Friday, February 19th...
It was quite early in the afternoon, when a black Mercedes, with black-tinted windows, passed slowly through several neighborhoods, in Atlanta main city. The car arrived in an area of fast-foods and malls, a rich, crowded avenue. Nobody cared about this weird, all black car, when it stopped and a group of middle-aged men came out. All were husky fellas, with broad shoulders, crew cuts, black army vests, combat boots, leather fingerless gloves... some of them even had scars. Not your typical honest citizens. They all had the eyes of an ex-con maniac. People passing by instinctively stepped aside when the weird guys walked to a low building and, passing through a blue curtain, went inside.
The Osaka Baths. A quiet sentô, a Japanese sauna, in downtown Atlanta, nothing more. From the outside, it was a plain building and didn't catch the eye, but inside, it was all about shiny wooden floor, delicate wood and paper walls, china decoration, and large paintings of Mount Fuji. Outside, you were in the United States. Inside, you were in Japan. All of the place was plunged in a thick mist of steam, and it was so hot and wet that the men began to feel uncomfortable, clad in their black clothes. But they didn't mind. They were not here for a bath, after all.
A young, very attractive Japanese woman in a traditional gown soon arrived to greet them, and expressed herself in an almost torturous Engrish manner:
"I am sorry, Gentremen, the baths are crosed to the pubric today."
"We are not here for a bath," one of the men replied with the accent of those who write their Rs backwards, "we need to see Mr Sonychiba. For... important business."
The woman looked at her guests with round eyes. Their West-Asian accents made her quite uneasy. She stammered something about going to talk to her boss, and disappeared quickly. A few seconds later, a monster appeared from one of the bathrooms. The landlord, Mr Yamamoto Sonychiba, had the impressive frame of a Sumo wrestler and the piercing gaze of a Samurai warrior. He was going pretty well, and only his thin white hair was relevant of his old age. When you saw him come, clad only with a large towel wrapped around his waist, thus revealing a beautiful full-body tiger tatoo on his massive figure, you knew instantly he was not a man to joke with. A former yakuza. A man who knew how to kill people. He arrived and arrogantly looked at his guests. In very good English, he then said:
"You... you look exactly like Russian weasels..."
"Kazakhs, Mr Sonychiba."
"I do not care. What do you want ?"
"We have been sent by our boss to propose you our... services. Mr Sonychiba, you must be aware that in the world of today, insecurity is rampant, therefore it would be wise to donate a few dollars... for your own protection."
"Protection money, that is so ? Who do you think I am, young cock ? This is racket you are talking about, nothing less and nothing more. I know very well who you are. I fled Japan to escape scum like you, and you, young redneck from the asshole of Asia, you dare come here with your mob and talk about protection money ? Be aware that I could kill you all right now, bare hands. You were still just a pack of horse-riding farmers when we, the Japanese, were already the rulers of all Asia. You are no match for me. Now, go, and consider yourself lucky I let you out alive."
The Kazakh Mr Sonychiba was talking to was losing patience. Feeling deeply insulted by this speech, he was already clenching his fists, ready to rumble this place over, even if he had one chance out of one to get killed by the landlord.
"Vassily, ostanovites !"
All the men froze at this order, and turned to a part of the hall that served as a small bar. A man was sitting at a table, enjoying a drink of sake. He stood up and went to the Japanese man. He was a Kazakh too, though largely different from the rest of the group: he was young, a little shorter than the others, his thin and athletic body fully clad in a tight-fitting leather suit, with a large belt, gloves, and cow-boy boots. His spurs clinked at each step. The total lack of a beard, his thin face and his neck-long hair slicked back gave him a very young appearance. Facing Mr Sonychiba, he was like a Yorkshire Terrier facing a Rottweiller. But still he was confident, and even bold. He calmly dropped the cigarette he was smoking - a Sobranie Black Russian - on the floor and crushed it with his heel.
"Please excuse the hot-blooded attitude of my comrades, Chiba-san. I hope we can keep talking quietly, like adult people."
The Japanese considered the young man with even more disgust than the others.
"I heard about you," he said. "You are that one they call Snake. So you really are the executor, the right-hand man of that pathetic crime syndicate of yours. Yes, I heard things about you, especially that you are quite... effective. What a joke ! Taking yourself so seriously, you are nothing more than a pawn in the game. Go and tell your boss he can put his protection money where I think."
The large man then turned away disdainfully. For him, the talk was over. Not for them.
