Deadeyes #3: Get Deadeyes Previously, in Boss Deadeyes #1 and #2: Antony “Deadeyes” Vendredi, a 1930s gang racketeer, has been raised from the dead and has reclaimed his place as “boss” of Gothametropolis York’s criminal underworld. He possesses the supernatural ability to kill with touch, but can delay the effect for as long as he likes. He has recently arranged for the animation of his formerly-dead comrades-in-crime: dapper hit man Emilio Cacciatore, accountant Ishmael Levi, and nightclub singer Myra Mason.The old Turpin Brewery had been much repaired. The rambling redbrick structures that had once been filled with beer-making and bottling apparatus then later with derelicts and drug-addicts had been transformed into modern offices and a penthouse suite. The cobbled courtyard was now a car park. Jay Boaz had every opportunity to admire the site from the air as he flew in from above. The capped crusader of the Lair Legion swooped down beside the new glass reception atrium and pulled off his Eagles hat, replacing it with his more regular blue cap stencilled with the letter H. He stepped inside the brewery and went to reception. “I’m here to see your boss,” he told the attractive brunette behind the desk. “Who shall I say is calling?” she asked, looking at the muscled man in the t-shirt and jeans with the red cape pinned to his shoulders. “Say it’s Hatman, leader of the Lair Legion,” Jay told her. “Say I’m here to battle for truth and justice.” “Do you have an appointment?” “I think your boss will see me without one.” “What do we know about Antony Vendredi, then?” demanded Velma Klein. “I mean, apart from the fact he’s about a hundred-odd years old and he’s come back from the dead, and he’s got some spooky death touch.” Her fingers strayed to the back of her hand where Boss Deadeyes had brushed against her. Sometime the spot still felt cold. “He’s organised,” answered Melissa van de Luce. The recently widowed woman ran a chain of beauty salons across the state, and if some of them offered additional personal services then that was purely between the masseuses and their thousand dollar an hour clients. “If it was just the death touch, and that ability he has to delay it until whatever conditions he’s set on it are fulfilled, that would be bad enough. But he also knows power. He knows how to run a city like this.” Melissa van de Luce had had a visit from the man who had killed her husband. She’d come to an arrangement with the Boss to carry on the family business. She could still feel his cold fingers about her throat. “How can someone who died in the 1930s know how to run modern Gothametropolis York?” demanded Klein. “This isn’t his city any more. It’s mine.” Melissa hesitated. “I don’t know, Velma. GMY, it’s always had its long dark shadows. It’s old. And I think this guy knows shadows, and knows old.” “There’s got to be a way to break his death grip,” the Mayor of Gothametropolis frowned. “I think we need to look for some specialist help on this.” Melissa van de Luce nodded. “Maybe we could kidnap him, keep him alive but sedated for the rest of his life?” “Still too much of a risk,” judged Klein. “But we have all the resources of a city at our disposal. Contact Justus Screwdriver. I want him to set up a meeting for me.” “Of course,” agreed Melissa. “Who with?” “I want to hire the Necromancer General.” “I’m not interested in Parodiopolis,” said Boss Deadeyes, drawing on his cigar. “Never was. Too brash, too newfangled for me. I’m a GMY boy, born and bred, and that’s all I want.” Akiko Masamune sat across the table from Antony Vendredi and fanned his smoke away from her with an ornate little peacock fan that doubled as a lethal killing tool. “I’m pleased to hear that,” she answered. “You can have Parodiopolis, for all I care, you and the five families,” Deadeyes went on, “but Gothametropolis is mine.” “There have been… courtesies, in the past,” Akiko conceded, “Treaties between those of us operating in Paradopolis and those across the river. Of late such things have lapsed into disrepair.” “Yeah, I heard a bunch of goons tried muscling in on stuff. That kind of behaviour is bad for business.” “It was for them,” answered the world’s pinkest crimelord. “I’ll say this for that Lynchpin mook,” Vendredi admitted, “Flask knew how to keep a lid on things. I can do the same. Hell, I can do better. I’ve done the job before.” Akiko considered this. “Harry Flask will be returning to Gothametropolis soon,” she noted. “He is being extradited from the Swordrealms where he was incarcerated during the Parody War. His lawyers are already working to have any charges against him overthrown on procedural grounds. Within six months, a year at the most, he will be free to walk these streets again.” “Yeah, maybe,” answered Boss Deadeyes. “Six months from now I’ll be ready for him. But first I have to know who I can trust and who I need to rub out.” He looked directly into Akiko’s eyes. “Which are you?” “Mr Vendredi, you have not attempted to use your delayed death touch upon me.” “No I ain’t. In my profession you gotta know who you leverage and who you respect. I figure if I start using that kind of force on you, you start finding clever ways to kick back. Maybe you even have me taken out in spite of it killing you, as a matter of honour.” “Perhaps,” agreed Akiko. “So maybe it’s better for us to be partners in business and shake like normal folks?” “Maybe it is.” Boss Deadeyes held out his hand to Akiko Masamune. “I’m offering a deal. Our guys can work out the small print, but basically you get whatever you can hold that side of the river, I get this side.” Akiko removed her glove and shook Vendredi’s hand. “We have an agreement,” she said. The tension in the room slackened. Midori, Akiko’s ‘P.A’, moved her hand away from her coat. Emilio Cacciatore dropped his hand from inside his jacket. Only the little accountant Ishmael Levi still scribbled away over a ledger, unconcerned with the drama going on about him. Then the door opened. “Tony,” called Myra Mason, sticking her head into the room. “There’s some hunky musclebound joe here to see you calls himself the Hatman.” Bogdan Vlastivock held up his hand to decline afternoon tea. “I do not eat… muffins,” he replied in Vincent Price tones. In fact he