door unlocked. Knocking didn't get any response and, stepping inside, it became obvious why. A man was on the couch who Vincent though he recognized as an officer from another mafia - though he couldn't be certain. Especially not once he realized the man wasn't alive; the vivid blue and red mixed line around his neck from a garrote. Vincent took out his own gun and made his way through the rest of the apartment until he found his friend, the lieutenant, sprawled out on the bedroom floor in a pool of blood that was just a bit more than anyone could survive missing. Vincent didn't hang around any longer.

     The next day, he was summoned to Contadino's house. He went quickly, certainly not worried about being executed too; nobody knew he had gone to the apartment and he hadn't known anything about the lieutenant's meeting with other families, after all. But the meeting was far from discussing his pending death. Instead, Vincent had been promoted, taking the unfortunately deceased's place in the family. And with that, he was made privy to what he had already learned about just what the kid was brought back to the city for. And, having seen the work of the fifteen year old against two experienced mafioso, Vincent's doubts about it had been quelled.

     He was getting closer to the university. He had passed the diner, in one of those little towns, where he'd once decided they should stop and eat. Not that the kid would ever argue or say anything for that matter. Shivering, Vincent breathed a puff of white out in a sigh. He wasn't really looking forward to getting there. Though as the sun had risen higher, the snow had begun melting and the road even was visible, in dark splattered spots, where the white hadn't fallen quite so thick before.

     Now that the kid was at the university, it was easier to get a hold of him. They didn't have to make arrangements with the boarding school or send vague messages. Vincent wondered if he ever had conflicts. Did he go out on the weekends? Hell, maybe the kid even had a girlfriend he had to work around. He was definitely at the age for one finally. Maybe Contadino knew. Even if he did, he sure as hell wasn't telling. As for Vincent, he rubbed his face before adjusting the scarf up a bit higher about his jaw. His only conversation with the kid hadn't gone very well.

     "What are you doing there?"

     A silent quirk of the kid's face.

     "You know, at college."

     "Studying."

     "Well, no shit. I mean what." He had jerked his head towards the backseat, where the kid had his belongings, provided by the capo, packed for the trip up to the university.

     "Literature."

     "Really? So, what... you just read books all day?"

     No answer.

     "Right..." He didn't quite know what to say, to keep the conversation going. He could see it though; the kid just sitting in some corner, surrounded by books. And it's not like the kid had to get a job or anything. For as long as he was able to be Contadino's little killer, the kid could live as quietly as he wanted. Hell, Vincent wondered if the kid even bothered going to classes. Not like he had to. "Well, I suppose it could be worse. You could be in music or art or something really..." He glanced over, just to see the reaction, just in case, "...you know."

     The kid hadn't batted an eye as he said, "I like music and art. I'm just not very good at them."

     Vincent had just given up at that point. But now, he wished maybe he had pushed a bit more. The kid hadn't interacted much with gangsters before and it would have done him good to have been not quite so, well, something. He wasn't quite sure what it was, even as he thought about it as he drove by the campus buildings, towards the dorms where he was picking up the kid. Something that would have made this whole mess a lot easier to deal with, he thought, at least. But who was he kidding? This was the kid who had started killing people years ago. Sure, he might be a spoiled, second-year college bookworm but that didn't change the fact he was a mafioso. Contadino, the one who had brought Vincent himself into the mob and eventually made him his righthand man, had set this kid aside - that was not a misplaced trust.

     The car rolled to a stop and Vincent got out, looking over the hood at the young man who stood at the sidewalk. How to even start? The boss is dead, shot down after eating lunch two days ago. We've gone to mattresses already and we need you on hand. There's a lot of jobs waiting. Vincent looked at the dark eyes and for all that they had seen, Vincent couldn't bring himself to believe in them. They weren't going to survive a mafia war. He sighed.

     "Get in the car, kid."

V

     "Looking for something in particular?"

     The sound of the voice, interrupting the dim quiet of the store, caused him to jump a bit in his shoes. It was the first time that the bookseller, sitting statue-like at his desk, had spoken and the abruptness of it had caught him off guard, leaving him to stutter, "E-eh, no, no... not at all. Just, you know, looking."

     Christ, he was a mess. He had always been of a slight nervous disposition but never bad enough to be startled by just a voice. He would have to see his doctor soon to talk about that new European medicine that they'd talked about last month; the one that was supposed to sedate just a little. Not enough to knock a person out for an operation or anything. Just take the edge of a little skittishness. He could stand to lose some of that edge. Hell, he could stand to lose it all now. Everything was over anyway. He was just a regular man, looking for a regular job. A good head for numbers, quick with the figures and rates. He was a good accountant and would be a fine addition to any firm or bank. Maybe he was a bit older than most of the candidates but he had experience in the business!

     Just please don't ask from where. Every time they asked about his previous employment, he felt his stomach collapse inward, like chains had been smacked around it. He couldn't lie after all. He didn't have a reason to. He was just a regular accountant, counting up books of figures and tallying where what money was going where. They were just numbers. Numbers didn't commit crimes! They didn't beat people up in dark alleys or dump bodies in the bay. Christ, he was a slightly balding, scrawny man in glasses! Not a gangster. But it never mattered. Nobody would take a former employee of that firm. And now, even if all the bloody fighting had stopped so long ago that even the newspapers had stopped making a sensation out of it, nobody wanted to hire someone who had worked dirty before.

     "If you're feeling stressed, there's some very soothing poetry collections over on that shelf."

     His feet hopped inside his shoes again at the interruption of the voice. "I... I think I'll be good. Thanks. I should get going." He turned, facing the busy street just beyond the wall-length windows. Now he was making excuses so he could run away; just further proof he wasn't some sort of tough-shit thug. He didn't need to hurry - he was just going home after another afternoon of fruitless job searching. Back to his wife and kid, both sweetly oblivious to how their savings were slowly being eaten up. They'd have to sell their house within the month if he didn't get a job, pull the kid out of school and move somewhere. How far would be enough?

     "It's tough, isn't it?"

     He turned back, looking around his wrinkled coat shoulder to see the young bookseller, sitting behind the desk with an odd smile. "What..." Wariness made him repeat himself, a bit more firmly, "What do you mean?"

     "It's always the same. You come in, the interview goes well... and then they learn where you used to be."

     "Hey now." He glanced to the sides, trying to see into the other aisles, just in case they'd been overheard. Still on the defensive, he added, "What're you implying?"

     The bookseller's cheeks softened around the smile and he gave a slight, understanding nod. "It's alright. I was lucky to get work here - happened to know the owner from when I was a kid. But I bet nowhere else would take someone who used to work for any of..." He paused, "Well, those businesses. No matter how normal our work."

     Our work? He looked at the young man behind the counter. Dark hair, dark eyes, pale skin and slender fingers - he looked too dark, too soft to have fit anywhere else besides a dim, dusty bookstore. None of that heavy flair that the few - it was only few - gangsters he had seen come by had possessed. "What'd you do?"

     The bookseller rolled his eyes, "Clerical work for one of those trucking firms."

     Ah, he nodded understandingly. Several trucking businesses had gotten hit particularly hard when cops were tipped off about liquor shipments. Of course, nobody cared that the cops were probably on the payroll. He gave a weak chuckle, "Bet you were surprised when the cops busted in."

     The bookseller gave a quick chuckle, "Heh, terrified more like. I didn't have any clue. It's not like they write down 'twenty barrels of liquor, marked as olive oil' or something."

     They laughed together at the bleak reality of the joke, the sound shook the lightest layers of dust from the books as they shared their melancholy. After a few moments, his own laughter turned to a sigh finally as he finally voiced to his new comrade, "Not that anyone cares though. Everyone seems to just assume we're all gangsters or something." Didn't anyone grasp the way things really were? Here he was, getting on in age, with a family and without a job. That was hard enough on a man without this stupid black mark. Another sigh forced it's way out as he said, "I'm really thinking of just moving out of state, like go out west. Seems like everyone in New York is against me." He forced a smile at his own exaggeration. He was tired of it all though.

     The bookseller, his comrade-stranger, smiled as well and gestured to the stool next to the desk. As the ex-accountant sat down, gratefully relaxing down onto it, the other set aside some volumes with illegible titles, "If you don't have anything else that looks promising, I had someone in here, asking if I knew anyone who might be interested in some office work. Your kind of work."

     A calm response would have been proper to such an offer. Not to let the suggesting party know that the recipient was in a weaker position. Dealing with money had taught him that, even if he was usually just sitting behind a desk. But, truth be told, he had gone out at times to meetings where, as an accountant, he had attested that; yes, this money had been transfered this way, crossed the books at such a time. He knew how to handle himself in business. It was only after the fire-bombing of the office that his skittishness had gotten the better of him. So, for his moment of weakness, he may perhaps be forgiven, even as he nearly shouted, "Really?!"

     "Aye. He's got a little office set up and you'd have pretty much the run of the place yourself."

     "Looks like it'd pay well?"

     The bookseller smiled, "Better than your last job, I'd think." He chuckled and gestured to the bookshelves, "Certainly better than mine but I don't like dealing with banks and such. I'd much rather stick to these books."

