The Artful (Shadows of the City) (27 page)

“Holy crap, man. What are you doing here?” said Smith with his big gapped-tooth smile.

ere you supposed to be rescuing me, then?” Smith asked, sitting lazily on the leather couch, looking more than let down.

“Sort of, not really… I didn’t know you needed rescuing. We came looking for you; we thought you were hiding out.” I was still confused by Gia’s lies. I felt sick with anxiety. I tried to force down some of the food that was brought to us, at first excited by the sight of a cheeseburger and fries, but quickly found my stomach wouldn’t have it.

“How’d you get caught anyway, and what kind of prison is this?” I waved my hand about, indicating the lavish room, with comfortable couch, dining area, and…
Jeez, a working TV!

“I wasn’t caught. I was betrayed!” He came over to sit next to me, helping himself to my fries. “This is all so messed up. I had a deal with Chrysler, and this is how he repays me. Locked up and forced into his games. I ain’t no gladiator, Twist! This beautiful face ain’t meant for fighting.”

“What deal?”

He ate another fry. I could see him making a decision whether to share the information or not. “A while back, I was approached, picked up in a fancy car, had my head filled with compliments and stomach filled with food. The compliments were good, but I been eating crackers for the better part of a month. So the food had me sold from the get go. They brought me to Brooklyn, said Lord Chrysler wants to run a deal. Whatever was whatever, man. They had pizza, real pizza! You going to eat that?” I slid my plate and half-eaten hamburger to him, urging him to keep talking. Between mouthfuls he continued. “So I met with this fat cat, really pleasant fella. His office was nothing but food and women. It was nuts. He showed me his window, told me to take a look. His office overlooked the arena. It was crazy man. They have people fighting, fighting to the death! People versus people, animals, and cannibals… well, cannibals are people too, I guess, but still it was crazy! Freaked me out, but then I thought, yeah, these guys got something going here. These are the head honcho mothers you wanna be rubbing elbows with.”

“What was the deal?” I shouted, startling Smith from his reverie.

“Okay, okay. Dude’s name was Randy. He’s like Chrysler’s lieutenant or something, makes all his wheels and deals.”

Porky!
“I met him, well dressed, looks like he’s losing all his hair, rides around in a BMW?”

“Yeah, that’s him! That car is sick. Anyway, tells me that they want something, I gotta raid the Empire to get it, asked if I was up to the task. Please, I tell ‘em, raiding the Empire is what I do! But they don’t want just anything. It’s a little blue box sealed up nice and tight. I’m not supposed to mess with it or anything, just bag and run. Randy was supposed to come get me after I was done, give me safe passage back into Brooklyn. Only things went south when I ran into you guys. Suits everywhere, screwed everything up. Randy never showed, so I had to make it back on my own.”

“We ran into him, at Times Square.”

“What the hell was he doing there?”

“He had Gia… Geanna with him. That’s where we met her.” I filled him in on the events that happened after we split up, from meeting Gia at Times Square to getting caught by the Slavers and brought here. He focused on finishing off the hamburger, lost in thought.

“Wonder why she came. You think Chrysler don’t trust him maybe? Maybe she was making sure we returned with whatever it was I was stealing.”

“That doesn’t make sense. He was trying to force himself on her. We saved her. She didn’t want anything to do with Brooklyn!”

“Nah, man, you didn’t save her, she’s a Chrysler. She’s the biggest bitch I’ve ever met.”

“You met her?”

“Yeah. After dealing with Randy, he took me to meet Chrysler, solidify things. She was there, had her nose up at me the whole time. She has her own digs over in the Botanical Gardens. Don’t make much sense, her running with you guys. Maybe she needed a way to get back safely.”

“No, it can’t be.”

“What, do you have a hard-on for her or something?”

“Just drop it. What was the deal? What did they offer you in return?”

“I’d get my own spot here in Brooklyn, something sweet, no more squabbling underground, wondering when the next meal ticket was. And look, man, cable!”

He produced a remote from his pocket and aimed it at the TV. I was shocked to see a working TV, all 32 inches of flat screen in pristine condition.

“Well,” he said, tapping the remote on his head. “Not really any cable, we just get the one channel. It’s the fights all the time every time. Looks like they are gearing up for some big event.”

The camera panned across aisles upon aisles of seats and audience members. They cheered and laughed, faces filled with anticipation and excitement. I noticed so many different outfits, but most fit the Victorian mold that so many of the wealthier people enjoyed wearing. Women were in fancy dress and elaborate hair styles of elegance, some holding masks over their faces, molded in strangely contorted emotions. Those without masks seemed to take pains to lose their faces under layers of makeup. The men wore finely tailored suits and elaborate top hats. I noticed a number of jackets decorated in flamboyant colors. There were so many rows of attendees it was easy to imagine the whole world partied in the coliseum. At the center of it all, on ground level, was an old school basketball court surrounded by barbed wire fencing. Either end still had basketball hoops, frayed netting hanging loosely from the metal rings. However there were also the added additions of dead bodies hanging from each post, swaying back and forth.

“Must have been a draw.” Smith pulled his chair in closer to the TV. “There has to be a winner and a loser. If you don’t kill your opponent, they tend to string you up to make an example of you.”