"Chiba-san," the young man they called Snake called, "I totally acknowledge you are a man of honor. Please believe that my boss and I have great respect for this. Reject us now, and we will only come back in greater number to destroy this place. Instead, may I propose you to deal with us in the... honorable, manly way ?"
The yakuza turned to him again, greatly interested. "So that is how you are going to show me all your talent, Snake. I haven't fought in ages, but though the body can grow old, the knowledge, like good wine, grows finer with the years. I will crush you without remorse."
Snake wasn't at all intimidated. He just smiled:
"Wanna bet ?"
----------
The main bath. It was a tiled pool, large as a swimming pool, but only a few feet deep. Empty of all water as it was now, it could make a perfect fighting arena. The two "competitors" were already in the middle of the improvised ring, warming up. A leather-clad Caucasian version of Bruce Lee opposing a tank-like heavily tatooed yakuza. All of this looked nastily like a punk remake of Enter The Dragon. As for the spectators - consisting of Vassily and the other Kazakh henchmen that came along - they were standing on the pool bank that was farthest from the fighters, so as not to disturb them. The Japanese girl rejoined them a moment later, carrying a ghetto-blaster.
"I got what you wanted, Mr Snake," she said.
"Cool ! My favorite record's inside ?"
"What do you want ?"
"Night Ranger, The Secret Of My Success." The young man paused and turned to his opponent. "Well, if you don't mind some music during the fight, of course..."
"Go ahead, it doesn't matter. Kids today can't do anything without music."
The girl pushed a button, and the good old rock tunes invaded the room. Snake was in a trance and began to show off, performing the splits and even moonwalking in some kind of mock rock'n roll dance.
"Snake," Chiba called, "enough of that, we've got a fight on the way !"
"Oh, sure. Sorry."
"Don't talk, act. Come on, show me your kung-fu !"
The leather boy stood on guard, focusing all his energy. A soft hiss came out of his lips as he contracted his muscles. At this moment, with a speed and suppleness that were utterly surprising considering his massive frame, the yakuza charged his opponent, with enough force to run him over like a truck. Calm down, wait for the right time... now !
As Chiba was almost at contact, the young mobster let out a resounding reptilian hiss and dove the tip of his boot straight into the large tatooed belly like a jackhammer. Chiba immediately had a start, totally stopped in his speed, and jerked a few feet back, coughing and holding his belly with both hands. Usually, when Snake performed that move, blood would soon pour from the stomach, and the victim would just lay down, their guts turned into peanut butter. But when Chiba recovered from the shock and removed his hands, he had nothing but a bruise. How the Hell !
"Is that all ? You're disappointing, Snake."
The boy replied with spite: he threw his kick, aiming at the head, but the fat man dodged with ease. You recognize a true fighter as someone who keeps a good velocity and good reflexes in spite of an old age and an overweight. The two fighters traded a few punches. Chiba's arms were larger than oaks and tougher than rock, but still, Snake managed to block, parry, and response with faster moves, slaps and knife-style punches, aiming at the head. To be honest, Snake was much faster than his opponent, and it was about his sole advantage, for he was no match concerning the strength. His comrades were cheering him. A palm strike in the chin pushed the Japanese back and stunned him for a second. The young man used this advantage to throw a large high kick. And another one. He stopped. Chiba was "standing K.O." and would fall in a second. He won ! Relieved, he smiled and began to walk to the bank, towards his friends. That was an easy victory, in the end.
"Wait a second !"
He turned back. Chiba hadn't fallen, on the contrary, he was fully recovered. What the Hell was he made of ?
"Okay, second round !"
Snake attacked with a roundhouse kick, dodged again with ease. The fat man was much better than he thought ! Punches, parries, fast and faster, but there was no way to put him down ! Snake kicked his head again, but this time, Chiba caught the foot in the air, and lifted his opponent to toss him down like a wrestler. Light as the Kazakh was, it was easy to lift him and throw him, and the Japanese didn't hesitate to use this method again and again. The other gangsters were way less cheery now, seeing their champion being helplessly thrown in the air and wrestled down. After a good hard time, the young man was powerbombed and remained down on the tiled floor, motionless. Chiba turned back and walked to the Kazakh mobsters, who were properly horrified: their champion was down ! Their champion was K.O. !
"See," the Japanese said, "see how I deal with you crooks. What I did to him, I can do it to you all. Keep in mind that I have been gentle. It was just a warm-up. The next one, I will kill him."
The only one applauding his victory was the girl. The others were hesitating between yielding to anger and attacking - and getting killed - or running away right now. Why the Hell had they not brought a gun ? The boss had forbidden them to do so since they pretty messed up with a grocer in the suburbs, two days ago. And here was the result, a failure !
