Kingmaker, page 18
part #1 of The Gods That Gamble Series
There was no table between them. Just empty space, and a dozen armed men.
"I've been thinking, Johnny," Inagawa grinned again. He unwrapped a piece of hard candy from the arm of the chair and started chewing it, his teeth grinding, his lips smacking. "Something seems…" He gestured toward his men for the word.
"Bimyou," one said.
"Sure," Inagawa agreed. "Bimyou about this deal. The Gunrunners, the Drug Mob, the Orphan King, the Unified Yakuza. The Russians and Jews are making and selling weapons. The Hispanics and Americans are bringing us our…"—his tongue rolled around the hard candy—"fixes. My Family has these suits, so nice."
Francis studied the guards in their infamous uniforms. Black glasses, for scanning and communicating targets instantly. Their thick, bulky suits hid metal framework and clunky electronics. Amateurs, he thought. A proper suit needs at least seven prototypes — six for function, and a seventh for style. They must have stopped on the fifth.
"I've talked this over and over," Inagawa continued. "I just don't see it. What do you and your Family bring? Espionage? Spies? I have my own spies, I have my own—"
"Leadership," King said. The men in the room stirred, unsettled by their Kumicho's interruption.
Inagawa sat back in his seat and laughed. The candy, trailing spittle, flew out of his mouth and onto the floor. "Johnny, Johnny, John—"
"Please." Johnny held up a hand. The guards stirred again, the closest ones putting a foot forward. "It's King."
Inagawa cleared his throat. He leaned forward, resting on his knees, and smirked. "Go on."
"I brought a band of street urchins and made them proper soldiers and agents. In one year since the Restoration, every band and clan of the Old Families that have come across me has fallen. Through strategy, analysis, and cold hard determination, we have risen to the top. No, I don't sell drugs, or fancy suits, or weapons." King looked the Kumicho in the eye. "I am the weapon."
Inagawa smirked. "Master of Strategy? A Master of Strategy who brings no weapons to this meeting? I cannot tell if you are naïve or baka."
"Calculated risk. If we brought weapons, your trust would be abolished and we would surely be killed. By coming unarmed, I risk the same death but have a chance at earning your trust, proving my unwavering loyalty. Sometimes the wisest strategy," King said, "is to gamble."
Inagawa's expression was blank. "New deal."
Johnny shifted in his seat.
"You have brought the Russian honcho here. I accept him, as a gift: a test of determination, of skill, of loyalty." His body language changed. Inagawa was poised, seeming proper even in his undergarments. "Join me, King. We will not be allies with divided territories. We will be one Family. I, the Kumicho, and you," he layed an open palm toward King, "my Waka-Gashira, my Head of Operations. Everything you want is yours. We will rule the New Earth together."
King stood from the chair. "Kumicho, I am honored. And my associate Francis and I have discussed the possibility of this offer before." Johnny looked at Francis, who nodded. "We humbly accept." King placed his hands at his sides, and bowed.
Inagawa stood up, waving a finger. "Kneel, King."
King did not kneel. He took off his gold chain and held it toward the Kumicho in offering. "This chain, Kumicho, is our symbol. It is a simple piece of jewelry, to reflect the naïve desires of our humble origins. Wear it, please—and all my Family will follow you."
Inagawa took the chain and dangled it in front of his face, inspecting it. "I need you to kneel."
"One thing I cannot do, Kumicho, is kneel." He gave a light bow. "Call it part of the brand."
Inagawa snickered. "What king kneels? Cannot argue with that logic." He cleared his throat. "King-domo. Repeat after me: My Family is your Family."
"My Family is your Family."
"My mission is your mission."
King repeated after the Kumicho.
"I surrender my empire."
King's eyes shot open. He stared at the ground.
"Say it."
"I surrender," King said. "My empire." His fist clenched his lapel.
"Very well, King." Inagawa smiled, and donned the necklace.
The guards in the room bowed, and Francis pushed Vladir into the custody of the nearest Yakuza member. One brandished a knife and cut away the Mafioso's clothes. They took Vladir and gagged him, naked, and laid him next to the Kumicho's chair.
