.
Brood of a New Age
67.
Dante exhaled once more. In and out. In and out. Moonlight and flowers.
The suit felt good. This Nora was a master of her profession even if she was not Italian. The heir of Della Marra appreciated good work. Occasionally, Dante had worn suits in Naples - tailor-made for him. At his father's request. And although he quite perceived that he looked fantastic in them when the tailors had done a good job (fear was very motivating), the finest rags meant little to him. He liked his jeans full of holes and he liked his vest. He liked it when his neck, his arms, even his chest were free and he could feel the wind brush over them as he glided. The more clothes he wore the more distant he felt from the sky with its updrafts and downdrafts and right now he wondered if this was a gargoyle thing. The rat-eaters, after all, largely just wore their slips with bibs themselves years after waking from their millennial slumber. Of course for lack of good tailors, the Italian thought, but certainly also because it felt good and right to wear little. But this was not about feeling comfortable. He was about to finish his mission and he knew that if he distinguished himself as much as possible from the Manhattan gargoyles, he would surely succeed. He didn't even have to act - he was, after all, the exact opposite of them. Or the other mobsters would just shoot him because he was a gargoyle without asking what kind of gargoyle he was. Well, he just had to gamble.
He lit another cigarette and smoked it to collect himself, reeling off his moonshine and flowers mantra over and over in his head. This one would work. His courtship had been thorough, his intentions must have been clear. The minor setback yesterday in the Arab's workshop he would just brush off. He had thought about it for a long time and was now pretty sure he had witnessed some magic in action. Maybe the store was haunted. Maybe there was some kind of ... protection spell over it. There was simply no other explanation for all the weirdness together. The exploding motorcycle was one thing. But that wind and that for some unknown reason those tools came flying? Magic. It had to be that way. And he wasn't crazy. The small chubby guy with his creepy eyes had seen it too - even before him. There was no other way to explain that he had pointed his finger at the Harley just before it went up. Yes, at the Harley - not at Dante himself as he had thought before. Or ... had he not pointed at it at all? Had he himself ... no. Probably not. That had been just a kid. An absolutely ordinary child except for his Nordic eyes. There was such a thing. Humans intermingled so freely that such combinations were possible. So Dante just filed the matter and decided to stay away from this bewitched store forever.
The second bummer yesterday had been the Nashville incident. Dante thought it was nice that Nashville had a little girlfriend and the misfit in him was even happier because the boy was leading his whole clan around by the nose. But the two kids having fun together at night was so dangerous, as the episode yesterday had shown. Times Square! The busiest street in the world! How had the two of them gotten there? And then so disfigured and gummed up, too. Nashville could have died - the girl could have died (although that was highly unlikely). Dante wasn't one to forbid others from taking risks or being stupid. He just hoped Nashville had learned his lesson. He pushed aside the strange urge to rat him out by phone to Grace and thus to the clan. He was, despite being an Italian gargoyle, NOT a nanny. He would be nowhere near that.
He would just forget about the whole night - scary, disturbing, and then worrisome and depressing. There were more important things to do now.
Now was no time to think it all over again. He was not allowed to think - he just had to do what he had always done. Be a criminal. Confidence. Control the situation through cold and superior dominance. It could not go wrong.
.
.
The door opened and he and Silvana looked at the guest who came in. And where Silvana had already opened her mouth to tell this guest that the kitchen was already cold and the restaurant was about to close, no words came out of her mouth. Her brain and her tongue seemed to be blocked as well as his brain and his tongue. From this sight. The sight of the gray-skinned, scarred monster who wandered in wearing a dark, perfectly fitting tailored suit, gave them only a polite nod and a hint of an arrogant smile, and walked quietly to a table near the back entrance. He pulled back one of the chairs, folded his large red-skinned wings over his shoulders so that the claws on the wings closed over his chest like with a cape, and sat down in the chair as if it were the most natural and mundane thing in the world. Just as calmly and naturally, he took the wine list, flipped it open and began to study it. Carl thought he was dreaming, perhaps fantasizing. But he had the feeling that if someone woke him up from this dream he would wake up in an even more frightening reality. That's why he grabbed Silvana's arm just as she was gasping for air to scream. He had this impulse too. But sometimes the diffuse, vestigial survival instincts were greater than any apparently logical impulse. He clutched Silvana's wrist so roughly that she groaned softly, and only when he gave her a scream-breaking, threatening stare did her mouth snap shut.