"Wait a second, this is not over yet..."
The yakuza turned round. Smiles appeared on the Kazakhs' faces. The girl was silent, too terrified to speak. The landlord was just unimpressed, and even amused: Snake was standing back up. Tired and in pain, he wanted some more. Sonychiba Yamamoto respected the effort. If he were Japanese, he would've been a great yakuza. But he had been warned. Better finish him off quickly. The fat man charged like a bull. He would give him a punishment he would always remember. He would crush him like an insect.
Impulse !
At the last moment, Snake gathered his strengths in a somersault, and passed behind his opponent. Chiba was confused. He didn't expect the boy to disappear from his sight like that ! He turned back, searching for his target, but then... black out. He just felt claw-like fingers on his face, and a powerful impulsive force that practically propelled him back - a man of his weight ! - to crash against the opposite bank, smashing tiles to pieces with the shock.
When the landlord regained consciousness, his face was soaked with his own blood, that was pouring from ten wounds on his skull - the ten places where Snake had put his fingers during the attack - and the Kazakh boy was standing, tired but victorious, above him.
"You lose, Chiba-san. What am I going to tell my boss, now ?"
"Tell him... that I fully accept the issue of this battle. I agree to pay him whatever money he wants."
"You're a man of your words. But I have a better idea. A man of your might could be useful to our organization. I will tell my boss not to make you pay. In exchange, we will call you if we need your services."
"Then I am a member of your mob against my will ? Fine. I lost my freedom in a fair fight, and I accept all the consequences. Tell your boss I will gladly work for him in the future."
"I'm glad we found an agreement. Thank you, Chiba-san, and have a nice day."
----------
Saturday, February 20st...
Our car passes the large grids of Prinzmetal Estate, in the outskirt of Atlanta. Connie's father's property is huge, really huge, even Veruca could be jealous of it. We pass through a forest of conifers to stop in a large yard in front of the massive three-story Roman-style white mansion. Looks megalomaniac for only one man and his two children, doesn't it ? And yet, you should see how it looks in Summer: usually, in May, the gardeners would plant palmtrees around the yard, and the place then looked so much like the lair of Tony Montana that you would expect cigar-smoking Cuban gangsters in flashy suits to burst out of the garden at any moment. But, no, Al Prinzmetal is nothing like a criminal. Just an excentric and very successful businessman.
Mom is about to open the door of the car when Brandt, the butler, appears out of nowhere and opens it for her. This kind of makes us laugh. We're not at all in our universe, here. Compared to them, we're bums. Mom takes the basket of cookies and we walk to the huge entrance door. Mom always has to cook something when we visit someone. If it's not an apple pie, it's cookies. As for myself, I'm carrying the cardboard box full of candy I received from Charlie yesterday, to test some new - but safe ! - treats with Connie and her brother. Charlie was very nice in his letter. He said things are going very well in the Factory, and now that they're two twisted minds in command, they're more creative than ever. He also said he's sorry, but they still haven't found a stable treatment for the three-course-meal gum side effects. Guess I'll have to live with the make-up for another few months...
But that damn blue skin is only a small problem compared to the Hell my life has become. Okay, I'm exaggerating, but still. The last two days were horrible ! First, as I foresaw, I had a nightmare Wednesday night in which the Kazakh mafia invaded my home and kidnapped me in my sleep. The worst is that... this dream was just cheesy to death ! So cheesy it looked like the plot of a bad Superboy episode. Wait, that's a pleonasm. Anyway, in the end, they tied me to a conveyor belt with a big scroll saw at the end - told you it was cheesy ! - and at the last moment, I was rescued by a Matt Murdock dressed like a mix of Red Devil and Batman. That's when I woke up. That had to be the weirdest dream I ever had.
Tuesday, I showed up at the police station after school, and Walt told me they found that a grocer had been murdered around where I heard gunshots, so now I'm officially a crime witness. I really needed that ! I told them everything I saw and heard, and they said they would start an investigation, but they didn't have enough elements to make it progress. Just great, that means they will never find them, and now, the guy with the bague can come after me anytime. And don't forget the school itself, of course: everyone heard about my second defeat and how I had to throw myself into the trash bin, so now I must be the whole city's shame. I basically spent the last two days taking narrow alleys to avoid meeting the cursed Kawasaki Ninja and its rider, and spending recesses in the toilets to escape tauntings and sarcasms. This week-end is most welcome ! I'll finally unwind. Today, we visit the Prinzmetals, and tomorrow, Sunday, we're taking Matt to have lunch at the Varsity and see - if he were here, he would make a smart-ass comment about the verb - the Georgia Aquarium. I still don't know if I'll be able to withstand seeing Mom and Matt side by side, knowing what happened between the two... yuk !