     "Heh, can understand that." He thought about it. It seemed a bit odd but maybe he was starting up an office for an out of town firm or something. "Whose he work for?"

     "Oh, nobody. He's an independent contractor."

     As an accountant, he had run across that term before in his work. Every so often, there was an odd piece of paper - never more than just one sheet, detailing an amount paid 'For services rendered'. They were always troublesome to work in, since the transfers always were vague and it was a pain to figure out where and when the amount had been moved. But more than that, it was never just some lowlife who delievered these sheets. It was always someone with a bodyguard and a driver, who handed it directly to the accountant from a folder that had been tied shut, with the warning to make no copies. It was just for balancing the book.

     Forcing calmness into his voice, he looked at the bookseller. "Wrong side of the war then?"

     A soft laugh didn't mask the smile that split the bookseller's jaw from the rest of his face. "Weren't we all?"

     He nodded. True, they had all come down on the wrong side of the coin. But he wasn't like them. He had gotten in too deep and now he wanted out. This guy... "Wouldn't it be easier to just stay... I dunno," He waved his hand about the store, "Somewhere like this. It might not be exciting but it's-"

     "Safe?" The bookseller interrupted. As the former accountant nodded, the bookseller - if, of course, that's what he was - leaned forward, resting his elbows on the countertop. For a moment, the bookseller seemed to ponder the thought and the ex-accountant hoped that the entire mess would be dropped. But the mysterious man finally spoke, "It is safe here," But, though he slowed at those words, he spoke again before the accountant could nod in agreement, "But in safe only because it is small and unnoticed. If it ever becomes noticed, it's the least safe place one could be. Sitting here at my desk, someone could come in and shoot me at any moment."

     Startled a bit, the accountant didn't quite know what to say for a moment. The argument felt horribly flawed to him but at the same time he felt a slight, ridiculous thought that; no, no random stranger could possibly just simply shoot the man who sat before him. But he shrugged it aside for the moment, to argue, "But that's the same as dying any other way. Like... well, I could get run over today. Besides," He gave a wry smile, "Whoever worked for the old bosses couldn't be all that good, seeing as they lost the war. Now, if he was from the winners..." He shook his hand, to indicate that he wasn't interested in going back to work for the mob. The point was, if one was thinking about it, you'd go for the winning side.

     The smile, watched over by those dark eyes, took form a bitand the bookseller asked, in return, "Would you say that you're a bad accountant because of what happened? Of course, you wouldn't," He amended, seeing the expression formed by the ex-accountant, "And likewise, in a war... no matter how many battles you can win, if the generals do not guide properly, the war is lost. I'm paraphrasing - if you'd like I can get the book that's from for you."

     He shook his head without thinking, as if mute.

     "Quite. But I digress. The job, if you're interested, is nothing quite so exciting either. You take envelopes and make sure they're sent along as needed. When the money for services rendered is paid, you manage it, see that it gets to the bank. It's a very dry job."

     "But..." He felt confused, like the legs had been taken out of under him, leaving him hovering at someone else's mercy, "But... it pays good?"

     "More then enough to support your family, yes. I assure you."

     He shuddered at those words though he wasn't sure why. But it did point to a reasonable truth. As a man, as a father and husband, he had to provide for his family. He didn't want to uproot them and drag them off to some strange place. He wanted to find a way to take care of them without alerting them to his own weaknesses. As all men with weak dispositions, he wanted to be strong for his family. And this strange man, this oddity of a bookseller was offering everything he wanted with utter politeness.

     "I..." He paused, then breathed heavily, "I think I'll take you up on it."

     An envelope, weighted with a set of keys inside, was slid over. "There's an address inside here, with some preliminary instructions. Please see to it that you're there tomorrow morning." The bookseller smiled as the accountant nodded and, taking the envelope, hurried out.

     It was not until he had gone a few blocks that he stopped his quick pace to look at his hands. They were shaking badly. It wasn't his skittish nature. That he had gotten fairly well under control when he sat down. It was that man. That strange and most confusing of men, who had been so polite and yet - what monster had been made during that massacre of a war. How could such a man go unnoticed by other malicious and evil men? And yet, even as the ex-accountant now go-between for an 'independant contractor' of the mafia wondered about it, he knew the answer. It came from a book.

     "The prince of darkness is a gentleman."

VI

     People �must make decisions. This has been and in all reasonable likelihood shall continue to be absolutely, inevitably true. Dominic was faced with several decisions of indeterminable weight as he sat at the resturant table, ensconced by cigarette smoke on the greasy air. He could either get the meat sauce spaghetti and toss his Spades. Or he could go for some lasanga and take the chance holding them.

     "Play the damn cards, Dom."

     "Don't rush me. I don't like being rushed."

     His partner laughed, patting his belly with the hand that wasn't holding his cards. Dominic rolled his eyes, mouth puckering around his cigarette. Marty had the laugh of a pig being strangled; ironically not too different from what Dominic usually felt like doing to his partner. The pudgy creature sitting across from him hardly looked like a bookie, let alone a gangster. But Marty didn't like people to forget he was both.

     "Heya, can we get some service here?" Marty shouted, lifting the hand from his belly into the air. A waiter hurried over, eager to shush up the commotion and also because, as obnoxious as he was, Marty was very good at making sure people knew his connections. Nobody liked him but nobody crossed him either. The last time someone had, they'd ended up in the hospital - ambushed by young thugs one night. There hadn't been an investigation. Everyone knew the mafia had hushed it up because the gambling den that Marty ran always put a very comfortable amount of money into their pockets. Marty knew how to play his cards well.

     Dominic decided on the lasanga and dropped his spades onto the pile as he told the waiter.

     "Took ya long enough." The bookie said, grinning.

     His partner shrugged and leaned back in his chair, sallow face sucking on the cigarette until he felt like answering, "I just take time to think. I play 'em serious."

     That got Marty cackling, "You're so uptight, ya know, Dom?" Seeing Dom glare down at him, Marty amended, "But I like that in ya. You make damn good help at the books with that sharp eye of yours, making sure everythings all right. I 'preciates that." He gave a smile by twisting his cherry red lips, lifting up his glass in a salute before he drank. "We go way back, you and I. You're a good guy."

     Shallow flattery, Dom thought. They had known each other from their old neighborhood as street kids but they had hardly been friends. On the contrary, Marty had always been the one to beat up on kids like Dom and a lot of Dom's friends still had disfigured noses and scars from Marty's gang. But while Dom had tried and failed to get into some sort of legitimate business, Marty had forsaken the civil world and opened himself to the smaller, more questionable businessees in their area, finally settling himself into a little gambling den which he had eventually taken over. It had fattened his already soft and gluttonous appetite. But that was as far as a man like Marty was ever going to rise - the scum owner of some dingy gambling den. At least, until Dom showed up, looking for a job.

     Marty set down his glass and leaned over, his face now set in that 'let's talk business like I'm a serious businessman' look. Dom incredulously lit another cigarette and sat back as Marty started, "You know that setup over on Fordham?"

     "Yeah?" Of course he knew about it. The fat bastard had only been talking about it for the past month. It was a nice setup afterall: a row of legitimate businesses, all of which had something not so legit in their basement. Places like that were difficult for cops to successfully raid since the legit fronts could hold up any investigators but what made the setup so interesting was that one man ran the whole strip. The guy was going to be raking it in soon and, with its promise of safety, drawing a lot of business away from the competitors.

     "I've been thinking of taking it."

     Dom's cigarette went skittering across the floor has he coughed, "What? He's not gonna sell it, you know." Taking a quick drink to calm his throat, after violently inhaling all his smoke, Dom added, "And even if he was, you don't have the money to buy it."

     That was Marty for you. His eyes were bigger than his stomach, and both were a hell of a lot bigger than his mouth. Marty had been perilously close to running bankrupt when Dom had first arrived. And if the bookie runs out of money, he runs out of work. Forever. Nobody trusts a broke man with his money. But Dom had turned it around and, with his handling, the nasty little den had turned into one of the most popular - and profitable - places on this side of town. Now it wasn't really even Marty who ran it. He was just the slug who maintained the front, smiling and chatting up customers like a bigshot. Everyone knew it too but you just didn't cross Marty. And it wouldn't do Dom any good to get fired or, worse, to get on the mob's bad side. If he wanted to run the show, he had to put up with having Marty as a figurehead. At least for now.

     "I wasn't thinking of buying it."

     Dom glanced up from his pockets - trying to find his pack of smokes. "Not buying?"

     Marty grinned, wagging a finger. "C'mere and listen." He said, to which Dom rolled his eyes and leaned forward to hear the ridiculous scheme. Marty giggled once before finally splurting, "Signore Morte."

     The cigarette pack fell from Dom's fingers, smacking on the floor. He didn't reach for it, shamming confusion instead as he asked, "Huh?"

     "Ya not heard of him? Christ, Dom." Marty leaned back to laugh hysterically, giving Dom time to reach down and retrieve his cigarettes. "I heard about him from my" he paused, to give particular emphasis, "friends. Ya know. They had a job recently, down in Jersey, that was really giving them trouble. So they hired the good signore and it got taken care of. No trouble."

