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Brood of a New Age

71.

Dante got out of the car

"You get it what this is about?"

Dante leaned inside again and glared at Glasses and Pal Joey, both of whom involuntarily backed away. Just a few inches. But that revealed more than the guys wanted, and that alone was satisfaction for Dante. He wasn't going to mess with any of the longer-serving mobsters. But they'd never be "friends" either. And they had to understand quickly that they didn't have to play power games with him. He was their equal. At least.

"I'm not stupid. Sure I got it. No killing, scare the crap out of the boss of the shithole, collect protection money. It's a no-brainer for me."

"Did you work as a bagman in Italy, too?"

"Nah - we had the minions for that," Dante grumbled, and did not even try to hide the fact that he thought he was too good for the job. He knew this was a test for him, just like the last few nights. But collecting money was, after all, a human job. They were so into dough, after all. He wasn't. He appreciated the expensive parts of life. But money itself didn't mean shit to him.

"The owner has a history of being petulant."

Dante turned around. They had parked in an alley next to a music club. He heard Life music from inside, mixed with the buzz of voices and clinking of glass. It wasn't a big or fancy place.

"Why don't you blow the place up to teach him a lesson?" asked Dante, bored.

"The guy is the third-degree nephew to Tony, and he's on Dino's side. So he imagines he doesn't have to pay his share. Thinks he's untouchable. But everybody has to play the game. Otherwise, the house of cards collapses."

Dante frowned sullenly.

"So if your clan is about to blow up because of an inter-family war, I should know about it beforehand. If I go in there and fuck up that wanker and the store, I'm actually fucking your Dino."

"That's why it's all about making you show yourself," said Glasses coldly, who had a new pair of glasses that still didn't manage to fit properly on his swollen nose. "Make it clear to him that he has to pay now. Tony is in charge. Dino's on board but it's Tony who gets the payments."

"Yeah, just showing that guy your snout and saying you belong to Tony is gonna scare the shit out of him," Pal Joey grumbled, giving him that fucked up disguised-quarryman-look again.

"It's a beak," Dante growled.

Glasses he liked better. He hated him on a much more professional basis.

"We're going on. You'll be all right?" asked Glasses. He still didn't trust him and that probably proved his intelligence.

Dante grinned, showing as much teeth as he could, and let his claws clack against the paint of the body.

"You bet I can handle it. Haven't been in the industry since yesterday. And my wings aren't decoration, I'll get home." He slammed the car door shut and lit a cigarette while watching the car slowly chug away.

Dante was standing in the dark alley next to the back entrance, lighting a cigarette. It was quiet back here. The clubbers on the brightly lit street would at most see his glowing cigarette tip. Cars drove by sporadically. A dark van was parked on the side of the road across the street. It was his first week. He was still settling in. Things took time. He had had fun arranging this thing for himself. But when did the feeling finally set in? The feeling that this was the right place for him. He liked the house where he lived (including his female housemate, even though she inevitably slept a lot when he was awake). He liked the food that the dragon cooked for him, he liked the work even if it was small tasks (perhaps he liked it precisely because it was small tasks that would hardly attract the attention of the local gargoyle clan - he would take care of that problem when it arose). Of course he would have to prove himself in the coming weeks and months but he had no problem with that. So WHERE was his problem? Why was he still not happy? Or really satisfied - happiness would probably be a bit much to ask for someone like him. That was too much to ask for most and quite illusory. He was back in a family, he had a boss again who gave him tasks that he understood. He felt in his element. Why did he continue to feel like he was missing something? A small part of him - and really only a tiny one - loathed Signora Katana for putting that flea in his ear. Inner peace. Ridiculous. Was he Ganesah? ... Or what was the guy's name. Buddha? Anyway. Maybe it just wasn't meant to be. Maybe that kind of contentment just didn't exist for him. Nothing he could use to slowly heal his resentment and wounds. Maybe all he could do was push the pain away. With alcohol, food, work. That's what humans did billionfold. Then he could live with it, too.

The door next to him was pushed open without hitting him in the face or someone stepping out. Instead, a plastic garbage bag flew out, bounced off the wall of the alley, and landed among a dozen others already lying there. Then the door slowly slammed shut again. Before it did, Dante had thrown his half-smoked cigarette butt on the ground and had slipped inside. Dante walked just a yard behind the employee, so silently that, as so often happens, he wasn't noticed until he wanted to be - if he wanted to be at all. But even if he had been an oaf like a human, the guy wouldn't have heard him. Here the hum of the human shack was louder. Inseparable fragments of conversation, laughter, clinking, the crackling of ice as it was shaken along with liquid in one of those stainless steel shakers. And everything was not faded out but superimposed by the music. Not the most beautiful and brightest of all female voices sang a rather rocking piece by Vasco Rossi that stung Dante's heart simply because she sang in Italian. He was not allowed to think about that now. He was a professional.