"I'll handle this," he muttered, yet all he really wanted to do was escape from his own store. Instead, he faced this impossible "customer".
"Good evening at La Prima. Have you already chosen a wine or may I recommend something," he said, impressed and horrified at how normal a voice could sound when he was absolutely on autopilot.
The creature that could be nothing but a gargoyle didn't look up from the map. His voice was as rich and Italian as the best wine on the menu, yet as caressing and dark as the night itself.
"What region of Italy is your Pinot grigio from?" he asked as if he really had a clue.
"From Veneto."
"That's acceptable." He flipped the wine list closed. "Then I'll start with this along with your vitelo tonato until my guest gets here," the gargoyle said, proving that, strange as it seemed, he absolutely had knowledge of what went with veal with tuna sauce.
"An excellent choice," Carl confirmed with his professional smile reserved for the most expensive and dangerous guests, not lying in the least with his words because the crisp taste of a good unblended Pinot Grigio was really perfect as a companion for this appetizer.
"What's your name?" the Gargoyle asked, seeking eye contact with Carl for the first time. His eyes were black, reflecting the light in a peculiar way, and seemed to suck you in. But there was no malice in them, no acute threat. Something that could change quickly, however, the human feared.
"Carl," he said softly.
"Carl. I am expecting Anthony Dracon for dinner but it is possible that this appointment has slipped his mind. You will therefore call him right now," said the inhuman being and carl noticed very well that it was not a request.
This thing knew that Tony Dracon was a regular guest here and it expected them to have his number.
They didn't. But they had the next best thing.
That's why Carl just said, "But of course," turned and grabbed Silvana, frozen with shock at the abnormal guest, and went to the kitchen, where he had to explain to Jean that he had to stay longer to respond to the requests of a guest who could be as big a threat as Tony Dracon himself.
Meanwhile, Dante smirked, imagining he could feel his new knife vibrating in his jeans pocket with giddy anticipation.
"Game, set, match."
.
.
Tony was in an extremely bad mood because of this crazy gargoyle that was obviously running amok in his territory. Even Giulia had not been able to change his spirits this evening, although he noticed that she was trying to be as bubbly and pleasant as she could. But it was just this pleasantness that made women like her boring for Tony Dracon. He actually liked it when they were reserved. Giulia, on the other hand, had been increasingly annoying for weeks without probably really being more annoying than before. It was simply his impression and a sign that he would have to get rid of her soon. She was far too sure of his favor since he had given her the pendant anyway. And her increasing reassurances that he could just forget about the condoms because she was on the pill really didn't make it any better.
He harbored a spark of affection for Graziella by now but that didn't mean he was going to let another bastard get to him. How likely it would be that the next offspring would not only be a boy (essential for the continuity of the bloodline and the business) but would also be as handsome, shrewd, quick-witted in more ways than one, and blessed with such talents as his first accident. He watched bored as Guilia knelt between his legs and pulled down his zipper. He didn't feel like it, but maybe she was making him feel like it.
Then his phone rang. He reached over and took the call.
"What?" he asked irritably.
"We got him!" said Glasses.
Giulia cried out indignantly as Tony jumped up and knocked her backwards.
.
.
"That's not a good idea, boss," Glasses said, watching Tony check his gun's charge again. Not a laser weapon. Good old-fashioned bullets. These monsters weren't bulletproof, and he didn't want to burn down his favorite restaurant.