Brandt guides us to a luxurious lounge that looks like it's coming right out of the Titanic, where Mr Prinzmetal, clad in one of his favorite Armani suits, is totally absorbed in a conversation on the phone.
"Seventy ? Why so many... yes... yes, of course. Where should I deliver ? You take care of the shipping ? Okay, no problem. It's pleasure. Have a nice day, Comrade."
The conversation finished, Al "Capone" Prinzmetal hangs up and comes to greet us. No, he's not a gangster at all, as I told you. We just call him like "Capone" because of the way he looks, with his Italian suit, his slicked black hair and his eternal big cigar.
"Excuse me, I was on a big deal. Scarlet, you look great !"
"What does it mean ? I thought I always looked great !" she joked.
"Of course, you do."
He goes to kiss her on the cheeks. Nothing ever happened and nothing ever will between the two, simply because Mr Prinzmetal used to be so close to my father that Mom is like his sister. Then, he comes to kiss me.
"So, Violet, you're coming back from an expedition at Wonka Factory, aren't you ?"
"Yeah, that was fine."
He laughs. "I guess you'd rather go and see Connie than stay here with the old pals. Go ahead, she's in the basement. But, please, come for the tea."
"Don't worry," Mom says, "they will come, I baked some cookies."
"With nougat, I see... my favorites."
I let them talk and go for the basement. Once at the end of the staircase, I take off my shoes, as always, so as not to dirty the thick blue carpets that cover the floor. The mansion is so large, actually, that the basement was seen as an unnecessary space and entirely remade into a huge recreational area, huge and comfy, with thick carpets and wallpapers, sofas, bean bag chairs, old-fashioned lava lamps, hi-fi systems, and all the like. When you arrive in that basement, you make a step into an odd world, into the kitsch and somewhat attractive universe of the eighties. There are several different rooms gathered around a common lounge, one is for computers and video-games, there's also a movie room, an arcade hall, a billard room, and even a "girls only" room for Connie and her friends to have girl chats. You really need to see it to believe. God knows how many Sunday afternoon we spent in this little room, talking till the end of times...
I hear music coming from the computer room, so I head there. Connie and her brother, Fred, a skinny fellow with round glasses and a terribly thick mass of curly brown hair, are watching a concert on one of the computers. They greet me and invite me to join in with them, but I only watch absent-mindedly: it's a hard rock concert, with everything it takes, including motorcycles, pyrotechnics, leather, strass, shiny red or blue guitars and very loud riffs. I don't really like hard rock. Here, the singer is a tall and slender figure representing the weirdest gender mix ever, with long and rather feminine legs wrapped in shiny black leather leggings, slim but more male-looking torso and shoulders, covered with tatoos, long straight hair cut in a fringe, and a thin, beardless face that is too thin to be that of a guy, and not enough to be that of a girl. And I almost forgot the blue eyes and the voice that is like the face, impossible to determine. The worst is that, where you would expect some kind of freak, here it goes on so well together that you just can't decide if the singer is a guy or a girl.
"That's Sadie Perkins ?" I ask.
"Yep," Fred says, "the London concert last week. She just doesn't stop, here she finishes her Europe tour, and next year, the United States ! She's incredible."
"Are we supposed to say he or she ?"
"Depends," he says as he gives a look at his sister. "The guys prefer to say she, and the girls prefer to say he. Am I right, Connie ?"
"Oh, yeah..." she pauses as she sees I'm looking at her weirdly. "What ? Got to say he's hot !"
"Mmh, yeah, it's just hard to say someone's hot when you don't even know if they're guys or girls."
"Guess your Mom wouldn't mind the difference..."
"What did you say about my Mom, Fred ?"
"Nothing, I was just mumbling for nothing. You like ?"
"Not really. I'm no big fan of hard rock. But my neighbor is a fanatic, day and night. But it's not the same thing, he listens to harder things, like Fuel, Seether... I guarantee, waking up on this at six in the morning, it's almost traumatizing."