     "Anybody can kill." Dom lied. He couldn't.

     "Not like this guy. They say he's the guy who was giving Maranzano all that trouble during the war. Rumor is that the Masseria would just say 'hit this guy' and word would go out to this monster. Few days later, it'd be done." Marty's grin was streched wide as he took another drink, before continuing, "So nobody knows who he is exactly and now he's working on his own. Up for hire. Which is perfect for my friends. And," he pointed deliberately to Dom, "for us."

     Dom wasn't so sure about that. "If he's that good he must be expensive to hire." He shrugged, fidgetting with the carton lid. "Only the mafia would hire him."

     "An easy job like this? No more than two grand."

     "Why not just buy a car then and run him over yourself? Could do it with that much cash."

     "Chrissake, Dom. Don't be so uptight about it." Marty sighed and leaned back in his chair, hands resting on his stomach. "Listen, we can't just go kill him ourselves. That'd create a mess, for us, for our customers, for my friends. But if someone else hits him and we're there to clean up, then everybody's happy. The cops can look for some out of towner that they'll never find and we'll be raking it in."

     "I dunno, is all." Dom said defensively, shrugging it off. Signore Morte was certainly a good killer and businessman. The office Dom had seen was clean and neat, the man running it was polite and professional, 'write down your proposal, any details, don't say anything to me, we'll be seeing you' sort of person. But the whole thing made him a bit nervous. And certainly hearing about it again didn't help.

     "Aha!" Marty interrupted. His pudgy finger shot out as he stated, "I know what it is. You're really skittish about the idea of it, aren't you?"

     His partner blinked, "Huh?"

     "Oh, you'll run numbers, gamble but when it comes to really dirty work you don't like to even think about it, do ya? Heh, I figured ya for a bit of a wuss but, Dom, this is why you'll never make it big in this business. You're too much a woman to ever step out of your little office down there. When it comes ta meeting with tough people and getting the messy work done, I get to take care of it." The bookie laughed and shook his head, "But that's fine. We make a good team, you and I."

     Dom nodded slowly, putting a cigarette between his teeth and going for his lighter. That bastard - he had no idea the sort of things that Dom had to put up with to keep everything running. No messy work. Who managed the payoffs or the conncetions to the cops? Marty's friends in the mafia were just low level soldiers. The stuffed envelopes that Dom sent to the precinct captain kept company with envelopes from the capo's. Dom didn't need low-life thugs with dreams of being scary to do his dirty work. Sometimes he wished he could show Marty the full extent of his dirtiness. Put a gun to the man's forehead and say 'hey, ya think I got balls now?'. But he knew he'd never do that. Marty was right; you couldn't just kill someone. Sometimes you needed someone a step removed to handle the situation for you and your job was just to take advantage of the mess you had created. And sometimes, just to be extra careful, you had to specify that however the third-party handled the situation, you weren't to be implicated. Suspicion was bad for business.

     "...but that's how things are, ya know?" Marty was saying. Dom hadn't been listening. "Fer chrissakes, where's the food at? They're never this slow. But anyways, like I was saying! After the guy gets hit, we could just step in and buy the real estate from the owners and..."

     Dom just kept nodding as the waiter appeared and set down the lasanga and lamb. It was really a waste to listen to anything more the man was saying. Marty would hire Signore Morte if he wanted, when he wanted. Plus Dom was getting hungry - paying attention to Marty was exhausting. He took one more drag on his cigarette and set it in the ashtray on the table.

     The platter hit Dom across the cheek, spinning him aside. His chair swung out from underneath and, tilted at the angle and chairless, he fell to the floor, looking downward. Gunshots - maybe one, maybe many, the number blurred within the violent sound. On the floor, his head felt light for a moment and, when it cleared, the sharp sounds had given way to the clamor of screams and panic. Dom blinked, momentarily not hoping. The waiter had vanished, even the evidence of the platter swept away. Then he got to his knees and peered over the table.

     Marty was leaning back in his chair as he had been not a minute ago. His lamb looked delicious, cooked just how he liked it. He hadn't even touched his silverware and, with the splotches of red on the wall, right by where Marty's head leaned back out of sight, it didn't seem like he was going to.

     That answered things pretty well, Dom thought. He took his cigarette from where he had put it on the table and sat back down on the floor. After being hit by the platter, his face hurt like hell and he was kind of dazed by the whole mess. Ignoring the chaos in the resturant - the cops would be there soon enough - he waited. Plus, he owed two grand for a dinner he didn't even get to eat. But that was okay. He didn't really feel like having lasanga anyway. Signore Morte, eh? He smiled as he watched the smoke curl upwards.

VII

     A man stirs in his sleep, drawing newspapers closer to his shoulders against the wind which whistles through the cracks of the freight car. He is a tattered patchwork of clothing; hat from Fayetteville, jacket from Newport, shoes � what�s left of them anyway � bought in Columbia and repaired months ago in Montgomery. The pants have too many tears and patches to be considered a single pair of pants. Like their owner, they are a form that has been cut and mended in thousands of different places. Each thread has a story that the man could tell you. But not now. Now, he sleeps.

     A woman sighs, closing her eyes against the rest of the world. Her husband is at the office late tonight again. Her daughter is fidgeting in her cradle, making small baby snores. That is all she knows for certain, she tells herself. A few years ago, she was more confident. She had a house, a family, and a sense of security. Now she has all but the last. She doesn�t know. There are stories of men who have lost their fortunes, their businesses and just never returned home. She can�t tell how her husband is doing anymore. There are mothers who can�t afford to buy their children the things they need. Her daughter is just a vulnerable baby right now. She wants that peace of mind she had again, the feeling she could describe so clearly that�s missing now. But not now. Now, she tries to sleep.

     A boy rolls over. It makes the pain in his shoulder ease up a little. There�s a nasty bruise there that he won�t show his mother. She�d scold him and then get that look on her face when she makes him tell her how he got it. He had been fighting for some apples that had been stolen by the other boys. They screamed, bite and kicked at each other. They called each other names, told each other to stop being selfish. Of course they were selfish. They had families at home. They all knew that. He didn�t like fighting the other kids but he had brought home two whole apples. Two apples not even bruised. He could tell you how his little brother had smiled. But not now. Now, he was just tired and his shoulder hurt.

     A man stares at the nightscape from his position - laying on his back in an alley somewhere in the middle of Chinatown. He had done well for himself. He slept in a comfortable bed each night, lined his wallet with cash whenever he went out and always made sure he was looking good. He knew that men twice his age, who had worked hard and clean all their lives, now sitting on street corners and willing to work for any shit job they could find. He had kept his pride throughout and never let anyone take him for anything less than a man. He talked sharp and was a good man to deal business with. That's why he had been in Chinatown tonight. It was because he had been carrying a briefcase full of cash that he had found himself lying in some dirty alley, just admiring the nightscape. He could tell you all about it sometime later. Right now, he was just getting kind of chilly and felt like maybe he ought to just close his eyes for a bit.

     A train rattles along in the dark. It could be anywhere across the country. Pick a place, any place; somewhere that the train might stop its clatter for a brief time. Past the quiet depot, out into the night. There are people, sleeping or trying to. Dying or trying not to. Desperate, bleak cities mark the landscape and here those desperate and bleak enough make their way, carving themselves niches of something like safety. Anything can be bought nowadays. A precious family heirloom or a businessman's proud sedan. Memories and hopes. And, for the right price, even lives. A train rattles along in the darkness, stretching across the country.

VIII

     Isabell Lock curled the plan white envelope beneath her fingertips like the skin of a lover. Which she had had many of, all professionally. At her prime she had been something of a starlet in the Los Angeles' sin trade, playing as many as fifteen reliable boys, ranging from secure, wealthy businessmen to famous and charming celebrities. The boom had been good to her and, in turn, she had been good to the boom - those who had gained wealth and thrived along with the city lavished gifts and wealth on her like a goddess. And in return, she had not left her devotees to lonely evenings and cold beds. She had enjoyed those days and that life; perhaps it was deceptive but she felt loved and she did, truthfully, reasonably love the men she was with.

     So the depression fell on her and the city like a heartbreak. It took her home, posh apartment downtown, and it had taken her lovers, the wealthy either fleeing the city or cooping up in their homes, too concerned about their wealth than about their past lovers. It had left her with nothing of her life before, casting the goddess down into the gutter until she was muddied just as much any other misfortunate. And muddied she had been. When the gangsters had come and the corruption spread through Santa Monica with its gambling and liquor, she had already sold her heart of gold and the steel piece that replaced it was ready to make full use of the men who came each night. The other girls, used to plying on rough factory men and other lowlifes, filled a certain niche themselves - satisfying the crudest urges. But it was Miss Lock who made the gangsters feel like royalty and, on the pleasure of those thugs, she built a new domain for herself in this fallen Eden.

