Zero			Missing In Venice

	Even with its mighty engines in reverse, the ocean liner was pulled further and further into the canal. It plowed through buildings and bridges, continuing on its course unscathed. He stood on the last bridge, beckoning the dark ship to go faster. As plowed into him he...

One			Workingman's Holiday

	Snapped awake in his bed, drenched in cold sweat. He was breathing loudly, out of breath. Almost like he'd really felt it...

	He swung his legs over the side of the bed, weakly trying to get out of bed. When he did, finally, he stumbled over to the door and flicked a switch up, turning on a bright light on the center of the ceiling. The light hurt his eyes; he blinked the shock away and scratched his face, trying to decide whether to shave today or tomorrow. He then decided he'd try and grow a goatee again (hopefully it would turn out better than last time...). He winced in disgust upon seeing himself in the mirror, unshaved, dirty, dead-tired, and his hair screwed beyond recognition, shooting off at least an inch up in all directions. Invisible to the mirror was the fact that he smelled like crap. 
	
	He proceeded over to the corner of the room opposite the door and opened all the 
drawers in a large dresser, rummaging through various well-folded clothes trying to find 
something in particular. He was unsuccessful until he saw his outfit on a hanger, hanging 
on a hook attached to his closet. He grabbed the hanger and stepped into the bathroom,
removing his t-shirt and closing the door with his free hand. The door locked with a loud click...

	And twenty minutes later stepped out a completely different person. He was clean, 
more refined, his rough edges trimmed, generally. The white shoes upon on his relatively large feet were almost shining. Beige cargo pants hung down three inches past his ankles and drooped down on his shoes; they looked rather like garbage bags. Masking a black t-shirt was a very comfortable-looking hooded orange sweater. He preferred to keep the hood down, because it was uncomfortable, it looked strange, and it covered up his light brown hair, straight and parted down the middle, loaded down with gel and arching down to the tops of his ears. It shined as the nascent light of the sun shone down on it through the half- open blinds on the bedside of his room. 

	About to leave, he checked his pockets and suddenly remembered a laundry list of things he came very close to forgetting every day...

	First, a gold Rolex on his desk next to some pens and a notepad. Second, a Nokia phone in its charger next to a small stereo. Third, a pair of thin-framed black Ray Ban sunglasses folded up on top of a bookcase with only two books: a small, hardbound 1982 edition of Romeo & Juliet that had seen better days, and a generally unread paperback copy of Crime and Punishment. The fourth was an extremely thick wallet on the bathroom counter.
	The fifth thing he'd forgotten was in the bottom of his sock drawer, inside really big white Polo sock...a small nine millimeter Beretta hand pistol. He retrieved and sprayed some window cleaner on the Polo sock and cleaned the gun, seeing it shine and reflect the light in the middle of the room, whose lighting effect was slowly being eclipsed by that of the sun. From another sock he retrieved two cartridges for it, his weapon. It was silvery except for the handle, which was black and had a hard, rough texture to it. He gripped it, his face masked with resolve...

	The gun went into the largest pocket on his pants, which was on the side of his right leg, level with his knee. His wallet went into his left waist pocket, the phone went on the right. The Rolex went on his right wrist, the sunglasses went on his eyes. The Beretta cartridges went in his left kneeside pocket, only slightly smaller than the pocket holding the Beretta itself. He yawned and his eyes began to water; he stepped to mirror, lifting the sunglasses to his forehead, wiping his eyes clean and looking into them, wondering why they were green, and such a bright green, at that. And then he wondered why he was looking so pale, even though his skin tone was very light to begin with, silently deciding that he really needed some sun.

	Finished getting ready, he dragged himself out the door and descended down two flights of creaky wooden stairs and out the door of his apartment building, wondering when they'd put in an elevator, then taking back the thought because they'd probably jack up the rent if they did. 
	
	The neighborhood was nice, considering the overall appearance and condition of the small apartment building. The apartment was quite old and constructed entirely of wood on the outside which was quickly degrading away, with patches of moss appearing now and then. Inside, the walls were thick, white stucco and the floors was a carpeting in a bland shade of blue, with a numerous amount of blackened stains dotting it. The ceilings often had cracks and holes in them, and the walls were beaten and worn down. It was only a four-story apartment building, with three or four rooms per floor. The folks on the floor above had complained about problems with cockroaches, at which thought he grimaced in disgust. He'd never had more intrusion than a random fly or spider, but the thought of cockroaches living above his head was extremely unnerving. His room in itself was nicer than the rest of them, because he'd actually taken the time to refurbish it to his liking. He glanced at the Rolex, noting that he had thirty minutes until he had to be at work at six-thirty. He decided to walk today, after all, it only took ten minutes, and the bus was always full of the more unsavory denizens of this area. He paced down the street, shivering in and then ignoring the morning cold. It always seemed to disappear before he noticed it enough to be annoyed by it, and it never really hurt him in any way. Good thing, because you couldn't shoot back at the cold. Or the rain. Or the fog. And usually you couldn't shoot back at the birds that were about to ruin your day. 

	He passed by Bernelli's Sandwich stand and stopped, picking up a conversation with the morning boy, Peter. He was a thin, scrawny kid, too short and not enough meat. Peter asked him if he needed anything, and to this he responded, "A Sun-Times and a house blend, thanks." 

	His voice was deep, but not too deep; it was somewhere in between, but not exactly inbetween. It was scratchy in the morning and drowned in depression late at night, it changed according to the weather or his mood, like most people, actually. But occasionally his voice changed so much during the day that you could call him and hang up and five minutes later you could call him again and swear he was someone else. His voice was accented in a way that no one could describe. At best you could say it was spicy, upbeat, witty in a way. Usually, or when he felt good, his speech was peppered with complicated weaves and randomly thrown in analogies and the occasional true-to-life anecdote about the rare triumph and the frequent folly of society in general; usually it was all mixed in with a subtle enthusiasm, strong sarcasm, yet it never sounded like he was complaining. He wasn't a complainer, he was an analyzer. He could also make something very easy to understood if something called for it, but usually nothing did. Just Peter, him and his naive sense of himself. But then, he was forgetting that the kid was sixteen. Not too much younger than himself, but so much less interesting. Peter wasn't less intelligent, he was just more ignorant.

	He took the newspaper under his right arm and drank the coffee with his left. He was rather taken aback by how weak the coffee was, then lifted the lid, just checking that Peter hadn't put any milk or cream or sugar in it. No, he hadn't. He shrugged it off and downed the rest of it like water, though it was very hot, it wasn't strong enough to wake him up any. He broke the cup in his hand and casually, uncaringly tossed it into a small wire trash can chained to a street light, surrounded by scraps of paper and various food wrappers on the sidewalk all around it. There wasn't much trash in the can itself. He wondered why coffee came in wax cups if wax melted easy...

	He continued down the street in silence, as before, the newspaper crushed under his arm, his hands in his pockets with his wallet and his phone. He took his hands out of his pockets, pulling up his sleeve a little, checking the time. He had fifteen minutes, really more than enough time, even though he was walking slower than he usually did, when he did decide to walk. He really should walk more often, because that bus got worse and worse...once he'd ended up feeling like Rosa Parks. It was a black man trying to get him out of his seat...like Rosa Parks, in a twisted way.
	
	He began to slow his pace slightly, gazing emptily at the lonely, broken building, their windows smashed through, their doors either cracked wide open or simply not there. Sorrow hung over this street; he simply ignored it, now slightly worried about the time. He sped up his pace until he was walking quite briskly, and as he checked his watch he began to sprint down the street as fast as he could, not bothering to notice the obvious clinking of the two cartridges in his left kneeside pocket. He turned a corner onto another empty street, bolting down at full speed, formerly still air now whistling past his face, his ears, pressing him to go even faster. The downtown area fast approached him as he tiredly trudged up a hill and shot down 47th Street, charging onto 55th, straight through 63rd, one more turn on 71st, down Ashland, and into Papa Giovanni's Fine Italian Cuisine, the neon sign missing both a's in Papa, the v in Giovanni, and all the letters of cuisine, up through the dining area, into the kitchen, through one more door. He stopped at another door, caught his breath, checked his watch. Five minutes.

	He stepped through the door, calm, composed. Then, clearing his throat and getting accustomed to the dimly lit ambiance of the small room. A gray file cabinet sat in the corner to his left, a desk in front of him, a large swivel chair with a tall back, back facing him. There was a light hanging on a gold chain, green on the outside, the main source of the dim glow aside from a small desk lamp with the same color scheme. The walls, all well as the desk, were of a very clean and polished wood, a mahogany color, he estimated. 

	"Here's your newspaper, boss."

	The chair spun around, his boss looking at him through thick sunglasses. He was the definition of the average man, in terms of size at least. He wore a black t-shirt under an open black collar shirt, short sleeved, the t-shirt tucked into black slacks. Unsurprisingly, he was wearing black wingtips. His hair was pitch black as well, and he had a thinly cut beard surrounding his mouth, his beard only slightly thicker. The only man who used more gel than he...his hair shined brightly, even in the dim light. It looked like he put gel on his beard too, for some reason. Whatever humor the thought brought quickly dissipated with the quiet, glaring expression on his bosses' light-skinned face. The employee looked into the eyes of his boss, awaiting a response, placing the paper on the desk.

	"You're twenty minutes late, Emery..." 

	His speech was long and strung out, saturated in a Brooklyn-Italian accent which complemented his appearance well.
	
	"Now, normally someone as good as you are being late...sir...is excusable in...such a situation but now...you've missed a very important...appointment...I had you lined up for at the Heritage Parade...and unfortunately, this is...quite inexcusable."
	
	Emery caught sight of his boss's hand moving toward his desk drawer and plunged his hand into his right kneeside pocket, gripping the Beretta in his left hand, clicking the safety off, drawing it out, extending his arms out, aiming the gun with his left hand while placing it in his outstretched right hand to steady his aim.

	The boss drew his hands away from the desk and let them fall to his sides, stunned but still staring straight into the Emery's eyes. Behind Emery the door swung open and in walked a Black man mumbling the lyrics to a random song he'd had stuck in his head all morning after hearing it on his car radio. 

	"She was raised in Illinois..."

	Emery began to tense up, sweat falling down his brow, noticing that the man had a large wad of fifty dollar bills fanned out like a poker hand, counting them. This new man was completely focused on his money, not noticing either of the men. The boss would not speak; he was terrified and had tensed up considerably. 

	"Right outside Chicago..."

	He was wearing beige khakis, nearly identical to the employee's, but had on a white long-sleeve under a thick, blue polyester vest. As was particular to the man's odd manner, as Emery knew, he was wearing large boots.

	"Some of the best cookin' you ever had..."

	He finished counting the money and singing the song at the same time.

	"Oh, yes it was..."

	"Hey boss, I picked up the..."

	he looked up,

	"Holy..."

	He dropped the cash and drew two pistols out of two side holsters and swung his arms and aimed them at both men, trying to keep his arms still, because it was torturingly hard to aim with two guns, though he had a pretty good handle on it at such a short range. 

	"Now...please...listen to me..." pleaded the boss weakly.
	
	"Man I always gotta play mediator. Whas gone down now?" the Black man demanded, his voice was drowning in a heavy westside gangsta-slang accent.

	"This...fool missed the Heritage Parade...he was quite late. We've missed our payment exchange with Murillo...and he is not happy with us...at all..."

	"And whatchu got to say fo' yourself?" 

	"I was on time, Jo. Nobody told me about a parade or a cash trade. Then, Papa Luigi here reaches for his gun, what am I supposed to do?"
	
	The boss growled at the insult, the careless stereotyping of his culture, then at Jo for bothering to listen to the fool.

	Jo cleared his throat, hesitant to move his arms.

	"All right, brother, when somebody goes an' attacks my boyz fo' somethin' like this somebody gets capped, y'all hear me?"

	"Please don't...do anything rash. We can...talk about it right?" pleaded the boss, nervously. 

	Jo lowered both guns and told the Emery,
	
	"Keep that gun trained on him, boy. He's the rat type. Always sneakin' around, backstabbin'..."

	"So, you be wantin' to talk about it, boss-man?" asked Jo, calmly. 
	
	"Ahmm....yes please let's...talk about this...rationally," the boss became less tense for a moment.
	
	"Where you keep yo' cash?" demanded Jo impatiently.

	"Ahmm...what?..." asked the boss, a confused expression on his face.

	"I say cash, ho! Cash, dough, benjamins, dinero, bread, pesos, money!" 

	"Oh, ah, money, yes, ahmm...most of our...money...is in the booth seats at table seventeen," said the boss after angrily mumbling curses in Italian. 

	"You be tellin' me lies, Mario," said Jo, almost struggling to restrain himself from shooting his boss.
	
	"No! I am not...lying..."

	"Okay, go 'head an' cap him," Jo told his friend.
	
	"WAIT!" yelled the boss.

	"It's under...table...twenty-two," said the boss, tensing up again.

	"Thanks a lot, bossman. We're much obliged," said Emery.

	Emery carefully lowered his weapon, clicking the safety on, putting it back in his kneeside pocket. He and Jo exited the room silently, knowing what was going to happen. Emery exited first, and Jo exited after him, shutting the door. Jo quickly pressed his back against the wall and took out his guns, putting cartridges in them.

	"Hey hey, yo, my guns was empty the whole time. I don't even got any ammo! Go get that dough. I'll wait here," said Jo, loud enough for the boss to hear, but signaling the employee to stay put as Jo clicked the safety off his HK .45. The pitch black gun seemed appropriate to Jo in this case, as he whispered to himself,
	"Black man wit' a black gun kills a white man in black clothes. Black and white like da headlines of the Sun-Times on the desk of a man who just don't know..."

	"...what's gonna happen to him next."
	
	"Listen, man, he's not gonna just stay in there," whispered Jo, "I know he's got a pistol in his desk drawer, and if he gets out here, he could have us both down real quick, you hear?" 
	
	"Are you suggesting that we kill him?"

	"Exactly, man. I'll do the dirty work. You get his gun when he comes out," answered Jo.

	The other nodded reluctantly, not sure what killing his boss would mean.

	Maybe it would mean saving my life.	

	As the boss stepped out with gun in hand, Emery grabbed his wrist, twisting it around so it was pointed back at the boss, who grunted in pain. As Emery clicked the weapon's safety on and wrestled it out of his hand. Jo took it from there, grabbing the boss's neck, pressing the gun into the boss's forehead harshly. He dragged the struggling, terrified boss back into the office as the employee shut the door behind them, staying outside to make sure no one came in. Inside, Jo opened the second drawer of the file cabinet and shoved the boss's head inside, shutting it as far as he could until his small head wouldn't allow the drawer to close any further. He stuck the cold muzzle of the .45 in the gap and fired. The sound of the bullets reverberating echoed through the thin wooden walls, but Jo was pretty sure no one had heard them. Unfazed by the sight of a head with several large holes in it, Jo fished around in the drawer, which was filled up halfway with blood, and found the bullet shells floating at the surface of his boss's blood. He drew his hand out, careful not to drip on his clothes, the bullet shells in his hand along with a healthy amount of blood. 

	"Holy God, that's a big mess right there. He he, you bleed good, Pepay!"
	
	He took off the boss's overshirt with his clean hand and wrapped it around his head, just so it wouldn't make too much of a mess. Jo clicked the safety on his .45 and exited the room, shutting the door behind him and making a beeline to the nearest sink. Emery grimaced at the sight of several ounces of blood on Jo's arm. 
	He'd ceased to become a worker. He was a betrayer. 
	Why was he a betrayer? He hadn't done anything! He had been betrayed, that was what had happened. He had been late for work by twenty minutes. But his watch was set to the clock in his boss's office... 
	It was a set up...it had to be. He began to think to himself, his thoughts racing through his minds along two different courses...

	Well, whatever! Freaky was dead anyway, right?

	Nobody trips me up like that and lives to tell about it.

	But who ever said that?
	
	Who cares? Nobody's gonna find out! 

	Besides, it ain't a crime to kill a criminal! 

	I killed him because he betrayed me.

	Maybe he wasn't reaching for his gun...

	I didn't kill him, Jo did. 

	My God, I just killed a completely innocent man

	And now his mind was silent. 

	Innocent of committing a crime towards me. But not towards his society. 
	
	He saw Jo finishing up cleaning his arm, dropping bullets in a fresh plate of lasagna about to be taken to table three. The cooks had ignored him, thankfully. They were oblivious to him, too busy with their fettucinis and lasagnas, their fresh bread and olive oil, their fried calamaris and fresh salads served with zesty red wine vinaigrettes as well as more conventional and familiar American dressings.

	Jo went to his friend, who was locked deep in thought by the door, and said,

	"Hey, uh, we gotta get this place clear, man. No good to go breaking booths wit' so many folks all up in here..."
	
	"Yeah, uh, I'll handle it."

	He stepped out into the relatively small dining area, looking through the large front window of the restaurant and marveling at how beautiful it was that day...
	
	Snapping back to reality, he climbed up onto a table occupied by a couple waiting for their food. This early in the morning, actually, nobody had their food yet. It was a delicious, albeit slow, restaurant, like most places around there. But, there was always the same crowd, the folks who worked the night shift and wanted 'dinner'...something robust and spicy to keep them awake. Italian food fit the bill perfectly.

	"Ahem! I need to make a very important announcement, people! There is a rat problem in the kitchen and we do not advise that you remain here for sake of your health, the food may be unsafe. There is also a flu going around in the kitchen among the cooks..."

	He didn't need say anymore. The flu thing was an added touch for those unfazed by the first warning, but everyone was out the door almost before he was finished.

	Jo entered the room, and disbelieving, asked,
	
	"What did you do?"

	"The fans have left the building and Elvis stays, baby."

	"Who?"

	"Elvis. Elvis Presley. Fifties teen idol. The most imitated man in america. You seriously have no idea who Elvis is?"
	
	"Oh, wait, you mean that Elvis Costello dude, right?"

	"Never mind..."

	A moment of silence passed.
	