Where the staff member turned right, presumably to the auditorium, Dante followed a staircase because an arrow scribbled on the wall with the word "Office" pointed upward. At a door on the second floor labeled "Office," he stepped inside without knocking. A short, stocky man with a half bald head sat at the only desk bent over papers. The little hair he had was tousled.

^"Ria, I told you there would be money after your promised ten numbers. Don't come on break already,"^ he muttered in Italian without lifting his eyes. Dante stepped up to his desk and tapped the wood with a sharp claw.

^"I'm not Ria,"^ the gargoyle said in equally fluent Italian. The guy looked at the claw in front of him for two seconds without comprehending. Then he lifted his eyes, which were the size of dinner plates.

"I've come from Tony Dracon to collect the money you owe him," Dante now said in English with a low voice in which he didn't have to put a growl or a snarl because he knew his appearance, his pitch of voice and his piercing glare were threat enough.

"Tony Dracon?" the man whispered almost silently. Which was much better and healthier for him than shouting.

"Exactly. Tony Dracon. My boss. I'm going to pick up a thousand bucks and next week I or one of my colleagues will come and pick up the same amount. And after that it's the same every week. And don't feed me that shit about you're not the manager here or you don't have that much money in the store or I'll remember that no one has fed me yet today."

"Di-Dino," was all he said.

"Don't piss me off, human. Money - now!" Dante pressed his claws into the creaking wood of the desk that would now bear his imprint forever. The manager raised his eyes, blanc in terror. But his body was not frozen. He swallowed, forced himself to slide away from the desk, and bent to the side to open a drawer. A few seconds later, Dante counted the bills and nodded when he found the total confirmed.

Again the manager cleared his throat.

"Does - does Dino know about this?" he asked quietly.

Dante looked at him grimly. This subliminal simmering family quarrel annoyed him. It reminded him far too much of the situation between Giuliano and his father that had led to the downfall of the entire Della Marra empire. Why were humans sawing at the legs of tables large enough to hold enough dishes for everyone?

"There is only one Dracon Syndicate," Dante enlightened him. "You pay Tony, you automatically pay Dino. Don't forget that. Otherwise, I'll forget myself. And you don't want me to forget myself. You want us to get along- believe me."

The man nodded. By now sweat was running down his forehead even though the room had air conditioning.

"I want us to get along, mister-"

"Dante."

"Mister Dante. Can I treat you to a drink? It's very warm tonight."

Dante grinned. "Good idea. I'll just sit at your bar and listen to the music."

The man's obsequious smile faded at the thought of how quickly his place would be emptied if a gargoyle sat down at his bar.

"You can bring me a Negroni, buddy," Dante generously offered, stepping aside so the human had a safe distance as he fled past him. It was doubtful he would come back again. Dante pocketed the money and loosened his tie. Just an inch. It was hard enough to make a tie as a gargoyle, and Dante didn't want to damage the fabric with his claws. But it was stuffy in here, despite the air conditioning. Maybe that was the atmosphere he was spreading. That was probably his purpose. To rob others (maybe even himself) the air to breathe.

Dante grumbled and stepped out of the office. The music just faded out. Too bad. One less reason to be here. He had the cash. What more did he want? He would climb on the roof and glide for an hour. He needed air to breathe, wind under his wings and vastness all around him. He looked so good in that suit. Why did he feel so suffocated?

He didn't go down the stairs but opened a door that said "Artists." It was a mixture of a lounge, makeup room and dressing room. A clichéd dressing table with light bulbs around the oval mirror stood to one side. There was a couch on which a guy with a three-day beard and slicked-back hair was slumped, snoring and drooling. His eyelids were half open but his eyes had rolled back. He looked zonked out, and Dante assumed he'd taken something and probably wouldn't even wake up if he tap-danced on his head. An open and a closed guitar case were also lying on the couch, a few cheap chairs were standing around a table on which some backpacks and bags had been thrown. Everything looked a bit like a mess because people, maybe the ones who had just played on stage, had been in a hurry.

And there was a window. He walked across the room, unintentionally sweeping one of the bags off the table, pushed the window open and looked out. It didn't open onto the alley but onto the street. He could just jump out. Again he turned around, scanned the room and already had his clawed foot on the window sill when his eyes fell on the bag lying on the floor. And on the plastic case of the CD, which had slipped out next to make-up utensils, handkerchiefs, a handy CD player including headphones and other odds and ends. He felt deep irritated wrinkles digging into his forehead - which couldn't be seen well anyway because of his wide horns, but he felt them. He turned around and bent down, picked up the CD and stared at it. And he was still staring at it when he heard voices from outside and the door opened.

The woman, who was now standing in the doorway, had an ordinary face with no remarkable features. Which didn't mean she wasn't beautiful. More girl-next-door than superstar. Brown short hair, little make-up, doe eyes, which now widened as she looked at him. Like the eyes of the guy who stood behind her and had to stretch to look over her shoulder. Only his green colored mohawk made him look taller. In contrast, the guy behind both of them was build like a refrigerator with light blond shoulder length hair who looked like a bouncer but probably wasn't one. They all wore the same black T-shirts - different sizes, of course - with the same print. "Fanfare", probably the name of their band.

