“You have all those powers,” said Pax, “and you
couldn’t get that
kid!”
“I got him ” said Thrash. “He escaped–
that’s all. He knew he was had–” Thrash flexed a fist at Pax–
“and that’s better than anyone else here has done!”
It
was meeting night between Dead Head’s gang and the Condotierri, a
local gang that dealt with distribution. Shimmer went on ahead in a
company van to deliver the product, but Dead Head was
still on his to
officialize the transaction.
The meeting was planned at a seldom-used truck yard out by the piers.
Dead Head marched, his cloak blowing in the faint night breeze. Pax
and Thrash had joined him, Pax wising up to the weather and fitting
himself with a winter coat with a furred collar. Thrash was in her
catsuit, as usual, seeming unaffected by the cooler temperatures.
Dead
Head wasn’t pleased with his subordinates’ bickering. They
chattered.
Pax
said to Thrash, “If I had the powers you have, that kid would be in
the ”
“If you had the powers I had,” said Thrash, “this city would go
down in ”
Pax cocked a smug smile on his face. “You don’t know how cool you
just made me ”
Dead Head shot his head around and fired them a serious look. “I’m
not going to show up to a business meeting with two of my men
bickering like children.”
Pax served up his hands defensively. “I’ll keep quiet, boss.”
Thrash
said nothing but her softened
expression showed she was ready to put on business demeanour. She
waited until Dead Head returned
forward to shoot a nasty look
over at Pax but Pax fought the temptation to engage with her further
and kept his eyes forward, too, ignoring any taunt that Thrash would
offer him.
The
three of them could see the meeting across the lot. Business was
about to begin.
The leader of the Condotierri, crowned in a newsboy cap, was Staf–
not an Italian man, despite the gang’s name. He was a weathered son
of a crooked cop that started his gang because he felt the area
around him was an opportunity for a little criminal activity (mostly
supplying illicit substances to the locals). In the last fourteen
years, he had led one of Toronto’s most prominent assemblies of
organized crime.
There wasn’t a parking lot in that part of the building, but Staf
had his men settle the trio of SUVs in orderly fashion to make their
business look legit from afar should someone spot them that cold
Saturday night. Staf’s men placed themselves around, standing tall
but silent, guarding Staf and the crate of cash that came with them.
Staf hadn’t heard of Dead Head before a week ago and had heard only
whispers about his exploits since, but he figured that Dead Head was
new and small time so he was expecting to coerce or intimidate Dead
Head into taking a lower buying price for the product that Dead Head
was selling Staf.
And that expectation didn’t shake when he saw a short bespectacled
young man– Shimmer– come out the passenger side door. The man
looked like the kind Staf could push over with a single finger,
either metaphorically or literally, and the gangster expected to have
the deal done within a few minutes and at the lowest rate.
But then a few other doors opened, and out came a less conventional
set of people.
From the back door, out popped Hustler Petrov. From afar he stood out
with his top hat and accompanying attire like something out of the
turn from the nineteenth century to the next: a black formal suit
with a tailed-jacket. The man even wore white gloves and carried a
cane! The fashion choices were eccentric, but ordinary on some level.
But those who got a look at his face were in for a surprise.
Many had tried to describe Petrov’s face. Some said it was a head
of pure shadow, like a void in space with a pair of piercing eyes and
a smile. Other described it as “solid darkness” except for the
facial features that shone through the head-shaped abyss. As Petrov
approached Staf, Staf got a look of it and thought someone was
showing off some kind of optical illusion or a special mask.
Petrov looked out into the world with a simmering mischievousness and
walked with his back straight and chin up, taking a glove hand to
straighten his hat as he approached Staf and his men.
The driver that evening was Seven. He hopped out of the front door
and joined Shimmer’s side. Seven was a shorter man always wearing a
filtration mask that covered all but the pale skin of his neck. He
wore a large army coat to widen his small frame. The breaths that
murmured inside his mask were barely audible.
Bruno had joined the party. Although he was initially part of Pax’s
squad, he was asked by Dead Head to join Shimmer’s team since the
group needed a more conventional-looking heavy to show the
Condottieri. October was getting cold so he had a windbreaker on but
the man’s muscles still showed through the baggy nylon.