	"Well, let's workin', yo..."
	
	"How are we gonna do this? We can't set off our guns, you know. The cooks'll hear it."

	"Hmm...I got an idea."

	Twenty-three minutes, five dinner knives, seven pounds of leather, five bottles of beer and one plate of Papa Giovanni's Party-Sized Lasagna later...

	"Lord above that's a lot of cash!"

	They stared down past the jagged edges of the tears in the seat's upholstery, gazing into a large, black duffel bag full of carefully stacked hundred dollar bills. 

	"This is just 'A Simple Plan', isn't it?"

	"A what what?" asked Jo, quizzically.

	"You know, that movie with Bill Paxton, he finds a black duffel bag full of money, then he ends up killing his brother and three of his friends..."

	"Whatever, man, Bill Paxton ain't neva gonna make this many Benjamins."

	"You've got to admit, Mancini came up with a pretty good place to store his reserves."	

	"Mancini? I thought his name was Giovanni or somethin'."

	"Giovanni's is the name of the restaurant, and besides, it's a first name. Mancini's a last name, anyway. I don't know his first name."
	
	"Hey, whatever, man, guess which vital organ he's missin'..."

	"I hope you didn't make a mess. There should've been a patrol here by now."

	"The cops? Why would they come here?"

	"Would you call the cops if your favorite Italian restaurant had rats crawling around in the kitchen and it was still open?"

	"No, I'd just haul out."
	
	"Hmm...good point. Oh, well, let's get out anyway. The cooks, at least, are gonna figure something out, and the first person they're going to want to tell it to is Mancini. That's when they hit the nine-eleven and the cops will be all over this place like locusts."

	"Is it me or did you realize that we don't got a car?" asked Jo, not really asking a question, but suggesting an answer. Not realizing this, the other responded,

	"Mancini must keep a getaway car around here somewhere."

	"No, I'm pretty sure he doesn't. But I got three words for ya that'll solve all our problems." replied Jo.

	"And they are?" asked the other.

	"Grand theft auto." said Jo. 

	His friend only smiled his hopeless lopsided smile, which almost looked like he was baring his teeth, and laughed.

	
Two			Only In Theory

	William Robert Thorton was a good man. He had a loving wife and was a father of three, and strictly followed and enforced religion in his house. He was quite virtuous (though gullibe as well), actually, and was always looking for some way to help others. He was 42 and was in very good health and made good money, though he spent it sparsely and only on necessities or occasional luxuries. He sat in his car, by himself...

	Wondering what he done to deserve the ski-masked man at his window pointing a gun at his head. 

	Unbeknownst to Mr. Thorton was that Jo was the man behind the ski mask, casually waving his gun at his face.

	Trying not to sound too recognizable, Jo deepened his voice and commanded,

	"Sir, please step out of your vehicle."

	Thorton complied, nervously, small beads of sweat forming on his forehead as Jo pulled the ski mask over and off his head, stuffing it in an empty pocket. 

	"We apologize for the inconvenience, sir, but we were doing a routine check for suspicious characters."

	"A-are you a...a cop?"

	"I can't disclose that information, sir, but I can tell you that I work for the US government and we are going to need to commandeer your vehicle, temporarily."

	"W-what?! But this car is very expensive, sir, If it gets damaged..."

	"We assure you that no harm will come to your vehicle and if for any reason it is damaged the US Department of Motor Vehicles will reimburse you."

	"And where can I get it back?"
	
	"At the...Government Vehicle Impound Lot in Milwaukee."

	"MILWAUKEE?! That's so far away!"

	"Sir, there's only of them, and you should be glad it's not somewhere like Kansas or Massachusetts. You can find it in a recent edition of the yellow pages. Thank you for your time."

	Shocked and speechless, Mr. Thorton slowly removed his keys from the ignition, slid his house keys off, and handed it to Jo.

	They sat in the car, Jo in the passenger's seat, shutting both doors and laughing hysterically.
	
	"I guess some people will believe anything."
	
	"Haha...hey, Emery, do me a favor and be careful with this car, okay?"

	"Oh, yeah, your dream car, right?"

	The engine roared to life, and the car shook for a few minutes as the engine warmed up. Emery cranked the window down and ran his hand along the car's bright yellow finish, so smooth and polished he could see the reflection of his fingers on it. He adjusted his rear view and his side mirror to his liking then slowly pulled out of the parking space. 

	This is way too conspicuous. 

	"So, where exactly we going, huh?" asked Jo, tapping his fingers on the door, feeling the morning breeze on his face.

	"I don't know...the cop's won't know who killed Mancini, they don't have us on record for anything," he responded, scratching his head.

	"Well, how could they not have us on record?" asked Jo.

	He quickly took the question back. 

	Emery only laughed, then said, with a little arrogance,
	
	"That's the advantage, Jo, of never getting caught."

	"You know, guys like us, pullin' so many random, unconnected crimes like we do, are up to our teeth in risk, ya know? If the cops find just one small piece of evidence they can hunt us down like rabid dogs, ya hear?"

	Emery turned to look at Jo, then grinned widely.

	"Yeah...ain't it great?"

	.	.	.

	
	Their destination eventually ended up being the Cigar Depot on West 116th. It was originally a barber shop in the 60s, then an ice cream parlor in '79. But, as demand for smalltime ice cream companies became less and demand for distinguished cigar shops became greater, Uncle Tom's Ice Cream Shoppe sold out, and the place remained vacant until '93, when one of Emery's friends, Evan Malkin, moved in. Evan Malkin was a smart and aware man who knew how the world worked. He was also quite honest and trustworthy, as well as being not too talkative with anyone but his friends. He became alert quickly and was easy to surprise, and was even edgy at times. Because of this tendency, he was the first out the door to see what class of beast had roared such a terrible sound outside, only to find Emery and Jo stepping out of a car he was sure wasn't theirs. Why would Mancini let them drive a monster like that? Mancini himself wouldn't drive it. It was an incredible car.
	"Nice wheels, Emery. Who'd you steal it from?" Malkin's voice was a little scratchy, a little soft. It was very average voice, otherwise, very plain. Malkin was a very bony person, full of sharp ridges, the most noticeable ones being his cheekbones and his chin. He was quite thin and a little taller than most in this neighborhood, not to mention quite a bit older. 

	"Ah, I don't know, some guy...he didn't look like he deserved the car. Could you tell me what it is?"
	
	"Hmm...oh, I know this car, it's a '96 model of the Cala," Evan pronounced 'Cala' like 'Calia', "it's actually a prototype model, a joint project between Lamborghini and an Italian start up called Italdesign. They've only made one other model, the Scighera, which wasn't as great and looked horrible. Emery, that guy you stole it from, he couldn't of gotten this here. I'm not even sure if this car is legal here."
	
	Malkin had hit forty three weeks ago; he himself told Emery that he should've been a father by now.
	"No time for it in this business, Evan," Emery had told him. Evan began to wonder if he was just some slave of the machine now, a chewtoy intended for the slavering fangs of an invisible colossus. After all, he was running silenced guns, what could he expect? He couldn't leave, they'd kill him. He'd stay until he died or until he was overworked into a vegetative state, at which point he'd probably be shot in the head by a refridgerator-sized flunkie from some up-and-coming Italian hotshot.
	He needed a vacation, at least...
	The machine had him by the collar; if he flinched, they punched. It was a sad and unfair system, and the only way to get out was to work your way to the top and then quit and give your business to someone else. Evan estimated that this would take at least seven years of backbreaking work, at least to become a wealthy smuggling lord or something. Seven years was too long. Seven weeks was too long nowadays. Seven minutes was beginning to seem like a long time. 	
	Emery and Jo were in the store with Evan within seven seconds, Emery noticing that the store appeared to be squished between an antique shop and a hamburger joint. They browsed through the rows and rows of cigars of all shapes and sizes, some in expensive and stylish packaging, some with exquisite designs on the bands. Evan broke their trance, saying, "Look at my job. I sell things that kill people. And I make good money out of it. What kind of world is this?"
	
	Emery responded with, "Well, you run guns, too. You don't have to feel bad about it. It's the man behind the gun that kills someone else."

	"Well sure, but it's the man behind the cigar who kills himself." responded Evan, feeling depressed.

	To this Emery said nothing, realizing the truth of the statement. After a few minutes of quiet, where the three men robotically surveyed the myriad amount of cigars in the store, Evan asked, "So, do you need something, Emery, or did you just feel like looking at cigars today?"

	"Not quite, but we do need some help figuring something out." said Emery.

	"All right, then," said Evan, stretching, then sitting on a stool behind one of the display cases, "what is it?"
	
	"Mancini set me up. Said I was late for a payment exchange with some guy name Murillo at the Heritage Parade, then reached for his gun."

	"Well, what did you do?" asked Evan inquisitively.
	
	"I capped him good, man." cut in Jo, leaning on a display case gazing at cigars, not quite paying attention to the conversation.

	"Jo killed him. Anyway, he would've killed us both if we hadn't," said Emery.
	
	"Wait...you killed him? Somebody's gonna find you out, man. And when they do, they'll kill you anyway, or at least lock you up for ten, at least."

	"S'okay, man, I got the bullet shells. The gun was right on his head, and the holes are too big to identify the bullet or the gun, so we're set."

	"Jo's right. What we need now is the info on why I was set up, everything on the Heritage Parade, and who Murillo is," said Emery, finished Jo's sentence.
	
	Evan seemed a little overwhelmed by everything. He took a few moments to calm down, then said,

	"Sorry, Emery, but I haven't heard anything about any of those things. I've been trying to keep my operation low, remember?"

	"Well, do you know anyone who can tell me what I need to know?" asked Emery, trying his best not to become impatient.

	"Hmm...there's a toughie. Let's see...Jimmy Spades, Chiqo DeCasque, Badio," said Evan, counting on his fingers.

	"Badio? Who's Badio?" asked Emery, mentally searching a long list and	not finding anyone by the name

	"Not completely sure. He has a mercenary-for-hire set up in the Arlington Heights area, that much I do know. All these smalltime set ups...whatever happened to the real jobs, the big stuff? The heists, the cars, the war? It's all gone now. We don't blitz into a nest, we just smoke 'em out and pick 'em off, right? Man, crime used to be fun. Now it's just about money. We work, our bosses get paid, what do we get? We get paid minimum wage. What kind of crime is this? We're the criminals, but now we're all organized and all. There's no excitement to it."  

	"Well, Evan, money is no short commodity in the Mancini camp, it seems. We just found his debt reserves. It's gotta be at least six million, just sitting in the trunk."

	"Six million?! What're you going to do with six million dollars?!" 

	"I'm gonna build me a casino made of gold." said Jo, feeling inspired.

	"We'd have to count it first, make sure we know how much we really have. Then, we split it up, start our own set up. We get big, give it six years, and then, we're the kings of the city. How does that sound?" Emery sounded quietly insane. 

	"Emery when was yo' last psyche evaluation?" asked Jo, who, like Evan, was staring at Emery in puzzled disbelief.
	
	"It's amazing, isn't it? I thought it out on the way here, see, if we..."

	His sentence was abruptly cut off by six police cars pulling up to the cigar shop, surrounding the front entrance.

	The three men inside froze, waiting for something to happen. Six police officers in total stepped out of the cars, stepping toward the cigar shop. The glass display window in the front clearly evidenced to the cops that they were inside, to the worry of Emery. Three cops took position at the window, each picking a 
different target. The others waited by the cars, their guns also out. 
	
	"Please exit out the front door, gentlemen," bellowed one of the men at the window.

	Out of the corner of his mouth, Emery whispered to Evan, "Evan, don't you keep a smoker in the cash register?"

	Evan was already there, pulling a metal pin with a finger-ring out of a small canister no bigger than a sodacan. He rolled it to the door as the cop who had given them the order was opening it, and it began to exhume large amounts of smoke, causing the police officers to cough and become disoriented, they couldn't
see a thing. Evan, Emery, and Jo, meanwhile, had left out the back door.

	"How long do think it will take them to find us?" asked Emery quickly as they ran through a small hallway, then through Evan's office, then out into a backway.
	
	"The smoke will clear in a couple seconds, then it's only five or six seconds for them to get out the door," panted Evan, adding, "I'm way too old for this."
	
	They ran to the front of the alley, coming out on the far side of the hamburger joint. They quickly made their way to the car, sitting unharmed by the police. Emery slipped into the driver's side, ramming the key into the ignition as Jo cramped himself into the back of the two-seater, urging Evan to get in faster. As Evan swung the door closed Emery floored the accelerator and shot down the street away from the cigar shop.

	"Oh, God...my shop..." Evan said, his face buried in his hands. The other two were silent, understanding what the shop meant to Evan. His life, his job...

	"They'll tear the place apart. By the time they're done with it..." Evan was feeling too pained to finish his sentence, and simply rested his headed in his arms on the dashboard, repeating, "Oh, God...Oh, God...."
	
	"We're sorry, Evan. This was our fault," said Emery, confused and angry.

	"Man, how were those cats onto us?" asked Jo, also bewildered by the suddeness of the whole thing.

	Emery did not respond, lost in thought...
	
	"The guy! The driver!" said Emery, feeling a stab of simultaneous ignorance and guilt. 
	
	"Who?" asked Jo, puzzled.

	"The man we cheated the car off! He must've tipped off the cops that we'd taken his car, given them a visual description of what we, or, at least you, looked like!"
	
	"Hey, man, we were both wearing a ski mask!"
	
	"Yeah, but you took yours off after he stepped out of the car! And he knows what his car looks like, so he could easily have identified it!"
	
	"Oh, man, Emery, looks like Mama Addison gone raised a fool..." said Jo, shaking his head in shame at his stupidity.
	
	"It's okay, it's okay, Jo. Unfortunately, now the cops will probably be all over us. Is the bag still back there?" asked Emery.
	"It's here, don't worry. Man, I'm sorry, Evan. S'all my fault, man, sorry."
		
	Then, there was silence for a few more moments until several wailing police sirens became steadily more audible behind them...

Three			Hitting Deliverance

	Emery brick-footed the gas as he shouted a steady stream of violent curses. Within ten seconds the car had hit 100mph, just as soon as they shot off a steep downhill incline. The cops trailed a little further behind, but not for long. It was only about eight-thirty, but it would be rush hour very soon. And when it came, the cops had the advantage of sirens to clear traffic. The Cala burned down the street,  the cops still licking at their heels. Six cats against the lone mouse. 
	This area of the city was filled with downhill and uphill slopes; it was a commercial area consisting mostly of small-time or family owned businesses. Emery steered the Cala down the street and braced himself as he prepared to drive up the incline in front of him, eyeing a large, yellow moving truck slowly rolling across the street above. The Cala roared as its wheels propelled it up the slope at 140mph and it smashed through the moving truck's trailer, which thankfully was empty. The front end of the Cala hung precariously out the far end of the trailer, only to be jolted out onto the street by one of the cop's cars smashing into the bottom of the truck. Looking back for a split-second, Emery could see the cop's hood crushed and spewing smoke up into the sky. The Cala had regained some speed by now and was moving steady at 150mph. The scenery around Emery was a blur; besides, he had bigger things to concentrate on.
	The five cops had now strategically occupied both lanes behind them, two in one lane, three in the other, and they were picking up speed quickly as well, though they couldn't hope to match the top speed of the Cala. He sped down the street and jerked the wheel to right to catch the exit to the Dan Ryan Expressway, the last place the coppers would follow.
	But all five cops stayed on his tail, voraciously persistent on hunting down their prey. 
	"Damn, man, this must be a special ops job! How'd we get so popular all of a sudden!?" shouted Emery, not expecting an answer. The others were silent.
	There were a good amount of cars on the expressway already, but there wasn't any traffic congestion. So far, the cops hadn't been able to catch up, but since the other cars were clearing the road for them, they were slowly closing the distance. When they finally came close enough, one of them bumped them from behind, not enough to do any damage, but as a taunt, just to tell Emery how close he was to being shut down.
	Unfortunately for the cops, Emery had other plans. Upon seeing a point where the expressway split up from the other half, merging about a hundred feet down, he tore the wheel to the left and sped down the dirt incline, heading against traffic. One cop tried to follow and was front ended by a large pickup, and the car resultedly set on tumbled down three 
	Emery couldn't look back this time, however, because he was faced with oncoming traffic. He slowed the Cala a little and continually banged the wheel left and right, trying to avoid cars who were making it difficult by also trying to avoid him, resultedly turning into his path. He managed to avoid the few cars in his way, as he questioned the stability of the car's wheels, beating down the street, north on the Dan Ryan Expressway, which eventually merged with the JFK Expressway. Realizing traffic was becoming a little more difficult, he moved into the carpool lane. 
	The cops still followed, having not bothered to take care of the their fallen comrade. They had somehow managed to get on the opposite side of the expressway and were plowing through traffic with the help of their sirens. Pushing the Cala as fast as it was designed to go, Emery finally saw his exit and spun down the twisting curve of road, the tires screeching deafeningly. The Cala was now back on city streets, tearing its way down Belmont Avenue.
	"You're not headed for the dock, are you, man?!" shouted Jo, extremely worried and nervously biting  his fingernails. To this Emery only gritted his teeth in fury and growled, his eyes shrouded in seething rage.
	The dock loomed ahead of them, a simple cafe at the shore next to an unguared, decrepit wooden boardwalk, sleepy boats drifting aimlessly, roped firmly to the harbor. Emery screeched the car to a halt, prompting everyone sitting at the cafe to flee, terrified. He took a deep breath and abusively pounded his foot down on the pedal, the Cala ravaging its way down the boardwalk, occasionally breaking a board or two. The boardwalk was about a thousand feet long, (give or take. In all honesty it wasn't much). The Cala was still ripping through the wood, splintering it, crushing it down to the lake below.  As the end of the boardwalk came up ahead of them, Emery swore loudly and pulled up the handbrake. The Cala spun and spun and spun, over and over, making Emery wish he had a can of Dramamine. 
	When it finally stopped they were facing the direction of the cafe, while puzzled boat owners came out of their ships to see what was going on. Emery stayed where he was, his foot hovering tenouously over the accelerator. The cops were coming, all right. All four of them, the idiots. Emery slammed his foot down, wondering how much life the pedal had left. He put himself directly in the path of the first cop in the line of four, trying to close an unmistakably short distance. As they were about to hit, Emery braked, and as he'd expected the cop had feared for his life and turned to the right, falling helplessly into the lake. Emery knew then that the others wouldn't make the same mistake. They charged at him full speed, intent on collision. He pulled and jostled the stick into reverse and went down to the end of the dock carefully so as not to fall off. As remaining three cops closed in, about to hit, he swerved to the left, the left side of his car almost slipping off the boardwalk, shaking and bouncing the car upon hitting the tops of the long wooden pillars holding up the aging boardwalk. Nevertheless, his plan had worked. The first car braked just in time to be hanging precariously off the edge of the boardwalk, but the second car, in its urgency to slow down, had smashed the first into the drink head-first, now leaving the second hanging precariously as the first had been. The third, however, had braked early and had seen Emery get away and was reversing out the boardwalk, trying to catch up with the fleeing Cala. It finallly righted itself and speedily bore down upon his prey, ramming into them from the back. 
	The Cala shook and its occupants were thrown forward, however thankfully out of fear all were wearing their seatbelts. The back of the car hadn't fared as well, however, leaving Emery glad the engine was in the front, unlike some other Italian cars. He hastily retreated onto Interstate 41, his engine dragging slightly but not too much, after all, the cop had only smashed in the trunk. However this same cop was still on his tail, not going away, seemingly unable to drop dead. 		
	Interstate 41 was surprisingly short, no more than 4 miles, and Emery's exit was about halfway down, so he was there in a minute. He shot into the parking lot of the U.S. Public Health Hospital, thinking up a strategy. The hospital itself had two central elevators, and knowing police tactics, this could be used to his advantage. Emery practically threw the abused car into a handicapped spot and jumped out, letting Jo out the back. 
	"Jo, give Evan one of your guns," commanded Emery, impatient and hurrying. Jo quickly tossed Evan one of his pitch-black pistols, no sooner said than done Evan had checked the safety and the three men were inside and in the elevator heading for the third floor. They arrived, and waited. Two minutes later, the elevator door slid open, leaving three helpless police officers staring down into the inky void of the barrel of a gun.