"Talk to me, Tony," Glasses said more urgently, and his friend since boyhood looked up and flashed a strained smile.
"I want to get this thing done with minimal fuss and mess. We'll give him a chance to talk and plead not to kill him. But one person is going to leave this place feet first and it's not going to be me."
Glasses cleared his throat but whatever he had wanted to remark did not cross his lips. Tony always took it very personally when the Gargoyles stopped one of his operations, dried up one of his revenue streams, or tossed him at the feet of the police. But for this new Gargoyle to launch such strange, almost intimate attacks - without actually attacking him - was a new kind of confrontation. Tony Dracon was not one to waste his money and energy on a vendetta. But this guy, who was supposedly squatting in their favorite restaurant right now, would pay. Glasses and Tony got out of the car and walked the few feet until they were in front of La Prima. Glasses peered through the front window past the bright curtains and were flabbergasted.
"I don't believe it. Boss, you've got to see this. That guy is sitting in there having a good time."
"Not for long," Tony growled.
The gargoyle looked up as the bell above the door announced the entrance of more people. And a smile spread across the monstrous beak as he saw the two humans enter, their gazes fixed on him. Miller had acquired photos of both of them. Anthony (Tony) Dracon and Andrew (Glasses) Wilson. The right hand man was nervous and tense. Although Dracon maintained the chilly poker face of a "businessman" as he walked toward his table, irritation and indignation oozed from every pore of both of them, Dante smelled it even across the store and over his wonderful parmigiana di melanzane.
Tony's gaze only peripherally caught Carl, his regular waiter, who was peering through the kitchen porthole with another employee as well as the cook.
The Gargoyle stood up and Tony as well as Glasses instantly had their respective hands on their weapons.
But the Gargoyle pointed with the flat of his hand to the vacant chairs at his table instead. "Mister Dracon. Mister Glasses. So glad you could make it. My name is Dante," he said in a very dominant but not unpleasant accent.
"What's all this about?" the mob boss asked with a frosty thirst for knowledge, settling into the chair. He saw that Glasses, who took a seat next to him, had unobtrusively drawn his gun and was pointing it at the gargoyle under the table.
"Would you like something to drink? I'm sure you know the menu here better than I do."
He gave a short whistle and Carl appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. The gargoyle raised his hand and snapped with his fingers.
"Three glasses of limoncelo, Carl."
A few moments later, three small glasses stood before them before Carl - quiet as a mouse in the presence of cats who were about to quarrel over their territory - retreated again.
Tony and Glasses looked at each other briefly, still annoyed, Glasses at least visibly unsettled but both tense as bowstrings over the gargoyle's oddly friendly behavior.
"You told the employees here to notify me?" asked Tony.
"Yes. I also knew which hotel and even which room you were staying in, and I know the most used houses of the nuclear family. But dropping in without announcement wouldn't have been very polite, would it? Not the best way to start our conversation. More neutral territory was better," said the Gargoyle, who was enjoying the last two forks of his main course. It was surreal to see someone eating with a beak and should have been a sloppy sight. But it wasn't.
"I don't think my favorite restaurant is neutral territory," Tony zinged. "And threatening my business partners, mooching through my turf, and then sending all the bills to me doesn't strike me as a good prelude either - to whatever."
The gargoyle smirked and lit a cigarette with a Zippo. Both had been lying on the table so he was unlikely to provoke a gunfight if he had reached into his pants pocket. He seemed to be smiling a lot and Tony had no idea why he was so amused.
"It's up for debate whether I actually threatened anyone or whether my mere presence is a threat. You, Tony must know this. We don't always like it - but the conclusions that stupid people draw are not our problem."
"No. I guess not," Tony said, stunned that the gargoyle had exactly the same opinion as he did. That he now switched to his first name after the greeting, he ignored. Because he kind of liked hearing his name spoken with that voice.
"Besides," continued, his inhuman counterpart, "- I needed some equipment, rations and, of course, clothes appropriate to the occasion. I love your tailor. This one employee is just-."
