The Godsverse Chronicles

Magic: Chapter 35

The city of Tacoma was nice, even if it kind of smelled like raw sewage. Not all the time and not everywhere, but in enough places that you really didn't want to drive with your window open if you could help it. Even if you kept them closed, every once in a while, especially near the water, you got a pungent whiff of crap and muck as bad as anything I'd smelled in Benny's office.

Before we left Los Angeles, Dexter called the Elkman and told him to find where Scarpucci was operating her business from these days. "We have people in her organization," Dexter said. "And she has some in ours. It's supposed to be one, big, dysfunctional family...until something like this happens."

It was no secret that criminal organizations paid informants and double agents to do inside work, dismantling those that falsely professed their loyalty. Criminals didn't just pay off police officers, they paid off other criminals, too. There was a code, and you weren't supposed to hit another family without permission. I learned that from The Godfather, but it tracked with the reality that I lived. Nobody said boo if you got your beak wet, as long as you didn't go against the family in a way that crossed a line. Killing the boss was certainly across that line.

An abnormally high number of criminal organizations operated out of restaurants. Scarpucci ran hers out of a small Thai restaurant on the south edge of the city, close enough to the docks that the trucks had to pass along the highway but not close enough to be downwind of the worst of the "Tacoma Aroma," as residents called it.

The restaurant was built on the end corner of an unassuming strip mall, and the sign extended and wrapped around the edge of the building. I noticed the bulletproof glass on the windows as I walked in; hard to detect except for the subtle warp when looking through it into the restaurant. Scarpucci was a careful one.

The room was dark when we entered, just some candles and mood lighting to give it a hint of atmosphere. In the back, a fat, pasty man with a circular face and long jowls shoveled a pile of egg rolls into his mouth, disregarding the fork and chopsticks on either side of him.

"Scarpucci!" I shouted, and the man looked up. "I need to talk to you."

"Idiot!" the rat said. "That's not Scarpucci."

"He's the only person in here."

"Exactly. 'He.' Scarpucci is a woman!"

Of course. "He's also the only human in here. If not him, then who—"

Before I could finish, an orange tabby jumped down from a pillow on the counter. It ran along the railings and across three sets of tables before stopping at the man's side. The dead-eyed man reached up, robotically, and began to pet the cat. The tabby purred.

"Good to see you, Ratinger," the cat cooed in a light, airy feminine sound. "Much thinner these days."

"Meanwhile," Dexter said. "You've gained enough weight for both of us."

"That's not very nice, Benny," she said, shaking her head sadly. "I can't help who I am, and I love my body."

"I don't like that name. It was my slave name. I go by Dexter now."

"I like that name, Dexter." Scarpucci raised her butt in the air for more pets. "See, I can be civil. Can you do the same?"

"I will try, I suppose," Dexter growled. He muttered to me under his breath, "Bring me over to the table."

I walked over to the table and sat down across from them. Dexter ran down from my shoulder to the table, where he and the cat spent a long moment circling each other. Scarpucci hissed, and I noticed a long scar running across her neck, jagged and uneven.

"Did you try to kill me, Scarpucci?" Dexter said.

The cat swatted at Benny before making its way back to the fat man's paw. "Of course not. I don't like you, but I don't hate you enough to kill you."

"Bull!" Dexter shouted. "You've always wanted Seattle. Maybe you decided to take your shot."

"I wish I could take credit for it, Dexter. In truth, I've grown very comfortable in Tacoma. In Seattle, it was always a gang war or a territorial pissing contest. Here, it's simple, and I've grown to love it."

"I don't believe that. You were always a manipulative, conniving, power-hungry bitch."

"Not anymore." She licked a paw. "I'm old. I only have a year or so left. I can feel my body shutting down, and I don't want to live my last days in battle with you or anyone else. I would like my children to inherit a peaceful operation, not one at war." The kitty purred as the man found a particularly nice spot under her chin. "I don't expect you to believe me, but that is the truth."

"And how can I trust you?" Dexter asked.

"You don't need to trust me. You should ask yourself why they were able to take you down so easily, though. The Benny I knew would never be so careless. Even if I wanted to hurt you, Dexter, could I really do so? Isn't that why you keep so many little birds in my organization? So they can fly away and tell you what I'll do?"

"You're not wrong," Dexter said. "But—"

"No buts," Scarpucci said. "When was the last time you heard me plot against you? Months? Years? Haven't you wondered yet if your money is better spent somewhere else? I have. It was only your death that reinforced to me why we keep informants. To prevent something getting the jump on us. So, I ask you...why did your little birds fail you?"

Dexter thought for a moment. "I—don't know."

Scarpucci sat. "And perhaps, that is why your precious rat king is dead. I can't say. I can say that I didn't kill him. I am perfectly happy to fight you, though I would prefer not to." She bared her teeth. "If you don't want a battle—" she meowed, and a slight woman brought out three white cartons filled with food. "Take these as my parting gift, from one old friend to another. I do hope you get back on your feet again."