.

Meanwhile, the manager stormed into his office, screaming. Without the drink he should have brought, but swinging his Quarrymen hammer above his head, which he would never again leave in his car. But the heavy implement slipped from his hands, damp with sweat, and smashed his own desk. He jumped back, startled, but the electrical charge didn't set anything on fire, it just zipped and zapped little flashes of electrical energy onto splinters of wood and paper before that, too, ceased. He looked around his office in fear. The gargoyle was gone.

"Damn it. Where is he?" he muttered, relieved and worried at the same time. He wouldn't dare wander around his store threatening and scaring employees, or worse, guests. Or would he? That would be poison for business. But even without that- he wouldn't have to pay every week, would he? He could. A thousand dollars was not too much for his store. But it was still a lot. He wished Dino would finally get rid of Tony, that things were going the way the more sovereign, colder but definitely more understanding older Dracon wanted them to. The one who knew to treat certain people better than others. Or did Dino know about this gargoyle? He had to. The whole underworld had heard about him. The police wouldn't intervene, probably not even the GTF. Because they thought it was rumors spread by the Dracons to cause fear among the other syndicates. For sure the authorities thought it was equal revenge for the kidnapping of Yingpei's nephew and Sanchez's daughter, which was also committed by Dino, Glasses and Pal Joey with gargoyle masks (not common knowledge but Dracon internal known).

Carefully he picked up his hammer again. He was not a gargoyle hater in general. He just thought it wouldn't hurt to have such a brigade up his sleeve. Dino had advised many of his people to get in there to harvest hammers. Just in case. And such a case had now come to pass. But he should have practiced with the heavy thing more often. He briefly considered calling Castaway. He would believe him. He had been to two three of his diatribes. If there were enough people around, followers, hangers-on, to confirm him, his passion quickly turned into fearsome zealotry. Jon Castaway was a fanatical lunatic in the guise of an apparently concerned citizen. Yes - he would come running when he called him. Him and at least a dozen of his people who would smash his place up. Which was the greater evil? A gargoyle or the Quarrymen? No, he would take care of it himself. If this gargoyle was still skulking around, he would either finish it off himself or scare him into never showing his face again. And later he would talk to Dino and advise him to get rid of his rebellious nephew with his pet-gargoyle sooner rather than later. He turned around. But he didn't get far because someone sprayed something in his face.

He coughed and blinked hard. He heard his hammer hit the floor when he dropped it. Not because of sweaty hands. But because he fainted before he could even recognize his attacker. He saw only dark shadows before his sight and his last thoughts left him.

.

They looked like normal clubbers. Fancy, but not too fancy. Good looking but not in a way that would make anyone remember them. The man locked the door so no one would surprise them. The manager was seated in his own chair. The male member of Xanatos' cleanup and concealment squad's ground troops moved his head and neck into position while his female colleague inserted a tube into his open mouth and following into the manager's stomach.

"Not in the lungs again," her colleague admonished.

"I learn from my mistakes," she grumbled, producing the small bottles of liquor from her handbag. First a few drops to test whether the tube was really not in the lungs. Then the contents of each bottle disappeared into funnel and tube and thus into the stomach of the unconscious man. It was enough to make him dizzy for hours and enough that he would still have a lot of alcohol in his blood until tomorrow, should someone do a blood and breathalyzer test. Finally, they sprayed liquor from an atomizer into his mouth and onto his clothes. The whole impression had to be right in order to make him completely untrustworthy should he turn to the police or the Quarrymen. Xanatos' people hadn't had so many assignments as in the last week for a long time. Neither the technicians nor the incognito units, most of whom had been former secret agents or mercenaries and had switched to the private sector. Their tasks now were mostly less dangerous - but highly paid, which of course ensured loyalty. It was wonderful.

He took a picture of the manager, who now looked like he was just drunk as a skunk - which he was when the alcohol got into his blood. Mister Xanatos wanted photos of anyone who could be a threat to Gargoyles and, if possible, video footage of every incident even if none of the surveillance trucks were around. Knowledge was power. The material could be used for analysis or to blackmail certain participants. That's why everyone in the team carried small photo cameras and digital cameras.

She used her intercom to radio her colleague, who was lying in wait in the club's main room, to inform her of incoming quarrymen or signs of gargoyle activity.

"You got anything?"

"Nothing so far," he said. "But the tracking data on his cell phone says he hasn't left the store yet either.

"The drones would see him, too. We'll take up a position outside. You stay inside until you get further instructions or until Quarrymen arrive."

"Gladly," her colleague returned over the noise in the main room. The woman dropped all the paraphernalia, including funnel, tube and tranquilizer spray, back into her purse while her colleague placed the hammer at the manager's feet by the splintered desk.

"That way he'll trip over it and break something when he gets up," she commented.

Her colleague grinned. "All the better."

She smiled at his mischievous playfulness. There were all kinds of people who got involved with the Quarrymen. The same was true for P.I.T..

Thanks for reading, Q.T.