Mob Magic, page 20
The way he saw it, his problem lay in a straight line. Not everyone of a higher rank was directly connected with his chain of command. The other upper-ups working for Don Amici were captains who had grown big empires not connected to Michael's captain, a man named Dan Moko, who was right underneath the capo. Moko's lieutenant was a guy called Peter Mon-tmorency, who had sworn Michael's Uncle Fabio, who had sworn him. Four steps to the top of the heap. They might as well be chasms because of that oneway valve.
At first, Michael thought of going to outside forces to bust the levels above him, but he dismissed the idea without hesitation. There was no way he'd involve law enforcement. The cops rousted Family members every time there was an unexplained death or a mysterious robbery. They tried to act as though they had so much on him. Penny ante. He'd do time for nothing, for squat. They couldn't get him behind bars or even in front of a grand jury. Even with his minor-league spells he could wipe out their files on him. But they pushed at him, fishing for information about the web. They knew about it. They'd tried to break it up more than once. There were task forces out studying it, trying to find the weak places. They were curious about it. It was seductive. The Feds had a little magic, stuff cobbled together from hereditary witches and computer wizards, but nothing as big or as organized, or as powerful, as the Family. They wanted data, and they figured he'd blab what he knew about how it worked in exchange for their help. Michael turned them down every time. If they started interfering with the web, there'd be nothing left for him when he finally got where he was going.
The cops and the Feds had tried to infiltrate the Family before. They'd sent undercover agents, but the instant the moles took the oath to the Family, they blew their own covers. Michael called it the pentathol spill. The second the power hit them, new inductees always blabbed about everything they'd ever done against the Family. The dons were always careful to have recording devices in place when a guy took the oath, or they'd miss all the good stuff. The Family would never have known where Greg Berber had been moved if it wasn't for the Fed who tried to infiltrate Carl Fredrickson's branch. Berber had once been a captain, a position of trust below Dan Moko, a place of real power, until he got into debt with someone who turned out to be an agent. Once the agent was a part of the Family, he ratted out all his accomplices, er, fellow agents, and put the Family on the trail to California, where Greg and his bimbo had moved. Greg still couldn't act against them, but he'd told, and that was bad. Michael's last promotion had been when Greg was removed permanently from the picture by the guys above him. The Feds knew, and they couldn't do a thing. Their little bitty magic couldn't hold a candle to the Family web.
Then Michael had his really brilliant idea. He started to enlist men, good men, without making them take the oath. It took a lot of self control to keep from grabbing their hands to bring them in, since he was a touchy-feely kind of guy, but it worked. He made them swear a different kind of allegience, pledging their honor and blood. Without the vow, the new soldiers were free of the strictures of the Family. No promise, no problem—but no magic, either. They wanted it, once they started getting around, what with the magic peep shows, the lap dances that never failed to get a rise out of the patrons, guaranteed; the endless streams of lucky dice rolls, liquor, women, and cash that seemed to fall into the hands of the Family. In return for their abstinence, Michael swore to his men that once he made the center of the ring, they'd have it all. They'd be his captains, and they'd have the best, the most magic, the hottest spells. The whole damned country would be theirs. Everyone but him would be under their jurisdiction. All it would take was a few well-placed accidents. It wasn't like Michael had to wipe out everyone above him, just the ones in a straight line to that mahogany-paneled office. The don was old. He might die soon, and if Michael was just underneath him in the organizational chart, having shown a real aptitude for business, ruthlessness and that ambition the don had praised, he ought to get the top spot.
In the meantime, he had to keep guys in check without resorting to pulling strings in the web. An unfamiliar exercise, it took real creativity. A few of the new guys wanted to cut loose, and would have gone to a brother lieutenant to swear the oath and get the magic ... if they'd lived. Those examples were good for maintaining loyalty, too. Michael was amazed at how easy it was to keep the other lieutenants from knowing what he was up to. All he had to do was pretend his secret force were sworn soldiers. You couldn't tell if a man was a part of the chain just by looking at him. It was what was inside that made the difference. The Family was used to magic. They'd grown lazy. They had no defense against this newfangled organization. But the unsworn men witnessed everything, saw how the Family worked, and saw the magic that they couldn't do.