Four		Tongue-In-Cheek Mechanism	

	Standing in front of two cops in regulation blue uniform was a taller, thinner man wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket. He maintained an air with calm, even while staring down the barrel of a gun. 
	"Turn around and put your hands behind your head," commanded Emery, sternly, glaring into the eyes of the tallest cop. They complied, slowly, the tall one showing no sign of fear while the other two were visibly terrified. Emery and co. stepped into the elevator behind them, guns pressed firmly into the cops backs', Emery giving Evan a nod to hit the button down to the ground floor. The elevator touched down quickly and Emery ordered the three out first. They followed the cops out the door and into the parking lot, Emery pausing to think. His mind drifted off as he said,
	"Jo, go hotwire that ambulance, put our friends here in the back."
	Jo nodded, noticing Emery drifting off, then turned and walked over the ambulance, breaking the lock, climbing inside.
	Suddenly, the tall cop angrily spit at Emery's face, leaving his saliva dripping down Emery's cheek. Emery slowly and silently wiped the drool off his face with his sleeve and told the man, casually,
	"You cops are like rats...or cockroaches. Little do you realize that when you spit on someone like me you are wasting the best part of yourself." In response, the cop only continued glaring at him angrily. 
	Emery took out his pistol, failing to frighten the man. He suddenly changed his mind and put the pistol back in his kneeside pocket. With a swift motion he slammed a clenched fist into the man's gut, causing him to grasp his stomach in his arms and crumple to the ground. 
	Emery walked over to the man and stepped on his forehead, pushing down on it, causing him to growl in agony, catching on to Emery's sudden strong-arming and supressing the urge to whimper or squeal. 
	"If for some reason you are alive tomorrow I want you to remember my face when you have a splitting headache that branches through the corners of your head, squeezing and not letting go. People like you make me sick. A force of lazy slobs, drunk on your own authority, running around chasing cigar dealers when you could be really doing this city some good. Now get in the ambulance, you've wasted enough of my time."
	Evan was surprised to see someone like Emery get so angry. Normally, he was fine, calm, composed. Here, he was some kind of starved animal. He'd really looked like he was out for blood. 
	"Are you okay, man?" asked Emery, quietly, trying not to provoke Emery any more.
	"Yes, I'm fine!" growled Emery, irritated. He lifted his sunglasses and rubbed his eyes roughly, trying to regain himself. He shook his head in repentance.
	"Sorry. I just lost it there."
	
	.	.	.

	By 10am they'd reached the Up/Down, a bar in the middle of the Burbank area, on Harlem Street. The bar was very close to Evan's shop, but going there wasn't an option because there would be cops all over the place. As with Papa Giovanni's, by now. And if they knew who Emery or Jo were, their places would be swarming with the police.
	Thankfully the department wasn't wasting manpower on a city-wide search, so they made it into the Up/Down with little trouble, hiding the Cala and the ambulance in the small, dead-end space in the alley behind the bar that served perfectly as a parking lot. Forgetting about the money in the trunk, Emery gave Evan a silent gesture to stay and guard the cops, then he and Jo entered throug the front door and proceeded to the back of the bar, moving along the far well so as not to draw too much attention. They then climbed up two floors on a rickety wooden staircase into a lavish, well-furnished room. The walls were polished marble and the sheer size of the room wasn't obvious from outside, partially because there actually wasn't much in the room, but what was there was good enough. The floor was tiled in marble black-and-white, and the room was about fifteen feet wide, twenty-five feet long. Six feet from the door were two rectangular, marble pillars spaced evenly apart from each other at the end of opposing marble walls which divided the room. Between the entrance and this doorway the room was empty and dark aside from a closed window on the left side of the room, the far end from the door, which opened onto the right side of the room. Light spilled onto the floor from the room beyong.  Stepping past the imposing doorway, the remainder of the room was brightly lit by a large, spherical glass light hanging down six inches on a metal chain bolted to the ceiling. The left side of the room was bare aside from a large piano, a small window, and a counter in front of a large, open cabinet revealing several shelves of various vodkas, cognacs, and some other less common alchohols. It was meant to be a bar, however right now it was unmanned.
	On the right side of the room was a smoky circle of large pillows, the kind meant for sitting. This circle of pillows extended from a large mountain on the wall about four feet high to smaller groupings about two feet high. On top of a lone pillow was a small boom box set to a hip-hop station, spewing out more static than music. 

	Sitting against the corner of the wall, where the pillows were stacked highest, past seven hitmen-type guys of various sizes and appearances who were each sitting down, was, according to Emery, the human manifestation of cold efficiency and irony. He legally had no name; no hospital had ever recorded his birth. And yet here he was, sitting with his crew, a shotglass of vodka raised to his lips. His eyes were thin in the bright light,  but they were strong, dark, piercing eyes which portrayed a dark, twisted side of him. His hair was a bright honey auburn, shimmering in the single glow of the globe light, parted down the middle, hanging thinly over his ears, down to his chin, out to his temples, also glowingly cascading down the back of his head . His face appeared to be perfectly curved from the front, and unlike his eyes he had a short, thick nose; however, very much like his eyes his lips were emaciatingly thin, and when he gave one of his miniscule, glacing smiles it looked like he was going to decapitate you with his teeth. Speaking of his teeth, sometimes, when he raised the vodka to his mouth you could see them; they were small, straight teeth, very clean and stark white. His canine teeth protruded down two centimeters past his other teeth and were viciously sharp, both top and bottom. 
	He was wearing a freshly-pressed two-piece white suit, the pants quite obviously too long, occasionally dragging on the floor. He had the jacket of the suit open, wearing a thin, cotton black button-down shirt underneath it, hanging out past his belt, all the buttons but the topmost two slipped firmly through their respective inlets. He was wearing leather shoes emblazoned with a Rockport logo along the sides of the outside soles, and at a general guess he was size 12. The shoes had been freshly polished, showing off their clean umber finish. Black laces weaved complicated weaves in and out of the front of the shoe into large doubleknots on both feet, the shoes practically choked his feet. On his hands were black cutoff gloves, the sort used for physical training. They ended at the bottom of the wrist with a one-inch-wide velro strap and extended up to the first knuckle on all of his long, thin fingers. There was also a small, horizontal oval shaped hole on the top of his hand on the gloves, possibly for ventilation.
	He sipped down the waning remainder of his vodka, setting the shotglass down on the floor gently. He then slowly stood up, his quiet gaze fixated on Emery. 
	Suddenly he drew out a pistol from a side holster, while Emery reacted instantaneously, grabbing his pistol out of its respective pocket. They clicked their safeties off in exactly the same instant. And as such they stood for a few seconds, their pistols pointed at each others' heads, before the other man smiled thinly and holstered his weapon.
	"The rain always puts out the infernos," smirked Emery, putting his Beretta away.
	"True. And to what do I owe this intrusion?" asked the man. His voice had a hint of bass to it, though it was scarcely noticeable.
	"The most valuabe commodity a man can have. I'll give you...three guesses," responded Emery, giving the other man one of his wry, lopsided smiles, as if to say that the other had no chance of being correct.
	"In your case, Emery, money," he said, confident that he was right. Emery only shook his head, the twisted smile still plastered across his face.
	
	"All right, then, drugs," he said, scratching his head. Emery shook his head again, saying,
	"Last guess."
	
	"Okay, if this isn't the answer, I don't know what it is, because this is the last thing I've got," he said, confused.
	"And it is...?" 
	
	"Well, I've got so much alchohol here, I figure, maybe you want some of that?"
	
	"No, sorry...try again next time," said Emery, satisfied.
	
	"So, what it is, then?" asked the man, now lost and not able to imagine what Emery wanted.
	
	"The answer is purely opinion, of course. Knowledge, or in my terms, information."
	
	"Ah, I see. And what sort of information are you in such desperate need of that you barged into my place without an invitation?" asked the man in a sarcastic tone of voice, not angry at all.
	
	Emery gave the man the story up to the present. 

	"What I want to know is, why would the CPD send six patrol cars for a car thief, especially if they don't have us on record for anything before that?"

	"Maybe they had Malkin on record for something?" asked Raine, thinking.

	"Don't think so, Raine. Evan's been playing through-man for a continuous small arms contract for a couple months, but the cops never found him, his setup's too small."

	Raine was the man's supposed name, what everyone called him by, even though he never really had a name. Despite his cruel and uncaring efficiency while at work, Raine was a nice, funny person who rarely became angry, and when he did it was a very subtle, quiet anger. He could also be quite sarcastic when he felt like it.

	"So maybe they put you down for impersonating a government officer, or threatening that civilian with a gun?" suggested Raine, running out of ideas.

	"Still not enough to warrant a six-car stakeout. They followed me onto the expressway, remember? Probably the only CPD subdivisions that would do that are their special ops group, which is weak and inexperienced, or the drug squad. Since we don't have any drugs on us, that leaves special ops. Usually CPD special ops only goes after terrorists or sometimes, arsonists. They had no reason to be chasing after us."

	"I'm out of ideas, Emery. But there is one person you might ask."

	"Oh, no. Not him. You know and I know that he's a cop magnet. I'm not going near his place."

	"Suit yourself, but Sporazzio's probably the only one who knows anything more about cop-ops than I do. It all depends on how you look at it; It's either your best choice or your only alternative."	

	Emery sighed and decided that he'd never win. James Sporazzio was a crack addict who also sold the stuff, as well as a large host of other drugs, each one more potent than the last. It hadn't gotten him anywhere, after all, James Sporazzio, or Jimmy Spades as he is known, was a complete wreck, a hopeless crash-and-burn case. For two years he'd been sniffing the powdery, white drug, getting high for a few instances and then needing more.
	Of course, then, these four were an oddity; in this business it was very unlikely for an employee or an employer not to be addicted to something. In Raine's case, however it was offset by the fact that while he wasn't a heavy drinker, when he did drink he drank a lot. He usually fell into a dizzied stupor, stumbling about quoting Charles Dickens and singing hopelessly off-key. His closer friends called this "Rain-ebriation."	
	
	Emery and Jo stayed for a while longer, each accepting a little drink from Raine, taking a seat on one of Raine's comfortable siting pillows, talking about goings-on and recent developments, news and rumors. From one of Raine's boys Emery and Jo heard for the first time that the CPD had taken down Rowne Phillipson, the biggest drug dealear in the city, whose operations were spread along the lake, which was almost the entire eastern side of the city. This meant that the ones who hadn't been captured, about a hundred-fifty, would be unemployed and looking for work.  Raine was thinking of hiring one or two new men for his operation, and a large surge of workless professionals like this was just the thing he was waiting for. 
	Emery again related to them the story of their little stunt with Cala, adding every harrowing detail he could remember, becoming increasingly ecstatic as he his hands flew all over, simulating the quickness and intensity of the chase, adding his own sound effects, like 'BOOM' and 'CRASH', and Emery's shrill, horrible rendition of tires screeching on pavement. Such a sound was comparable to nails on a chalkboard. Emery could not exaggerate or enlarge any of the details of the story; it had been so intense, so terrifying. Such a feat put down any question of Emery's coordination, or his reflexes, or his intelligence. Of course, then some of Raine's boys argued that Emery could have simply avoided the cops by hiding in a backway or an alley somewhere. To this Emery only quietly and confidently stated that the cops would've cleaned out every corner of the city looking for him, and then they'd come to Raine. If Raine couldn't tell them where Emery was, they would've killed all of them.
	
	Emery raised his arm to his face, shaking his sleeve down to get a glimpse at his Rolex, the second hand slowly moving past 9. The longer hands of the watch were arched widely, telling him it was almost 11:30. He stood up, stretching, dusting himself off. He turned to shake Raine's hand, saying goodbye. Jo sat and finished up his drink, trying to stomach it. As Emery approached the door, he placed his hand on the doorknob, and suddenly the door burst open, the sharp wooden ridge slamming into his forehead, knocking him to the ground, his vision blurred, a dull pain pulsating in his skull. He could barely make out the man stepping towards him, studying his cringing figure, then stepping up to him and brutally kicking him in the head, causing him to yell in pain. One of Raine's boys had stepped out to see what was going on, the intruder noticing this and kneeing him in his stomach, then gripping his collar and pushing a gun into his head. 
	"Stop! All of you!" he shouted to Raine, and his boys, who were rushing to the door. They abruptly halted in their tracks, Raine putting his hands up above his head, the others following. Emery's vision cleared enough so that he recognized the man as the taller cop from the last car. He stepped behind them and led them out the door and down the stairs of the bar, where around fifteen of cops were waiting, guns drawn, sirens wailing outside. 
	"Emery Price, you are being arresting on charges of..." started the tall cop. 

	Upstairs, climbing out from behind the piano, Jo clicked the safeties on both of his HK .45 pistols off. He grabbed a large vodka bottle and silently made his way down the stairs. Upon reaching the bottom, where the tall cop was standing, back facing him, he smashed the bottle over the tall man's head, watching him crumble to the ground, blood pooling under his unconscious form. He immediately jumped out and held a pistol to Emery's head, pointing the other one at a nearby cop, struggling to keep his aim. 
	"You coppers want your boy Emery here alive, right?" said Jo triumphantly. 
	
	The cops suddenly remembered their orders and one by one began to lower their guns. However, one of them suddenly stepped out and said,
	"He's not gonna shoot him. It's just a scare tactic," he said, unfazed by Jo pointing a gun at his fellow officer's head. 
	
	Emery and Raine simultaneously drew out their pistols, choosing a target. Emery pointed his gun at the brash cop, while Raine lined up his sight on a scared, nervous cop who's eyes were darting around the room annoyingly. All seven of Raine's boys also drew pistols. Ten of fifteen cops were covered by the group. 

	A new cop suddenly stepped in, pushing Evan in front of him, gun to his head. 
	"Drop it, all of you!" he shouted.
	"Your call," whispered Raine to Emery.
	Emery hesitated, remaining silent. One of Emery's boys crawled  behind the group and ducked behind the bar, then stood up, his pistol's aim centered on the new cop's head.
	
	"Stop!" Emery's voice pierced through the room like a needle. Everyone turned to look at him.
	
	"How many of you cops have families? How many of you have wives and children?" he shouted.
	
	The cops were silent, their guns still aimed millimeter-precise on their targets. 

	Emery walked over to one of the cops, studying him. He was a thin, brown haired man, appearing to be around forty.

	"What's your name?" he asked, menacingly.

	The cop remained quiet, not moving, his gun still pointed at Emery's head. Emery swiftly jabbed his pistol under the man's chin, shouting in his face,
	
	"What's your name!?!"

	The cop growled at him angrily,

	"I'm Jonathan Adler, dammit!"

	"Oh, oh, you're very tough, Mr. Adler," said Emery, now back in his menacing tone, "and how many kids do you have?"

	Adler's tone became weak, "Please, don't hurt my children."

	"Answer the question!" 
	
	"Three...I have three kids."

	Emery walked behind Adler, who didn't turn around, but rather aimed his gun at Jo.

	"Do your kids really want to get a call from the department, drowning in fake sympathy, telling them their daddy was killed by some low-life criminal trash? Telling your wife that she'd better watch out, go hide at her sister's house for a while because I might try and kill her? I don't think you'd like that, Mr. Adler." 

	Suddenly, Emery's voice became soft and apologetic. 

	"And I don't think I want to kill you, either. After all, you're a father...I'm not going to take that away from you." 
	 Emery dropped his arm, throwing his pistol into the middle of the group of cops, to the surprise of everyone. 

	"Arrest me."

	Adler hesitated, then pulled out a set of handcuffs from his belt and cuffed Emery's wrist together.

	"You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Due to special circumstances you do not have the right to an attorney."

	"Why don't I have a right to an attorney?" 