King tugged at the cuffs of his suit. The sleeves extended, rolling over and sheathing his fingers. King nodded at Francis.
Francis tapped at his forearm.
Sparks flew from the gold chain. Inagawa collapsed to his knees, convulsing. His head twitched in tight jerks.
"Johnny, now!"
King grabbed the gold chain on the Kumicho's neck and pulled. Electricity arced from his gloved hands and ran down his suit to the ground. Three guards ran and grabbed King, but fell to the ground, writhing, paralyzed.
Francis flicked his wrist and his suit lit up. Pieces of weapons throughout the suit, rode rails up his sleeve, and a crude cannon assembled in his hand. He flung the weapon around and unloaded: a metallic mist shot out and covered the guards. Flakes of metal clung to their suits, weapons, faces, hands.
Johnny kicked Vladir into a corner, and then ripped the chain off the Kumicho's neck. He threw it into the cloud of mist. Electricity arced across the room, easily finding the Yakuza guards in their metal suits. They convulsed, thumping against the ground, weapons occasionally firing as their trigger fingers clenched.
In a minute, it was over.
Francis walked over and uncuffed Vladir.
Vladir spat as his gag was removed. "My god," he said. "What did you do?"
"Get up," King said, untying him. "Check each one. If they have a pulse, break their necks."
Vladir nodded solemly. He waddled, genitals flapping, to each electrocuted guard and carried out the task.
Francis leaned against the wall, recovering from adrenaline. "I wasn't sure how that was going to go."
A few moments passed, and King was still silent.
"Johnny?"
"Surrender." King chewed the word. "I will never say that again."
Francis rolled his eyes. "Job's done. Quit steaming."
Vladir hobbled in between the two men, wearing only a scavenged black jacket. He was still completely exposed, and the jacket was nearly bursting at the seams, a mile or two of belly between the buttons and their fastenings. He draped a lumbering arm over each of the other two men. "Golly, golly. We sure fucked them up." He chuckled.
Francis, unphased by the Mobsters nudity, pulled open a side of the jacket and inspected it. "We should take these. I'll spice them up."
"He's right, you know," Vladir said. King shrugged off Vladir's arm. Vladir still rested his weight on absentminded Francis, inspecting the jacket. King swatted at the Russian's arm. Mobsters – always handsy.
Vladir chuckled and returned his arms to himself. "You don't have a product. You've stolen the guns and the drugs and you're hoarding them. Golly, you've stolen all you've had. You're going to need get into an honest business. I'd be happy to run some bolters across the Islands—"
"No," said King.
Francis gathered the jacket off a dead Yakuza. "We're going to want to keep this tech to ourselves. The weapons, too, naturally.
"No use arming our opposition," Johnny and Francis said in unison.
"What, then? Guns, drugs — unless you can rhyme or make music, I don't see what else you can sell."
"Entertainment?" Francis said. He looked through a pair of the Yakuza's black glasses. "Not a bad one."
"Hate the industry," Johnny said. "Not for me."
"You're down to religion, a good two hundred people in that market," Vladir said, "or sex. Oldest commodity of civilization."
"Gather the glasses and the coats." King waved his hands dismissively. "Let's get the hell out. We've been here too long. We'll find — Francis and I — we'll find a product."
———
"No, no, no!" Francis reeled his hand back.
Ramir caught his arm. "I don't think beating his chest is going to help anymore. Calm down. Think."
Francis paced, his hands on the side of his head. His cheeks were red, his vision blurring.
Ramir ran to King's side and inspected him. He placed his hand over the grey mass in the center of King's torso. Its whirs were intermittent, sparking.
"Francis, it's working. But it's sputtering, almost like…almost like it…"
Francis and Ramir finished in unison, "needs more power."
Both their eyes were wide.
Ramir grabbed a scalpel, tore off his jacket, and started tearing away at its electronics.
Chapter 63
King: Family
Johnny sipped scotch in a stained and sunken chair. No jacket, no tie – a gold chain laced under his collar. Mold painted the walls, by sight and by smell. Johnny flicked the ash of his cigar onto the shag carpet. His sunglasses hid his expression, but his leg fidgeted and his sips became more and more frequent. He was getting bored.