     The old aunt who managed their red-lit house allowed the entire top floor to be renovated for Lock's entertainment. After all, snaring the capos and gambling den owners brought in thick stacks of cash and Lock had quite a host of them in her snares. It was a far cry from a Santa Monica hotel suite but it was lavish enough for her to work her charms. She would meet her lovers at the resturant a block down, the bar across the street, or wherever they would pay to be seen with her. But once she had satiated that place, she would always lure them back to that penthouse room and remind them that, while they could pay pennies to satisfy their pleasures, it was the price of their soul - and a good deal of money - paid to Isabell Lock, who alone would give them bliss. Once they had enjoyed her, no one else would do. And for her - she hadn't found anyone who would do at all. But as a fallen angel in her court of demons, she did enjoy some personal perks that other girls didn't receive. Bosses and capos who were entertaining out of town guests would hire her just for an evening, so that her mere presence alongside him would seduce the strangers into thinking that here was a man who truly had established himself, a man worth doing business with. While it was work all the same, she loved such evenings and would entice the stories out of these foreigners. Even men just as far as the Midwest were interesting enough to listen to and she was more ravenous for their stories than they could ever be for her body.

     "This guy's a broker for a very important deal I have going down." Mister Peart had told her. She had figured it was something with Peart's casino interests. "So take extra special care of him, kay? I want him to give a good report to his boss." She touched his hand and smiled. Of course she'd take care of him. But Peart had grabbed her by the wrist and shoved his face into hers. "I mean it. If this guy says something bad about me and the deal doesn't go, you be the one I hold responsible."

     Had she not heard that a thousand times before, it would have actually scared her. Instead, she got her hair done up and, later that week, she massaged a bruise hidden by her silk scarf and sat at an expensive resturant, waiting for Peart and this broker to show up. When Peart arrived, it was obvious. The man drew waves from other tables, which, like any good businessman, he went out of his way to greet. Isabell was careful to keep him in her sight but, like any good lover, she was really looking for the man she was to be entertaining. Peart hadn't described him but she had assumed he would be at the man's side. And yet, even when Peart arrived at the table, she still wasn't sure who the hell she was supposed to show a good time too. She rose from her seat and kissed Peart's cheek with a grace of polite sensuality and, as she drew back, Peart smiled, saying, "This is my good friend and associate, Mister Auditore, visiting us from New York" and there the man was.

     She blinked and, for a moment, felt that her smiling expression had broken, that her eyes were naked before this dark, young man who, as if he had always been there, was at Peart's side. Yet he bowed low, taking her hand and kissing the glove she wore. She regained herself and feigned a blush, as they took their seats and enjoyed their dinner. But with more intensity than usual, she dragged out his story.

     New York born, he said. Specialized in brokering special business deals. Could have been a regular businessman but liked dealing with people individually. His boss? Oh, a man of unusual skill indeed, a claim which Peart smiled and nodded supportively to. How did he like Los Angeles? Oh, the weather suited him. It was already getting chilly back home. He laughed and Peart followed. Isabell wondered if this Auditore noticed that Peart was just playing up an act. But even if he did, the man smiled and, as he rose to his feet and bowed again, assured "my good Mister Peart" that he had enjoyed the evening, as if he had been treated by royalty. But Peart had quickly risen and gestured to Isabell, suggesting that Auditore let her show him some of the city, enjoy his evening a bit more with her. Isabell had given her best, demure smile and offered her hand. Auditore took it.

     She had entertained him for another evening before he returned to New York and Peart paid her double her usual fee, praising her good work. But Peart's business was no concern to her and, while she regretted not having extracted any more stories from the strange man, even during the two long nights, she dwelt no more on the job.

     The following week she had been out shopping, wandering the city streets in search of some new clothes and whatever other trinkets might fit a fancy and fill the empty spots in her attic-room. Had it been later in the afternoon, when the crowd of shoppers might have been thicker, or more vehicles on the road, she might have decided against wandering for so long. And if it had been noiser than it was that morning, whether by the sound of the sea or from the city itself, she wouldn't have noticed at all the sounds that crawled up the stairwell in that alleyway. She would not have stopped and glanced down, almost unable to resist the urge to fling herself down the steps, throw open the door and into whatever trouble was down there. Instead, she only stared at the dark, grimy stairwell into the basement of some second-hand goods store, wondering if she might get caught up in it.

     A gunshot. Muffled. She might have even imagined it, from the depths of her heart. But then the door swung open and he stepped outside, coat thrown over his shoulder, hat tipped slightly on his head. She couldn't move and he looked up, as he started up the stairs, right at her. For a moment, neither moved. He smiled politely and bowed. She smiled weakly back and hurried down the street till she caught a taxi back home, where she drank herself to sleep.

     When she woke and stumbled to the bathroom, she wasn't sure if it had been a dream. But, when she gargled some water, splashing some more on her face to clear her head, she knew it hadn't been. She had returned to her bedroom and not been entirely surprised to find him there, sitting in one of her chairs. She had unsteadily made her way to the bed and sat down. Neither spoke for the longest time until she broke the silence, half chuckling,

     "So... I guess you were the real thing."

     "I'd like to think so." He said, smiling suddenly.

     "Christ, I mean... yeah. You were..." She floundered. What to say to the man of your dreams? She actually blushed, "You were damn good."

     He rose to his feet, straightening his tie a bit. His suit coat, he left draped over her chair as he walked to the mirror. For a moment, she thought she might get off easy.

     "I could tell everyone, ya know. That Peart hired you to kill. Could describe you all the way down to your-"

     "Shouldn't you be offering to pay me?"

     She blinked. "You..."

     He turned, still smiling, though it was a faded smile, like the mirror she had spent these past hellish years looking at; wondering what it would take to break it. "I don't kill people for free."

     "...couldn't you? Just this once, a dame like me?" Her voice was no more than a whisper. She hadn't heard herself sound like that since she was a little girl.

     He stepped over to her faster than she could move. His hand, cool and soft, caught the edge of her dress and tugged it down her sleeve. She winced a little, unthinking, but he knelt down, his lips almost brushing the skin of her shoulder, normally covered by her scarf and dress. "You really ought to ease up on that bruise." He told her. Before she could speak, he was back on his feet, walking across the floor almost silently. She could only watch him. Somehow, in this fallen world of hers, he had arrived, the answer to everything. And yet, he eluded her and her desires; her, the devil-mistress who had always commanded such powers. "What do you want?" She asked, finally, running her palm over her face.

     "I have an offer." She glanced up but he held his hand out, stilling any question or thought she might have voiced. "I will provide you with money to establish your own... house of this kind. In return, interested parties will leave letters with your workers. These letters, requesting my employment, will be handed to you and you, in turn, will forward them to my office in New York." He spent a moment, looking out her window, as if taking stock of the world outside her own. Then, letting the draperies fall back into place with the slightest bit of disdainful humour, looked back at her.

     She forced a smile, giving yet another weak chuckle. "Hey now, you wouldn't be trying to get me in handcuffs now would you? Not gonna knock me up or nothing?"

     "You will work for me alone." He replied, returning to her side again. This time, his touch took her chin, tilting her head upright and to his lips. His kiss was soft, almost ethereal, yet she felt it take more from her than any other man. It was like a little death and she grasped at it like redemption. He stood upright and, returning to the chair, put on his suit coat and hat. "I'll give you until tomorrow, at noon. Until then." He bowed low and was gone. But even before the door had closed behind him, she knew she would be his.

     Now she wondered who the envelope beneath her fingertips contained. What soul would her angel come to steal away to the afterlife. Shifting in her seat, she set in inside the desk drawer and locked it. It would be mailed out to the New York office in the morning, personally by her. And then, maybe a few weeks afterwards, that employer of hers would arrive - showing up in her room, the upstairs penthouse of the red-lit apartment complex, without sound or warning. And, for one night, she, Isabell Lock - a one time angel, one time devil, now just another girl - would have him.

IX

     When Tatsuda Yoji died, it came as a mercy beyond anything he had ever imagined possible. Even if he could have spoken at that moment - which he could not, his ability to speak had been taken from him very early on - he would not have been able to articulate the immeasurable relief he felt when the blessed chill cut through the heavy veil of pain and he felt his spirit swept out of his body. It was a bliss beyond bliss. Even if hell awaited him afterwards, it would have seemed a paradise compared to the world he had just left behind.

     Not that he had believed in Hell. Never had, really. In fact, the only experience of the afterlife he had, as a child, was from the stoic glance of his late grandfather. The photo had been taken the afternoon the old man was to attend a ceremony with the Emperor in Tokyo, for his promotion to the head of the Imperial Guard division within the quickly growing Imperial Army. But you couldn't tell it was such a celebration from the soldier's face. He was stern, unsmiling - it could have just as easily been a funeral or an execution. But it was just how the man had been; a man fashioned from the coldest steel, unyielding and rigid in his command. He had been a great man, a good father to his children, an inspiration to his son who had followed his footsteps. Despite his death before Yoji had even been born, that grandfather seemed to be the reason for the family's existence - as if everything in this world depended on this one man's happiness in the world beyond. "For the pride of your honorable family", Yoji had been told when he had been volunteered into the ranks of the military. That family wasn't his parents. It was that one deceased old man who had gazed so sternly out from the photograph.