"What's it feel like?" Samel had asked, the first time he watched Michael unlock a door, at the back of a rival's casino they had been about to knock over. Michael wanted to tell him it felt good, but he didn't want Sam getting too antsy. He, like the rest of Michael's soldiers, was waiting. Not so patiently sometimes, but Michael wasn't just the man with the magic, he was a tough bastard who punished as easily as he rewarded, and he was a hundred times more devious than anyone who worked for him. Sam wanted the power bad, but he didn't ask all the time, as some people did. He just went about his business, and Mi chael asked him no questions. They both knew that if things went right, they'd both benefit. Joey was different. He went along with things. Michael was never sure if he understood the things he heard, but he did his job, too. Michael was glad to have both of them. They'd be good captains one day. Michael knew his time was limited by their patience. Soon. It had to happen soon.
He was sitting down to brunch in his father's restaurant that Sunday when the first news hit. His mother came to sit beside him and Uncle Fabio and a couple of the old man's cronies in the booth way in the back, where they could see everyone coming and going, and no one could see them. Michael looked curiously at her, at the fuss going on at the front of the restaurant.
"It's bad," she whispered. "Somebody just ran over Dan Moko. He's dead."
Michael schooled his face and made the same noises of regret as the others. He sat back in the booth and waited. Sure enough, just as when they'd whacked Greg Berber, the verification came. Slowly, but unmistakably, the thrill of the power surrounded Michael. In the inner ear that was attuned to the magic, he thought he could hear voices and music, while his body was caressed by velvet forces that enveloped and penetrated his skin like an all-over electric massage. When it was all over, his heart was beating fast, and he knew he had that damned silly smile on his face. He and Uncle Fabio had just been promoted.
What happened after that was totally unexpected. Uncle Fabio clutched his chest and collapsed back in his seat. Michael sprang to get the old man a glass of water. By the time he turned around again, Fabio's lips were blue and his eyes were rolled back in his head. Michael tried to use magic to hold the spirit in the body until the paramedics arrived, but there was no one left to pull back. He looked for help, but the moment the sirens had started wailing, Fabio's two companions melted away into the crowd.
The heart attack had been perfectly natural. Michael thought that the strain of promotion must have been too much for Fabio. The paramedics couldn't save him, not with medicine, not even with modern magic. Michael was left kneeling at the side of a corpse, feeling a painful hole in his own heart. He would never have attacked Uncle Fabio even if he could have; he was his mother's own brother, and he loved him. Of the targets above him, he was waiting for his uncle to die normally. He was an old man in poor health. It couldn't have been a long wait. Michael was livid that the old man's so-called friends had taken off, but he suspected that maybe someone else out there didn't want Fabio around any more. But it meant another step up for him. Two steps up in one day. Only two to go. He walked away from the restaurant in a haze of magical feedback.
The high of being two rungs farther up the ladder was so overwhelmingly good that Michael hardly wanted to leave his apartment the next day. He did little things, such as making a fresh cup of espresso appear on the table from a restaurant halfway across the city. The coffee tasted good, but the buzz on the side was fabulous. He started to see visions. He'd never been capable of clairvoyance before. If the common solider on the line ever knew what was above him—! But he couldn't do a thing about it, because the common guy was not as smart as Michael Carboni.
Though officially he was in mourning, people came and went as they always did. The only real difference was that he wore a black suit instead of his usual charcoal gray. Michael saw the usual people asking for help, trying to get his backing for schemes, pleading for spells in exchange for desirable favors. Now he could see who was good for it and who was stringing him. Some he helped himself; others he sent to his lieutenants, who were all enjoying being two ranks higher and were bringing him new soldiers every day. So this was what it felt like to be a don, he thought with satisfaction, sensing his share of the power coming in steadily. People did for him, and he could sit at a distance, keep his hands clean and reap all the benefits.
