Tomorrow, the Killing

36

Pretories was in a small cafe across from the burned-out wreckage of a building. He sat at a booth by the window, sipping from a mug too small for his hands. Three of his boys kept him wedged in respectfully, five if you counted by width. Each was engaged in impressive displays of fury, cracking knuckles, eyeballing passers-by, making quiet threats at no one in particular. By contrast Joachim seemed but faintly ruffled, blowing softly over his coffee.

This one would be a tight play, no room for error. The vial of breath swung heavy in my pocket, and I let it stay there. These Association types weren’t so liberated as my usual crowd.

‘I’m sorry, Commander,’ I said.

He swallowed my courtesy with a nod. ‘We had four boys in there, when they hit it.’

‘Like I said, I’m sorry.’

There was an uncanny stillness to Joachim that made you jittery by reflection, made your beard itch and your brow sweat. ‘Let’s hear it,’ he said finally.

‘Not sure I follow.’

‘You warned me, told me what was coming. I gave you the brush-off. You’re entitled to crow.’

I took the seat across from him. ‘I take no pleasure in the death of your men.’ Though I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it either – petty thugs with ten years of Joachim’s dirty work beneath their belts.

That was the last thing anyone said for a while. I watched tufts of white smoke leak out from the hole in the other side of the street. The boys watched me. Pretories didn’t seem to watch anything.

Without warning he brought his fist down against the table. The crockery rattled, and so did the personnel. He waited till both settled before continuing. ‘I don’t need this shit right now.’

‘I don’t imagine.’

‘Tomorrow is the biggest day in the history of our organiz-ation. Fifty thousand men marching in step, the largest contingent of veterans since the end of the war, taking our demands straight to the palace.’

‘Heavy.’

‘And now some . . . fading crime lord wants to go a round with us, bring up dirt that’s been buried for a decade.’

‘I admit – the timing is suspicious.’

His eyes rolled up to meet mine. ‘What does that mean?’

I took a deliberate look around the table. ‘Perhaps we’d best continue this in private.’

‘I don’t know what you’re used to, Lieutenant, but these men are my brothers. There are no secrets between us.’

The goons sat up straighter.

‘Word is the Giroies get their backing from a man on the top floor of Black House.’

‘Boys, secure the perimeter.’

The goons trickled out the booth, hurt and petulant.

Joachim waited until they were gone before continuing. ‘That’s impossible,’ he said, and perhaps he wasn’t quite straight as a quarterstaff.

‘Why?’

‘Black House has no reason to come after us – we’re a legitimate organization.’

‘Stirring up trouble with the council and the Crown. You think the Old Man is above taking sides on a political matter, you need to take another walk around the block. And besides, the Association might have put their revolutionary activities behind them, but Black House has a long memory. They’re not adverse to stepping on you for past misdeeds.’

‘I’m well aware of our history with Black House.’ He curled his lip up like he’d smelt something sour, and if he wasn’t quite fidgeting, it was close enough to see I’d gotten to him. ‘But we’ve reached an . . . equilibrium, at least, since Roland’s death. They’ve no reason to declare war on us.’

‘They didn’t – you did, when you decided on your march. Whatever unspoken accord you think you have with the Old Man, I can assure you, it lasts only until he thinks you’re making trouble for him – or till he sees an open shot at your throat.’

‘So he spurs up trouble with the Giroies to . . .’

‘Turn your flanks. They figure they’ll distract you with an old enmity.’

He seemed to realize the balance between us had shifted, and came on strong, trying to reassert his authority. ‘This is all very interesting, Lieutenant. I’m wondering why you didn’t think to mention it before?’

‘All I had were rumors, underworld gossip.’

‘And now?’

‘I did some digging since yesterday. There are still a few men in Black House willing to chat, so long as I’m buying the drinks, and the drinks cost ten ochre a pop.’

‘Whispers from underworld contacts and ex-colleagues – this is a far way from hard evidence.’

‘Fits though, doesn’t it?’

His silence was confirmation enough. There was another long pause, but this one I didn’t think was planned. Even for a man as unflappable as the commander, things were moving pretty quickly. He slunk down over his drink. ‘Years pulling ourselves out of Roland’s hole, years spent sitting on anything that touched on our old activities. Building our rolls, making contacts at court. Winning a place at the table for the men who’d fought for and earned it. This morning I wake up to the news that our station was bombed, four of our brothers murdered, and we’re back where we fucking started.’

I set one finger on the rim of the milk pot, then pushed it over. A puddle settled onto the table, seeping into the cloth and trickling slowly to the floor.

Pretories watched it drip, then looked up at me.

‘You gonna cry over it?’

He didn’t answer, but his eyes were angrier than I’d ever seen them.

‘Let this go unanswered and what do you think you’ll get for an encore? The Giroies need a rap on the nose, or they’ll keep coming,’ I pointed out.

‘And if Black House is pulling their strings?’

‘All to the good. They learn their lesson, but it don’t look like you taught it to them.’

‘The Old Man can’t lose a pawn and not retaliate.’

‘You think he’ll send flowers to the funeral?’

‘He’s not a man to cross lightly.’

‘If you wanted to keep to the status quo, you shouldn’t be marching on the palace. As it is, you got two options – let yourself look like you can’t back your play . . .’

‘Or?’

‘Show them you ain’t the one to fuck with. Push back hard enough and the Old Man will eat the loss – he’s got no interest in starting a full-scale war.’

‘What’s to stop him from coming at us another way?’

‘Tomorrow’s problems can be dealt with tomorrow. Today’s problem is that the Giroies are making mince out of our people, and unless you want that to continue, you need to make a move.’

Salvation, a line for a drowning man – who wouldn’t grab it? Just make sure he doesn’t learn you’re the one who tipped him overboard. Joachim wasn’t the sort to go off half-cocked. He didn’t say anything for a while, a long while, his eyes blank as a catatonic’s. ‘What do you recommend?’

‘Something loud. It needs to carry.’

A minute more passed. Then the weave of his mouth curled upwards. ‘Thank you for the information, Lieutenant. We’ll speak again soon.’

I knew a dismissal when I heard it. Joachim remained where he was, finishing off his coffee. A serving boy ran over and blotted up the spilled milk. There’d be blood to join it, soon enough.