     Within the first year, he had been reprimanded eighty-seven times for minor misconduct, the record being ten in a single week. Six major infractions had also been reported but that was a misleading number, obscured by Yoji's ability to talk or pay his way out of official records. There was no benefit to his punishment; not for him or his superiors. He was promoted to lieutenant. Twice commended for being an inspiring leader, recommended for further promotion. When the highest ranks were discussing the possibility of appointing Yoji's father as War Minister, the young officer was halfway through a bottle of liquor in a downtown bar. An argument amongst some of his comrades turned into a fight, then into a brawl. It ended when Yoji shot a man, twice in the chest, before promoting himself to Emperor of the new shogunate.

     Sitting in his cell the following day, Yoji sobered up - both from the alcohol and his own situation. He had no real dislike of his job and it certainly was a comfortable place to stay - the charges would be cleared, for example, the act ruled self-defense and, at worst, negligent behavior. But he really had no desire to face the pretense of a trial. While his rampant troublemaking was hilarious fun, dealing with the quiet aftermath had grown to be more tedious then he cared to put up with any longer. With the help of a few fellow officer-friends, he was released from the prison and told to report in the morning. But, his mind set, he packed a few things and bullied his way as additional work on a freighter headed for the United States.

     His days on board made him glad he had been in the army. Navy life would never suit him. When they made port in California - the city name he couldn't quite remember - he was off the ship and into the city as quick as he could sneak away.

     The first order of approach was to find food. He had exchanged his homeland currency for a stack of the new stuff he'd need. Money was no issue. After settling that priority, he looked for trouble. He had learned that wherever trouble tended to gather, wallets tended to be thick as well. The stories of the crime families in the U.S. had reached his ears from the less reputable merchants and gambling dens. Now, a foreign invader to these shores, he was determined to take a slice of it. This plan did not live up to expectations immediately. The first night on American soil was spent curled up in an alley, propping himself in a stairwell to a basement just so the chilly breezes would leave him alone.

     Within a few days, he found himself at a dockside bar - the last dollar he had sitting on the counter to buy himself a few more hours of incoherent apathy. He might have been considering returning home had he been in any state to actually think of such plans.

     "You a sailor?" A voice asked from his shoulder. He noticed it because he could immediately understand it - didn't have to fish through the murky depths of alcohol to find the words in his English vocabulary. Japanese sounded so nice after days of hearing nothing but silly white chatter.

     "No." He replied, shaking his head, not bothering to look away from the ceiling.

     "Dockhand? Laborer?"

     "No job. Just arrived."

     "Trying to live here?"

     "Don't be stupid." He rolled his head to a more natural position, sitting up a bit. Talking seemed to clear his thoughts a little. It was relaxing too, compared to his previous days here. "Can't immigrate. Laws or something against it."

     His guest leaned onto the counter, leering up into Yoji's face. It was a rough, sinewed smile below eyes like devils. Yoji only saw the gold tooth. "Breaking the law, right?" Yoji smiled weakly, too liquored up to manage more. The man clapped him on the shoulder, almost unseating him. "Interested in a bit more of it?" The offer was kept vague and, until Yoji had agreed to it, the man wouldn't offer any details beyond it being a matter of 'merchandise' and that they pay-off was considerable. But by the time Yoji smacked his hand against the other man's, he already knew that it was just the sort of trouble he'd been looking for.

     It did seem like a perfect break until Yoji climbed up the gangplank and found himself on a ship. He had the afternoon to recover but, come nightfall, he learned that it was even worse to be on a smaller vessel than the massive freighters. The roiling of the deck made him want to honorably disembowel himself just to alleviate the sickness. But there was something exciting about pulling up alongside one of the freighters, climbing up the rope-bound ladders to meet with the crew who were their business partners. Boxes and small crates were unloaded to the ferry-boat and, within an hour, Yoji and his fellow smugglers would be off with the real valuables. The freighter would be clean for docking in the morning, just in case it should get inspected.

     Yoji's duties were mostly just hauling the cargo from the freighter to their smuggling ship and then from the ship to the trucks. Until the merchandise was passed on to the less than high-brow merchants, it would sit in the groups small warehouse down the dockside. The work never lasted more than several hours at worst; any longer might draw attention. While he occasionally spent the days sleeping in a bar or brothel, Yoji grew to prefer sleeping on the ship. It saved trouble and a hangover to just roll out of a bunk and get to work when the ship pulled out of the harbor at night. And he didn't mind the company. Most of the crew were Japanese like him - some legal, some illegal immigrants with stories that came out in brief glimpses, colored by liquor. The other cargo-haulers like him were pretty much illiterate bastards from broken homes who had found the sea their only place to make a living, growing into brutish thug-like men with able sea-legs. Yoji kept them friendly by means of charm and a few pouches of opium he snuck from one of their hauls. But it was the three ring-leaders, the contact-makers, that Yoji enjoyed his time the most. They were smart, sharp individuals - officer material without a doubt. They would talk about the sort of women they would pay a small fortune for, the new tariff that the American government had just imposed and how it'd help their smuggling, or even what sort of liquor bottle made the best weapon for a bar fight. Yoji had suggested the heavy, box-edged ones.

     As he became more and more a part of the crew, Yoji was occasionally spared the boat trip. He instead brought the two trucks to the dockside and waited for his comrades to bring the goods in. This gave him time to poke about the warehouse and count his savings, which he kept in a small barrel in the warehouse office - not trusting anything offland not to sink with his cash. As the night turned into the dark, early morning he would take a truck out to the dock, park it and make the long walk back to pick up the other vehicle. It was on this second trip, with the other truck, that Yoji caught sight of the sedan parked on the pier, colored black by the night, its lights making miniature lighthouses. Two men lounged alongside it, hats drawn over their faces, which were illuminated by cigarettes and smoke. Yoji parked the truck a distance back and strolled up.

     "Hey." He called, hands in his pockets to look dangerous in his recklessness. The two men went for their coats, sealing Yoji's suspicions. He raised his hands appealing, "Hey. Don't be uptight. You here for the ship?"

     One of the men relaxed, gesturing for the other to do so as well. Tipping his hat up, letting his cigarette keep smoking between his teeth, the gangster replied, "Maybe. Know when it's due in?"

     Yoji considered his situation. The stack of cash in that barrel back at the 'house wasn't bad but it sure wasn't the load he had expected to cut out here. Besides, if he walked away now, he wasn't likely to cut much more. The smuggling group had walked into trouble and while he was in a perfect spot to just leave it all behind, it wasn't in his nature to pass things off like that. Not when he could choose a better option. "In a hundred years." He answered, spitting into the sea. The two men looked him, the still-tense one plunging deeper into his jacket. Yoji grinned and pointed to the headlights. "You want to tell them you're waiting here? Flashing a light out like-" Here he waved his hands about, to gesticulate the idiocy. "Like stupid. If they come here you still have to fight their ship. They won't come off the ship to shoot you. They shoot you from the boat."

     The silent guy reached into the car to deal with the headlights but the one who seemed to catch Yoji's direction just laughed. He reached into his jacket and offered a cigarette, which Yoji took with a bow. "So interested in helping us sort out these guys?" The gangster asked. Yoji smiled and struck up a light, smoke roiling off the tip of his cigarette. In a minute Yoji outlined the plan.

     The smugglers would work as usual, docking and unloading the goods into the trucks which Yoji had dutifully brought. They would return to the warehouse, relaxed and off their home turf, the ship. It was there that the two gangsters would - as was tactfully put - negotiate proper compensation for working on the mob's dockside.

     Everything was agreed upon and, before the sun came up over the seaside, the trio picked through the truck, sorting out crates of untaxed quality goods and the less remotely legal cargo. Everything was all packed back up and Yoji was driving one of the trucks to a different warehouse that morning, leaving the bodies behind for someone else to pick through.

     For a few months he worked only with the two friends he'd made that night, handling the dockside. He would drive them to whatever pier or warehouse they were visiting. When it came to negotiations, he would mostly just stand around or investigate the place unless things went poorly, in which case there was the added job of helping with clean up. It was mostly just grunt work - things that anyone with half a brain and a tendency to keep their mouth shut could do. But he had 'made his bones' he was told, the night with the smugglers. What that meant exactly, he didn't know, but it seemed to translate into him being more than just a truck driver for his gangster friends. They bought him new clothes, set him up in an apartment deeper in the city, where the crowds suited him better. But it wasn't until he had started to get comfortable in his erratic duties of 'managing' the dockside with his two friends that he was driven to a downtown office and shown upstairs. The thick-armed man seated at the desk was called a capo or something. It wasn't until he said, "something like a captain" within the Martillo family - an outfit that was quickly growing out along the West coast - that Yoji grasped the power system of his new job. It turned out that the boss had been a veteran of the war and it was Yoji's own expertise that had caught his interest. The captain invited Yoji to drink with him and a few men that evening, an offer which Yoji wasn't about to turn down. Not if there was a promotion in store.