The six men droned on. While some glanced at their hands, most laid their cards flat on the table. Johnny sat off to the side, present but listening.
"We take the East with us. What's a couple of 'hoods when you're getting the Beverlies?"
One of the men shook his head.
"No? What do you mean fucking no?"
He raised his hand. "I mean no, you're not getting the East Wing. Two factories there, you'll own over two thirds of supply."
"Horseshit. This is horseshit," another spoke. "Why are we dividing spoils? The fuckin' Suns and Bugs decide to team up and now we're out of the show. Says who?"
Another nodded toward Johnny. "Kid over there. That's who."
The table shook. "This punk kid says the Kikes and Spics are friends, so now we lose our city?"
"That's King." Glances, a few shrugs. "His crew is the Family 'round here."
Johnny sipped his scotch, ice rattling against the glass.
"Ain't no family," one spat. "Bunch of orphans and street-rats raised by a step-daddy. Fànjiàn!"
Johnny drew from his cigar. "Ain't no family," he affirmed.
The room turned toward him.
Johnny blew smoke. "Hey, Jay, Ellington's – you know Ellington's? Big suit shop, got the fancy jackets."
One of the men, wearing a pair of leather gloves, spoke. "Yeah, the silver ones."
"They must have what? Thousand, two thousand stores all over?" Johnny asked.
"Yeah, must have."
Johnny waved his cigar. "If that's all family, Mr. Ellington must have a lot of damn kids. Thirty employees each store, let's say. Jesus, that's what, thirty thousand children, minimum? When he's not making suits he and Mrs. Ellington must be fucking like rabbits."
The room was silent.
"I don't have a Family," Johnny continued. "I have a brand. A business. It operates with efficiency." He puffed his cigar. "Your Families aren't efficient. Thick blood moves slow."
One of the men stood up. "My ass. Bastards and bitches with no loyalty."
Johnny laughed. "Three weeks ago I paid your cousin to kill your brother. How exactly does family bring loyalty?"
The man sat.
Johnny was still laughing. "Your cousin answered to cash. So do you; so does everyone. In my business, we admit it. No myths, no delusions. Gang, family, whatever – I cut the bullshit. Make me money, I pay you well and I pay you consistently. Cut and dry. I develop the ambitious, reward the greats, and punish their inferiors." Johnny puffed. "Whatever it takes, the train keeps rolling."
The men mumbled. Johnny cupped his hand behind his ear and leaned toward them.
One cleared his throat and in a gravely accent said, "Nothing bonds you. This 'King' Family. There is no glue that holds you together."
"Competence," Johnny said, and leaned back. "That's what binds us. It's only thing I demand."
"Six of us, one of you," one spoke. "Think you can talk this shit, demand from us—"
"Six?" Johnny said. He raised an eyebrow. "You sure about that?" He never turned toward the men. His chair faced the far wall, only his profile visible.
All the men looked at each other.
"Cousins killing brothers." Johnny rattled his glass. "Cash is King. Go ahead, take a swing at me. Any of you. See who joins." He stared at the back wall, and downed the last of the scotch.
A heartbeat. A breath. A roach crawled along the shag carpeting.
"Competence," Johnny said, "is what your family lacked when they let the 'Orphan King' steal half your shipyard by seducing your guards with whores."
Two of the six men chuckled, but quickly stifled themselves. The roach hopped from crumb to crumb, then wound its way up the arm of Johnny's chair and rested, digging at a brown stain.
"Competence," Johnny said, "is what was lacking when the same gang of orphans gunned down half of all your families, pitted cousins against brothers, and conquered this city."
All the men were on their feet now. Two brandished knives.
Johnny drew from his cigar. "Competence," he said, "is what caused you all to lose a poker game to the 'Spics' and the 'Kikes' tonight."
The men turned toward each other, gesturing, shrugging. Neither the Suns or Bugs had won a hand all night.
Johnny exhaled, smoke billowing.
One man on the end took a step toward King. He balled his fist, but his hand suddenly snapped open, rigid. His wrist sprang to his shoulder, and his knees buckled. He collapsed, convulsing. Blood leaked from his nose and froth seeped from his lips.
