Chapter 85: The Criminal Cabal

Quentin was waiting for Razia just inside the manor. His eyes darted around the place nervously, but other than that he was keeping it together well. This talk had been a long time coming, and when Razia met him, he just raised his eyebrow questioningly. “She heard about the child,” Razia said delicately. “And that it was Cicero who told you to do it.”

His eyes darkened at the reminder of what may have been the worst thing he’d ever done. The only thing keeping him from thinking about it was how busy he’d been. “So it’s what you thought, then. How are we going to handle this?”

Razia put her hand on his arm and squeezed it reassuringly. “Leave that to me. For now, she’s harmless. You confident about playing the part tonight? There’s going to be a lot of people here, and it might be hard to be consistent.”

“No. I mean, yes, I’m confident. No, it won’t be too hard. I think.” Quentin grimaced, and Razia just laughed, hugging him.

“You’ve got this, Mr. Q. Just take a deep breath and remind yourself that you’ve already got a spicy reputation. When in doubt, be mysterious. Give me your best scary smile.”

Quentin looked down at her and smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. Instead, it made him look like he was seconds away from violence, or at the very least considering it. Razia let out a theatrical shudder. “There it is. Be polite, be scary, and show no weakness. You ready?”

He offered up his arm. She took it, and together they crossed the foyer and went deeper into the manor. Music greeted them long before they reached the ballroom, notes just barely on the edge of hearing. Lamps lit the way down a hallway that opened up into the party. This was it. Razia squeezed one more time before they stepped out into the light, looking around.

All around the two storied room were faces, both familiar and new. Razia hadn’t been part of North Orchrisus for terribly long before joining up with Quentin, but it was long enough to learn all the important people and she’d done her best to pass her knowledge onto Quentin. Mr. Cicero sat in his usual kind of place up on the second floor, overlooking the rest of the room. Next to him was Margot Thresher, the go-to evidence disposal expert. She owned a beetle ranch on the eastern outskirts, capable of disappearing a body in under an hour. Margot said something, a dour expression on her rough face, and Cicero laughed.

All the major players were scattered around, largely surrounded by a court of their own people. A lanky, curly haired man sat near the band, drink in one hand and directing the music with the other. “That’s Fish Ghoti, master of intoxicants,” Razia said loud enough to be heard over the party.

“That’s an actual title?”

Razia laughed, clinging to him harder. “Might as well be. He’s the one to talk to about any good booze or drugs you want to engage in or get sold near you. Shall we go say hi?”

Quentin shrugged and let her lead the way. They passed by Lynne taking a bottle from a shady looking guy. Lynne poured the bottle over her neck and laughed when he attacked her neck to get a drink. Quentin caught her eye and nodded to her. They stopped just a foot away from Fish’s table, close enough to make one of his bodyguards side eye them. Razia cleared her throat. “Is that you, Fish? You look like shit!”

Fish’s attention turned from the band to Razia. He let out a loud, halting laugh, “Hurr hurr hurr,” that somehow managed to be more endearing than annoying. He downed his drink and stood up, towering over even Quentin. “Razia you fine-ass bitch, where’ve you been? There’ve been too many parties that would’ve been vastly improved with your presence.” Razia broke apart from Quentin to give Fish a hug, reaching down to pinch his ass just as he did the same to her. They parted with him squealing.

“And you must be Mr. Q,” he said, extending his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you! Did you really fistfight an entire tavern for one of your girls?”

Quentin took it and gave it a short, sharp squeeze. He wasn’t out to intimidate or pick fights tonight. “Only half a tavern,” he said, a crooked smile appearing on his face before his eyes scanned the room. “Whole place would’ve given me trouble.”

There was more of that loud, chesty laughter. Fish’s chin beard was just as curly as the rest of his hair. “I’m surprised I haven’t seen you before, man. I mean, starting a big new place is already a big deal, but you open a whorehouse and don’t even say hi or hit me up for some drugs. What’s with that, Q my man? Whores and drugs go together like…like whores and drugs!”