Sam and Joey and their men were on orders to stay away from his apartment, and keep at their jobs. He didn't want anyone to see they weren't feeling the psychic feedback with everyone else. He felt bad about that, but he'd be making it up to them later, with interest.
With his new powers of prescience, he made a call to his lawyer and opened the door an hour later to the detectives standing on the mat before they'd had a chance to ring the bell.
"Sergeant Percher?" Michael said, ushering the chunky uniform inside. He turned to the muscular plainclothes. "And you're Lieutenant Witkin, FBI. Right?"
The detectives were taken aback. "Uh, yeah," said Witkin. His clean-shaven, tanned narrow face wasn't accustomed to wearing a dumbstruck expression. He schooled his features back into smooth impassivity. "Sir, we're investigating the death of Fabio Carboni. He was your uncle, we understand."
"That's right," Michael said. "It was a heart attack. The man wasn't in the best of shape. He ate too much, and he didn't exercise much any more. It was perfectly natural."
"Sir," said Witkin, "in this neighborhood, a bullet in the back is listed as natural causes. We have to look into it."
Michael shrugged.
"So," said Percher casually, taking out a notebook, "do you know anything about the death of Dan Moko?"
"Sorry," Michael said, with an air of finality.
"You've got to know more than you're saying," Witkin urged. "We know all about the web stuff. You can help yourself. Come on, talk to us."
"Sorry," Michael said, without heat. This was an old argument. Not only wouldn't he tell any Fed a single secret if he could, any treason of this kind would get back to the Family. They had ways of knowing. Roswell, hell. The government couldn't keep a secret like that, they couldn't keep anyone safe who'd ratted on the web.
"That's enough, gentlemen," the lawyer said, shuffling the officers toward the door. "You're on a fishing expedition now. Mr. Carboni's told you what he knows."
Witkin paused to aim a finger at him. "We're watching you, Carboni. Remember that. We're on the side of the angels."
"Yeah, yeah," Michael said. It was a hollow threat, same old, same old. The Fed's piddly squat magic couldn't see through Family security, Nothing could.
Late that night, Michael woke up screaming with pain. It felt as though lightning were racing through his veins, blasting him. He tried to block it with a warding spell, the first magic he'd learned as a soldier. To his horror, it didn't work. His attacker was much stronger than he was. It was the capo, he thought with horror. Don Amici had found out about his plot. This was the end. But he wouldn't go without a right.
He climbed out of bed and crawled across the floor, reaching out with his mind for the light switch. The light didn't go on. His magic was gone. He was being punished. Before he died, he was going to lose everything he prized. Power bursts came from within, hurting, aching, but not ripping him apart. Michael started to think. He knew what a real hit looked like, had participated in enough of them. This was not personal. It wasn't aimed at him.
He wasn't being attacked, he was being drained. Someone above him was in trouble, and stripping every underling for defensive magic. Michael called out for his men. No one answered. The sworn soldiers were certainly in the same condition he was, and the unsworn were under orders to stay away. He laughed weakly. This was the way the Feds would like to see him, helpless. He curled into a ball on the floor.
Sleep was impossible. He fought off imaginary monsters that came through the walls, batted at a hail of bullets that wasn't there. Rain pounded on the roof, and Michael could feel every drop hitting him like a hammer. But near dawn, he started to feel all the fight was worthwhile. The pain continued, as if his magical muscles were badly bruised, but the stream of power started to come in stronger and stronger. By the middle of the morning, when Sam and Joey found him, he could levitate himself back to bed and grab a doctor from a nearby hospital to look him over.
The men looked wiped out.
"We got some news for you," Joey said.