     Over the next three years, "Imperial" Yoji oversaw the solidifying of the Martillo's interests in the docks and shipping businesses. He selected the most charming and eloquent of men, coupled with the most terrifying brutes, to convince landlords and work-chiefs to consider the numerous advantages of cooperating with the Martillo. For those who would not be persuaded, those ships who would not pay the additional docking taxes, Yoji organized and, on several occasions, lead raids to systematically take them out of the scene. He formed his own platoon, drilled them with a sort of rigor that he detested in his superiors and, from that, formed the unstoppable strong arm of his new family. He didn't let it go to his head though. He was a part of his unit and they drank together after every successful mission. It was during one of these forays that one of the men, a new recruit who had just been with the group for two weeks, was roughed up a bit at the bar. The tray of drinks he was carrying back for his comrades was knocked from his hands. He retorted angrily, only to get hit from behind by the perps friend. They called themselves gangsters when they were just hoodlums. Yoji rose from his seat and made his way over. The nickname "Imperial" Yoji was something he had earned by carrying around a sword, in a tradition of his honorable ancestor. One of the thugs was talking about how they owned the bar when Yoji cut him open.

     Two of his men were injured in the ensuing fight. It wasn't bad for unexpected, close-range combat. The bar was burned to the ground and the thugs who had thought so highly of themselves went along with it. The team had gotten their two injured comrades to the family doctor and retired for the night. Yoji had gone to sleep, comfortable in his own apartment. The following morning, five Martillo soldiers were murdered before they had even set out for the day's work. A Martillo bar and resturant was torched later, right before opening. Yoji only heard of this when he came into the offices that evening to report on the previous job. There was a rumor that another family in the city had been attacked and had pinned it on the Martillo's. That they'd only lost a few men and a business was because the don had responded quickly, opening up negotiations. It might have been some random troublemakers after all and nothing to start a war over.

     Returning to his apartment, Yoji considered his options. The odds of trouble were slim. None were around to identify him or his group. In fact, the attack might have been something entirely different. There was no reason to quickly assume he had been at fault. Even if they were the attackers, it had all been a misunderstanding and, as an important member of the family, it was unlikely he'd be brought to any real punishment.

     That night he watched the city lights fade away as he tried not to puke over the passenger ship's railing. Fortunately, what he had stashed away was enough to pay for a first class ticket back to his native Japan. He would even get to stop in some other countries on the way, places he would have never gotten to see any other way. The trip itself was an adventure and had given him plenty of time to consider his options before they docked in Nagoya and he set foot back on solid homeland. First, he set himself up at a teahouse as a guest, at least for a week or two. This cost him most of his accumulated savings and took a fair effort from his charm to work out but it would be worth it, he figured. With the assassination of the Prime Minister recently, the military had moved from independent action of the government to practically taking power. It wasn't a bad place to be and, after his experience in practical application of military tactics, Yoji had found a new appreciation for his homeland's forces. He considering sending messengers out to his family but it was far more important to send letters to the higher ranking officers in some of the more extreme groups. His experience on foreign soil was sure to be useful and, if he carried the tides right, he might find something even more interesting than his gangster life. It felt so long ago that he had been across the sea but, while he knew it had only been a few weeks, he longed to get things moving again.

     For almost a month no reply came. His finances were fast dwindling as he stayed longer - the mother was growing less and less willing to indulge him. But as he sat in his room - debating where he'd relocate to - the afternoon warm and quiet aside from the sounds of patrons in the distant part of the teahouse, one of the apprentice geisha politely interrupted him and announced he had a visitor. Yoji was ecstatic and begged the girl to show his guest in. She bowed and withdrew, leaving Yoji to prepare his clothes and hair nervously. He had to look clean, professional but not diminish his worldly edges.

     The apprentice returned a few minutes later, apologizing that she couldn't seem to find the visitor. But he had seemed to recognize someone in the tea room, when she received him, so perhaps he had wandered within the grounds. Yoji was struck by a panic and his pleading took on a slight threat, sending the girl scuttling off to find the visitor. Yoji rearranged himself again and paced a little, too nervous to sit. But when he realized it would look terribly awkward to be standing when his guest arrived, he composed himself enough to sit and drink some tea. The hot drink calmed him a little. Then a gloved hand tore through the rice-paper wall and a soft, damp hand towel was clamped over his mouth and nose. The stench was strange and he felt the world twist around him, his limbs give out before he blacked out entirely.

     When he awoke, he was in the same room only his hands and feet were bound, propping him up in an uncomfortable sitting position. His mouth was gagged and even the sounds he tried to make sounded like whispers against the mass of cloth blocking it. But his head was clearing from whatever had knocked him out and, when the assailant sat down in front of him, Yoji noted every detail that might offer some advantage. The pale man seemed Japanese but something was off, the idea of mixed heritage not immediately coming to the former officer's mind. He was dressed in a plain military uniform, causing Yoji to briefly entertain the hope that this was some sort of test and initiation rite.

     "I was instructed to make sure you are aware of your situation." The man said slowly, checking the snugness of his gloves around his wrists. Yoji noticed the curious accent, a blending of sounds he had never quite heard before, even in his foreign experience. But the Japanese was measured and natural. The confusion must have shown on Yoji's face as the man smiled and bowed slightly, "I apologize, you seem to have not expected my visit."

     Yoji nodded, then shook his head. Military? Maybe a secret office of the ministry?

     "You killed several soldiers of the Giolitti family, destroyed one of their operations. They, in turn, retaliated against your employer, the Martillo family. Now, as this most unfortunate incident is hardly worth such a troublesome conflict, both sides have agreed to let all things be buried." The man hadn't stopped smiling but somehow, Yoji didn't know if it was really a smile. "Ah, provided you are buried first."

     The first thought was that this was just a test, definitely a test. He was across the ocean, thousands of miles away, in a foreign country that was distinctly unfriendly towards outsiders. It wasn't just insane to think that they could track him down in his own home country, it was impossible. A laugh shook his chest, the sound making it no further up his throat. It was ridiculous, like something you expected to hear from one of those old myths. That'd be a good one - the killer who could smell his prey on the ocean, would walk across the entire sea to hunt him down. Maybe he'd have a legendary sword too.

     The man set down a cloth packet, unfolding it slowly. "Though it is not my customary practice, I have been paid a... considerable amount, to ensure that you are aware of both families extreme displeasure with you." Metal glinted within the pack - blades that looked like they belonged in surgery, at a hospital, rather than on the wooden table of the teahouse room. Yoji stared, eyes glossy and large in a mix of disbelief, uncertainty and, most strangely of all, the same sort of fear that he had felt under his late grandfather's photographed gaze. But this man was still smiling faintly, as he bowed again. "Shall we begin?" And when Tatsuda Yoji died, it came as a mercy beyond anything he had ever imagined possible.

X

     The sliver of light slowly cut across the rumpled sheets and the messy creases caused the intruding beam to not wholly illuminate where it crossed. No, despite the brightness, there were still little valleys where it did not break into, little pockets of shadow. But, stubborn, it crept on. It sliced across the threadbare, wool blanket and up to the pale pillowcase. It had gone further today than the day before. The days were growing longer; the ice that had in prior months encrusted the window had thawed and moved on. Mercifully so - winters in New York were often bitter but this one had been unimaginable. And to think, a few hours before they announced on the radio that the record for the coldest day in New York had been broken, the apartment's radiator had also broke. Had the erratic tenant been spending the night, they would have certainly frozen to death. The rent was cheap though, the rooms livable. It wasn't the best part of town though and so long as the tenants paid their rent, the landlord really didn't care if they were breathing, let alone warm. Not that he was a monster, of course, no more than anyone else. Unless your corpse started stinking up their apartments, the neighbor's didn't care either. As it were, the room's occupant had paid a full year's rent already and there was nothing but a stagnant puddle of radiator water to cause the neighbor's any interest. Their own warmth was more important than someone who wasn't really there.

     The Motherland did not have spring. It had a cold winter, then a wet winter, then summer. If you kept the windows closed and everything all nice and tight against the cold, you'd better air the house out when the wet season came, else you'd find the carpets rotting, the furniture mildewed and the plastered walls all dank. That was why the apartment door was ajar and the window held open with a brick under the frame, air whistling beneath the wood. But the landlord's wife stood careful watch, just outside the door, just in case someone might decide to pop into the room while the tenant was out. She herself had only hurried in and propped the window open before scurrying back out. And, in an hour or so, she'd rush in, close the window and hurry on out, careful not to make too many footprints. Oh, she was a good comrade! She worked part time to sew the uniforms for the fine men who protected the Motherland. She was certain the often absent tenant of that apartment was with the Cheka or whatever they called themselves these days. She'd seen the gun and the thick file of paper he kept in his case! He was too polite, smiled too much. He said he worked for a factory in Ulyanovsk. He spoke like he was from Moscow. She kept out of the apartment as much as possible, which meant she was still in it more often than he was.