This was exactly what they’d rehearsed. Quentin shrugged, cocking his head to the side. “If we were to start offering up some of your products, then I fear customers might start caring more about it than our boys and girls.” No need to tell Fish they strictly forbade their people from doing anything harder than dream-weed while working there.

Fish nodded enthusiastically. “No doubt, no doubt. Nothing keeps you coming back like a good buzz, right? Heh heh heh! Your girls might be close. Gonna have to find out. Got any recommendations?” He craned his head around theatrically, smacking his lips.

“Samantha,” said Quentin, pointing across the room where Samantha had a number of men trying to get her attention. She practically had her own little court to herself and she wasn’t even a VIP. “Though you might have to get in line. If you’re not into nasty nineteenths, Kelli might be the type to indulge in whatever you want to give her.”

Razia bit her lip to avoid laughing. Oh, they were going to make her life miserable before her time as a spy was done. That’d show her for thinking she could keep on like this. “I agree,” she said, forcing a serious expression on her face. “She’s short, fat bottomed, and a sucker for stimulants if you’ve got any.”

The druglord’s eyes lit up. “Have I ever! We’ve got Dust, Crackers, Shakeup, and shit, we’ve even got Mama’s Milk. You want any?”

“I’m good, but thanks,” Quentin said, fighting to keep his expression straight. For all the killing and opening a house of vice, Quentin wasn’t too fond of anything more than alcohol. He knew it was a him problem, but he’d seen what happened when people overindulged and did things they later regretted. Razia had been trying to get him to try dream-weed to relax, but he wasn’t quite ready.

“We’ve got to make the rounds, but we had to stop in and pay our respects,” said Razia, bowing her head.

“Yeah, sure. Come by later and I’ve got a present for you, heh heh heh!”

Quentin waited until they were out of earshot before he said, “So why do we need to know him specifically?”

“We don’t,” Razia answered, looking around the room for their next target. “But he’s in good with just about everyone. You don’t want to be the one person not on good terms with him. Think of what a red flag that would be. And honestly, we could probably do with adding some dream-weed to the Garden. The clients would love it.”

He grunted but didn’t answer. It was a start, and she’d work on him later. For now, they continued their circuit around the room. The ballroom was like the rest of the manor from what Quentin gathered, comfortable but minimalist. There was enough furniture to look lived in and be comfortable for guests, but the art on the walls was abstract in nature, chosen for complementary colors and shapes rather than any statements.

The same couldn’t be said for the rest of the criminals of North Orchrisus. Brody “Bones” Ashford was a sour-faced loan shark who owned a gambling house. He barely looked at Quentin when introduced and waved him off soon after. Quentin looked like he wanted to be offended, but settled on apathetic and they moved on, over to where Razia was confronted by a familiar face.

“You!” He was a short, rat-like man with a permanent sneer.

“Me,” said Razia, smiling. “It’s been a while…?”

“Ren! Big Ren!” he seethed. Razia made a noise of understanding. “You told Benny I stole his rugs and he came after me!”

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“What?” Quentin looked lost.

“Silk Room,” Razia said. “Yeah, sorry about that Ren, that’s what Otho told me. He was drunk off power that night and we were drinking, and you know how he got. How IS Otho doing these days? You still keep in touch?” She kept the words coming out faster and kept a smile on her face, like nothing was wrong.

“He skipped town,” said Big Ren, scowling. “Was afraid of getting his fat ass shanked. Surprised you didn’t do the same. Gimme one good reason why I shouldn’t shank you right now.”

Well, that was his cue. Quentin stood in front of her and crossed his arms over his chest. Big Ren was maybe a third of his size and, as far as Quentin knew, just a thief. He exhaled, letting it come out as something like a growl. “Try it.”

Big Ren thought again, and raised his hands. “You know, that was such a long time ago, who can keep the details straight?”

“For what it’s worth,” said Razia in a rare moment of genuine contrition, “I really didn’t mean for you to get hurt. Otho had it coming to him though.” Big Ren just shrugged, so they left him behind.