	"Commandeering an illegal vehicle and using it to transport drugs is a severe felony...and we have a special order from the city council."

	"Drugs? I wasn't transporting drugs..."

	"Shut up. There's four hundred vials of ketamine in your trunk, don't tell me you're not running drugs."

	"Show me the drugs."

	"Excuse me?"

	"Could you show me the ketamine in the trunk?"

	"Chief?" asked Adler to the cop holding his pistol to Evan's head. 

	The chief nodded, slowly, stepping away from the door to let Emery and Adler out. They exited out into the sunlight, circling around the bar to the alleyway in the back, which was roped off with police tape. Adler dropped the tape to let Emery through and stepped up to the bashed rear end of the Cala, forcing the broken trunk up, revealing Mancini's black duffel bag, but only with lots of medicinal vials reading 'ketamine' instead of 6 million dollars. 

	"Listen...Mr. Adler. If I told you my story, would you listen?"

	"Maybe...if I feel interested enough."

	"Please. There's something wrong here, and I think maybe you can explain to me before I get hauled off."
	
	"You're still a criminal, you know. And I'm still a cop, so don't talk to me like I'm one of you."

	"Okay, fine. This bag had money in it, all in hundreds. It was in the trunk the entire time. Before we got here we were being chased by six patrol cars, and one of them rear-ended us. If these drugs had been in here they'd have been shattered."

	Adler was silent. And he remained silent for five minutes, as his eyes slowly looked around...at the car, the drugs, at Emery, straight into his eyes, at the handcuffs, at the ground. 

	Adler then pulled a key off a large keyring on his belt and unlocked Emery's cuffs, waiting apprehensively for something to happen. Nothing did, and Emery shockingly realized that the cop had dropped his defense. He'd given Emery his trust, for now.

	"So, what now?" asked Emery. 

	"I don't know what's going on...but we're going to find out. Don't try pulling anything...you're still a criminal."

	"Yeah...you're still a cop."

	.	.	.	

	After three minutes of careful planning they went to work. Emery pulled his Nokia phone out of his pocket and pressed the power button, dialing Raine's cell phone number and pressing the phone to his ear.

	Inside, Raine's phone rang, disrupting the uncomfortable silence in which every man in the room was targeted by another. He slowly and steadily moved his hand to his pocket, still concentrating on the cop's head lined up between the sights of his gun. With his free hand he skillfully pulled the antenna down, mashed the power button and held the phone to his face.

	"This is Raine."

	"Raine, this is Emery. Adler's been neutralized, but don't shoot him. Head back upstairs."

	"Yeah. Okay," he said, quietly, dropping his phone into his hand, then into his pocket. 
	
	His hand was now free again, and he signaled for all his men to move upstairs. They all complied, each still aiming at a cop until he reached the stairs. As more and more filed out, Raine shifted his aim to the Chief, making sure he had an important target. Suddenly, Emery burst in, bashing the Chief's wrist with Adler's pistol. The chief grasped his hand in pain as Emery held the gun to his neck. 
	"Evan, get upstairs," he ordered.
	Evan ran toward Raine, and together they fled up the stairs, trying to avoid the stirring form of the tall cop on the ground. The last one of the group in the room, Emery stayed still, then ordered the cops to move upstairs. Fearing for the chief's life, they complied hastily, slowly stepping up the stairs. Emery again quickly tapped Raine's phone number into his Nokia and waited for him to pick up. 

	"Raine, listen, I want you to..." he started.

	Emery began to hear gunshots.

	"Raine, no!" 

	It was too late. The gunshots continued as Adler stepped into the room. Emery released the chief and told him,
		
	"Stay back...you may not want to see this."

	Emery held his head low in his hand, feeling a heavy, hanging shame in his stomach. He slowly climbed the staircase, expecting the worst. At the top, the door was closed, but a small pool of blood slowly slid out and was beginning to trickle down the stairs. Opening the door, he quickly turned away, covering his face in disgust. Raine's boys were alive, as were Jo and Evan, but the corpses of the fourteen doomed police officers were bloodily strewn about the first half of the room. 

	"Raine, why? Why did they have to die?" 

	Raine, however, simply turned away. He didn't share Emery's cautious respect for human life.

	Evan stepped up to Emery, telling him,

	"Sorry, Emery...they fired first. We had no choice."

	Emery hated to see people die, he honestly did. If they were trying to kill him it was another story, like Mancini and the cops who'd been chasing them, but these people were innocent. They had families, they had friends, they had jobs, they had lives.  Emery went downstairs, picked up his pistol in the middle of the floor, and thought,

	How many of those things do I have? 


Five			The Kings of Santa Maria

	Their only option at that point was to go to James Sporazzio's home, 'The Cage' as he called it. On the way their, in Adler's car, Emery began a conversation with the cop, who was a fretting and nervous due to the four dangerous criminals in his patrol car. 
	
	"You play any sports?" asked Emery, randomly.

	"Well...I...play tennis on the weekends...sometimes," he responded, gradually easing into the unfamiliar atmosphere.

	"Where?"

	"The Calumet Club, usually. I just...get together with my friends for a couple matches, just for fun. Anyway, I need the exercise," replied Adler. Apparently he adapted to new surroundings or companions quickly.

	"By the way, why did your chief let us outside? If he knew the drugs were planted, he wouldn't have let me see them, right?"

	"He probably didn't know. I don't think any of us knew. Maybe the CPD didn't plant it, maybe someone else did..."

	"Well, it's a possibility, but the CPD are the most likely ones to have done it," responded Emery assuredly.

	After a few moments, Adler asked,
	
	"How did you know I'd help you?" 

	"Well...you just seemed like the forgiving, understanding sort of person. Anyway, that's the most important thing when you're a father of three, I guess."

	"Leave my kids out of this conversation," said Adler, sternly, "Remember, I can always take you straight to jail."

	To this Emery only drew out his pistol, pointed it at Adler's head and said,
	
	"Drive."

	.	.	.

	It was about noon, far past rush hour, and the thirty mile drive from the Up/Down to Arlington Heights passed in about forty-five minutes. The patrol car pulled up in front of a small barber shop next to Sporazzio's hideout in a pharmacy outlet. Emery, Jo, and Raine stepped out of the car, while Evan stayed to watch Adler. 
	The pharmacy outlet was actually run by Sporazzio, who payed his workers generously since the pharmacy had good business, usually. It was also a good cover-up for Sporazzio to get all the crack he needed every day.

	They stepped into the store, walking through aisles and aisles of pills and decongestants, gelcaps and nasal aids, past two large racks of cigarettes, slipping unnoticed by the employees on duty into the small backroom, a darkly lit hole at first glance. As one's eyes adjusted to the darkness, broken only by a thick shaft of light eminently shining down onto a wooden table from a small, dusty window with steel bars in front of it, James Sporazzio's short and emaciated figure became visible. He was breathing heavily, tilting his head up and taking the chemicals of a dangerously unhealthy amount of crack into his nose. He was bony and pale, his jet-black hair was quickly falling out, and his eyes had immense bags underneath them. He opened his mouth and yawned; his teeth were black and twisted, and his breath was putrid. He wore a green suit, sparsely striped with thin white lines. The smell of the room was nauseating; Emery tried to hold his breath though the smell was familiar and he instantly thought of Sporazzio whenever he smelt anything remotely like it.
	
	"I am curious to know what you want, but I'm eager to see you leave," said Sporazzio, or Jimmy Spades. His voice was soaked in a Brooklyn accent, and his speech was strange and twisted. When he talked, sometimes his voice was scratchy beyond recognition. Occasionally it was smooth, but such moments were becoming more and more rare every time Sporazzio took his powder.

	"I need info, Sporazzio, and word is you're the one who's got it," replied Emery.

	"And what about do you need info? Rowne Phillipson? CPD?" asked Sporazzio.

	"What was going on at the Heritage Parade today?" asked Raine.
	
	"The Heritage Parade...it was to celebrate the city's history, I know that much. There were also surfacing rumors of some sort of exchange with..." 

	Emery cut off Sporazzio sharply, "Some guy called Murillo, right?"
	
	"Yes, but how...?" asked a confused Sporazzio.

	"It was my assignment. Mancini set me up and I was late for work, then he was about to kill me. But what was the exchange?" replied Emery.

	"My sources say it was just a drug trip, but it doesn't seem that Mancini would try to kill you for missing a drug trip, yes?" 
	  
	"You're right. It must've been something bigger, something more dangerous. Something Mancini really wanted..."

	"Well, Emery, beyond that piece of info I don't have any more, so..." started Sporazzio.

	"Don't be so quick to get me out of here. I also need to know about somebody called Badio, has a rent-a-hit near here."

	"Badio?" Sporazzio was trembling. Then, Sporazzio retrieved a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun out from under the table, sliding the hammer, up, down, aiming it at Emery's head.

	"Sorry, Emery, but that's all you had to say. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to shut you up this time."

	Acting quickly, Emery threw the door open, bathing Sporazzio in the bright lights of the pharmacy. He groaned in pain, his eyes unaccustomed to the light, then grasped his head, losing his aim with the shotgun. Emery lunged towards him, tearing the shotgun out of his hands, kicking him in the stomach hard enough that it knocked him to the floor.

	"Raine, close the door," commanded Emery. Raine quickly slammed the door shut.

	"Don't ever try to pull that on me again, Sporazzio! Now, who's Badio?" asked Emery angrily, pointing the shotgun down at Sporazzio's head. 

	"To you I'm not telling that!" whined Sporazzio, cringing on the floor like a crippled rat.
	
	"How about I stick you in an empty room for five years without crack? Huh? String out your withdrawal symptoms until you break, until you freak out and beg me to kill you? How would that feel, Jimmy? How much do you want that, and what would you give up not to get it?" shouted Emery.

	Sporazzio gasped and almost began to cry.

	"No! Okay, I'll talk, I swear!" screamed Sporazzio, distressed.

	"Remember you said talk, not yell. We don't want your boys hearing you or I'll kill them, and then I'll give you your crack deprivation anyway." 

	"Okay, okay. I work for the man, Badio, next door, the barbershop. "

	"Wait...you work for him?" asked Emery, confused.

	"Yes, I've been doing some small jobs for him in exchange for my drugs. He's a very smart type, you know." 

	Sporazzio was feeling a little better and returned to his chair, while Emery again stood in front of the desk, loosening his grip on the shotgun.

	"So, I just go next door and find him?" asked Emery.

	"Yes...next door, in the back of the barber shop," replied Sporazzio.

	"Thank you, Mr. Sporazzio, your services are appreciated," said Emery, turning towards the door. As the three left, Sporazzio hung his head in his hands, muttering to himself in fear, making sure his drugs were still there.

	.	.	.

	Arlington Heights Barber Shop was a very odd, tiny store. There were only two seats in which you could get your hair cut, and the service was sluggish and inefficient. Quite contrary to somebody supposedly as 'smart' as this Badio character. As they approached the back of the room a woman stopped them and said,

	"Excuse me, sirs, you aren't allowed in the back. If you'd like a haircut please put your name on the list and..." She was silenced by Raine, who told her,

	"This is business."

	 Going through the door in the back of the room, they entered into a long, two-space parking garage. The room was dimly lit from a single bulb hanging down, bolted to the ceiling. The first parking space in front of the door was empty aside from the fading stain of an oil spill in the center. In the other space was an oil truck. The truck itself was white, apparently recently painted, with a green logo on the door reading "Marlin Oil Incorporated." The oil trailer was metallic and rounded into an oval, like most oil trucks. 

	They began to hear voices, and all three instinctively drew out their weapons, holding them ready. They broke up and searched around the oil truck, then making sure it wasn't just someone talking in the barber shop. It was very clearly coming from inside the room somewhere...Emery slowly paced around the truck, trying to make out what the voices were saying. There were four of them, all male. 
	"Tomorrow at 8..."

	"...about the cover-up?"

	"...just a set-up. Leave it to..."

	"How 'bout you, boss?"
	
	Emery's mind flew open in realization, and he rapidly scrambled up the ladder on the side of the truck, opening the hatch on the top and dropping inside. As he'd suspected, there was no oil in the trailer. It had actually been converted into a room of some kind. The insides of the walls were white, and the room was lit by two rows of track lights on the ceiling. And at the far end of the truck was a mahogany desk, similar to Mancini's. Three men in black suits were sitting in wooden chairs around the front of the desk. In a red leather chair behind the desk was a strange-looking figure. 

	His face was half-covered in shadow, though his eyes seemed to pierce the dark, shining bright blue. His hair was jet-black and cascaded down and forward in a strange, curved pattern, as if it were a hand grasping his head from the back. He had a small, thin frame, although he was tall, or so this was what was portrayed by his black suit, evenly striped with white lines. The jacket was buttoned up to his chest, where it hung out on top of his white button-up shirt whose collar was turned out onto the jacket. In his suit's pocket was a rose. It was a fresh, clean rose that Emery could smell from all the way on the other end of the tanker. Its had an extremely strong, beautiful smell, even at that distance. 
	
	So this is Badio. I have run around the city for hours and now I've found this guy.   

	"Hey. Are you Badio?."

	"Mr. Price, I'd like to know what you are doing in my office," commanded Badio. His speech was clear, concise, and eloquent. It flowed smoothly out and he seemed like he knew what he was talking about.

	More to the point, he knows my name.	
	
	"And I'd like to know what took you so long to get here," he asked. Emery's surprise was immense but he didn't show it.

	"How did you know who I was?"

	"Ah, well, you know our friend James Sporazzio. Sigh, he's so ecstatic sometimes. I'd really like to know what you told him to make him so agitated."

	"Jimmy called you?"

	"Yes, that's right. More to the point, I need to know exactly what it is you want."

	"Why so urgent?" asked Emery. 

	"Because, Mr. Price, I don't care for lethargy. I have things I need to be doing and you are tearing a very large hole in my schedule."

	"All I need is info."

	Emery gave Badio a sketchy runover of what had happened up to that point. Badio listened attentively, silently, absorbing what little detail Emery included in his story. As Emery finished, Raine and Jo dropped into the tanker from the open hatch. Emery quickly told them to stay where they were.

	"I understand your problem. I am also willing to help, but I need one important favor from you first."

	Emery's eyes, which had been staring around the room, snapped directly onto Badio. 

	.	.	.	

	"Lemme get this straight one more time. There's a new gang calling themselves the Scars, they're trying to down your other place in Des Plaines. You want me to take them out. That's it?"

	"Yes, that's all I need." 
	
	"Fine by me. But remember, Badio, if you're not here when I'm done, I'll hunt you down like a fly trapped in a spiderweb."

	"What makes you think my name is Badio?"

	"Huh?" asked Emery, confused.

	"My name is Dio."

	.	.	.
	 
	"Dio? Why is everyone calling you Badio, then?" 

	"Sit down, please. I have a small story i'd like to share with you."

	One of Dio's silent associates pulled a small, wooden chair up to the desk, gesturing for him to sit down. He complied, then told Dio,
	
	"Ok. What?" there was a small tone of impatience in his voice. 
	
	"When I turned ten, I was 'initiated' into the family business of hired guns. My parents died when I was but an infant, so I was raised by one of my uncles. After the small initiation ceremony, a small picnic around Riverdale park, near South Holland and Calumet City, my uncle and I sat away from the rest of the family, and he told me a story."	

	Dio was interrupted by Emery, "Can you try to make this short? I've got work to do." Much to Emery's annoyance, Dio continued speaking as if Emery hadn't said a word.

	"He was fond of folk tales and legend, and this was his sort of legend. He told me of a city in north Utah, known as Santa Maria. It  was a booming gambling city rivaling modern Las Vegas, he told me. This popularity attracted many different groups, most of them in the business, like us. After this, Santa Maria began to grow in size until it was immense, according to my uncle the biggest city in America.  And this city was divided into nine equal parts, because its boundaries were designed to be exactly square. In the center was an Italian 'godfather' by the name of Grome Berenaldo. Around him were several other groups vying for control of the casinos, black marketers, urban gangs, and so on. There was even a Neo-Nazi terrorist group somewhere. That touch was characteristic of my uncle. 
	Nevertheless, this tale of the different 'kings' slaughtering each other for control of Santa Maria inspired me, and at that moment I..."

	"I don't have time for this, Dio," interrupted Emery, struggling to maintain his attention to the story. Dio simply continued as before,

	"...became inspired by this story. My uncle continued it every time my birthday came around taking a great amount of time per birthday celebration to sketch out and fill in the details about one of the groups, and then, he was shot by a rival gang two months before I turned nineteen." As Dio said this he raised a cupped hand to his mouth and yawned quietly. 
	
	"He never finished the story of the central figure, Grome Berenaldo, sitting in his mighty tower, studying his opposition from hundred of feet up, carefully planning. This is all I know of him from other stories. Nothing about his life, his labors...
	...I decided to make it up to my uncle by completing the story of Grome Berenaldo. I took the name Dio. And that, gentlemen, is all I needed to say."

	"Thanks. We'll be back quick, don't worry," said Emery.

	Emery, Jo, and Raine quickly climbed up the exit ladder, sliding down the side of the truck onto the concrete.

	"What da hail was dat all about?" asked Jo.
	
	"Don't know, really, except for the fact that I was about to get catatonic from waiting for him to finish," smirked Emery.

	"It's funny...his story had no relevance to anything at all," remarked Raine, staring at the floor as they stepped out of the garage, into the barber shop. 
	
	Upon exiting out onto the street, they looked around in the bright afternoon sun for the patrol car. It was missing, but they didn't panic, guessing that Adler hadn't wanted to stay in a timed parking spot, after all, he was a cop. Upon searching the area a little, they found that the parking spot didn't have a time limit on it, besides the fact that it was a patrol car, and that the car wasn't anywhere in a two block radius. Emery banged his fists down on the rusting hood of a black '73 Buick Skylark, which was parked next to a silver Mercedes CLK. 
	Without hesitating, Emery had commandeered the Skylark while Jo had taken control of the CLK. Raine sat with Jo in the CLK. They drove around in opposite directions, Jo taking random turns while Emery drove in a methodical out-going circular pattern. By the time he got tired of looking he had reached the Des Plaines area.