     The bells tolled to open the fiesta for the Virgen del Rosario, the old church a focal point for the entire village, tiny as it was, and its celebration. The narrow streets were decorated and the normal, sun-washed white was adorned with a gaiety of colours. People were already milling about this morning, laughing and chattering and bickering about this and that, the voices quick and sharp. In the church, the August sun shone through, blooming from the stained glass into a similar multitude. Further within, past the sanctuary, the light slipped through an open window, warming the freshly folded bed sheets in the corner of the guestroom, for use by the occasional pilgrim - usually from the north, down from Madrid for the weekend. But as of that dawn, there was nothing else in the room to warm aside from the cobble floor - the wooden cross hung from the shadowed wall and was the sole other adornment. The bright cacophony of the bells roiled into the room, the silence scattering as if the small cell had been filled. But the bells called down the winding, old stone paths as well - far down and towards the busier, louder cities - until they faded into silence again.

XI

     Promptly at noon, the conference room doors opened up and, with the commotion of numerable small conversations and hard-shoe'd footsteps, a curious collection of men filed on out. Amongst their number - which had to be at a least a hundred just at that presentation - Thomas walked with a slight gimp. As fascinating as he found the illegal smuggling of opium from the East, the chairs felt like they had been dragged up from the basement as a special torture for the conference. After the first hour of sitting, he'd found himself shifting uncontrollably, just to keep alleviating the discomfort of the bumpy wooden seat. The presentation had been two and - he checked his watch - two hours, forty-five minutes. His ass was sore and it was making him walk like he was a goddamn cripple. In the midst of all these foreign INTERPOL guys, he resisted the urge to massage his tailbone. Besides, Thomas was wearing a new suit for this conference. He'd just find a good place to relax and get feeling back in his legs.

     "Herr Kendricks!"

     The next presentation started in half an hour, would go for at worst an hour and a half and then Thomas would be free to really let loose and find some lunch. Not that he knew where to go. They'd had some catering for the first two days of the conference and he'd eaten at the hotel for dinner. But it was too far to walk back to, just for lunch. Maybe he'd ask around some of the locals, the Austrians, about where to find some decent food.

     A hand caught his shoulder. He jerked a little, spinning a bit on his heels, raising a hand to swat the offender off.

     "Ah, sorry! Herr Kendricks, ja?" The stranger said, tilting his head forward a little, accenting his pale forehead, topped by a short, curly mop of blonde. Dark brown eyes glistened questioning.

     Thomas blinked. "Yes, that's me."

     The other man smiled and, somehow still holding onto Thomas' shoulder, offered his free hand to Thomas. "You did not seem to hear me. My name is Emil Werden. I was at your speech."

     Ah! The exhausting presentation and his sore ass must have been dulling his thinking, as it finally clicked for Thomas. He took the offered hand and shook it, chuckling and shaking his head apologetically. "Sorry, sorry. Was a bit..." He bonked his head. "Ya know."

     "I do know, ja." Emil assured, laughing just loudly enough for Thomas to move a discreet step back once they'd stopped shaking hands. "Opium is much more interesting when you are actually out chasing smugglers. It is not so good when you are sitting in broken chairs, being told about these smugglers." He gestured to Thomas with an open palm though, as if inviting. "But your presentation was most interesting. I am unfamiliar with much of the American system but... this... Federal Bureau. You are not quite... what is the term... secret police but you have a great deal of authority to pursue the criminals."

     "Wherever they hide. Course, sometimes that's easier said than done."

     They both chuckled knowingly as Thomas broke out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to his companion, who took it with a slight salute and returned the favor by offering a metal lighter. With a few quick flicks, they both visibly relaxed - their shoulders slouching in their suit coats - and drew on the lit cigarettes. As smoke billowed up from their lips, Thomas spoke up again.

     "Mister..."

     "Werden."

     "Right, sorry. Mr. Werden..." Thomas tilted his cigarette down a little, an oblique gesture that pointed to the other man and threatened to spill ash all over the floor before Thomas caught it back up to his lips, which were curved in a friendly smile. "How about you? You don't seem like the other INTERPOL guys here."

     Emil laughed again, shaking his head. Smoke seemed to drift around him like a mask, his open mouth like a cave behind the mist, echoing his heavy chuckling. "No, no... nein." He grinned, brushing the grey aside with a few flicks of his hand. "I am only an advisor with the German consulate here."

     The American blinked, asking with hardly a pause, "They let you folks into these conferences?"

     "Security advisor." Emil clarified, the grin hardening into something a bit more serious. He took Thomas by the shoulder and started walking down the hall, towards the open courtyard. "The criminal world is growing more and more complicated, Herr Kendricks, ja? I come to these meetings whenever I can, to get a sense of what the rest of we crime fighters are doing to keep these dreckskerl... these swine from getting away."

     Thomas nodded, following along with the German's quick pace. That reasoning he understood perfectly. It was why he was here after all, despite not being part of INTERPOL. Without the aid of police all over the world, there would be a chance of stopping the new generations of criminals. Smuggling had always been an issue but nobody really controlled that - criminals or police. You could catch boats and keep it at a reasonable level but it was a risky investment for the gangsters and impossible to stamp out for the cops. The problem was on land - gambling, extortion, murder. The repeal of prohibition had at least taken out a nice part of the Mafia income but it still didn't cripple their budget. But at least the police had an advantage over the scum in that respect. Conferences like these helped the police go anywhere while the criminals were still hung up on old traditions. The guinea mobs still ran away to Italy, for example. Everyone would only run back home when they got in trouble. Where it was pretty much impossible for the gangsters to travel freely, the police could. And Thomas Kendricks, FBI, intended to make full use of that advantage.

     Though, regarding that, there was a bit of news that had worried the office.

     "You are involved in pursuing the organized criminals, ja?" Emil broke in, with just the right timing, as he swept open the courtyard door and they walked out. The sky was drearily overcast and the smoke from their cigarettes vanished against it.

     "I head the office for it over at the Bureau."

     "Perfect. There is someone you should meet. He is an interesting man but he and I disagree on a new... ja, what is the word... a new problem, I will say. I would like your American opinion."

     "A new problem?" Thomas flicked away his cigarette as he walked, looking inquisitively over at his blonde companion but Emil said nothing more.

     They crossed through a few collections of INTERPOL men, all chatting in various languages. For being an international conference, there wasn't much intermingling. But pushing through, Thomas caught sight of a man standing alongside one of the low, stone walls. Clouds white smoke curled up from his pale lips, a thick cheroot in his right hand. Thomas pegged him right away for a Brit, which was confirmed when Emil whispered hoarsely in his ear. "I should warn you. He is strange. He used to be a district officer, in the colonies, he said. But I think the time there has..." Emil tapped his own head uncertainly. Thomas nodded understandingly.

     "Herr Werden." The man greeted politely, bowing a little.

     "Ja, I have returned." Emil laughed, though Thomas thought it sounded a bit weaker this time. "This is Herr Kendricks, Federal Bureau, from the United States."

     Thomas offered his hand, to which the British man set the cheroot between his lips and took the hand, shaking quickly, before returning to his smoke, saying, "Yes, I was at your presentation. I am Michael Rheese, with the British branch." He glanced across the two men with quick eyes, before adding, towards Thomas, "I take it that Herr Werden has already elucidated his theory to you? Or are you bringing your own in?"

     Before the American had time to be confused, Emil interrupted, "No, I only brought him here before we discussed the matter again." He chuckled, poking Michael in the shoulder with a fist. "I would not want to get a headstart on convincing him, ja."

     "But of course." The pale-lipped man replied. Emil half-turned to Thomas, who was about to ask what in the hell they were on about. As if to dramatize the point, the German gestured widely, a certain amount of force behind it as he announced the topic.

     "Der Begr�ndet Exitus."

     "Wh-" Thomas started, before Michael raised a closed fist to still the question.

     "Begr�ndet Exitus, Ragionevole Morte, Ri-zunaburu Shikyo." He curled his fingers outward with each phrase, drawing Thomas' attention from the foreign words to the pale fingers. "And in English, the name you might be familiar with, Reasonable Death."

     The FBI agent's eyes darted immediately between the two men, as if to confirm what he had just heard. Emil looked uncomfortably serious. The Brit, not so much, but he didn't seem the sort to give much of a damn feeling either way. Thomas sighed and fished out another cigarette. It was a name that had been getting an unpleasant amount of attention at the office. The hired killer, known by alias "the reasonable death". There was a wonderfully thick folder back home on his desk about that name. The only problem was that it was just that, the name. Emil's lighter flicked, catching the end of Thomas' cigarette before disappearing back into the German's coat. Thomas sighed and breathed out a thin trail of smoke. "I can tell you twenty names. Twenty people that this... reasonable death has killed." He grimaced at both of his companions. "Only twenty. Oh, sure, I've got a hundred others that he probably killed but nothing solid. We've been chasing his footsteps all over the country and now I hear he's overseas! So... if you two have any bright theories, they better be good because I've heard enough about that shithead to be tired and sick of it."

     Emil chuckled morosely, giving a sympathetic nod as he explained, "My country's police have been investigating this killer as well. For some time, we thought a few murders of businessmen and even an official in Dortmund were just local crime. But in investigating some of them, we learned that the killer was not hired from inside our country. Nein... they had hired an outside man. This... death man."