We spend a good deal of time listening to some more songs and trying the treats I brought. Among other things, there are chocolate bars that keep changing taste after each bite, so that you never know what's coming next, popsicles that grow butterflies in your stomach, bubble-gum that makes solid bubbles that you can shape any form you want, and also three fully functional Everlasting Gobstoppers. Describing everything we tried would be much too long, but that was magic. I'll never get used to what Willy Wonka can do. Connie and Fred both fell in love with the Gobstoppers, whereas I prefer the "butterfly sicles". Then we have to go upstairs for the tea, which is a real torture because we have to sit politely and listen to a bunch of boring adult topics, including how Mom's business is doing, and what big contract is Mr Prinzmetal dealing with his new West-Asian clients, and on and on...
Eventually, Connie and I manage to sneak away and lock ourselves into the "girls only" room. Pink wall, soft cushions, slow r'n'b, exactly what we need for private talks. We seat comfortably and look for what's left in the candy box. She takes a chewing-gum. I go for a lollipop.
"You don't take chewing-gum anymore ?" she notices.
"No... I don't like gum as much as I used to."
"Since you fell sick in the Factory ?"
"Yep."
"So, tell me about that mysterious neighbor of yours. I don't know anything about him except he likes metal."
"You remember the blind guy I talked to, the other day ?"
"That's him ? He's not bad at all..."
"His name's Matt Murdock. He's a student at law."
"Matt Murdock ?"
"You sound like the name reminds you of something. You know him ?"
"No... it's just the name... it sounds very comic-book-like."
"Maybe, but he doesn't look like a comic hero at all."
"How is he ?"
"Very nice. A bit weird, but as Mom says, he's a New-Yorker, after all."
"I hope your Mom didn't freak him out like the other ones."
"She tried, but this time, she had what she wanted..."
"Wait, you don't mean that... you do ?"
I don't answer, but by the look in my eyes, she guessed it right.
"Oh my God," she exclaims, "that's... yuk !"
I tell her about what I found, the furry cuffs and all, and we both go on laughing, amused and disgusted at the same time. After a while, our laughters fade, and Connie turns serious again:
"What are you gonna do, now ?" she whispers gravely. I know of course that she's referring to my numerous defeats to train and beat Red Devil.
"I think I've tried everything I could. The next days are gonna be very, very hard, but I have no choice than to... stop. Now I'll study, be nice and get friends. Oh, Connie, I need you so bad !"
"What ?"
I think she's surprised to see genuine anguish in my eyes. That doesn't happen so often.
"I've never behaved like a normal girl before ! I'm scared of how it's gonna look like... will I make it ? Or maybe I'll just fail and remain anti-social forever ! I need you to teach me what to do ! You're a real girl, and I... well, I'm not really."
She smiles warmly. "Come on, of course you're a real girl ! You were born with all the stuff that goes with, that's all that matters."
I snigger. I really didn't see it this way !
"But that's okay, I'm gonna teach you a few things... first, let's talk about your clothes..."
"No way ! Sorry, Connie, but if you think of making me wear a skirt, stop it right now. I'm ready to learn, but don't touch my tracksuits !"
"Okay, tomboy, keep it cool ! Well, I guess we should begin with the most basic things..." she gives me an ironic smile. "Take off your socks..."
She gets up and goes for something. I'm getting worried. I didn't like that smile, and I think I know what she has in store for me. When she comes back, she's carrying a bottle of pink varnish and a magazine. I sigh. Exactly what I thought. I regret my request already.
"The most basic things," she says, "is to paint our toenails and gossip about the last news from Star Magazine."
It's so strange, but at this very moment... I get to think that I'd rather be kidnapped by the mafia than withstand this...
----------
The small room was dark and reeked of tobacco smoke. The gloomy, oppressive atmosphere of a crime boss's office. Typical. On the wall behind the large wooden desk, there was a large black flag bearing, written in white fancy Cyrillic letters, the words: Zmeya Armiya. Below these words, in the middle of the flag, the large white logo of the organization, the skull, the hammer and sickle, and the snake. Below again, two other words: Bratva Kazakhstani. Quite an arrogant title for their small crime syndicate. Small, but growing fast.
The boss was sitting behind his desk, on his favorite leather armchair. In the darkness, he was hardly visible, except for the glowing red dot of his cigarette. Members of the organization were standing around the desk, still, like militaries. Snake wasn't with them. For a syndicate like theirs to work, there had to be a strict discipline and hierarchy. Everyone had to know their place. And the mob's main executor's place wasn't here with them.
The gangsters waited respectfully until the boss finished serving the vodka in tiny glasses. That was the ritual, they couldn't begin a reunion before a drink of the traditional beverage. The boss put down the bottle, raised his own glass, and everyone followed.