	"Had a change of heart on us, did he?" Emery asked himself, angrily. He grabbed his Nokia out of his pocket, punching in Raine's number.

	"This is Raine."

	"Adler and Evan are gone. I can't find 'em anywhere."
	
	"Damn. What now, then?" asked Raine.
	
	"I'm on Oakton street, in Des Plaines. Meet me in, uh," Emery quickly glanced around, "the, uh...Blackeye Grill."

	.	.	.

	Jo, who had been heading away from Des Plaines in the direction of Schaumburg, turned around and reached the Blackeye within ten minutes. Emery sat at a table in the far corner of the restaurant with three plates before him, each with a half-pound burger and thick, greasy fries. He had pushed his burger away in favor of the newspaper, which he had layed out before him and was carefully studying, drawing his finger down a page of small print as if searching for something in particular.
	
	He glanced up as Raine and Jo sat down, each wordlessly biting into one of the burgers.

	"Thank God for good food," said Jo, sounding relieved.

	"That's right...we haven't eaten anything since seven..." upon saying this Emery checked his watch. 2:30. Then, with his eyes locked onto the newspaper, he grabbed a fry off his plate and quietly put it in his mouth, chewing slowly.

	"Cheap start-up grill joints, can't afford salt for the fries," he complained, although the taste of the fry was pushed into the back of his mind by his newspaper.

	"Now that you mentioned start-ups, we still gotta take care o' da Scars, you know what I'm sayin'?" said Jo, his mouth full of a half chewed bite of hamburger.
	
	"I know, I know. Let's just finish eating first."

	.	.	.

	Needless to say they were slow eaters. Jo, who was taking immense bites, finished first even though it took him so long to swallow. Raine finished second, being that he was a very normal eater. Emery, however, finished half an hour after Raine because his eyes were locked onto the newspaper like magnets to iron. Then, with the weather map of the city in the back of the paper, they plotted out their plan of attack. 
	
	The attack would have to be quick because the airport was no less than a 2 minute drive from the Scars' nest in the back of a restaurant with the words "El Pollo Diablo" emblazoned in red on an aging wooden sign. At that point it was 3:30. They'd go at 3:45.
	
	So for the time being they each ordered a drink. Emery sipped it his coffee, steam rising plentifully, comparing its strength to his morning coffee from Bernelli's. The coffee he was drinking at the moment was exponentially more potent that Bernelli's. He almost recoiled away from the cup in surprise at the power in it. By the time he reached the bottom he'd decided that the power was offset by the fact that the coffee, although robust, was completely flavorless. 
	Jo, meanwhile, was taking generous swigs from a bottle of lite beer. He periodically ran the cold bottle along his forehead, trying to negate the effects of the hot afternoon sun.
	Raine, meanwhile, had not chosen now to get drunk because when he had a little he'd usually end up having more until he passed out. So instead he'd ordered a drink that was one of the more original, defining features of the Blackeye; it was the cook's own concoction, commonly known as the Stag. The taste of the drink didn't have anything to do with the name, at least to Raine because to him this drink was limp and weak. From his own guesses and careless glances at the menu, he'd figured out what the drink was: brimmed with pure, unsugared lemon juice with a little lime, all mixed up with a half cup of club soda. His tongue, however, was used to spices and surprises, and so he didn't pay any attention to the stinging, exacting taste that accompanied a small sip of the drink that most people usually felt.
	
	When the hands of Emery's Rolex snapped into a perfect ninety-degree angle, he stood up, counting out dollar bills from his wallet and adding a couple quarters as a tip. He stretched for a few seconds then left the Blackeye with Jo and Raine close behind, Raine sipping at the Stag, Jo clutching the beer tightly as he ran to keep up with Emery. They quietly slipped behind the El Pollo Diablo to a small space in the back, bare except for a door leading into the kitchen. As per their plan Jo swigged down the rest of his beer and put the bottle of the ground, then scrambled up an unstable drainpipe onto the top of a brick wall. He almost fell over when he saw the sun high in the sky, casting its bright glow across a bustling, busy city. Regaining himself, he leaned over and peaked into the second story window, trying to hide himself from the view of at least thirty young black teens, all sitting around talking. Jo looked down and nodded to Emery, making sure he kept his balance. Jo had been chosen to go up primarily because he didn't have a fear of heights, like Emery did. 
	Raine signaled Jo to come down, and Jo tried to climb back down the pipe silently. However, thirteen feet above the ground the pipe collapsed, dropping Jo to the hard concrete. He was dazed and in pain...he couldn't move and his vision was blurry. Raine and Emery rushed over to him, dragging him away from the alley, Emery asking him, "Hey, Jo! Talk to me! Jo!" 
	Jo slowly regained his senses, feeling a dull, pulsating pain all over. Suddenly, droves of the young black teens were rushing to the window to see what was going on. They began to pull out guns, one of them smashing the window out so they'd have clear shots at the three escapees.
	Emery and Raine successfully dragged Jo out onto the street to escape a hail of oncoming lead. Raine quickly plunged a hand into his pocket and pulled out a thick match, handing it to Emery. Emery rapidly struck the match against the brick walls of the restaurant, unsuccessful at lighting it. Raine quickly handed him another one, which lit immediately upon being hit against the brick. Emery then traced the restaurant's gas lines to his own position and furiously shoved the match into the line, quickly dragging Jo away from the building as the shouts of the young teens became steadily more audible, and as Jo said, pain in his voice,
	"No, man...they're just kids,"

	The building exploded in a great flash of fury, the fire spreading up the five-story building and violently bursting out the windows and finally shooting out the roof. There was a momentary, unified scream...which was silenced just as quickly as it had appeared. Emery and Raine quickly helped Jo stand up straight then ran towards the Blackeye, climbing into the CLK. Emery started the engine and sped north towards Arlington Heights. He failed to notice, however, the rusting '68 Nova trailing them as, to their surprise, the gasfire spread through the line to the adjoining buildings, effectively blowing up every building on Oakton Street. 
	"God...damn...." said Raine, looking back, still not paying any heed to the pursuing Nova. They quickly reached the barber shop in Arlington Heights, Emery slamming the stick to park from third gear, violently snapping the wire that allowed them to drive the car. The engine sputtered and died as they marched into the parking garage and climbed up into the oil tanker, dropping into Dio's office.

	"We're done," said Emery, passively.

	"Mr. Price...I asked you to take the Scars out, not blow up Oakton Street. The police will now be crawling all over here trying to expose me."

	"Sorry, pops. You gave us the job, we did it," said Emery, maintaining his calm.

	"True, I suppose I didn't specify any specific parameters for your assignment. But now that you're done, and so quickly at that, I owe you the information I promised."
	
	"Thanks. But, before we start, I just want to ask you one thing..."

	"By all means."

	The conversation skipped a beat. Dead silence.

	"Why haven't I ever heard of you before?"

	Dio remained silent for a few moments before saying,

	"Every underground has its own underground, Mr. Price. I don't expect someone like you to know that, but keep it in mind."

	
Six			On The Other Hand
	
	Dio went on to tell Emery about Mancini, and even though his voice was very alive, it was rather low and otherwise Mancini stayed in the same formally relaxed position behind his desk.

	Ruizi Mancini was a very strange man, from what I knew of him. Rather edgy, somewhat agitated. Full of paranoia, etc. And if i'm not mistaken he used to have halluciniations, manifestations of his fears."

	"Yeah...we used to hear him in his office, begging John Lennon not to kill him," smirked Emery. Jo, who had always laughed at the joke, remained silent and somber. 
	
	Mancini was a hopeless case. Nevertheless, he had friends in higher places than he was. One such friend was a smalltime drug dealer from Newark, by name of Murillo Esteban. Esteban came here to help Mancini with his troubles, as well as catch up on some valuable clients he'd been hearing about. After a few weeks here Esteban decided he'd go back to Newark, after finishing up just one client. Unfortunately, this last client was a man by the name of Jon Kurgen, a very racist type. Murillo was but a few minutes late for his exchange with Kurgen, who immediately used this as an excuse to kill Murillo, which he did. Mancini heard about this the same day, then decided to blame it on you, since he was sure he couldn't find Kurgen. Also because, for his mental reasons, he just didn't like you. One other interesting detail about Mancini was that he remembered very small things. One day quite some time ago he saw you setting that Rolex on your wrist to the clock in his office. He then set his clock twenty minutes ahead, so it would appear that you were late. His 'assignment' at the Heritage Parade for you was to go and give Murillo some money for his drugs. This was one of Mancini's little psychological complexes. If for some reason you did come on time, there would be someone in the crowd with a silenced pistol who would kill you as soon as you arrived and leave just as fast. Unfortunately for Mancini the one factor he forgot was your reflexes, very springy and quick. You were faster on the draw than he was, and that was his flaw."

	Emery was looking at Dio in disbelief.

	"And how does an undergrounder have so many sources?"

	To this the other man only said,
	
	"As I said, my name is Dio."

	Raine stepped up behind a confused Emery and whispered in his ear, 

	"Emery...in spanish, Dio means God."

	Emery's eyes widened at this , then he only shot Dio a confused glare. 
		
	After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Emery said,
	
	"Well...that's all I needed to know. I wonder how many people died for me to get this information."
			
	"Ahem. If you have nothing else you need to attend to aside from finding your Jonathan Adler and your friend Evan, I have a task for you that will give both of them back to you."
	
	Emery thought for a moment before nodding, signaling Dio to continue with his offer.
	
	"In the Glenview area there is based a rising corporation known as Cadigen Systems. It's a very enthusiastic, precocious little company. And its CEO, by name of Peter Schwartz, is a large threat to me. I'd like you to take him out without a large mess like the one on Oakton Street. That little escapade will be on the news in say, twenty minutes."

	As Dio said the words "twenty minutes" Emery remembered the watch...then Mancini, then the money.

	The money.

	"Hey, we aren't going to do this job free-of-charge, you know."

	"Well, of course, Mr. Price. Your fee shall be settled right here, when you are done. If you'd like you can leave one of your associates here."
	
	After a short conversation they decided to leave Jo, who was in pain and in no condition to be killing people. As Raine and Emery climbed out, Dio ended their conversation with,
	
	"Please try not to make a mess."

	Raine and Emery left, exiting the building and stepping into the sunlight. As soon as they did, an old blue Nova, the same one that'd been following them earlier, rounded the corner near the barber shop. It raced towards the both of them, intent on collision. Raine and Emery quickly pulled out their pistols and fired rapidly at the driver before jumping off to the sides to avoid the car. The driver was still alive, and apparently only two shots had actually pierced through the windshield. The car stopped then turned around, just in time to see Emery and Raine duck into the pharmacy.
	Not hesitating to take a little damage, the driver plowed through one of the large glass windows and into row upon row of medicines, following Raine and Emery to the back of the store. It was quickly gaining, slowed very little by the shelves of medicine it was knocking over. Emery and Raine ducked into Sporazzio's office and stood in the corners of the room, on each side of the door. Luckily, the car broke through the center of the wall and as Sporazzio shouted,
	"Emery, what the hell is this?!?!"
	The Nova rammed through Sporazzio's short figure and coated the back wall with blood and Jimmy's entrails as it crashed into the wall, throwing the driver's head forward in his seat. The driver shielded his head with his arms, and his elbows took the brunt of the damage. He recovered within a few moments, only to see Emery's gun in his face. 

	"Who are you?" asked Emery, angrily. The teenager's only response was to raise a dark middle finger to Emery's face. In a rage Emery grabbed the boy's finger, twisting it back and almost snapping his bone, causing him to yell in pain. 

	"Aveial! My name's Aveial!" he groaned. Emery released his finger.
	
	"Thank you, Aveial..." said Emery, his voice full of angry cynicism.
	
	"...now tell me why your were trying to run me over."

	"You bastard! You killed all my friends!" he shouted.

	"Word was you were giving trouble to my man Dio. We had to take care of that."

	"By doing what? Blowing up Oakton Street? Killing all of them!?" 

	"Orders are orders. Get out of the car."
	
	Aveial stepped out of the car slowly, standing up. He was a full five inches shorter than Emery. They stepped out into the wrecked and ruined pharmacy shop, where the lights were brighter than in Sporazzio's hole.
	
	"And how come you're still alive?" asked Emery.

	"I got out of the building before it blew up. I saw you trying to light the match on the gas pipe and I ran for my car in the back. Why did you have to kill us?"
		
	"I told you my orders. Nothing personal." Aveial began seething with anger and spit in Emery's face furiously. Emery, who was very tired of having people spit in his face, slammed the butt of his pistol into Aveial's head, causing the young boy to go unconcious. 

	.	.	.

	Emery commandeered another car, this time an emerald green Lexus. Raine dumped the limp figure of Aveial in the large trunk, then slammed the hatch down and sat in the front next to Emery. He thought for a moment, then asked Emery,
	"What would Peter Schwartz be holding Evan for?" 

	"Don't know. It's like chess...they move, we move."

	Aside from this small conversation, the short drive to the Glenview area was made in silence. As they pulled into a parking spot in front of the majestic, fifteen-story Cadigen building, Raine told Emery,

	"Time for a checkmate."

	They exited the car and proceeded forward through the front lawn and into the building, which, at first glance, looked like a hospital, the way it towered high above their heads, all white and sterile, the afternoon sun imposing its reflection in its windows.

	Once inside Emery scanned up and down an office directory in the main lobby until he found "Schwartz, Peter" on the seventh floor, office 441. Trying to be unnoticed they entered one of several elevator shafts in the lobby and proceeded up to the seventh floor. The elevator landed at the seventh floor with a bump, then the doors slowly slid open. They were faced with a maze of hallways and doors, and quickly became confused and lost, stumbling about the mostly empty floor until coming across a very energetic young man. 
	"Excuse me, can you tell me where room 441 is?" asked Emery.

	"441? 441 is down that hallway there, then the immediate left, then an immediate right at the immediate left, then down Green Wing 4 to the Alpha area. From there you take branch 17 to the Rear Column. You follow me?"

	"No, I don't follow you at all. Could you lead us there?" asked Emery, getting impatient.

	"Sure!" 

	.	.	.

	Room 441 was somewhere near the back of the floor, in a less well-lit part of the area. The energetic man left to go back to his duties, leaving Emery and Raine alone. Emery halted abruptly, then turned to Raine, saying,

	"I need your pistol. With the silencer."

	Out of two random pockets in his jacket Raine produced a small pistol and a canister-shaped object about a half-foot long, the silencer. He attached the silencer to the front of the gun, twisting it until it was screwed in tightly. Emery held the gun behind his back and pushed the door open. The room was very large and extremely well-lit by filtered halogen bulbs on the ceiling. A window that took up almost the entire back wall offered a majestic, panoramic view of the city. 
	
	Standing at this window, admiring this beautiful, panoramic view of the city was a man in a shirt and tie, wearing crumpled black slacks. As if he were under a great deal of stress he occasionally grasped and rubbed his temples between his forefinger and his thumb. Emery signaled Raine to wait at the door, then stepped in, still hiding the pistol behind his back. Without turning around the man said,

	"Nicole, next time you come in, please knock. Anyway, did you send the memo to Shlomo?"
	
	Full of sarcasm, Emery said,

	"Yes, sir. Will that be all?"

	"What the?" surprised, Schwartz whirled around, only to find himself starting down the barrel of a gun. He slowly raised his hands above his head, taking long enough for Emery to notice a long, deep scar running down his palm and then thinning at his wrist, not ending at the cuff of his sleeve.

	"W-what is this?" he asked, trembling nervously.
	
	"Nothing. All I need to tell you is..."

	"...what?" he asked, hopeful. Emery smiled evilly and said,

	"Thank Dio for the favor."

	The silencer quieted the shot enough that you couldn't hear it ten feet outside the door. The beautiful, panoramic view of the city was coated with a healthy amount of blood, and the limp body of Peter Schwartz lay sprawled on the floor, blood being rhythmically pumped out of his head through the bullet hole. Emery decided that they wouldn't know who killed him, so they left. 

	"Wait, Emery, what about the guy who led us here?" 

	"What do you mean?" asked Emery, confused.

	"Well, let me construct this for you. Somebody finds the guy's body, calls the cops. They question everybody, and that one guy who took us here gives them a physical description of us. Those cops tracked you down before, they can do it again."

	"Damn, you're right. Uh..." started Emery.

	"...lemme go find him. You watch the door."

	Emery frantically ran around the floor, trying to find the man, opening every closed door he could see.
	
	Thirty minutes later...

	Raine was getting extremely impatient waiting for Emery. He was about to leave when his phone rang in his pocket. He flipped it out, asking,

	"Did you find him?"

	"No. Listen, Raine, I want you to..." Emery thought for a moment. "I'll be there in a few minutes, I think I can find my way back. For now, start cleaning up that mess."

	Raine thanked Emery with the utmost of sarcasm, then shut it off, stepping inside and locking the door behind him, finding a coat draped on a hook behind the door. He spread it out and began to mop up the sick amount of blood on the window. 
	Luckily, that's where most of it was. There was a small puddle of blood on the floor, but the force of the bullet had pushed most of the blood onto the clear glass. He continued to mop up the remainder of the blood, then wrapped the coat around Schwartz's head, feeling sick at the sight of the dead man. Suddenly, he heard a knock at the door. He didn't answer, but reached into his pocket, pushing buttons on his cell phone while stepping to the door. When he heard Emery's phone ring on the other side he opened the door.
	
	"Hey, good job. If you ever sell out you could be a janitor," smirked Emery.
	
	Raine grumbled and raised his middle finger. 
	
	"Hey, sorry! Just joking, okay?"
	
	They slowly contemplated a plan to move Schwartz's body out of the building. Emery wrote a note on a memo saying that Schwartz had to leave on family business. They picked up the body from both ends, contemplating their move. 
	
	.	.	.