"Why?" interrupted Tony, staring at him. He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, and he didn't have to look to know that Glasses was just waiting next to him for a sign to shoot. The gargoyle sat back and truly looked a little disappointed though general affability prevailed.
"I regret that this has not become clear. Perhaps this will help." The gargoyle slid some upside-down Polaroids to Tony and he grabbed them, flipped them over ... and had to struggle to keep his eyes from falling out of his head. Glasses beside him gasped. On the first picture was the bloody, puffy but still recognizable face of Slaughter's bodyguard. In the blurry background, two more figures were lying on the ground - presumably Slaughter's men as well. The second picture showed Yinpei's right hand man - also knocked out and visibly a few teeth poorer. The third showed Volkov's cousin Bogdan - an idiot but although Tony briefly thought Serves-him-right!, he was freezing in the warm store. The people in the fourth and fifth and sixth pictures he didn't know, or they were too bloody for him to place them straight. But from the first three, one had already gotten an impression of what the unifying element was. Of course, Glasses had heard, and so had Tony, that high-ranking members of the other syndicates had been roughed up by gargoyles in the last two nights. But honestly - in New York this was nothing unusual anymore and was regularly cause for anger or amusement in the families depending on whether own or external people had been stuffed into garbage cans or tied up with iron bars. But these photos. The way the people on them had been beaten up, and the fact alone that they had been photographed, testified to a violence and at the same time to a ... disturbing playfulness, such as neither Glasses nor Tony knew. Like a cat playing with mice before devouring them, Glasses thought and exhaled.
"And now?" asked Tony between clenched teeth, dreading the answer.
"What do you think?" the gargoyle asked neutrally.
"I think you're saving the best for last and want to take over the families' territories, including mine," Tony growled.
Now the gargoyle was no longer smiling. He had his hand, his claws to be exact, resting thoughtfully against his neck, eyeing Tony and Glasses. Then he took his cigarette out of his mouth, sighed while placing it in the ashtray and said with a disappointment that reminded Glasses as well as Tony of their fathers:
"I underestimated the cultural barrier between Italy and America. Maybe this gift here makes it more obvious. Actually, there are several."
Now he slid a cigar box across the tablecloth. Tony recognized the high-priced brand, and Glasses realized that Tony had already paid for those very cigars (among many other things) himself. This gargoyle was as insane as he was outrageous.
"It's not what you think. Please. Open it," the gargoyle requested with an almost sullen weariness in his gaze and voice as if this was his (or Tony's) last chance. Tony looked at Glasses for a moment. The latter hesitantly lifted one of his hands and placed it on the casket, leaving the other on the weapon pointed at Dante's abdomen. The lid flipped open and Tony backed away.
"Shoot!" he screeched but even without that Glasses would have done it. But the gunshot, which made the kitchen staff scream fearfully, went up through the tabletop because something had obviously jerked Glasses wrist upward. The bullet got stuck in the ceiling and some plaster trickled down. Before Glasses could scream, his torso slammed forward because something had tugged at his shirt in a jerky but brute manner. No, not something - someone! Dante. Dante's tail, which just disappeared back under the tabletop. Tony didn't know if he had heard Glasses nose or his visual aid break but something had just cracked. His best man didn't move anymore.
Tony had jumped up and wanted to pull out his own gun, but it wasn't there. The gargoyle smiled indulgently. The way one smiled at a child who had just done something silly and droll.
"You know, Tony, I've only recently realized the manifold advantages of such a tail." Slowly, the gargoyle's tail now curled out from under the tabletop where he was sitting and placed Tony's weapon in his own hand. With a single fluid motion, Dante opened the cylinder and let the bullets slide out. They clattered on the parquet floor. This was exactly what happened to Glasses' gun and his magazine. "It's unfortunate that the Manhattan gargoyles have just opened my eyes in this regard, but I won't complain," said the gargoyle, pointing again at Tony's chair, who complied with the request without thinking about it because he had the choice of toppling over or sitting down. The non-human creature that had made it through the brief commotion and its own movements with its fifth (or was it its seventh?) limb without even moving its butt from place, leaned forward with folded hands, probing but not malicious gaze.