And there was a fifth person in that squad, but he wouldn’t show
his face to Staf’s men. No– he slipped off into the shadows
earlier, stalking the perimetre of the meeting to make sure that
everything was conducting for Dead Head and his crew.
Petrov was eager to present himself and Staf’s men– despite
rumours of the strangers in Dead Head’s gang– were not expecting
some shadow creature. Staf himself was pretty uncomfortable being
face-to-face with some but he saw his men reaching for
their guns, he put up a hand: “Steady, boys.”
Staf
had muscle, but Dead Head was rolling with a bunch of wild cards–
the kinds of goons that could
be deadlier than a brushfire.
Staf didn’t know a lot about the “freaks” of Toronto but he
knew enough that he didn’t know what to expect with them. They
could attack and maybe be invulnerable to the normal methods of
stopping people.
“Greetings,”
said Petrov in an accent that was appropriately last century. He
waggled his eyes at a crate up against the row of SUVs. “I’m
assuming that is our money?”
Staf
looked at the tall stretch of midnight and wondered if his eyes
needed checking. Petrov’s eyes and smile flickered and drifted
inside the dark globe that was the creature’s head. Was it some
sort of magic trick? Staf looked at Petrov’s getup: he was dressed
like a magician but Staf got the inkling that all the weirdness about
Petrov’s body was the real deal.
Cracking
a knuckle, Staf let out a gruff sigh. “It’s
money. The deal hasn’t been made yet.” He
tightened his mug. “Does Dead Head employ a lot of...
types? Just wondering if my business is going to be overshadowed by
some fresh new gang full of witches and...” He took another focused
look a Petrov, trying to find
the right kind of monster to describe the being: “...”
Petrov
smiled, gracing his hands for the crowd. “No need to feel
threatened! Dead Head’s goals are not
trivial turf wars or pointless violence.”
Shimmer
scowled. It was time to step in so he took a line before Petrov.
“Ignore him. He pretends that he’s in charge.”
Petrov
sneered down at Shimmer. “That’s
coming from you!”
Bruno
had taken the side of the van, leaning up against it and nervously
eyeing Staf and his comrades–
hoping that they weren’t going to make a scene. Or
worse.
Then
he saw Dead Head walking down the lot so Bruno knew it was time for
the deal. He went to the back of the van and flipped the doors open.
There was a
cooler with its
lid sealed shut with masking tape.
“Are
you Staf?” asked Dead Head across the lot.
“Yeah,”
Staf shouted back. He gestured his hands at the man. “So this is
Dead Head. I’m assuming.”
“Yes,”
said Dead Head. Staf’s boys got a look at the fresh gang leader–
a man, maybe in his thirties, with a gothic look to him and wearing a
cloak like a mage. Was this
Toronto’s newest kingpin? Staf reassured in
himself his ability to
strong-arm Dead Head but then looked at the man’s entourage,
particularly Petrov and the blue chick in the back: Thrash. Staf was
suddenly not so confident he could bully Dead Head into taking a
smaller payment.
Dead
Head wanted to get the deal underway. He nodded to Bruno and then
Pax.
Bruno
was Pax’s man, so Pax
wasn’t happy to see Bruno in a place Pax
hadn’t assigned him to but
it would be something to deal
with later. Pax
went to the back of the truck to help Bruno lift the cooler out of
the truck but Bruno didn’t
need any help.
“Twenty
kilos,” said Dead Head. “In total.”
Staf
wasn’t expecting Dead Head to actually show up
with that amount. The money he had in his crates– it was short a
non-significant amount for
twenty kilograms of premium material.
What to do... what to do...
“I’ve
heard you used a special technique to make this stuff,” said Staf.
He looked at Dead Head’s crew of weirdos before returning the gaze
to Dead Head himself. “I’m sure your powers factored into the
creation of this stuff.
What kind of risks are involved?”
“There
are no risks,” said Dead
Head, almost glaring. “In
fact, it’s safer than most stuff you can find on the streets.”