	There was no move available to be contemplated. The only elevators were on the other end of the building, and there were at least a hundred-fifty workers between Schwartz's office and there. They had nothing to do but wait. And wait. And wait a little more.

	.	.	.
	
	After several eternities 7:30 came around. The four hours in between had been completely devoid of event; Emery and Raine had uncomfortably entertained themselves with jokes, stories, and rumors. It was hard to talk with a dead body in the room, but by the time it was 7:30 they'd almost forgotten he was there. Raine had scouted the area out, devised a clear path, then called Emery to move out. Emery hoisted the corpse onto his shoulder and clumsily stumbled through the carefully-planned instructions Raine was giving him. By the time he reached Raine and the elevator he was ready to collapse from bewilderment. They entered the elevator and punched the grimy black button that would take them to the ground floor.

	"Emery...it feels like we're going up," observed Raine, noticing Emery tensing up and becoming very cautious, drawing out his pistol. Raine did the same, standing at ready. The elevator doors slid open at the roof, revealing a large roof area and a police helicopter parked in the center of a yellow-painted landing pad. 

	The sun was ducking behind the heads of towering skyscrapers, leaving beautiful trails of pink and purple clouds in its wake. The radiance of the sun was very soft and golden, slowly fading with each passing minute and with each passing minute dimming the sky a little more. 

	Emery snapped out of his momentary trance and cautiously approached the chopper with his pistol drawn. Upon reached the door and holding his pistol out, he recognized the pilot as one of Dio's boys. 

	"What happened?" asked Emery.

	"By the time we figured out what you were doing, the entire building was surrounded by cops. We got inside from the roof, rerouted the elevator controls, and we've been waiting ever since."
	
	"Cops? How did the cops know?" 

	"Get in the chopper, Dio'll explain. Oh, and, uh..." he started, hesitating.

	"...dump the body in that ventilation shaft there."  

	Emery hoisted the limp corpse into a large pipe, and it fell down swiftly, clanging against the thin metal. He and Raine then entered the chopper, and the motor began to roar, spinning the blades at immense speeds, lifting them off the platform as the pilot steered them toward Arlington Heights. Since they were flying in a commandeered police chopper, the cops down below paid absolutely no attention to the chopper leaving the area.
	
	.	.	.

	In the tanker, Dio sat and explained several things.

	"Your friend Jo was getting worried, he went to go look for you. I've sent two of my men to retrieve him and your vehicle. I heard you had some extra cargo with you..."

	"He's a Scar, survived the explosion. He was getting a little brash, that's all."

	"You do realize that if for some reason he isn't in the trunk of your Lexus when we find it he is going to think of nothing but killing you painfully."
	
	"Uh, yeah. Whatever. Now, I just want two things: I wanna know where Jo is, and I want my money."

	Dio wordlessly retrieved a thick leather suitcase from under his desk, handing the weighty object to one of his men, who handed it to Emery. Emery opened it tiredly, gazing for the second time that day upon rows and rows of stacked hundred-dollar bills. He shut and latched the case, giving it to Raine to hold.  

	"All right, that's one. How long 'til you find Jo?"

	"Our search is in process as I speak. My men are more then competent, and I can assure you they'll find him soon."

	Emery brushed off Dio's pacifying composure, giving him a sardonic,
	
	"Yeah, right."

	Then, Emery remembered one other thing.

	"How did the cops know we were in the building?" he asked.
	
	"This I can't be sure of. It must be someone very close who alerted them, but one can't be sure..."
	
	One of Dio's men suddenly dropped into the tanker, telling Emery,
	
	"We've found your friend Jo. He's waiting for you outside."
	
	"Thanks. Well...it was good working with you, Dio. Gimme a ring when you find Jo."

	Emery's suspicion was correct. Dio really was resourceful if he didn't have to ask his phone number, since Emery was unlisted. Even so, he wasn't worried about Jo. He knew how to take care of himself. Emery proceeded out the barber shop and told Raine,
	
	"I'm taking the bus home. You?"
	
	"Yeah, I think I'll take it too. I'm getting tired of stealing cars."

	
Seven			Missing In Venice

	By the time Emery got home it was 8:30. Not late by any means, but he'd been through so much hell that day, and he felt like he needed to just get out of it. He retrieved a glass and filled it up with water from a cold pitcher in his fridge. He noticed again how small his kitchen was compared to all the places he'd been that day. The cigar shop, the Up/Down, the Cadigen building, even Dio's tanker.
	Emery drowsily stumbled back to his room, mashing the power button on his stereo and trying to adjust the station with the tuner dial. He eventually found a staticky '80s rock station and gulped down the rest of the water in his glass before laying down on his bed, without turning the blanket down or even taking his shoes off. He stared at the ceiling for a few minutes, thinking about the day, about Evan and Jo and Raine and Dio and Adler...

	Where is Adler, anyway? Probably back at the station with Evan in custody, no doubt. 

	His eyes steadily began to drop and he pointlessly tried to force them open, which eventually felt like he was trying to lift anvils with them. So he let them drop, and for a few seconds he lay there in blackness before falling deeply asleep.

	After a long period of sleep, the sun flashed brightly in his eyes. His saw himself above an ancient city, completely networked with complex canals that turned and weaved randomly. There were some boats in these canals, wooden boats with rusty motors...gondolas, maybe? This little community was very sleepy and just awakening under the ten o' clock sun. And then, he fell...and landed on a bridge, feet planted firmly. Then, a gigantic ocean liner, completely black aside from the top of it, which was ringed with bright red, shot through the water and began to ram through the neat little rows of building, crushing them out of shape to let itself through. The ship approached him rapidly...
	But his view suddenly flew back, so he could see the scene playing out from the sky. He could see another man on the bridge; it wasn't him, but it was somebody he knew, although he couldn't quite place who.
	The ocean liner did not stop upon hitting the man on the bridge, knocking him into the water below, most likely crushing him, although he couldn't see from so high up. The massive liner was slowed little by the buildings, who bent to its will even though they towered above it. The ocean liner soon exited the city and found itself in the bay. 

	And again, as had happened before, he snapped awake, drenched in perspiration, especially on his face. He stood up lazily, stretching as he always did. He then shuffled through some clothes and picked out a set of strikingly baggy blue jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and a hooded sweater in the same shade of deep emerald green as the Lexus he'd stolen the day before. Then, again as usual, he entered the bathroom, showered, and came out clean and refreshed. He was about to exit, then he remembered everything he'd forgotten. Luckily, it was all in his other pants, so it was only a matter of fishing everything out of them. When he at last retrieved cartridges after everything else save the gun itself, he put them in his left pocket, and then contemplated where he should put his gun, since his jeans had no large pockets near his knees like his cargo pants did. He usually just shoved the gun in his belt, but this because increasingly uncomfortable.  For the time being he simply shoved the muzzle of the gun into his sock, covering the butt of the pistol over with his jeans. He then exited the room, heading down the stairs akwardly, then out the door. The apartment didn't seem any different than it usually did, but then, what was he expecting? On the other hand, the sky was completely gray and the sun only occasionally peeked through the cracks, failing to shine.
	Once he neared the bus stop, he begin to ask himself where he was going. No more Giovanni's for him now that Mancini was dead, and what good could Dio do? Emery eventually decided to stop at Raine's place in the Up/Down, flipping the bus driver his fare and climbing into the fourth row of seats on the left. As the bus door squeaked and shut harshly, Emery failed to notice the man watching him from the back row, the only other man on the bus at this hour of the morning that Emery was used to getting up at since he'd always had to get to Giovanni's. 
	As the bus neared the Burbank area, the man in the back stood up with a pistol, precisely aiming at Emery's head, which was pointed aimlessly and tiredly at the metal floor. As he clicked the safety off and his finger neared the trigger, the bus turned sharply onto Bridgeview Street, knocking him off his feet. The shot went off into the air and punched a hole into the ceiling. Emery immediately ducked down and drew out his Beretta, glancing under the seats at the man’s black boots. He quickly thought how much they looked like Jo’s, but then dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come, like a stray breeze on a windless day.
	He steadied his aim at the fast approached feet then fired three rounds into his attacker’s ankles, spilling blood to the metal flooring and knocking the man to his back in agony. At this point the bus driver had stopped the bus and jumped off. Emery stood up slowly, still holding out his pistol. On the floor he found...
	Jo. Jo Addison, his oldest friend, having agonizing convulsions on the ground and screaming in pain, cursing Emery over and over. It was painful to watch, and even more painful for Emery to hear Jo condemning him as he was now.
	“Jo...why’d you attack me?” he asked once Jo had stopped screaming, but was still shaking slightly and breathing harshly and loudly, occasionally crushing his eyelids closed and shouted loudly, trying to bear the slowly waning pain. With a vile blend of anger and pain in his voice, he growled, 
	“You know...when you...blew up that damn...Oakton Street?” 
	
	“What is it? What about Oakton Street?”

	“I went to the Cadigen Building to find you. I heard some banging in your trunk, I opened it, found Aveial. He tried to...kill me...and then I took him down and asked him...what he wanted.”

	“What was it? What happened?” asked Emery, trying to approach Jo and tend to his ankles, but Jo only pushed him away, drawing his pistol and shakingly aiming it at Emery.
	
	“He asked me what my...name was...because I looked...familiar...I told him...Jo Addison...and he said...arrghh!!”

	Jo began to tense up, but still managed to keep his pistol aimed at Emery.

	“He told me...that he knew two boys named Addison at the...Scar camp...named Jonas...and Gabriel. Those were my...brothers...both of them were missing...when I was little...but I would’ve found ‘em!...I woulda found ‘em, dammit! But...no...you killed ‘em...all of ‘em...”
	
	“Jo...” said Emery. For emphasis Jo tightened his grip on his gun and shoved it out further at Emery. 
	“No! You listen...to me. You don’t give bull about nobody but yourself. It’s all money...nuthin’ else! Maybe...the rest of my family...coulda lived. But now...we’re all dead.”
	“Jo...how was I supposed to know...”

	Jo raised his voice and shouted,

	“Shu’up, foo’! I’m...doin’ the talkin’ now...maybe if you had been a little less...concerned with yourself...I coulda met Jonas and Gabriel...one last time...”
	
	“It wasn’t my fault!”

	“Oh yeah...nuthin’s your fault...right? I guess that...massacre at the bar...wasn’t your fault?”
	
	“Since...I’m gonna die now...I want you to be quiet...so I can pray my last seconds...”

	Emery couldn’t do anything but comply...and in spite of himself, he began to feel a warm moistness in his eyes, which slowly ran down his face. Jo’s eyes were shut, but his lips were moving wordlessly. Then, his eyes open, and he looked towards the ceiling. The desperation and anger in his eyes pierced straight through the roof of the bus, and then, he aimed his pistol at his head. 
	
	“Anything you wanna say before I go, Emery?” 
	
	“Yeah...” responded Emery, raising his gun and firing precisely at the muzzle of Jo’s gun, attempting to blow Jo’s pistol out of his hand. However, it was too late. Emery’s bullet hit Jo’s head just as Jo’s own shot punctured his skull. His figure quickly went limp, blood pouring out of Jo’s broken head.
	Emery dropped to his knees and held back his tears, doing nothing but screaming into the heavens as rain began to fall violently, quite audibly impacting on the roof of the bus and the ground, smashing itself onto the windows relentlessly.
	Emery regained himself, the only trace of his emotion the serenity in his face and the obvious redness branching about wildly in his eyes. He picked up Jo’s body and walked to the exit, kicking it open swiftly. As the rain beat down upon his and washed away the blood on Jo’s face, Emery found himself on...Addison Street. His face became masked with anger, but he then returned to his state of silent melancholy. He stepped back into the bus, finding the keys still there. He layed Jo’s body into a peaceful position and then turned the keys, leaving the bus and closing the door. He whispered a prayer for Jo and then opened the hood of the bus. With a complex rat’s nest of rumbling machinery before him, he stepped back thirty feet and fired his pistol at the engine until the entire bus exploded loudly, blowing the windows and the door out, completely engulfed in the violent inferno.
	Emery held his head low and walked away from the bus. And then, he forgot about the world. He forgot about Raine and Evan and Dio and Adler, about cars and drugs and drinks...
	
	And he remembered a day when he and Jo were seventeen, robbing their first bank, the fun time they’d had. And then he remembered the dream...the ship crashing into the man...

	Could the man have been Jo? Jo, being crushed by the indomitable greed and bloodlust of Emery? Was Emery the ship, plowing through all obstacles with the simple target of Jo? He grasped his face, returning to reality as a black ’72 AMX Javelin pulled up beside him, and Raine stepped out, wearing a suit much like the one he’d had on yesterday, only differentiated by a silky green shirt, the same emerald tone as the Lexus he’s stolen yesterday, as well as Emery' hooded sweatshirt. It was a different suit, though. Raine just had several pairs of them.
	“What happened?” asked Raine.
	      
	“I’ll...tell you later,” Emery responded bluntly, stepping into the car.


Eight			Supervention
	Their destination was Dio’s place in Arlington Heights, and from there, Addison Street wasn’t all that far, especially at that hour of the morning. On the way, Raine stopped the car in front of a Starbucks on Tonne Street, announcing that he needed breakfast. Emery did not respond when Raine asked him for anything, but Raine emerged from the shop with two immense, freezing-cold frappucinos.
	“So...they didn’t find Jo yet, I heard.”
	
	Emery turned to him and screamed,
	
	“Jo is dead!! Couldn’t you see that?”
	
	Raine was caught with surprise and sorrow at the same moment...but he displayed neither. He only sighed deeply and told Emery,
	
	“Sorry...”
	
	“...what happened?”

	“Like I said...I’ll tell you later.”
	
	The car began to quietly come to life again, and just as Raine pressed the button to turn on the rear defogger, a hail of bullets smashed through the back windshield, much to the surprise of Raine and Emery, who drew their pistols and opened their doors, ducking behind them and using them as shields. Another salvo came from the same direction, and Emery and Raine couldn’t quite make out who their assailant was. The moved to the front of the car, raising up just enough to see a large squad of CPD officers behind the car...among them Jonathan Adler. They were approaching quickly, so Raine thoughtlessly fired several bullets through the front windshield, shattering it and sending the pieces to the dashboard and down to the fresh, new carpeting of the car. Raine then jumped up on the hood and crushed himself into as small a figure as he could, then threw himself into the driver’s seat, landing akwardly but quickly reorienting himself. He quickly glanced around, then yelled at Emery to get in as he accelerated. With no time to act, Emery jumped onto the hood as the car gained speed quickly. Against the wind and the speed of the car he struggled to pull himself into the passenger seat, the cops still shooting relentlessly behind them. And again, as was all too familiar to Emery by now, the sound of sirens once again become audible...but this time the cops were directly in front of them. Raine violently jerked up the handbrake and wracked the wheel to the left, causing the delicate, tiny car to spin around violently and smash its trunk into the front of an accelerating patrol car, smashing the back of the car in. The momentum of the impact, while also throwing Raine and Emery into the dashboard, gave the Javelin just enough push to allow Raine to regain his balance and let the car's speed climb steadily and race away from the wildly pursuing CPD cars, each one with a shiny coat of polish over their jet-black finishes, with sirens wailing terribly through the morning.
	
	The intense friction of the wheels of the Javelin against the rough pavement left long, even streaks of rubber along the road as the car shot down Palatine Street, straight past the barber shop. For that single stretch of road they seemed to be relatively safe, without any sign of the police cars or the mob of officer, and so Raine slowed to a stop, but this thought was quickly killed by dozens upon dozens of police officers coming out of hiding from windows and from behind mailboxes and doors, all steadily aiming regulation issue pistols in the general direction of the partially crushed Javelin. Raine and Emery looked at each other solemnly and gulped, and upon seeing the patrol cars come to a halt behind them and about five cops with pistols drawn in front, they slowly opened the doors and stepped out of the car with their hands locked firmly behind their heads. From the swarm of police officers emerged Jonathan Adler, giving Emery a cynical I-told-you-so smirk, with his pistol undrawn. "Emery! You're under arrest, this time. And I assure you that this time you have no access to any form of justice whatsoever."
	
	"Under what authorization did you tear the Bill of Rights in half?" asked Emery, struggling to restrain his anger.
	
	"Oh, this has nothing to do with the Bill of Rights. But, we are going to give you a small chance to redeem yourself..."

	Upon Adler saying this, as if on cue, Evan Malking was pushed in front of the Javelin by an anonymous cop, his hands handcuffed behind his back. 

	"Mr. Malkin here is a dangerous gun-runner. Under careful research we've constructed a bare-bones profile that's already enough to land him death. Perhaps if you disposed of him for us, you'd be granted a case, a good lawyer, a fair trial...who knows, maybe we'll even skip it all and give you a full pardon."

	"What are you asking me?" growled Emery angrily, "you're asking me to kill Evan in return for fair justice? Don't forget, Mr. Adler, that by now I can very quickly find out where you live."
	
	"What a threat. But, your actions are your choice. Why don't you think about your existence for a bit, huh? Think about why God put you here."

	Emery turned to Evan, smiling sympathetically. 

	"God put me here to keep this city awake."

	Emery hesitatingly paused for a few moments, suspended in a traumatic second of malignant quiet. He retrieved his pistol, cleaning it against his sweater, pulling the hammer back to drop his old cartridge out, then loading a spare and pulling the hammer back again to load it. He clicked his safety off and aimed it at Evan, telling him with a certain gentleness in his voice,

	"Yeah...keep the city awake. Means you've gotta put somebody to sleep."

	Emery fired a single shot, which efficiently pierced through Evan's stomach, knocking his limp figure to the ground. Emery then unconciously re-safetied his pistol and holstered it away, turning away, but almost completely unfazed by what he had just done.

	"I'm suprised! I didn't think you'd bring yourself to kill an innocent old man like that."
	
	"You said yourself, he wasn't innocent. Neither am I. And neither are you," Emery told Adler with malicious sardonicism.
	