"Let's start over. My name is Dante. I'm from Italy. I worked there for the leading Camorra boss in Naples. And now that I have covered those fields, so to speak, I am looking for new employment. I've already done preliminary work in more ways than one, and the other syndicates already know that the Dracons have a new very valuable playing card in the deck." He tapped the sandalwood casket with its ill-fated contents with a murderously pointed claw. "I am not like the resident Samaritan troop here, and you must never fear from me that I will turn you or any of your men over to the police for I detest the copper bastards as much as you do. I am one of your own. And I have been applying for a position in the Dracon Syndicate for the past week. There's no one else I can think of as boss but Tony Dracon." A pleasant shiver ran down the human mobster's spine as the inhuman creature spoke his name as if rolling it on his tongue.
He had to wrestle with himself for a few moments to coordinate his mind and his tongue.
"You ..."
"Yes?"
"You're a mobster."
"That's right."
"And you want to work for me?"
"Absolutely."
"No bullshit? "
"No shit at all."
"And what's in it for you...Dante?"
"The protective mantle of a family. The guiding hand of a boss. And ideally, inner peace." The gargoyle clasped his hands under his chin (beak?) and smiled again that sinister smile Tony could now place. Because he saw it in the mirror sometimes. It was a gangster's smile. More than that - the smile of a high-ranking, conscious of his worth, family member.
"The guiding hand? Mine?"
"Yours. Unless you want me to be the boss. Would prefer it the other way around, though. I'm more comfortable taking orders than giving them."
Tony stared at him wordlessly trying to figure out if he was serious.
"What ... was your assignment work in Naples under the leading Camorra boss?"
"Mostly waste disposal," the gargoyle said nonchalantly, his steady gaze leaving no doubt that by waste disposal he meant what an American gangster would have meant. The gargoyle took the stewing, very short cigarette from the ashtray and took one last drag before stubbing it out.
Tony's gaze fell on the casket again. Six cut ring fingers. He knew the ring on one of the fingers. He would have to check on the other "owners". Not himself - but Glasses after he had awakened from his slumber.
None of the saints in G,s troupe would make such gifts. This Dante was really quite a different breed. The only question was - did he want to know that breed under his wing ... or would he go to the concurrence if need be (fingers or no fingers)?
Tony had to admit, he didn't want that guy under anyone's wing. Having a Gargoyle of his own - one that had no problem maiming and "disposing" - the thought was mind-boggling. Mind-bogglingly good.
For the first time in several days, Anthony Dracon found his usual superior smile.
"What are your terms? For such a collaboration?"
"Mutual respect and appreciation for my faithful services. The upkeep of my standard of living although I can assure you that the amount of bills was only due to the ignorance of the shopkeepers because they wouldn't open their doors to me. And a cozy lair with a safe place to petrify."
Again, Tony looked up. To the gruesome creature whose dreadfulness was underscored, not diminished, by the perfect suit. To the gruesome creature whose smile so resembled his own. No one, including Tony himself, would say behind closed doors that the head of the Dracon clan had good intuition regarding people. Otherwise he wouldn't have been so fucked by the gargoyles last year. He had trusted them and lost. But this gargoyle - who gave away cut fingers as if they were flowers and photos of abused people like romantic greeting cards was his equal - he felt that. He would not miss this opportunity for his business. Slowly he raised his glass, which the gargoyle automatically mirrored.
"Dante - let's have a toast. To the beginning of a terrific collaboration."
"To the increase of the Dracon Syndicate's power, boss."
"Salute!"
"Salute!"
Half an hour later, the gargoyle - his new collaborator Dante - carried Glasses feet first out of the store. In that respect, Tony's prophecy had come true.
