who’d picked me up half a year ago when I first came to this jungle of metal, glass and brick.
“Do you get many fares around the Skylight?” I asked, sounding him out.
“Nah,” he replied gruffly. “Most of that lot are too high and mighty for a car like this.” He had a curious way of accenting random words. I was sure it was him now.
“How about train stations? Do you—” I began as he stopped for a red light, but he cut me short.
“Look,” he snapped, “just can it. I want nothing to do with your kind, OK? I’m giving you a ride, let’s leave it at that.”
“No need to get aggressive,” I grumbled. “I was just trying to be friendly. I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care what you meant,” he interrupted. “I’m not interested.” He honked at a pedestrian and was getting ready to wind down his window when the lights changed and he had to move on or risk being bulldozed by the river of cars to our rear.
“You work for The Cardinal, right?” he sneered. “Big man. Throws his money around like confetti. And everybody grabs, smiles and puckers up to kiss his hairy old ass. Sickening.”
“You sound like you’ve had a run-in with him,” I said.
“Me? Nah. I’m just a cabbie. I’ve never even seen him.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“What he’s done to this city. This was a good place to live. It had its problems, sure, but the scum knew their place and stuck to it. These days they run riot. Dirt everywhere you look. Everybody on the take. Because of him.”
“Why don’t you leave if you hate it that much?”
“Leave!”
If he’d had a cigar, he’d have spat it out. “Why should I? It’s my city too. I pay taxes, I earn my living. Nathanael Mead moves for no man.”
“Nathanael Mead,” I repeated. “I’ll remember that.”
“Do,” he sniffed, then let me off at Shankar’s a couple of minutes later. I thought he might refuse the tip, me being one of the Anti-christ’s footmen, but he took it, albeit grudgingly.
The maître d’ was all smiles when I introduced myself. He treated me like a favorite regular and escorted me to table nineteen, waving aside the aides who normally seated the guests.
Shankar’s was owned by Leonora Shankar, the woman behind The Cardinal in his formative years. The hippest restaurant in the city, where everybody who was anybody wanted to eat. But all the money in the world couldn’t snare you a seat unless you were part of The Cardinal’s crew. It was reserved for his people, from the shoeboys to the Troops to the executives. The food was great, the atmosphere delightful, and The Cardinal always covered the tab. One of the perks of the job. Occasionally the doors would open to a nonmember but outsiders were rare and carefully monitored.
It was a huge, one-room complex, divided into two levels. The upper floor was made of glass and completely transparent—women with skirts and dignity usually dined below. It was a place of glass, marble and steel. Leonora Shankar was renowned for her cold tastes. There were no carpets or rugs. Lots of people complained about the decor, but when you were getting your meals gratis it was hard to be too critical.
There was no privacy in Shankar’s. Everybody was there on The Cardinal’s business and had nothing to fear. It was the safest spot in the city, short of Party Central. Impossible to bug or infiltrate. There was an unwritten law that nothing heard in Shankar’s could ever be discussed outside. It was a law everyone paid strict attention to—the cost of breaking it was instant execution.
There was a man with Sonja when I arrived, as strange a figure as you were likely to find, swathed in sweeping robes and scarves, sandals, hair long and plaited with colorful ribbons, face covered in tattoos which looked real from a distance but were just paint. He sprang to his feet when I reached the table and before I could speak he jabbed a bony finger at me. “Are you Capac Raimi?” When I
“Do you get many fares around the Skylight?” I asked, sounding him out.
“Nah,” he replied gruffly. “Most of that lot are too high and mighty for a car like this.” He had a curious way of accenting random words. I was sure it was him now.
“How about train stations? Do you—” I began as he stopped for a red light, but he cut me short.
“Look,” he snapped, “just can it. I want nothing to do with your kind, OK? I’m giving you a ride, let’s leave it at that.”
“No need to get aggressive,” I grumbled. “I was just trying to be friendly. I didn’t mean—”
“I don’t care what you meant,” he interrupted. “I’m not interested.” He honked at a pedestrian and was getting ready to wind down his window when the lights changed and he had to move on or risk being bulldozed by the river of cars to our rear.
“You work for The Cardinal, right?” he sneered. “Big man. Throws his money around like confetti. And everybody grabs, smiles and puckers up to kiss his hairy old ass. Sickening.”
“You sound like you’ve had a run-in with him,” I said.
“Me? Nah. I’m just a cabbie. I’ve never even seen him.”
“Then what’s your problem?”
“What he’s done to this city. This was a good place to live. It had its problems, sure, but the scum knew their place and stuck to it. These days they run riot. Dirt everywhere you look. Everybody on the take. Because of him.”
“Why don’t you leave if you hate it that much?”
“Leave!”
If he’d had a cigar, he’d have spat it out. “Why should I? It’s my city too. I pay taxes, I earn my living. Nathanael Mead moves for no man.”
“Nathanael Mead,” I repeated. “I’ll remember that.”
“Do,” he sniffed, then let me off at Shankar’s a couple of minutes later. I thought he might refuse the tip, me being one of the Anti-christ’s footmen, but he took it, albeit grudgingly.
The maître d’ was all smiles when I introduced myself. He treated me like a favorite regular and escorted me to table nineteen, waving aside the aides who normally seated the guests.
Shankar’s was owned by Leonora Shankar, the woman behind The Cardinal in his formative years. The hippest restaurant in the city, where everybody who was anybody wanted to eat. But all the money in the world couldn’t snare you a seat unless you were part of The Cardinal’s crew. It was reserved for his people, from the shoeboys to the Troops to the executives. The food was great, the atmosphere delightful, and The Cardinal always covered the tab. One of the perks of the job. Occasionally the doors would open to a nonmember but outsiders were rare and carefully monitored.
It was a huge, one-room complex, divided into two levels. The upper floor was made of glass and completely transparent—women with skirts and dignity usually dined below. It was a place of glass, marble and steel. Leonora Shankar was renowned for her cold tastes. There were no carpets or rugs. Lots of people complained about the decor, but when you were getting your meals gratis it was hard to be too critical.
There was no privacy in Shankar’s. Everybody was there on The Cardinal’s business and had nothing to fear. It was the safest spot in the city, short of Party Central. Impossible to bug or infiltrate. There was an unwritten law that nothing heard in Shankar’s could ever be discussed outside. It was a law everyone paid strict attention to—the cost of breaking it was instant execution.
There was a man with Sonja when I arrived, as strange a figure as you were likely to find, swathed in sweeping robes and scarves, sandals, hair long and plaited with colorful ribbons, face covered in tattoos which looked real from a distance but were just paint. He sprang to his feet when I reached the table and before I could speak he jabbed a bony finger at me. “Are you Capac Raimi?” When I
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