	"Oh, you're such a philosopher. I know you're not going to take yourself to court. You've got..." Adler paused to check a worn-down plastic watch on his right wrist, "twenty seconds to run before we try to find you. Forty until the patrol cars come after you..." before Adler could finish the Javelin was tearing down Palatine Street, then to a tiny four-way crossroad at Elmhurst Street. The mob was giving quite a chase after the Javelin, which was now limping along slowly. Just as they crossed to the opposite end of Palatine Street like molasses on flypaper, an immense oil truck bull-charged down Elmhurst Street, stopping in the middle of the crossroad and blocking the mob from getting through. The police officers quickly began firing at the driver, who, almost reflexively, jumped into the back. Surprised but seeing their chance, Emery and Raine hastily clambered out of the Javelin and climbed up the ladder on the side of the truck, using the oil tanker as a cover to take exacting potshots at the crowd of cops below, hitting several but not significantly decreasing the size of the mob. Before opening the hatch and leaping inside after Emery, Raine took careful aim and without warning shattered Jonathan Adler's skull into bits and pieces. 
	Inside the tanker, Dio was wounded, grasping the smooth wooden handrail on the wall of the tanker in agony, grasping a large puddle of blood on his right side which was slowly pooling outwards. His four assistants were not aiding him in any way, only bracing themselves against the guardrails. Emery asked, irritated, "WHO'S DRIVING?!"
	From a random direction he heard a muttered, 'nobody', so he careful made his way to the front of the truck and ducked down so the remainder of the rabid mob outside couldn't see him. With a quick surge of anger he knocked the truck into reverse gear and jabbed his fists into the accelerator, causing the truck to lurch and begin moving backwards, slowly at first, but then picking up speed. When he was far away enough from the cops he repositioned himself more comfortably in the seat, then shouted to Raine to get to the front.
	"So? What now? The entire CPD is gonna be hunting our asses down now," said Raine, almost nonchalantly.
	"Bring Dio here. Be careful with him. He's about to die," said Emery, uncaringly. Raine silently walked back into the trailer and went over to Dio. He tried to hoist him up, avoiding the bullet wound, and Dio asked, in gruff agony, "What the hell...are you doing?" 
	"I'm bringing you to the front."

	No sooner had Raine said this than all four of Dio's guards had drawn their pistols and had them aimed at him. He swiftly ducked behind Dio's desk, dragging Dio with him. He unholstered his pistol and raised up a little, firing three shots and hitting one of the guards. The others began firing at the bottom of the desk without pause, until they had to reload their clips. Raine, who had narrowly avoided being killed, noticed that the front-facing surface of the desk was constructed entirely of steel, from the back, at least. He raised up again and took out the remaining two, who were reloading. The last one, who'd evaded him, was now behind him, with a gun to his head. Raine hesitatingly stood up with his hands up, not saying anything. For a few moments there was an uncomfortable silence, until Dio's bodyguard unsafetied the weapon. The shot rang out...smashing through the guard's face. Surprised, Raine looked down at Dio, who was panting heavily and letting a small pistol fall from him fingers. Raine then lifted Dio up and deposited him in the passenger seat of the trailer. Emery looked up at him, then at his wound. He then turned his attention back to the road, ducking the bulky oil tanker behind a shopping center that had more or less no way of making any income, since they didn't offer any stores that appealed to any large consumer group in particular. 
	Ignoring the bullet hole in Dio's side, Emery asked,

	"I need to know everything. Right now."

	Now heaving loudly, Dio managed, 

	"I need...a doctor...need to get the bullet out."

	"You'll live long enough," Emery responded with silent cruelty. With each passing minute Dio's condition worsened. Finally Raine'd had enough and said,
	"Emery, he's gonna die! Get him to a hospital, now!" Emery looked up at Raine quietly, unassumingly. Then he shifted into reverse gear and backed out of the shopping center before halting the tanker abruptly.
	"What? Why'd you stop?" asked Raine.
	
	"The nearest hospital is on the other end of town. He'll be dead by then."

	"Well, call 911, then!" 

	Emery reluctantly pulled out his phone and mashed the buttons in with his thumb, listening once to the repetitious DRRING before being answered by a woman whose voice could only be described as monotone.
	"911 Emergency Center, what is the problem?"
	
	"Uh, yeah. We have a man here and he's been shot, and he's bleeding badly."

	"Thank you for remaining calm, sir, where are you?"
	
	"Umm...Itasca Street."

	"We'll have an ambulance there quickly. For now, I want you to support the victim's head with a soft cuishon and apply moisture to the wound while..." Emery impatiently cut the line, then turned to Dio and asked him,
	"What happened, exactly?" Dio shifted his position slightly, still grasping his side. He was struggling to speak coherently.
	"My men and I were discussing your assassination of Peter Schwartz as we were coming to get you..."
	"Wha? Wait, how did you know the CPD was tailing us?"
	
	"There's a CB radio in my desk...I can get most police frequencies...And as we were coming to get you my men started a conversation about you and Raine being too risky to keep alive...As they opened the hatch to let you in...they were going to kill both of you...I ordered them to stop...I guess they just couldn't wait for natural causes."

	Emery had ignored Dio's labored attempt at humor; he was locked deep in thought, staring into the steering wheel blankly...

	...and yet his reflections were interrupted yet again by wailing sirens, this time many of them. In front of the tanker was a police crew, three cars lined up side by side. Behind the tanker was an ambulance, sending the long, drawn-out moan of the siren through the streets. Emery and Raine carefully hoisted Dio out of the truck, taking pains to keep his body horizontal. A medical crew came bustling forward with a stretcher, taking Dio and laying him down flat on it. They hurried away, leaving Raine and Emery with the police cars...

	Fortunately the bulky, middle-aged officer stepping out of one of the patrol cars didn't recognize either of them, only starting a casually interrogative conversation.

	"So...what happened?"

	"Uhh...we just found this truck in the middle of the road. Driver was shot..."

	By the time Emery had said this another cop had stepped out of the second car. He removed a thick pair of sunglasses and studied Emery and Raine carefully. Then, he whispered into the first cop's ear. 
	"Are you by any chance Emery Price?"

	"Uhh...no."

	"Well, could I see some identification."

	Raine fought back the urge to tense up and shudder nervously. He simply watched Emery, his eyes  locked on his friend.
	
	Emery acted calmy and retrieved his pistol, pointing it in the center of the cop's forehead. The cop was suprised, but signaled for his men to back off and thne remained still. Raine had his pistol out also and had it pointed at the nearest cop behind Emery's target. Raine told Emery quickly, "Your call."
	Emery responded with, "Destroy the evidence." Raine maintained his aim on the second cop of the five present and backed behind Emery, resting his gun on Emery's right shoulder and steadying his hand. Emery reached up and covered his right ear with his left hand, keeping his gun hand, his right hand, focused on the cop in front of him. As Raine began to fire, Emery fired as well, and two cops were down. Raine took cover against the tanker while Emery picked up the dead body in front of him and used it to shield himself from the hail of oncoming bullets. As Raine took out another cop with his last bullet, with two left Emery fired from behind the corpse and hit one of them. The other was out of ammo and angrily charged toward Emery, screaming. Emery was also out of ammo, but before he could change cartridges the last cop had punched him in the gut, sending Emery reeling to the ground. The cop was quickly upon him, letting loose with a barrage of blows to Emery's head. He stood up and jumped up over Emery's head, intent on stomping it in, but was knocked back in mid-air by Raine smashing his stomach in with a crowbar. 
	Emery's vision was blurring in and out, and there was a nondescript ringing in his ears. After a few minutes he'd apparently waken up and said, in pain,  "Thanks, uh...where'd you get the crowbar?" Raine told him, "Was latched to the side of the tanker." Emery smiled and dropped his head back, abruptly blacking out. 
	
	The ship neared the city rapidly, not slowing as it plowed into the docks and the riverside cafes. But as it neared the tall buildings, the city gathered itself together and blocked the ship's efforts at barging straight through. The ship's strength began to fail, and then it cracked and broke in several places, the pieces sinking to the bottom of the river. 

	He woke up in a sterile-white hospital room, his head pounding and his vision partially obscured by a large, thick bandaging job around his head. He reached up, feeling numb, and felt the gauze wrapped around his head thickly. It was dry except for a spot near the left side of his head; it was soaked, and when he gazed tiredly at his finger, he was that it was covered in blood. He again fell back to sleep.

	This time, the ship was sitting in the dock and waiting to be allowed into the city. Suddenly, it was chained from all sides to the dock, unable to move at all. It struggled back and forth, but to avail; the chains were too heavy to be broked, the dock too sturdy to be uprooted. Then, the dock end of the chains were undone and flung onto the deck of the ship. The ship plunged into the water and did not resurface.

	The next time he woke up, he was in the same room, but there was no bandage around his head. However, there were several wires running into his arm from behind his head. He was not wearing his sweater, nor could he locate his belt. He did feel quite energetic and awake, however. 
	
	"Hey! Anybody home?" he said loudly, while still trying to keep his voice under a shout. At this, Raine stepped into the room, happy to see Emery awake. Raine wasn't wearing the coat of his suit...he wasn't wearing a suit at all, but rather a pair of jeans and a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt.

	"Raine? Where...when....what happened?"

	"Well, super-cop got up while I was calling a friend on mine to pick you up. Find's one of his buddies' guns and let's one loose before I club him again, then use the gun to shoot him. But the shot he got off grazed your head. You are damn lucky. A millimeter to the left, or if the wind had changed..."

	"I'd be six feet under. Why am I in a hospital?"

	"Well, a bunch of cops came and told me they'd give you medical assistance...but we're going straight to court afterwards," answered Raine.

	"Court...

	...we don't have a chance, do we?"

	Raine turned away for an instance, then sighed.
	
	"So...what about Dio?"
	
	"Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. It's next week already, you were out for a while, in a coma. Dio's dead, three rooms down. We didn't get him here quick enough...he was on life support most of the time."

	Emery felt a certain guilt coursing through him. He gulped, then told Raine,

	"You know, people...they don't think straight when they're angry....guess I don't either."

	"Don't blame yourself. Nobody would've acted any different in your position."

	"Thanks. So what now? We go to court...we get life..." said Emery, turning to look at the walls, then turning back to Raine, "...or death." A few minutes of complete silence came and went before Raine said, "I have a limited time I can see you. I'm still in custody, you know, so my gun was confiscated. So's yours. But while I'm here I need to explain some things that Dio told me that first day...before he died."

	"Okay...well, I guess I don't have anything else to do, so..." replied Emery, attempting to sit up then stand but slowly laid back down upon feeling a painful jolt in his arm...a tug on the IV wires.
	
	"Don't worry about it," Raine told Emery, pulling up a red swivel chair from a corner somewhere and seating himself at Emery's bedside. He offered Emery a glass of water that was resting on a small service table next to him. Emery couldn't drink it in that position, but Raine felt no embarrassment in feeding it to him. Afterwards, Raine cleared his throat and began a long, twisting narrative of what Dio had told him. 

	Dio'd been coughing real bad, spewing out blood every now and then. The bullet wound was pretty serious, because Dio really was a weak person. So, he found out I was here and asked that I see him. It took me 2 hours to listen to the whole thing...it wasn't incredibly long though. He started off a little slow, sort of etching out things that'd already happened, as a reference...

	Dio really had no job; he simply had a large amount of money and hired mercenary-types to do random jobs for him. He never really explained why, or where his money came from, but I'm guessing it was that uncle he was talking about, the one who told him the stories about Santa Maria. He soon became proficient, without being noticed at all, since he was so secretive and cut all ties with those he hired, leaving them with the name Bacardi. At one point around 18 months ago, Evan and Jimmy Sporazzio were hired at the same time for different jobs. Both were left with the name Badio, and when we met Sporazzio, Dio was still employing him. I don't don't know what it was for, but...anyway, Evan did one gun-run for him. None of his clients ever came in contact with him, only his bodyguards. That's all they were for, anyway...nobody enough about Dio to know where Dio was located, except for Sporazzio, since he was next door. Dio had a right to be complacent about it, but he never let his guard down, he was too smart for that. So he was especially pissed when a small-time drugger named Ruizi Mancini stole ten million dollars from under his nose. He set out to find his money and hired Murillo Esteban, another small-timer from Newark, to get it back. While Esteban was out looking for Mancini, who wasn't the screwy brain-dead loner Dio made him out to be, but rather a very clever thief, Dio realized that Esteban probably wouldn't find him and decided to try a different approach. So, Dio, with the rest of a small fortune, somehow bought the loyalty of the entire police department, or at least the heads. The CPD still operated on its own, but the new special ops unit they started a few months back was actually a unit created by Dio, his own personal police unit just in case an active unit wasn't readily available. This was the unit that was chasing us on the freeway, and at the Up/Down bar, and everywhere else. It had two captains, Theodore Greene and Harry Cassidy. Cassidy was the cop at my place, the tall one kicking you in the head, and Greene was the one you had at gunpoint, after that. So, with the CPD under his control and the city none the wiser, Dio eventually caught Mancini, though it took him a while. By now Dio had calmed down, and so he gave Mancini a simple offer, to lose his life or work for Dio. So, Mancini, who would've been 32 next month, decided he still had his best years ahead of him and accepted. Dio even allowed Mancini to keep 60% of the money he stole, hence the six million you found at Giovanni's. Mancini worked loyally for Dio, realizing that if he'd been in Dio's position he would've killed Mancini, and so he was pretty grateful for Dio's forgiveness. After a while, though, Mancini began to become a little rebellious again, so he set up his own operation at Giovanni's, but still followed orders from Dio. This is when he hired you, Jo, and Esteban, but Esteban remained a long-range contact and stayed in New Jersey, and Mancini never told you about him. Around the same time, one of the heads of police, Jonathan Kurgen, also'd had enough of Dio, so he began to develop a plan to expose Dio to the city. Dio held his wife and kids hostage, but even then he wasn't giving up and went into hiding, and afterwards Dio gave up looking and released his captives. Kurgen switched places with a friend of his, by name of Peter Schwartz, and remained quietly hidden from Dio, but Dio told me later that he knew the entire time and that he was simply keeping quiet; Kurgen underestimated Dio's sources. Doing Kurgen in might provoke Schwartz to alert the city, because the only reason Schwartz was keeping shut was that Kurgen told him to. This was why Dio had us take out Kurgen, to eliminate him without laying the blame on Dio. He sent two men out to take out Schwartz at the same time, one of them hired, and they succeeded but did not report back to Dio. One of these men was from Dio's special division of the police department, Jonathan Adler, and the other was someone who'd worked with Dio before--Evan Malkin. Evan wasn't told about us, and Adler was and was instructed not to tell Evan. Adler contacted Dio when he found the cash in our trunk, and sent it back to Dio with one of the other units at the bar...he was the one who planted the ketamine there. This was all later though...anyway,  Mancini was becoming financially difficult to maintain because of his increasingly high demands. Dio became frustrated with him but did not want to cause too much commotion, and so Dio told Mancini that Dio had made a mistake in a deal and needed somebody to take the fall, and so you were chosen. You, however, killed Mancini like Dio thought you would, and even if you hadn't and you'd been killed, Dio knew enough to know that Jo would've killed Mancini. At that point, Dio was very big, and controlled most of the western city's crime, though he controlled it anonymously and nobody really put together that everything was connected because Dio organized it so well. Now, that same day, the day you came to me, the day you killed Mancini, the Scars, also employed under Dio took out Rowne Phillipson and therefore Dio 'inherited' all of the eastern city. The Scars were now challenging Dio for control of the eastern city, and that's why Dio had us take them out. As for Jo, the story Aveial told Jo was completely fake. Aveial told Jo that you knew about his brothers, Jonas and Gabriel, that Dio had told you and me in secret and told us to do the job anyway, which of course isn't true, and so Aveial was simply trying to get revenge on us by using Jo, since Aveial didn't have a gun. Anyway, regardless of all these little things, Dio controlled almost the entire city, in a sense,  even some of the banks, and the police department was his biggest asset. Even the man your stole that car from, the Cala. Dio bought the car for him and gave him specific orders to let you have it. Calas are illegal here, you know... Anyway, in the end, Dio realized that because he had a weak heart, which he does, just in case I forgot to mention it, and he needed someone to take over for him if he ever went out...then he mumbled something about a tower...and then he said that he'd been debating between you, me, or Jo, before Jo was killed, and then afterwards just you and me. And then he went critical...he went flat about two minutes later. And it all makes sense now, because the search party found a copy of his will in the tanker...and he has name, Grome Berenaldo. The man in his story. The one his uncle didn't finish...

	Raine immediately reached for Emery's unfinished glass of water, trying to catch his breath. Emery was silent, comtemplating everything he'd just been told and silently vowing to kill Aveial, if he lived through his sentence. Soon afterwards, the nurse came and told Raine that visiting hours were over...and told Emery that he'd need rest for the court date in the morning, which'd been scheduled at the last minute. As Raine was leaving, he reached into his big coat pockets and pulled out two books which he'd almost forgotten about; a small, hardbound 1982 edition of Romeo & Juliet that had seen better days, and a generally unread paperback copy of Crime and Punishment. In the doorway, with his back to Emery, he took one in each hand, trying to decide which one would be a better read. He put Crime and Punishment back in his pocket and tossed Romeo and Juliet to Emery, who caught it with his free hand, the one not connected to the IV drips. 
	
	"Sweet dreams, buddy." 


Nine					Condemnation

"Condemnation...
Tried...
Here on the stand
With the book in my hand
And truth on my side... 

Accusations...
Lies...
Hand me my sentence
I'll show no repentance
I'll suffer with pride... 

If for honesty
You want apologies
I don't sympathize
If for kindness
You substitute blindness
Please open your eyes 

Condemnation...
Why...?
Because my duty
Was always to beauty
And that was my crime... 

Feel elation...
High...
To know I can trust this
Fix of injustice
Time after time... 

If you see purity
As immaturity
Well it's no surprise

If for kindness
You substitute blindness
Please open your eyes..."

--Depeche Mode, "Condemnation."