“I
meant for the people taking it,” said Staf. “If your product is
untested, I think a price slash is warranted.”
Dead
Head scowled. “My product isn’t
quality because of my method; it is
quality. The price remains the same.”
Staf’s
expression was unmoving. Then he sighed. “I’ll guess I’ll
settle for, let’s say, 75% of it, then.”
Shimmer
narrowed his gaze. “You
didn’t bring the full amount, did you?”
Staf
said nothing, hoping to
ignore the question.
Shimmer
wouldn’t let it slide. “Running short this month?” he said, in
a way that sounded like teasing.
“No...”
said Staf. “I expected there to be some negotiation.”
“We
can wait here while you get the rest of the payment,” said Shimmer.
Shimmer
was overshooting his command. Dead Head gave him a look and then
addressed Staf. “I’m not going to spend a couple hours here
waiting for the money to arrive. That’s more time for the cops to
stroll by and get suspicious. I’ll give you sixty
of the eighty bags.”
Staf
hung on those words, then leaned up. “Deal.”
Dead
Head was annoyed. His outrage cooled quickly. He was selling most of
it, though, and getting rid
of the rest wouldn’t be a trial.
More importantly: the
stacks of cash he was about to receive was more than enough to get
started on his project, and he knew going in to the deal that the
full amount would still not be enough to see his project to
completion. More commerce
would be required.
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Dead
Head shook Staf’s hand then went off to rearrange what
was in the cooler.
Staf
went to his crate and snapped a finger at his men to get hauling them
over to Dead Head’s van. One of his men, a towering bald man,
leaned over and
whispered, “Why didn’t
you bring the full amount, boss? You know the product is good.”
Staf
glanced over at Bruno and Pax lugging over the cooler. “Too good.
Whatever magical powers they have, it trumps whatever any joe in his
basement could do.”
Shimmer,
Thrash, and Petrov
remained at border between sides. Some
of Staf’s men took the empty moment to stare some more at Petrov
and Thrash. Thrash caught a few of their eyes, being a slender woman
in a tight catsuit, but most of them were concerned about the shadow
being in formal attire.
Petrov
saw their stares and smirked. “I’m sure you all are
curious about this rather
gentleman in front of you. I promise, I pose you no harm.” His
smirked garnered a sinister curve. “Unless I’m provoked.”
Thrash
could feel the eyes on her, but ignored them as she often did.
Shimmer kept his ears on Petrov’s every word, though, worried that
in by putting on his theatrical brand of conversation, Petrov would
insight conflict between the two groups.
With
a couple of his men carrying the crate of cash behind him, Staf
went to the centre, the crate
hitting the pavement with a booming thump. Dead Head found
another box to stash the bags that weren’t going to Staf
and had Bruno bring the
cooler to the crate.
Staf
chuckled. “If you guys have magical powers or whatever, why are you
making drugs to sell? Can’t you just magic money out of thin air?”
Dead
Head chortled, feeling the condescension from Staf but finding it
amusing. “Some
of us have special abilities... but
doesn’t mean we can do
we please.”
Hustler
Petrov waved his cane around and smiled. “If I could will stacks of
cash out of thin air, I would be doing much better things than
standing out here on a Saturday night.”
“Then
what abilities you
have?” asked Staf. “What do they serve someone in our line of
work?”
Dead
Head was prepared for showing off but Shimmer detected what Staf was
trying to do.
It was better for Dead Head’s gang if nobody knew what they were
truly capable of. Before Dead Head could say anything, Shimmer went
to the cooler and opened it up. Inside were bags
of colourful crystal; the
kind of stuff that would get a fella put in prison for years. But it
was Staf’s business. He leaned
down to examine the product,
take a guesstimate on how
many bags there were, and
then closed the cooler and nodded. “Okay, then.”
After
Shimmer checked the crate to make sure the money was legit, Staf’s
men took the cooler to one of
their vans and Bruno and Pax carried the crate to theirs. One of
those boxes was heavier than the other, though, and Pax crushed his
back trying to take one end of the heavy cube of cash.