After Big Ren was Mouse, which led Quentin to believe that criminals were very fond of ironic names. Mouse was also taller than Quentin, and unlike Fish, built for violence. He had a big septum piercing and Quentin had to resist asking him if boogers got caught on it. Surprisingly, he greeted them warmly. “Oh yeah, you’re the people of the hour, right? You got some nice girls with you,” he said, letting out a low whistle. “Are those guys with you too?” He nodded over to where Bruce leaned against a wall, keeping an eye out on Lucy and Jenna in particular.

“They are,” said Quentin. “Old buddies of mine, decided to help out with a bit of security. Too many people get worked up and can’t let it out…constructively.”

Mouse grunted in agreement. “Yeah, pack of vicious jackals the moment you show your belly. You’re probably the first pimp I’ve seen with his own gang though. Good on you. It’ll make it easier to keep Piro’s unwelcome ass out.”

While that was welcome to hear, it was the remark about a gang that gave Quentin pause. All he wanted were some guards to help keep things from getting out of hand. Only a couple weeks had passed since Demetrius’ wake, and most of the gladiators only grew more gung ho the more time they spent around the garden. For the first time in his life, Quentin really got to socialize with them without the Butcher’s skull mask coming between them, but there was no way they were a gang, let alone his gang.

“What’s your taste, Mouse?” Razia asked, looking around the room. “You’re entirely too much man to be alone. We might need to get you a couple of girls or guys to keep you company.”

The enforcer grinned, revealing a couple missing teeth. “I’ll take whatever I can get, but maybe a bit later. It’s supposed to be my job to make sure the children behave themselves.” He laughed, a harsh bark that had Quentin joining in.

“How are you doing so far?” Razia asked as they ducked into a quiet-ish corner.

“I’m doing,” he said. There were still so many people to meet, but Quentin finally believed it wouldn’t be so bad. His reputation really had come a long way. “If the night ends without me needing to knock someone’s teeth out I’ll be surprised, but so far everyone seems either positive or neutral.” Off in the distance one of his boys peeled someone off one of their temp hires. He shook his head and dropped the man on the floor. “So far. I feel like I should check up on my boys and see how they’re doing.”

Razia made a sound of appreciation. “I’ll trust your judgment, Mr, Q. You’re doing well, and tonight’s going to be fine. You check on them and I’ll go have a brief chat with Mr. Cicero. Sound good?”

Quentin smiled. “Sounds good.” On a lark he leaned over, Razia met him halfway with a quick, casual kiss that still soothed the worst of his worries and tension. She drew back slowly, not releasing his hand until she had to. He watched her go with a smile, knowing he probably looked like a sap. Not like there was anyone watching him closely.

With Razia gone, Quentin felt oddly naked, though that comparison didn’t feel right anymore since the wrestling match. He was in foreign territory and was on his own, but Quentin was no longer the bitter shut-in he’d been. It was time to branch out and take charge more and more, without his partner in crime whispering words of wisdom and encouragement. So Quentin went and checked on his gang.

“Any trouble, Jonas?” he asked, sidling up to the young gladiator. Quentin mimicked his pose on the wall, looking out on the growing party. Things were still fairly tame, but Fish had one of their temps on the dance floor, moving to a rhythm only he could hear.

Jonas shook his head, snickering. “Naw. Only had to tell this guy once. This is some kind of party. This going to be a regular thing with you now?”

Gods, was it? Quentin let out a deep breath. “I don’t know. It might be. Things are changing so fast, it’s hard to keep up with it all. How about you and the others? You…shit, having a good time feels like the wrong way to word it.”

He just laughed. “I get what you mean. It’s exciting, brother. David’s a little twitchy around so many people ready for a scrap, but Peter’s got him on a short leash and teaching him how to do more with less. Hard to tell these maggots that the goal is to avoid fights, but they understand.”

