Since the Great Lake clean-up of 2050, Lake Ontario has been a fisherman's paradise, especially around the Mohawk Bay area. Telegraph Narrows, under the defunct Highway 49 bridge, is a particularly sweet fishing spot.
Gordon LaSalle nods back towards the shore, where Seraphina is helping his wife Jodie set out a picnic and, somewhat optimistically, laying a fire ready to cook the fish we catch. “Didn't think you could get married, in your line of work.”
Laugh. “I am a hunter, not a priest. Co-habiting is both permitted and encouraged. And don't think you could be more surprised than me!” Boat coasts to a stop at the usual spot under the bridge and we make our initial casts. It hasn't changed much since the last time I was here, nearly twenty odd years ago. The bridge is a bit more decayed, that is all. Gordon reaches over the stern and grabs two beers. Tosses me one. Pop it and take a swallow.
“Beer doesn't taste the same out of plastic.” Voice low, fish are too sensitive to vibrations for us to talk normally. Start reeling my lure in, jinking it occasionally to catch any hungry fishes eye. It is good out here, on the lake in the sun. Peaceful.
“Watched the after action report you sent me. That was some freaky shit you went into.” Gordon deftly hooks a worm onto his hook and casts. He is a live bait fan. Me, I can't do that anymore, must be some of the religious beliefs rubbing off.
“Heard you had some fun of your own when the small stuff broke out.” Cast again, into the shadow of the bridge and start the flicking, reeling motion to bring it back in.
“Yeah, it got intense for a bit. Thanks to the guys you sent over, no one was hurt too badly. Broken bones and sprains mainly, from getting out of the way.” He sounds slightly disgusted. Ashamed of the poor showing of his squads.
“Ha, stick us in a riot and you just watch us run for cover. Wasn't you who taught me, right here when I was about six, that different situations need different tactics and skills?” Cast. He grunts.
“Didn't expect to see a situation where my guys tactics and training was completely useless, though.”
“Demons are like that. They really screw with you, the first couple of times you see them. I'm guessing there'll be half a dozen converts for the Church after that incident. Not that it'll do them much good, but don't tell them so.” He glances at me as he recasts. “If it makes them feel safer, I am all for it. But banishing needs a true, deep, living faith.”
“Can you banish those things?” Curious, nothing more. The faintly defensive, judgemental air has disappeared.
“Him save me, no. Well, maybe some of the small stuff. Not tried in a long time, to be honest. Prefer to make sure they will never bother this plane of existence again.” Rod bends slightly. Weed fouling, not a strike. Wiggle the tip of the rod until the lure comes loose, reel it in and clean it.
“You still have a cop's instincts.” He checks his float. Slight bobbing, something is interested.
“Protecting the innocent seems to be pretty firmly ingrained. Dad, and various honorary Uncles, including you, made damned sure of that!” Cast well away from his float.
“So, what do you need? You didn't just come to fish with an old friend.” Float bobbing frantically, hand poised above his rod.
“Turns out that we have some mortal enemies. Human. I might need a strike team in a hurry.” Feel a gentle tug, slow down on the reeling in and twitch the tip of the rod to simulate an upset small fish. “A team that won't ask too many questions, and one that has seen action against demons.”
His float dips sharply. A sharp yank on the rod sets the hook and he starts to fight the fish in. Finish my beer and leave him alone. Landing a fish is a special feeling, that a guy feels best alone. About the only way of satisfying the primeval urge to hunt and gather now. My rod bends almost double as the line sings out. Got a big one on the hook!
The two of us fighting fish at the same time has set the boat gently spinning. We have to duck and exchange places. Gordon lands his first, a good sized large mouth Bass. Nice eating indeed. Still fighting my line, only about twenty feet left to reel in. Long, silvery green flash in the water. Brace and reel in another three feet.
“Pike. Good size, too.” Gordon sitting in the bow, fresh beer in hand. Net ready. A pike really needs two people to land it, and you don't want to get your hands too close to its jaws. Drag it up beside the boat, Gordon dexterously scoops it up with the net and flips it into the boat. The thing must weigh seven kilos. Grab the gaff and knock its brains out. Extract the lure and dump it in the creel on top of the bass. Gordon is checking the shore through his binoculars. Squint and bring up telescopic function, not something I use much, but handy to have. Jodie and Seraphina are chatting animatedly, half full wine glasses on the picnic table.
“They look fine.” Gordon rumbles. “A few more casts?” Nod, and prepare the rod again. Snag another beer.
He glances at me once his cast is to his satisfaction. “ I have a dozen lads that will do, for what you say you need. No questions asked. But I lead them.”
“Agreed. And thank you.” Cast. “Can't promise to give you much warning, or tell you everything that is going on, but I'll tell you as much as I can. Some of them might not come back though.”
“That is a cops life. Nothing new there, that describes every Friday night drunk and drug stop. They'll be ready when you need them. So will I.” We resume fishing.