The funeral was a majestic event. People came from practically the moon to honor Don Amici's memory and to kiss the ring of his successor. None of the other captains or lieutenants had challenged Michael's early claim to the mahogany-paneled office. They were all sure he'd been responsible for the capo's death; none of them wanted to find out how. All they knew was that the old man was found sitting dead as a stone in his fancy leather chair, with the body of Peter Montm-orency stretched out like a footrest under his feet. There wasn't a trace of magic anywhere in the office. The Family was baffled.
As the longstanding custom went, the captains swore a new oath to the new capo, promising to serve Michael as they'd served his predecessor. Michael felt the pride of 500 years of history coming to rest upon his shoulders. He tried to feel unworthy, but he couldn't. He tried to feel guilty, but he was too pleased with himself. This moment was exactly what he'd schemed for. Michael's soldiers escorted them in and out of the fancy office one at a time, enjoying the procession. He stood in front of the fancy desk, arms folded, legs planted four-square on the floor. This was his room now, his place, his pride. The magical rush was building in him. It ought to take a few days to set in all the way, but in the meanwhile, it felt good.
When they had all gone, Michael sat down for the first time in the leather chair behind the desk. At once, the bespelled padding folded itself comfortably around his posterior. All his, forever, like the power. He beckoned to Samel.
"I've waited a long time for this," he said. "You've waited, too, my friend. So have the others. It's time for your reward. Bring them in. All of them."
He was surprised at how many soldiers there were. Michael did a quick head count and came up with fifteen. He looked to his two captains for explanation. "We had to recruit a lot of guys," Joey said. "We couldn't tell you nothing before, boss. Some of these guys is, uh, specialists."
"Pleased to meet you," Michael said. There was a general murmur of respectful thanks. "Samel, you first. Come here." He took the man's hands between his. Sam had a nervous half grin on his face. "Repeat after me. I, your name, solemnly swear to be a bondsman to you, and all my power that comes to me belongs to you. Every bondsman I take will serve you through me, body and soul, until you or death release me."
Obediently, Samel chanted the oath. It felt like no other swearing-in Michael had ever experienced before. The power built in the ground below their feet, and spread up into their bodies like a heatwave. Michael enjoyed it, but he really had to smile at the look of delight on Sam's face as the magic took hold in him. It was a captain's share, perfectly apt and fair for such a good man.
"I keep my promises, right, Sam?" Michael said. Sam nodded dumbly, still smiling, and shook hands with him. Hastily he remembered, and bent to kiss his ring. The little diamond grew just a trifle. One day it'd be huge. "Now you, Joey."
If anything, Joey looked more nervous than Sam. He hesitated before stepping forward, and almost cringed when Michael touched his hands.
"I'm not going to eat you!" Michael said, fondly. "I owe you, my friend. Now, repeat after me."
"Can we do this another day?" Joey asked.
"No. Now," Michael said. Sometimes Joey could be so dim. "Come on, you've been waiting for a long time for this. I, your name ..."
Haltingly, Joey repeated the oath. When he spoke the last words, Michael waited for the glorious rising of power out of the earth, but instead, with a crash and a flash of light, the two of them were knocked apart. Michael was picked up out of his seat and hurled almost clear across the room. Michael's lieutenants hurried to help him. Joey climbed to his feet, looking apologetic.
"What the hell was that?" Michael asked. "I never felt anything like that before."
"Boss," Joey said, looking really ashamed of himself. "I've got something to tell you."
Michael signaled for one of his men to turn on the recorder.
"I work for the FBI."
When the sun went down, Joey had been talking for hours. Michael was appalled by everything that had come out of his new captain's mouth. Joey was one of Agent Witkin's men. ("I thought he was smart," Michael had said.) When Michael had gone recruiting, Joey had been transferred from another undercover assignment.
"Thanks to you, we had access to the Family web. From observing your organization, we got information we never had been able to get before. The government saw how well it worked and started their own web. They never anticipated you being able to detect the FBI oath. Or boot it."
"What? You were sworn to them?"
"Yes, until you pulled me loose," Joey said. He no longer looked vacant. Michael realized that had been an act. He wore an expression of panic. "I've got to tell you all about it."