That might’ve been one of the only things that made the night work. After speaking with Cicero about the logistics, Quentin and his gladiators were armed, as were Cicero’s men, and the majority of the partygoers had a token honor guard but otherwise were on their best behavior. Parties like this wouldn’t work if a bunch of volatile, egocentric thugs had blades on them. Maybe this would be fine after all.

“Good. Once we get this party over we can focus on diplomatic talks with Piro and stop that from getting worse.” That was the plan, anyway.

Jonas’ face darkened. It transformed his normally handsome face into something dark and even intimidating. “So what’s the plan for getting a pound of flesh about Demetrius? We’re going to do something about that, right? We can't just let it slide.”

That was the big question. Quentin’s chest tightened. They might have to do just that, unless a better opportunity came along. Of course he wanted to hurt Piro for hurting Razia and starting this entire mess, but what he heard of Christophe was worse. If it was Christophe’s men who were active during the raid…

“I’m pretty sure I killed the man who got Demetrius,” said Quentin delicately, “but the person who gave the order is still out there. If it means keeping the girls safe, he might have to keep living. But,” he said, cutting off Jonas’ angry retort before it started, “I’m going to do everything in my power to kill the son of a bitch, and I promise you we’ll make it hurt.”

Although he still looked unhappy, Jonas nodded. “That’s the best we can hope for, I guess. It’s not like us gladiators are the type to die of old age. We’re all going to get ourselves killed, but not many of us get murdered. We want blood.”

“And you all feel that way?” Quentin asked, fearing the answer. Jonas nodded. “I worry about killing them causing more trouble. If you guys leave once your thirst for blood is quenched, that could be bad.”

Jonas laughed, once again relaxing and looking like his usual pleasant self. “I don’t see people leaving. A lot of us did join because of Demetrius, but I think we’re having too much fun to stop now.”

That was a good sign, at least. Quentin didn’t want to need the gladiators, and he definitely didn’t want to use or abuse them. It was a constant juggling act now, trying to balance out what everyone wanted and needed with what he felt he needed to do. So far it wasn’t too much, but there were always more balls to keep in the air as they moved forward. Gods, he really was starting to run a gang, wasn’t he? And leaders had obligations to their people.

The music stopped. Quentin didn’t notice until the constant gentle murmur of the party died out. He came out from the corner where he and Jonas lurked. Mr. Cicero stood at the railing, waiting with Razia at his side. Once he had the attention of enough people he cleared his throat and spoke, his voice carrying easily through the ballroom.

“I’d like to thank you all for being here tonight,” he said, to scattered applause. His smile turned wolfish. “As if you bastards need a reason to drink my wine and eat my food.” Cheers all around, and even Quentin smiled.

“If only the reasons for this meeting were better. Our streets have been invaded. My good friend Mr. Q and his partner were the targets of an attack that’s an insult upon us all.” Hundreds of eyes turned his way. Quentin swallowed and tried his best to look casual. “Right as they were setting up and getting ready to join us as the masters of the city, they were attacked by a pack of Southies, sent by Piro Pentius.”

It was a good opportunity for the crowd to jeer and boo. Quentin almost joined them but instead looked around, gauging for the real reactions. Razia would probably find it easy, but he mostly saw a mixture of perfunctory attention, light boredom, with only a few people actually listening and invested. The random hired swords and enforcers didn’t care, but the major players did. Even Fish stood in the middle of the dance floor and stared intently.

“There’s a certain amount of leeway we’re all inclined to give each other. Little slights that go unanswered because it’s just not worth the trouble. We’re not friends here, and we’re certainly not a family. What we are is an organization that sticks together and profits together. A foreign attack on one of us is an attack on all of us. Now is the time to close ranks and be prepared to give a show of strength and support because the next few days are critical. No one wants a war --”

“I don’t know about that, Mr. Cicero,” said a voice from the entrance to the ballroom. The entire room turned to see a short, red haired man in garish clothes and a behemoth of a man behind him. “A little war could be fun. Invigorating, even!”

Quentin had never seen them before but he recognized them immediately. All he had to do was look to Razia and see the fear in her eyes to confirm it. Piro and Christophe were there to crash the party.