Johnny drew from his cigar and exhaled. One by one, three others fell in the same manner. They twitched and writhed on the floor and erratic grunts escaped from their clenched jaws.
The roach gnawed at the armchair. Johnny brought his hand down and snuffed his cigar on its back. A sizzle, a crack, a hiss. The roach flailed, then curled.
Four men lay on the floor, while two sat at the table grimacing. The two survivors tore off their leather gloves, and then the blue gloves hidden under them. Four, five pairs.
"These were tight as hell. I can't feel my hands," one said.
"Did we have to wear that many?"
Footsteps descended the stairs. Francis Modello rounded the corner, followed by a young man in a plastic suit.
"Back away," Francis instructed the gangsters before commanding his assistant. "Alright, remember the procedures. Scoop, seal, incinerate. Use silver gloves."
The young man swooped his arm across the table and scooped the playing cards into a bag. He pressed several buttons on the bag's edge until a green light shone. The assistant sprayed the table top with a white mist from a hose in his suit.
"Bit slower than I thought," Francis remarked, scratching his chin. "Should have been a few minutes, but that was nearly an hour."
"What," one of the survivors gulped, "what was it?"
Francis answered absent-mindedly, almost to himself. "Powder. A shell of dimethylmercury, to penetrate the skin, carrying batrachotoxin so we don't have to wait months for…" Francis shook his head, then met the man's gaze. "Mercury and dart poison. Don't ask."
"It would have been much easier to shoot them," Johnny said.
Francis smiled. "Thanks for humoring me."
Together, they began to drag the bodies of the slain gangster chiefs; to bag them, burn them, and bury them, along with their empires.
———
A continuous beep pierced the room: King had no heartbeat.
"Doc, he's flatlining."
"No, he's—"
"He's flatlining, do something!"
"Mr. Modello, it's—"
"Don't fucking give me an excuse, grab the—"
Johnny's eyes shot open. He gasped, then coughed, sputtering bile and blood. The ringing still pierced the room, no pulse detected.
"He doesn't have a pulse, Mr. Modello. With the new heart—"
"The plasma cycles with the motor. Right. I'm sorry." Francis put a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "We've put you through a lot today, I'm really sorry. But thank you for sticking it out. Give him a quick look over and then head out the day? The week? Take as much time off as you want."
The doctor nodded. "I understand. I'm glad he's up."
Francis turned from the doctor and wrapped himself around Johnny, bile slathering on his arms. "You asshole, thank God you're alive."
Ramir gave a puzzled look at Francis. 'Thank God' was an odd expression. His thoughts didn't linger too long on the phrase, and he started packing up the robot.
"Get over here, Shadow." Francis beckoned to Ramir. "Johnny, this guy – you wouldn't believe this guy. I give you this new heart, and then realize – I have no way to power the damn thing. Ramir here, he geeks up the battery from his jacket and some wires and plugs you right up. Saved your fucking life."
Johnny was groggy, his head pounding as blood flow returned to his brain. His breathing was scratchy, airy, he wheezed between coughs, pushing out what remained of the bile in his body.
Francis dragged a trash can over to the side of the bed. "Keep coughing it out until it runs clear, just saliva and mucus."
Johnny squeezed the sides of the trash can and hurled, red and black juice pumping from his gut. He leaned back onto the table, and caught his first crisp, clean breath. Francis sat beside him, leaning back in a chair, disheveled. His collar was up one side and his tie loosely clung around him. He always tended to ramble when he was worried, or right after a victory. Johnny inhaled another clean breath and listened to his friend ramble on. Let him wallow in victory for a minute.
Francis kept talking. "Your veins, arteries, everything – metal now. Pretty cool, huh? Blood is plasma. Virus is still in there, but there's nothing it can feed on. If you bleed too much for some reason, though, I'll have to refill ya. The heart's like an engine, you have to…"
Johnny laid back with closed eyes, and his thoughts flashed through his past, his memories. Then, to the war with Earth, the decimation of the Terran fleet. He recalled the sands, the salvage. One image could not be wrestled from his mind: the teal ring on the onyx mask. He seethed, the image of a crimson soldier seared into his vision. His fist clenched, his breathing drew sharp.