"To the Party," he whispered. His men repeated in a choir, and they drank. Now, they could talk.
"I am satisfied with the way things are going," the boss said. "Racketeering local businesses is not a very glorious thing to do, but at least we get money fast. We need to strengthen up before we go into larger scale operation. Plus, now we have Mr Yamamoto on our side."
"Boss, can we trust him ?"
"He is Japanese, he will never fail to a given parole. Sense of honor is a beautiful thing. However, he will not be necessary at such an early time. Setting in Atlanta was a brilliant idea, this town is not under any rival syndicate, leaving our hands free. But he will sure be a precious ally in the future. Now, let us talk about our current issues... I hope we will soon obtain the release of our comrades Sultan and Jamila..."
"We have investigated, Boss. It seems that so far, they haven't talked."
"Good. They know the rule, after all, if they talk, we have them killed by the hour."
"But they are at a high risk to talk during their trial, if given the promise to avoid prison..."
"Yes, that's a risk that shall be avoided. The district attorney ?"
"George Senorm. Totally honorable, trying to corrupt him is a waste of time."
"Let me guess... middle-aged white Christian Republican straightass ?"
"Exactly."
"I love this country, people here are so predictible... does he have children ?"
"A thirteen-year-old daughter, Penny Senorm."
The boss immediately let out an uncontrolled laughter. His men watched him curiously, they didn't understand.
"None of you speak French, right ?" he asked. "If you ever knew what that name means in French... anyway, when is the trial going to begin ?"
"In three weeks."
"Then gather a special team and prepare the kidnapping of Miss Senorm. You will get her two days before the trial. No honorable man in the world can withstand having his child in danger, and we will force him to cooperate."
"Yes, Boss."
"Dimitri ? Can you remind me of the Golden Rule ?"
"Sure. No children shall be seriously harmed by our actions, in any circumstances."
"Good. Be sure to remember it with the young lady. We need to keep certain moral bases. That's what tells us apart from our Russian and Albanian comrades."
"We understand, Boss. Everything will be done according to your orders."
"Fine. Now, our second case. Piotr, would you please come closer ?"
The man called Piotr made a hesitant step forward. When the boss used so much politeness, it was never a good sign.
"Piotr, would you please explain us why you judged necessary to kill this poor grocer, last Wednesday ?"
"Boss, he wasn't willing to cooperate, and he was about to take something from under his counter. I thought it was a gun so I drew mine..."
"And what was it ? Under the counter ?"
"A baseball bat."
"Good. So you committed a murder, and therefore drew attention on us, only for a... baseball bat."
"I know, Boss. I fucked up."
"At least, you recognize your mistake. Fine, I give you a second chance. But now, there's going to be an inquest about this murder."
"We didn't leave anything behind, they will never know it was us."
"Except for a witness. A little girl, blond, in a white tracksuit."
"Shall we go for her, Boss ?"
"No. Remember the Golden Rule. Besides, she was coming out of Estelle Roddecker's club when it happened, and you know our policy concerning this lady... we do nothing about her, but let's keep watching the cops and make sure they don't get anywhere near us. And in the future, please be more careful. Understood, Piotr ?"
"Yes, Boss."
"That is all. Dismiss."
The men left the office in silence. It didn't go so bad, this time. The boss would usually go mad very easily. A woman entered when they were all out. She was a tall, beautiful brunette with scary cat-like eyes and unnaturally long, silvery nails. Miss Shekochit, the boss's secretary and personal assistant. Whether or not their relationship was more than professional had always been a main subject of wonder in the syndicate. Actually, very few people in the syndicate knew she preferred women.
"Good evening, Boss."
"How are you doing, Shekie ? Want a drink ?"
"No, thanks. I've got interesting news. From England."
"England ? We don't have any business in England ?"
"Not yet. But we may have an investor. A rich businessman is interested in an association with us."
"Undercover cop."
"That's what I first thought, so I took the initiative to check his background. I found no reason not to trust him."
"What business is he in ?"
"Nuts."
The boss chortled. "Nuts... maybe he wants to make a new brand of nut-based vodka. What kind of association does he want ?"
"He didn't go into details, he wants to treat with you directly. Basically, he is ready to put large funds in our organization for a fair share of the benefits, if in exchange we run a little trade for him. Passing commands to armament companies, ensuring shipping to England and falsifying papers, no big deal..."
"But big profits. Gun traffic is a risky, but very lucrative business. Get me in contact with this gentleman as soon as possible."