* * *
Who said the life of a Family boss was exciting. Sometimes there is a touch of excitement, usually when an underling decides to try to forcibly replace you, but most of the time it is facts, figures and meetings with thrice be-damned accountants. Get to capo di capo, and the boredom doubles, at the very least. Fourth meeting of the day. Listen to the spiel, congratulate people on a job well done, suggest loopholes. Pretty much what every big CEO has to go through. The business may be different, but the routines are exactly the same. Boring as hell. Still, after this meeting, he has a couple he has called. It is time to pay off the debt to Cat. A big debt, that has weighed heavy on his conscience for years.
Ah, I was younger, slimmer and fitter then. Working my way up the ladder, the hard way. Anyone can rise to a position of power by licking the arses of the ones above him. It takes talent, skill and the willingness to get your hands dirty, to rise by being pushed up by the ones below.
Keep wanting it to be dramatic. Probably an ego thing. A tempestuous thunderstorm, lightning cracking and shearing trees off, howling winds blasting grey clouds across the sky. Only appropriate for the night you meet a real demon.
Alas, it was a typical November night in Torino, with a steady, dispiriting rain turning the streets to mirrors, water chuckling cheerfully along the gutters and into the storm drains. Pedestrians bobbing along with umbrellas, desperately trying to force themselves into buses already bulging at the seams. Returning from dealing with DeLonghi, his index fingers wrapped up and tucked into a cigar tin in the inside pocket of my jacket. James, the new bodyguard, has performed well, disabling DeLonghi's guards rapidly, but without killing them. Never waste a possible asset without thinking about it first. It is foolishness and a waste of training. James sees to instinctively understand this. Walking against the flow of pedestrians. It s only a kilometre, and the carabinere will be looking for car movements when they finally find the body. James two paces behind, covering my back and watching for approaching threats. Turn down a side street. Totally empty. Not unusual on a rainy night, but something is wrong. James feels it too, he moves up abreast of me, hand inside his jacket.
It is a typical street. Road, pavements, the large municipal recycling bins. Something unfolds from between the bins, where it has been eating. Holy Mary, what the fuck is it! Eyeless, insectile, glistening from the rain. Huge. Over 3 metres tall. Instinctive reaction is to turn and run. Then I see the shoes between the bins.
What sort of self centered idiot sends his little daughter out in the rain. Someone too lazy to go get his evening bottle of wine himself. Him, I shall kill myself. I see the bottle next to her, unbroken. She can't be more than eight years old. I may do wrong, according to the laws of the land, but this is pure evil. Without thinking, my gun is in my hand. Shoot, James matching me shot for shot as we back up. The thing pacing steadily and deliberately towards us, as if our bullets are so many wads of paper. No one around. Count that as a blessing, there is no one to be hurt. A loud crack – not a bullet, a wormhole opening. Short, slim figure appearing out of nowhere. “Hey, asshole, I been looking for you.” Blinding movement, too fast to follow. Alien claws meet flesh as his sword shears through muscle and bone. The thing collapses, disjointed in death. The man drags himself upright, tatters of flesh hanging from his right cheek, where the claws had caught him. Looks to be already healing, in the uncertain light. Glances at us.
“Next time, run.”
Point to the body. “She couldn't. So I couldn't.” He crosses to the body. The girl is definitely dead, half her chest missing. The man kneels, closes her eyes. Ignores the stench of death and her voided bowels. Says a prayer. Then calmly, deliberately, draws his sword again and cuts the beast into tiny pieces. He looks at me, splattered in nameless fluids and still bleeding from the gashes on his cheek.
“You two are brave. Completely, moronically bloody stupid, but brave.” Then, with a sigh of inrushing air, he is gone. It took me a whole week to find out who he was. Le Chat. Demon Killer Stevens. Already a legend.
I never forget a debt. Had he not showed up, I'd have died. I'd certainly not have the position I do now. A position that allows me to repay at least part of the debt, finalmente.
“Torres. Pass the word at street level. I want to hear of any sudden increases in missing persons. Any suddenly bad neighbourhoods. Anything that has got the street dwellers, the grifters, the dealers and the girls spooked. Plot all reports and give me your initial report by sundown tonight.”
Torres looks at me for a second. He wants my place, but has neither the balls, nor the organisation to back it up. He keeps pushing though. Trying to trip me up, setting problems in my way, instead of being a smooth domo and clearing them out. Reporting to two of my closest rivals, at last count.
“That will interfere with the day to day running of the business. I cannot recommend it as a course of ac...” The last word disappears in a gentle pop. James casually tucks his gun away again and presses the call button for a clean up crew. It is a strange business, having a specific intercom button for “get this fucking corpse out of here, right now.”
He turns to Maresci, Torres' second in command, and snarls, “The capo gave an order. Do it. Do it now. Or you answer to me.” I may be capo, but everyone is terrified of James. Meet his eyes. He feels it too. We are running out of time here.
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