     "It's not limited to Europe either." Michael said, tapping his cheroot with a fingertip. "I was in India up until the end of last year." District officer, Thomas remembered as the British man continued, "There were two cases attributed to him, once we investigated them properly. Yet despite obviously being a foreigner, nobody could - or would - tell us a thing about him." He chuckled. "Bloody nuisance, as you can imagine."

     Thomas nodded, sighing smoke yet again. "So... you said you two disagree on theories... sounds like we all can agree that we have a problem with the same man."

     But to this, Michael upturned a palm and took a step back, as if the arena belonged not to him. And so it was Emil who spoke up, explaining, "Ja, a problem. But... it seems to me that, if a killer can get into so many countries and yet we do not notice him? Impossible. Even if police did not notice, someone - a local - must have seen him. A single man cannot be so invisible all over the world. He cannot know all the languages of Europe yet no one seems to remember a foreigner trying to make his way around the city, despite all the countries he has killed in. And even if so! What then of India, of the Orient? Can he blend in there too? Stupid, I say.

     No, we are looking this in the wrong way. We are in love with this idea of a single man to chase but, let us be reasonable, ja? How can one man leave a hundred footsteps? How can one man be a hundred? Nein, it is impossible. We know it is impossible! Yet we do not accept it as fact that it is crazy. We still chase one man when we should be chasing many men, an organization."

     "Wait." Thomas interrupted, jabbing a finger forward, ash falling from the cigarette tip. "Are you serious?"

     Emil shook his head gravely. "I would not joke about murder, Herr Kendricks. Not about crime. I am serious. We are not fighting a single man who kills all over the world. But an organization of killers, of accomplices. A job is given and they can contact their branches and a local killer is hired. Someone who is invisible because he is always there, ja?"

     "Any evidence supporting this?" Michael inquired, for the first time a thin smile appearing on his lips. Emil seemed to hide a scowl as he replied.

     "No. Only reason." He shrugged and turned his attention back to Thomas. "It is only theory, ja, but do think it has some validity. It is not too hard to imagine an organization much like INTERPOL here. Branches in all major countries, local people best at dealing with local problems."

     The American nodded, pondering upon his cigarette. The clouds had shifted to reveal the pale blue of the sky yet it only made the grey about their heads more visible. It did nothing to improve the mood any. The matter of this assassin or assassins was too sour to be lightened. "It's definitely a possibility." Thomas concluded, while the other two took heavy drags on their smokes. "I've been wondering, how a killer would handle the problem of being double-crossed. I mean, he's crossed, he's done for. He'll be marked and every job after that is a fifty-fifty chance of getting blown. But... an organization. You lose one man, you can come after the people who ripped you off. Then nobody will shit you. It's a much better plan." But he hadn't even finished the last sentence when, Michael shrugged, too haphazardly to mean anything other than dismissal. Thomas frowned and asked a bit more harshly than he intended, "Well, what's your theory then, Sir Rheese?"

     "My theory? Oh, it's really not even a theory." He bowed towards Emil while dabbing out his cheroot on the stone wall, tossing it aside. "It's not even based on reason, as one might argue. I do think we are facing one man. All the murders are far too similar to be such an organization."

     "Similar?" Thomas inquired, half-chortling. He couldn't help it. That thick file of his was filled with just about every imaginable way to kill someone. "How do you figure?"

     Michael smiled, an expression which was just as inappropriate as the topic, as he politely elaborate. "Oh, not in the method. But the mood. The mood is so controlled and precise. The man kills like a logician, with how reasonable everything is. But that is the point, ja?" He chuckled and produced a piece of chewing gum from inside his coat pocket, unwrapping it and popping it into his mouth before continuing. "For that reason, I don't think we really have to worry all that much. He will burn himself out long before we catch him. Not that I'd mind catching him myself, naturally."

     Thomas couldn't quite bring himself to say anything to that so it was Emil who articulated their shared thoughts, it seemed. "Was... what..." He flustered, putting a confused hand to his blonde head. "Explain yourself, ja?"

     "Simply? Ah... he is bored. He is growing tired. What we see as devastating murders, he sees as nothing more than office work, a job to be had and paid for. It is, for us, like being at a desk job for the rest of our lives." Michael shrugged, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. At the courtyard door, one of the Austrian officers announced in several languages that the next presentation would be starting in a few minutes. Thomas turned to look so Michael's last remarks seemed mostly aimed at Emil, who had gone quiet. "There is nothing legendary, or even unusual, about this man. He is just another killer, albeit a very talented one who is well traveled. No, he shall meet the same fate as all of them. Capture or death, likely quite premature. But... to give him the benefit of the doubt," Michael smiled darkly, as if frowning more than anything, "it will be himself that ends his career. I could not imagine anyone being so... mediocre in their work and not wanting to put a bullet in their own head." He brightened, "Well, it worked for Van Gogh."

     "True. Well, we better get moving." Thomas said, finally looking back at the British man, who nodded and waved them off, saying he'd follow in a moment.

     "Crazy, ja?" Emil said, a bit quieter than he had before, as he and Thomas returned to the building.

     "Christ, yes. You weren't kidding he was a bit off. Still probably believes in vapors and all that." Thomas agreed, shaking his head and puasing to tossing his cigarette out. Emil followed suit as Thomas added, "Your theory though... I'll be sure to bring it back to the office. It's a good view on it, answers a lot of issues with this whole reasonable death problem. Can get some manpower out, searching for local killers, rather than this mythical figure they want us to."

     The German nodded, patting the FBI agent on the shoulder. "Good, good. The sooner we start on this, the sooner we can start to close in on them, ja."

     Thomas agreed with a smile and shook hands with his companion before turning to head into the conference. It had been worth all the boring presentations and hellish chairs for that conversation. And, even as he saw Michael Rheese at the conference doorway, smiling that pale, thin-lipped smile of his, Thomas still felt pretty good about the new approach he'd have his men take on this case. Almost to the door, he realized he hadn't actually thanked Emil for his help and, with his own smile, turned to do so. But the German had disappeared off somewhere, leaving Thomas to hurry on into the conference by himself. Seeing Michael's smile and the movement in his jaw, Thomas definitely wanted to make sure he was sitting by himself.

     He couldn't stand people who chewed gum during meetings.

Appendix

     Et Ne Nos Inducas - The title is a shortening of "et ne nos inducas in tentationem", the Latin which translates to "and lead us not into temptation", from the prayer, Our Father.

Section I Notes:

Section II Notes:

Section III Notes:

     La Mano Nera / The Black Hand - A style of extortion in which typically a letter would be sent threatening violence to a person, business or such, unless a specified amount of money was paid. These letters would be signed by dipping the extortionist's hand in ink and pressing it to the paper. Groups who used this form of extortion in particular were often just called "The Black Hand" or "The Black Hand Society".

Section IV Notes:

     gone to mattresses - The mafia-usage of this phrase refers to preparing to go to war with another mafia by setting up apartments and filling them with mattresses. Mafia soldiers would then be housed in this apartments in order to keep them ready for fighting at a moment's notice and to keep the collateral damage (families and neighbors) to a minimum.

     the war - Not World War I or II. This refers to the Castellamarese War, which heralded a new generation of gangsters taking power and resulted in the restructuring of the underworld.

Section V Notes:

     "The prince of darkness is a gentleman." - Shakespeare, King Lear

Section VI Notes:

     Signore Morte - Italian for 'Sir/Mister Death'

     Masseria, Maranzano - Joe Masseria and Salvatore Maranzo, the two opposing mafia heads during the Castellamarese War.

Section VII Notes:

(if you see anything that might help if clarified, let me know)

Section VIII Notes:

     handcuffs - This line involves some wordplay. Handcuffs obviously could refer to the police equipment but, in the 1930's, it was also a slang word for an engagement ring.

Section IX Notes:

     "Can't immigrate. Laws or something against it." - This line refers to the quota imposed on those immigrants coming from Japan to the United States during this time period.

     new tariff - This refers to the Smoot-Hawley Tariff Act of 1930, widely regarded as a very bad idea and caused a worsening of the Great Depression. Wiki it.

Section X Notes:

     record for the coldest day in New York had been broken - On February 9th, 1934 the temperature in New York hit an all time low of -14.3, though some argue it was -15.

     The Motherland - A term often used to refer to one's home country. In this case, the term refers to Soviet Russia.

     Cheka - The Soviet secret police, akin to the Nazi Gestapo. Later, this group would evolve into the KGB.

     Ulyanovsk - Formerly Simbirsk, Ulyanovsk is a city on the Volga River in Russia, east from Moscow. Random fact: it is the birthplace of Vladimir Lenin.

     Virgen del Rosario - Spanish for "Virgin of the Rosary", a particular honorific title for Mary, mother of Jesus. This particular festival takes place at Canillas de Albaida, a small village near the south coast of Spain.

Section XI Notes:

     INTERPOL - The International Criminal Police Organization is a group founded with the purpose to faciliate international police cooperation. Just google it.

     Herr - German for 'Mister', as in Mister Kendricks

     cheroot - a thick, cylindrical, untapered cigar

     Dortmund - a city in Western Germany