Pax told
himself,
Pax
had
done his heavy labour for the night but he
still had something in his craw
about what Bruno was doing there without his
command. Taking Bruno behind
the van, hoping none of their voices reached too far, Pax gave Bruno
a nasty look. “What are you
doing here? I never gave you the order to join this meeting.”
Bruno
had a foot in height on Pax but he was not made of stone.
Hearing his boss with that
patronizing tone got him on edge. Bruno said,
“Dead Head told me I was needed so I came. He’s your boss, right?
That makes me his employee, too... sorta.”
“No,
it doesn’t,” said Pax. “I’m his employee but you are
employee. Got that?”
Bruno
stared at Pax, but then gave a resigned shrug. “Sorry, Pax. Won’t
happen again.”
Pax
glared at Bruno for a second but knew that if the guy was going to
have a change of heart on whether he took orders from Dead Head, it
wasn’t because of a stare
down.
Letting
Bruno walk off to get in the van or whatever business he could have
had remaining at a ghostly truck-lot, Pax
saw Dead Head and Thrash walking back to the car parked on the other
side of the establishment. Pax
jogged over to join Dead Head and Thrash.
“Dead
Head,” said Pax. His tone was as cold as the breeze in the air. “We
gotta talk.” Hiking up
beside Dead Head, he didn’t
even give Dead Head a moment to responded
before he added: “Why are you doing giving Bruno orders? You tell
what to do and then
I tell men what
goes on.”
“They
work for you and you work for me,” said Dead Head. “Therefore,
work for me.”
Thrash
snickered. “Not enjoying getting put in your place, are you Pax?”
Pax
furrowed his brow at Thrash.
“This is about respect, something you know
about and nobody has for you!” He turned to Dead Head. “I look
after my men. I got things going on outside of what I’m doing here
so I need to deal with logistics.”
Dead
Head anger overpowered his annoyance. “All I needed was someone to
haul some coolers. I asked Bruno. He did the job.” His
tone turned serpentine. “What
is the issue?”
Thrash
puffed her chest out and brought a big smile to the sky. “Be
thankful you still have a job at all! You
don’t have any good use in this organization.”
“Neither
do
you,” said Pax. “You
couldn’t even get
that water punk, and you’re
the one with the ”
He gestured up his arms as he
said the last bit.
Dead
Head glared at Pax. “Maybe you should head back with the others.”
Pax
was insulted, but got over it quick. He let
out a playful sigh. “Will
do, ”
Dead
Head wasn’t going to hear another word. He gave Pax a cold shoulder
and then picked up the pace to the car. Thrash gave Pax one last
jeering look before she walked off. Pax
went to the other vehicle.
“Speaking
of that water boy,” said Dead Head to Thrash, “How did you...
him up? Does
it seem like he could
‘disappear’ without much trouble? If we were to eliminate him,
would he leave evidence?”
The
thought had occurred to Dead Head as soon as Pax returned with that
first report on the hero thwarting the convenience shakedown. Was the
water being actually made of water? Could he be killed? If he died,
would he leave a body that would be recognized?
“I
don’t know that,” said Thrash, “but I believe he would just
leave a puddle if he was snuffed
out.”
Dead
Head was silent for a moment. “Just something to think about.”
“If
you want to know more about that kid,” said Thrash, “maybe you
ought to consult the someone–
whose got the same look at Ghost Thing.”
She
was talking about Haze, the person Dead Head assigned to overlook the
meeting to make sure there was no funny business with Staf’s men.
With the meeting adjourned, Haze drifted away from Staf’s side of
the lot and snuck over to Dead Head’s car.
And
there was Haze waiting
by the vehicle,
leaning up against it with his arms
hanging idly by his side. If
Petrov was a peculiar sight, Haze was moreso. If
Ghost Thing was living water, Haze was a
being a living purple cloud,
his foggy
shape holding together for a
humanoid form. The anthropomorphism
manifested further as a set
of clothes: a tank top and a
pair of pants.
Much
like Ghost Thing if put
through a physical process.