	Emery had fallen asleep just as Gregory had begun speaking with Sampson. That night he didn't have any dreams; he sprung upwards in the dark, his forehead and back drenched in sweat. He struggled to go back to sleep but could not...he lay in bed and stared at the ceiling as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, assisted by a window near his head. It let in the moon, spilling gentle, shifting, disfigured shadows onto the floor. His mind began to wander, and he began to feel very alone and very cold. His blanket was at his feet; he reached down and dragged it up to his neck.Turning on his side, he began to think about what was going to happen to him. He didn't know anyone who could plead their case; he didn't know the judge, he didn't know where the courtroom was, he didn't know who would be arguing against him. Up until then he'd had a loose hold on a faint strand on hope...

	He let it go as he clenched his eyes shut and buried his face in his hands, praying for a miracle.

	.	.	.

	When the court session began Raine assured Emery that they'd have an attorney; however, he was running late. They had quite a large audience; Emery paid no attention to it. He was concentrating on the judge, a tall, middle-aged man with a paper-thin head of hair, a burnt umber but bright mahogany under a shaft of sunlight falling into the room from a circular window a man's height above the judge's head. This was the only window in the room; the tables and chairs were of an antiquated wood, stained and worn by the years. The jury was an international cast of intellgent-looking folks who Emery could care less about.

	Raine had decided to let the court know who he was and where he stood, and so wore his best suit over a shimmering, reflective red shirt. In his coat pocket was a budding rose. filling his nose with a pleasant aroma as he surveyed the room as Emery was doing. Emery, on the other hand, had dressed normally, in a pair of black jeans and a white T-shirt under blue hooded sweatshirt. By now he realized that up intil that morning when he'd showered and his clothes were retrieved from his apartment, he'd been in the same clothes for a week...he dismissed the thought and again concentrated on the room...

	Emery's eyes widened in surprise when he saw, behind a tall man with a freakish expression on him face at the table opposite theirs, Aveial. The anger quickly flowed into his facial expression, but as he began to try and stare Aveial down, the boy turned away and feebly attempted to create a conversation between himself and the freakish-looking man.

	Just as the judge sank his head onto his desk, his jaw cradled in his left hand, his right tapping rhythmically on the desk, the doors of the courthouse burst open and banged loudly against the wall. In stepped a hurrying man in a black suit with a stack of paper cradled in his arms and a small leather briefcase in between his teeth. He made his way over to Emery's table laying his things down on it, relieved and trying to get the funny taste out of his mouth and get the teeth marks off his briefcase at the same time. Raine asked, impatiently, "You're Mr. Mizuno?" The other man nodded yes and offered his hand to Raine, who shook but still shot Mizuno a look that told him he was dead serious. Understanding, Mizuno turned to Emery and again offered his hand, "Hello, Sugizo Mizuno, pleased to meet you." Emery grasped his hand and then released it; he was in no mood for any kind of formalities. 

	Sugizo was Japanese; when he'd bust in Emery had been quick to assume that he didn't speak English very well. Afterwards his only assuption was that Sugizo had been raised in America, because he spoke better English that Emery did. Sugizo quickly sat down and arranged his material, hunched over his desked in an anxious position, waiting for the case to start; until he realized that the judge was shooting him a maligning glare. He mouthed 'sorry' and sat up respectfully with his hnads clasped together on the table.

	The judge picked up an old mallet and brought it down upon his stand, announcing nonchalantly that court was in session. He read through the proceeding rather hastily; only briefly mentioning the details before coming to the list of charges against Emery and Raine. Emery, knowing he should listen, tuned it out anyway.
	"resisting arrest on numerous occasions, impersonation of a government official, possession of  an illegal vehicle, armed robbery, voluntary manslaughter, destruction of public property, murder one, and finally, exceeding the speed limit in excess of 75 miles per hour...what a record."
	
	The first witness was brought forth by the opposing lawyer, the freakish-looking one by name of Reynold Chrirer. His voice was saturated in bass; Emery thought him to be like Barry White in some sense. Except Barry White sounded decent...this guy sounded like thumbtacks and fried chicken stuffed into an overpowered blender set to frappé. The first witness he called to the stand was Aveial, who gave a very truthful, if sketchy, description of how Emery and his 'accomplices' had destroyed Oakton Street. Aveial was shivering uncontrollably, but Emery couldn't figure out why, since he wasn't lying in any part of his account and the room temperature was being maintained pleasantly around sixty degrees.

	After presenting his part of the argument, Reynold turned the argument over to Sugizo. Sugizo, having no witnesses to speak of, instructed Emery to go up, whispering instructions in his ears. Emery went up quickly, however trying keep from going hysterical.  He paused to regain himself, then admitted to starting to gas fire on Oakton Street, quickly following it with his intention to only blow up the El Pollo Diablo building. He then related to all present about Dio and their dealings with him, without explaining the complicated back story. For this he backed down and asked Raine to explain it. Raine looked to Sugizo for approval and received a quick, optimistic nod in return. He stepped up to the front, glancing at the judge then beginning his tale. The attention of the courtroom was now fixated on Raine, who, as animatedly as possible, began relating to them the story of Dio and his intentions. The room's attention was unbreakably riveted to Raine five minutes into it, but by this time Emery had his head slumped lifelessly on the table, Raine's voice the only thing masking his docile snoring. 

	Now he could hear music; some faraway sounds of synthesisers and snare drums, a deep, comforting voice echoing verses into the clouds. The same ship was there, that large black ocean liner with the thick red stripe around the top, coughing billowing clouds of smoke into the air through twin smokestacks. It cut through the water with surprising agility, heading towards the only visible destination-a bustling city on the land's edge, full of docks and sea-side buildings, all loaded down with massive crowds of people going about their business. As before, the ship reached the dock...but this time, it stopped...as if a towering ocean liner could stop on a dime...And it was greeted by a simulataneous cheer; the happy voices of children and adults smiling and congratulating it...and then suddenly, everything began to quake violently.

	As Emery opened his eyes he realized the violent shaking was actually Sugizo clutching the top of his head with a vise-grip and jerking his head back and forth. Emery quickly shood his head then pushed Sugizo's hand away, annoyed. He looked around. Most of the room was still focused on Raine, who was finishing up, except for Aveial, who was looking at Emery with a vicious stare identical to the one Emery had given him. Emery ignored him and checked his watch, sleepily observing that a full half-hour had passed since Emery had begun.

	Raine sat back down, coughing to clear his throat. Impressed but in no way defeated, Reynold stood up and sternly called for an objection, claiming that Raine had no evidence to back up his story. Emery sucked in his breath nervously; Raine and Sugizo looked at each other, both with an "Uh-oh-we're-screwed-now," expression their faces.

	Sugizo informed the judge that he was thinking, and then the only sound was the sound of Reynold cracking his knuckles victoriously and quietly chuckling. 

	After a few minutes, Sugizo had run out of viable ideas. He looked around nervously, raising his fingers to his mouth to gnaw on his nails. He'd forgotten, however, that he'd trimmed his nails that morning; he bit down hard on his middle finger, shouting, "Ouch! Oh, crap!" and flailing his middle finger around carelessly. The judge, tired of waiting for Sugizo, turned his attention to Reynold and asked if he had any more proof. Reynold responded that he had a lot of witnesses; cops, civilians, and even a confused and disgruntled William Robert Thorton. The judge asked, "Who's William Robert Thorton?" Reynold answered, "He's a man who Mr. Price stole a car from." Emery hastily leaned over to Sugizo and told him, "We didn't steal the car from him...we kinda borrowed it. But...he got that car illegally, through Dio." Sugizo's eyes popped open like switchblades, fireworks going off in his head. He quickly got the whole story out of Emery, then waited for Reynold to finish speaking before asking, "I would like for Mr. Chrirer to bring forward William Robert Thorton." Reynold was confused, but complied anyway. William Robert Thorton came from outside the main room somewhere and made his way through the aisle to the stand. He quickly described how Emery and Jo had impersonated two government agents to commandeer his car. As he was stepping down, Sugizo stood up and asked, "Mr. Thorton, what kind of car were you driving when it was taken?" Thorton looked at him wonderingly then answered, "A Lamborghini...a Lamborghini Cala. The '96 model." Sugizo was confused. "Mr. Thorton, I thought the Cala was an Italdesign model, I don't recall that Lamborghini made it." 

	Thorton explained that Italdesign had designed the car, and Lamborghini had manufactured it. Sugizo acknowledged his mistake then asked, "Mr. Thorton, you have been driving an illegal car. Were you aware of this? Do remember that you are under oath." Thorton gulped, then being the religious man he was, answered solemnly, "Yes." Sugizo quickly responded with, "Ah, I see. And, where did you get this car, since it's illegal in this country and no dealer is authorized to carry it?" Thorton took a while to answer, but he did, and his response was, "From Dio. He gave it to me at the barber shop in Arlington Heights, next to the pharmacy. He told me to make sure you got it."

	Sugizo felt better now; his stomach was no longer turned upside down. "And there, Mr. Chrirer, is your proof. This proves that not only was Dio quite rich, he had the resources and the control to get an illegal and expensive vehicle into this city. Mr. Thorton how long did you have this car?" The answer was, "Around two months." Sugizo then said, "Two months is more than enough for any police officer to sit up and take notice to a car which probably had a European license plate. The car did have a European license plate, correct?" Thorton answered yes. "This goes further to imply that Dio had complete control over the city, since no police officers filed any reports against an illegal vehicle. Are there any objections to this?" Sugizo now felt he had a very high authority.

	Reynold responded reluctantly, "Well, Mr. Mizuno...the theory seems correct, if slightly unstable. Do you have any additional proof?" 

	Over the course of the next few hours, Sugizo located and brought in Thomas Greene and Harry Cassidy, the heads of Dio's special police unit. He called the police impound lot and confirmed that the Cala was there and that it did indeed have a European license plate. Later, he requested that the police search the Marlin Oil truck that the AAA was still trying to remove from Itasca Street. They returned with a large map of the entire city with numerous red dots peppered around various points of interest. In the corner of the map was a red dot next to a hand-written caption that read, "Red dot=point of control." There was now enough evidence to prove that Dio did indeed control the entire city. The only problem now was proving Emery and Raine's case--they were criminals, after all. 

	Sugizo was tired; he was feeling beatend down but knew he had to do his job. He downed the remainder of his sixth cup of coffee, then realized that	he was beginning to run out of ideas, until he saw a newspaper in the hands of one of the jury members. He walked over and snatched it away, then walked back to his seat, studying it. It took him twenty minutes to find it--in the 'Local' section of that day's Sun-Times, was a small caption on the second to last page that read, "Yesterday marked a strange event--the rate of reported crimes suddenly became very low. Our police department, as well as other police departments in various states including California and New York, has declared that for undisclosed reasons, this is uncommon but can be expected. This sort of fluctuation is very welcome in the community and maybe could be sustained for longer periods of time, if for the right reasons."

	Then it clicked. The wheels turning inside Sugizo's mind suddenly began spinning very fast.
	
	Sugizo suddenly requested of the judge, who at this point was biting the end of his mallet and making paper airplanes with his notes, "Your honor, if I could so trouble you again, I'd like to call the police department again." The judge looked up then nodded yes, not paying much attention to what Sugizo was saying. Sugizo stepped over to the phone near the judge's booth and dialed the police station. A gruff-sounding man picked up, "This is Chief Pollerson, CPD, how can I help you?" Sugizo responded, "Hello, Chief? It's me again." 
	"Oh, hi there, Sugizo, what're you needing now?" Sugizo took little notice to the fact that Pollerson took a liking to Sugizo's gentleman-like speech. Pollerson probably got too many angry calls during the day.
	"Chief, how many arrests has the department made today?" 
	"All right, hold on." The chief lowered the phone and shouted across the room, loud enough that Sugizo could still hear it, "Billy, how many arrests today?" Sugizo didn't hear the answer, but Pollerson picked up again and told him, "Sixteen. Pretty big load today." 
	"Can you tell me who they are?' The chief again put him on hold, then returned with a list.
	"Sugizo, I just realized that we have quite an important hal today...Chico DeCasque, Martin Dowellin, Gus Chambermin, Arturo Matavolli..."
	"That's all I needed to know, chief."

	Sugizo then presented his argument. The people arrested that day alone were all major crime figures, notorious guys. His argument was that since Dio was dead and Emery and Raine were principally responsible, they had effectively crumbled the strong, stable criminal hierarchy within the city. He realistically estimated that the crime business would take a severe hit and the crime rate would plunge sharply, as demonstrated by the sudden fluctuation in the crime rate that morning. 

	"..and so, your honor, my clients have done substantial damage. But in effect, they've efficiently eliminated one of our city's severest problems. They've made the city a safer place to live in. I speak on their behalf when I say that they cannot plead not guilty. But it's like fighting a war, in that sense. You need to kill, you need to destroy sometimes. But in the end, if you win, you're safe and you've eliminated a threat. These two men have been waging a war against an entire city for a short period of time. A city near dead of a wretched, terminal disease. But they won...and the results are more than worth the cost. They plead guilty."

	Now, even the judge was thoroughly impressed, dropping his airplanes and dislodging the mallet from his teeth. Reynold Chrirer was already prepared to congratulate Sugizo on an excellent case...
		
	"Mr. Mizuno, your argument has impressed and astounded me. It is unbelievable in some areas but the proof is right here before me. The accusations have been justified, the damages are now being seen as the cost of a major improvement. However, the charges still stand: resisting arrest on numerous occasions, impersonation of a government official, possession of  an illegal vehicle, armed robbery, voluntary manslaughter, destruction of public property, and murder one. But...I have been in this court system long enough to know that it's like a scale; weighing the arguments against the evidence, the accused against the accusors...the good against the bad. This case is somewhere different; I can grant you the emancipation of the good, but I can't let you go without the punishment of the bad. And so! The accused pleads guilty! I hereby sentence both of you to one year in prison and a fifty-thousand dollar fine. But afterwards of which you are granted a full pardon and are free to do as you like, within the law, of course."
	
	to do as you like...
	
	...within the law.

	I can't go back to that anymore...

	...

	...maybe it's for a good cause...

	Emery tuned out Sugizo's cheering to reflect on himself. A good cause...

	Maybe it's something worth trying out... and anyway...

	...you only live once.

	Behind the window on the far wall, a shimmering evening sun was lazily drifting behind strands of cotton-candy clouds, slowly burning out for the day. As the remaining few people in the courthouse trickled outside, astounded, the horizon began to fade into the atmosphere, falling into a deep, disturbed tone of purple and then disappearing into blackness. The only light now came from the singular bulb glowing warmly, swinging ever-so-slightly on it's cord to the highest point in the arch of the ceiling. 

	While Emery was watching the sun set, Sugizo had been engaged in a lively coversation with Raine, each relating tales and stories to each other.

	"So you have experience with this kind of thing?" asked Raine, amazed. Sugizo only responded with a modest, "Well, I've dealed with guys in the business before, but this case had more meaning...some of those guys got life, some got the row, some got five, fifteen, twenty...only two went free. One of those guys was actually innocent; the other guy was guilty...but he really felt bad for what he'd been doing. I guess if, inside of yourself, you really don't want to be doing it, you don't feel so bad if somebody can prove it." 

	"Yeah..." sighed Emery, still gazing out the window.

	Suddenly, just as Emery snapped out of his trance and realized that they were the only people in the courthouse, a loud and steady banging came from the direction of the door, followed by a deep-voiced man saying, "Emery Price, we know you're in there...let us in!!"

	Emery hesitated for a moment, wondering what was going on...he looked to the only possible exit, the window above the judge's booth...then smiled and knew what he had coming. Against Raine and Sugizo's better judgement, Emery stepped to the double-doors in the back of the courtroom and swung them open, and found himself greeted by an ocean of....reporters. Not police officers or money grubbers or big men with guns, but...reporters. And they began to demand his story...demand what was going on. 

	And he explained it in detail, with Raine and Sugizo close behind. Although it took them endless forever to get out of the mob of questioners...they got out. They managed out and stole away into Sugizo's BMW, resting as the engire roared to life and took them out into the center of the city, into the bright lights of the city. They'd get a week or so before being hauled out...and they were under Sugizo's supervision until then...Emery was glad Sugizo was holding so much faith in them...unlike Jonathan Adler, Emery wasn't faking anything; he was genuinely grateful, as was Raine. Then, Sugizo flicked a couple of switched on his dash panel and suggested that Emery and Raine might like the song he was playing. A gentle, reassuring beat played out through the speakers in Sugizo's speakers, backed by quick riffs of an acoustic guiter and fading ambient noise. The beat intesified, then a crackling voice in the speakers dissapated into the an urgent yet comforting voice, skillfully belting out a quick, depressing first verse. The car slowed to a crawl in the swampy traffic of the highway, lights shining from all directions. The most impressive display was that of the city's tall buildings, towering and imposing above the ground as if constantly stretching upward, in perfect contrast with the rain that was beginning to fall in quick bursts. The second verse began, and Emery again began to think moodily to himself. He then cracked a lopsided smile as he thought...
	
	I gave everything for the wrong cause...

	...but I guess that's how it works...

	...you pay a heavy price for freedom...

	The second verse ended like the verse, but built into a climactic and triumphant chorus. As the chorus repeated over three times and then fell into an almost urgent questioning-like tone from the singer, Sugizo located his exit and pulled onto a brightly lit straight, the ground bright with light reflecting from the street lamps onto the rain puddles. The song faded into oblivion as it had begun.

	"We're almost there...just a couple minutes now." 

	Over the course of the last few days I've waged a moral war against myself and never really took 	the right side..but I never regretted it. Why does it have to be different now? Now there's some 	kind of guilt here, some kind of remorse...

	...no...

	...it's not guilt or remorse...

	...it's freedom...

	"Well...what are you going to do when you get out, Emery?" asked Sugizo, randomly.

	Emery shrugged. Then he leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and thought...

	...And he remembered.

	I'm gonna build me a casino made of gold...

	.	.	.