“Jesus, so what happens to the winner if, you know, they kill their opponent?”

“You go on to the next round. If you make it through all the rounds, you get a personal pardon from Chrysler. If you show exceptional potential, he might just bring you on as one of his own.”

“How many rounds?”

“Depends. It usually goes on ‘till Chrysler gets tired or bored.” The camera panned over to the stadium box seating, a small area cleared out of regular seats and replaced by two old fashioned thrones, gold trimming, and red velvet cushions. The area was guarded by four men decked out in leather and vinyl, but they were armed with enough guns to take down a small army. A girl in a full body leather suit knelt down before Chrysler holding a tray above her head with cups of wine. He leisurely replaced an empty cup, smiled, and held up a small pair of theater binoculars to his eyes, taking in the sights of the arena below. It didn’t matter; I was drawn to his right.

Gia sat at his side, but she was no longer the girl I knew. Her hair, once a chaotic mess of beauty, was now done up in fancy rainbow-colored curls. The blues in her hair matched her dress, the kind of garbage you’d find on a princess in the old Disney cartoons. All frizzles and lace, she looked completely out of place in it. Jewels adorned her neck and white-gloved fingers. She wore a smug look as she scanned the crowd and occasionally laughed at something her father leaned over and whispered into her ear. This wasn’t my Gia…this was Geanna Lynn Chrysler, and the loss I felt at the moment managed to shatter my heart into a million pieces.

“Man,” Smith wildly tapped at my leg, pointing at the TV. “Look what’s going on!”

The gates to the court opened, and two men dragged someone out. The man held tightly between them fought and kicked but it was all useless. Randy! We stared in sick fascination as the bloodied man was tossed into the arena. The gate slammed as he ran back to pull on the locked entrance. His clothes were a mess, torn to shreds in some places and caked with blood in others; most noticeable were the countless lines of red across his back, where his shirt and skin had been ripped to shreds by the kiss of a whip.

“What’s going on?” I asked. “I thought you said that was Chrysler’s main man.”

“‘Was’ being the operative word. Chrysler is fickle like that. Don’t cross the big cheese and expect a sandwich in return. Didn’t you say he put his hands on Princess Bitch? Big dumb move. What the hell was he thinking?”

“He didn’t think it would get back to Chrysler, but why?”

“No idea, man. All I know was that Randy was supposed to pick me up and never showed. Next thing I know, you telling me he was with her in Times Square. No one said nothing ‘bout her coming with. Wonder what’s up. Oh, man, this don’t look good.”

Randy was limping around the court, yelling for help. I almost felt bad for him. The camera went back to the VIP box; Chrysler rubbed Gia’s back in a reassuring manner and held out a hand. The roar of the crowd died down all at once. Amazing the way he had such control over them. He looked at Gia with a questioning gaze. A second passed before she nodded. He held up his thumb and then, with a determined smirk, turned it down. The crowd went wild, all their screams and laughter mixed together, creating an eerie wave of distortion.

“Oh, man, here we go.” Smith was just as animated as the hungry crowd, stomping his feet, hitting my leg, and waving at the screen.

The gate to the court opened once again, and this time a man walked out of his own accord, proud head held high, the lights hung from the stadium roof reflected on his nose and lip piercings. Tattoos depicting death and savagery covered his muscular arms. His chest was bare except for the tribal art and scars scattered across it. His leather pants clung tight to his enormous legs; his leather boots seemed to shake the earth as he walked center stage and raised a hammer-like fist into the air. The audience began to chant as one cohesive force of insanity.

“What’s that they’re chanting?” I asked. “Is it―”

“Samsung, man. Like from the Bible and junk. It’s ‘cause of his long flowing hair.” Except they spell it wrong, like the brand ‘cause they’re dumb.”

“Randy has to fight him?”

Smith gave me a look that said, sure, if that’s what you want to call it.

“Poor Randy,” we both said.

Samsung made a show of stretching, rolling his head around, and flexing his arms; he took extra special care to band his hair into a neat pony tail. Randy, on the other hand, was desperately trying to climb over the fencing. Barbed wire, be damned. I was certain he was more than willing to take the cuts. Unfortunately, more guards stood on the outside, poking him off with sharpened sticks. It got ridiculous when Samsung started doing one-handed pushups, while Randy exhausted himself running back and forth, trying to find an escape.

And then it happened, a small ray of hope; an object was thrown into the court, feet from Randy. Everyone gasped in anticipation as the long piece of steel glimmered in the arena lights. A blade―more than that, Randy’s only chance. He froze, looking at the weapon and then the hulking form of Samsung, who was making his way to his feet again. That smile must have done it, though; the knowing smile would have made me piss myself a long time ago. Randy experimentally took a step toward the blade, visibly unsure of himself, too scared to fight for survival. Samsung only watched, and then, as if he grew tired and wanted the games to begin, offered Randy an encouraging nod, motioning with his hands for Randy to pick up the weapon. When it didn’t work, Samsung held up his hands, begging the crowd be quiet. Once they hushed up, he covered his eyes and turned his back on Randy.