It
was Dead Head’s question to ask but Thrash knew her
boss would be reluctant to
ask the cloud boy about such matters, so Thrash took the
initiative. “Hey, foggy: do
you think you’d leave a corpse if you died?”
Dead
Head scowled at Thrash. “What
a stupid question!”
Haze
was unfazed,
though. “I don’t know,” he said, his voice very boyish. “It’s
not something I can test without–” He chuckled with a friendly
grin– “doing harm to myself.”
Dead
Head dropped
his face. He was annoyed, but
said matter-of-factly, “I
already asked him. He doesn’t know.”
Thrash
rolled an eyebrow at Haze. She had height on the kid. “Where did
you say you were from then?” She
looked upward. “Did you
fall out of the sky?”
As
he was grilled on his origins, Haze’s confidence buckled. “I
don’t know. I existed one day. Why?”
Dead
Head had heard the story before. Haze suddenly popped into existence,
like they were formed with intelligence and language quite suddenly.
Dead Head didn’t question it directly but he found it hard to
believe. He leaned that his young hazy friend was unsure of his
origin, and not that Haze was lying.
“You
just appeared,” said Thrash, a half-question if anything.
“Yeah,”
said Haze, “Is that unbelievable?”
Thrash
stared at him for a moment. Weirder
thing happened
before. “No. I suppose
not.”
Haze
averted his eyes.
Thrash
wasn’t convinced in the slightest. Whatever origin story Haze
handed to Dead Head, Thrash would
it was horsecrap. But Dead
Head wasn’t going to interrogate his little cloud employee when
said boy’s cloud-abilities were an important part on their
narcotic production and thus an important part of them making money.
“Did
you see anything suspicious with those guys?” asked Dead Head.
“No,”
said Haze, getting up from the vehicle. “They’re legit.” He
crossed his arms. “So are
we done here?”
Dead
Head looked across the place to see Shimmer shutting the van door on
the crate of cash. Their van stared up. Dead Head nodded. “Yeah,
let’s go back to the warehouse.”
It
was late, so after the gang cracked open the crate and divvied out
the payment among all members, many of them wanted to get out of
there. The crates were dropped in the middle of the floor and popped
open. Shimmer had a folding table set out, popped down a chair, and
got shuffling through the money to give each member their cut.
Pax
still had a cold coil in his heart after the thing with Dead Head and
Bruno. He took his stack of cash in hand, it was the thickest wad of
bills he had ever touched, but at what cost? He looked over a Bruno,
flicking through a wad not much smaller than his, and Pax knew that
he was at risk of losing all authority among his men.
Dead
Head took a large stack of cash– more for his gang than his person–
and went to his office. He found his accounting book in the top
drawer and flipped a page open to look at the costs for construction.
The first payment went into five digits but he had the money
available.
He
would call the company tomorrow to see if they were in but it was the
weekend and it was short notice anyway, so he wasn’t expecting to
get construction going until next week. He closed the book and cupped
his hands, frustrated and impatient.
Haze
walked in, looking at his wad of cash like it was a new puppy. He
went into the corner, giggling as he fingered through the stack. He
had to check to see if all the bills were fifties, and they .
Dead
Head didn’t know how young Haze was, but figured he was at oldest a
teenager with how boyish his voice was and his general brashness
regarding most matters.
“Are
you going to be responsible with that?” asked Dead Head.
Haze
dropped the smile, looking innocent. “Uhhh... ”
“Don’t
go blowing it on X-Boxes, kid.”
It
was Thrash, leaning in the doorway. She smiled at Haze.
Haze,
with something to prove, tightened his chin at Thrash. “I
won’t.”
“How
exactly are you supposed to buy anything anyway,” said Thrash. She
folded out a hand at Haze. “With you looking like that.” She
returned her hand and chuckled. “Can’t imagine a McDonald’s
employee would know how to deal with a walking fog machine.”
Haze
gallowed his face. “I’ll wear a trenchcoat and a hat.”
Thrash
had never seen Haze in the form he wasn’t presenting himself with
in that room, but she had a feeling he had some other form– likely
human. And if Haze had a human form, she wagered Ghost Thing did,
too. Thrash pursed her lip,
in a pantomime of thoughtfulness. “Unless... this wasn’t your
true form.”
Haze
widened a defensive stance, scowling at Thrash. “This
my true form!”
“Thrash,”
said Dead Head, rising his head to the lady, “Do you have anything
to do here beside pestering your fellow employees?”
Thrash
scratched some hair on the back of her head and then said, quite
simply: “No.”
Almost
on cue, Hustler Petrov came strolling up to
the office. Thrash
moved herself inside so that Petrov could get through the door.
Petrov
smiled as he entered, throwing up his hands like he was hosting an
awards show. “I’d say our first major deal went off without a
hitch! Most wonderful!”
Dead
Head threw his eyes back. “I didn’t need you to lay your charms
on the Condottieri, Petrov. You were there to intimidate.”
Petrov
blinked, looking more confused than offended. “Me? Intimidate?”
He waved his hand. “No, no, no. That’s
brutish work!”
“Do
what I tell you to do if you want a paycheque,” said Dead Head,
leaning up. He looked out the window at Shimmer handing out cakes of
currency. “Or... a pay stack.”
Thrash
scoffed. “What we’re you planning on doing? Having
with them?”
Petrov
smiled; earnestly, in fact. “We’re businessmen, aren’t we? If
that’s what it takes to close a deal.”
Dead
Head struggled to keep a yawn inside. It was late and he didn’t
have the energy to deal with Petrov’s eccentricities. It looked
like Shimmer had finished handing out everyone’s payment, so he
closed the crate and sealed it with a lock. Then, he walked over to
the office to join the others.
When
Shimmer entered the room– an office that was getting quite full
with five people– Thrash smirked at him. “How much did you take
for yourself?”
Shimmer
wouldn’t turn his gaze towards her. “My payment.”
Dead
Head glanced at everyone in the room, including Haze, who was hiding
in the corner. “If everything is done here, you could leave.” He
took his eyes to Shimmer. “Except you. I need to discuss
something.”
Thrash
pulled herself off the wall and stretched. “Yep. Time for me to
shove off.”
Petrov
frowned. “So soon? We haven’t even cracked out the celebratory
brandy!”
“”
said Dead Head.
Haze,
clutching his dollars like it was the heart that pumped his
proverbial blood, left the room. Thrash
stepped out and after the man
straightened his hat and put on a dignified stiff lip, Petrov left
the room as well.
Dead
Head closed the door and turned to Shimmer. “Have you gotten the
plans all drawn out?”
Shimmer
swallowed like he was about to give some terrible news. “Not quite.
I have the basic construction drawn down but I’m not an architect.
I’m going to need assistance on getting the details right.”
He stepped to the window overlooking the floor, and measured the
walls and the ground to the roof. “However, I know that the machine
will fit inside this warehouse.” He waved a hand at a few of the
larger shipping crates peppering the floor. “Though,
we’ll have to clean up
those before we begin.”
Dead
Head joined Shimmer by his side and looked across the warehouse,
trying to envision whatever Shimmer had
imagined. Dead Head hunched
over, leering out at the floor. Pax and Thrash were bickering once
again, with Hustler Petrov on
the side, making his quips.
Dead
Head sighed. The gang had
done well the last month but he had trouble believing it watching his
men argue like teenagers.
He
ignored it for the moment, saying to Shimmer, “I’m
still not entirely convinced that this will work.
This... ”
Shimmer
turned his head and grinned. “Trust me. Once we get the gateway up
and running, you’ll feel
for ever doubting me.”
Dead
Head kept his eyes on his men. Thrash and Pax had gotten into a
shouting match, over each other’s failures, although Dead Head
could not care about the specifics.
“And
these creatures that will come through,” said Dead Head, turning
his voice lower than needed, “they will be my minions?”
Shimmer’s
grin curled further. “Let’s put it this way: the minions that you
get from the gateway will make those men–” he gestured a brow out
at the goons on the other
side of the window– “look
like schoolyard bullies.”
Dead
Head stared for a moment. Then a smile cut his chin.