generally resembled Vincent Price, especially given that Price had died in 1993. The Necromancer General wasn’t quite dead, but he made some of the cadavers he commanded look quite healthy. “I’ll get to the point,” the Mayor of Gothametropolis York said. “I understand you know something about Boss Deadeyes.” “I’m aware of his… condition, yes,” agreed Vlastivock. “Something set up back in the 30s, I believe, by the then-Voodoo Vicar and a consulting vampire named Vrykoulakas.” “A death touch, though,” Velma Klein pondered. “How does a person get one of those?” “It could be arranged, I suppose,” the Necromancer General agreed. “Have you yet bartered your soul to any major demon?” The Mayor’s eyes narrowed. “You’re saying Vendredi made some kind of pact with an occult entity?” “No. I’m saying that’s how I could arrange for you to have a similar ability.” Klein wasn’t happy about the way the conversation was going, or the smell of formaldehyde that was starting to permeate her office. “Look, however he got it, Deadeyes has a death touch, and he can delay his victims’ deaths as long as he wills it. I need a way to break that grip, preferably without him knowing it. Then we’ll see how smart that pinstriped pinhead is.” Vlastivock considered this. “It will not be easy,” he admitted, “but I believe I could find a way to… transfer the touch.” He considered some more. “Yes, it could be done, for a price.” “I hope you’re talking about money,” the Mayor warned him. “Money, of course. And perhaps you could acquire me some of those homeless children that your city seems so well blessed with. For research purposes.” “That might be possible, in principle. I’d need more details of what you could accomplish for me.” “One other thing,” the Necromancer General considered. “I’d need an absolute innocent to transfer your death touch to. That way when Boss Deadeyes releases his pause on your termination it is the innocent who dies instead.” Velma Klein thought this though. “Oh,” she suddenly smiled. “I’ve got the perfect candidate.” She touched the intercom. “Harringley, bring me in the file on Miss Asil Ashling.” “I don’t like you,” Hatman told Antony Vendredi, “and I don’t like playing games.” Boss Deadeyes blew his cigar smoke into the hero’s face and remained calm behind his desk. “You’re one’a the guys that broke in on the Lynchpin. Ended up in court.” “I don’t like villains,” replied the capped crusader, his fists clenched as he leaned over Vendredi’s desk. “And I don’t like heroes, Boaz. They’re bad for business and they get people killed. Usually innocent people, but they don’t see how that is because they’re too full’a themselves to bother looking.” “The Lair Legion saves lives,” Hatman argued. “And that includes trying to save people from that poison you’re peddling to schoolkids and the ones whose lives you’re destroying with your sex trade and your extortion racketeering. So don’t try to pretend you’re in any way noble or admirable. We both know that deep inside you’re worthless scum.” “Scum,” scowled Vendredi. “Scum, you say. You little pissant, I was fighting to keep these streets clean half a century before you learned to use a potty. This is my home, my town. Sure, there’s a dark side to it, but that’s supply and demand. If I didn’t regulate it then someone else would. Someone worse, maybe someone who cares nothing for this place. The Soviets or the Chinese or the Irish, someone like that. Drug barons in Latin America. One of your weird supervillain types.” “I don’t buy that necessary evil line,” Jay Boaz replied. “I don’t have to sell it,” Boss Deadeyes answered. “You’ve seen what happens when this all gets out of hand. Hell’s Bathroom burned. Then there was a turf war that damn near flattened GMY and Parodiopolis before Camellia of the Fay got taken off the board. And then there was anarchy, no rules, no bystanders, just a big bloody body count.” Hatman had to admit that the violent crime statistics were coming down as Deadeyes’ grip tightened on Gothametropolis. “I’ve learned the hard way not to make deals with the devil,” he declared. “And I learned long ago that a guy’s gotta pick his fights,” answered Deadeyes. He pushed a folder across the desk. “Take a look in there.” Hatman checked the dossier, then frowned. “St Jude’s Orphanage is under the Legion’s protection,” he warned. “I know,” the Boss agreed. “Now if I was a dumb shmuck, I’d have gone down there to give some charity to the kids, and while I was there I’d have made a special point of touching them.” There were rumours that Boss Deadeyes had some kind of death touch. Yuki was investigating. “What did you do?” demanded Hatman. “Then, when the heroes get uppity, I’d just make one of the little kids drop dead in the schoolyard. Just to send a message. If I was dumb. If I was a shmuck.” Jay Boaz held himself in check. “But?” “But I’m not a dumb shmuck. ‘Cause that would be picking a fight I couldn’t win, and dragging some innocent kids into a fight that should be between men. I mention this and show you the brochure because I want you to understand what kind of guy I am. Cross me and I’ll kill you and every one of your superhero pals, no matter how powerful you might be. But I won’t go after your kids and I won’t go after your families.” “Damn right you won’t.” Deadeyes brought those dull black orbs that gave him his nickname to meet Hatman’s gaze. “Now if you think you can live in a world where a guy like me does the stuff that guys like you think you’re too good for, then we’ve got the basis for a truce. If not then tell the guys at the mortuary to start clearing up some storage space.” The leader of the Lair Legion held Vendredi’s gaze for a good long time. “If you break the law, and we can prove it, we will arrest you,” he said at last. “If your men commit crimes and we can catch them we will throw them in jail. If you step over the line and start to get creative or do things that draw you to our attention, we will find ways to take you down.” Boss Deadeyes shrugged. “But?” “But if you can keep some level of sanity to this murderous city then for now I’m willing to let you try. For now.” Vendredi relaxed a little. His hand edged away from Hatman’s fist. “Then we got the basis of a deal. Drink? It’s legal these days.” “I’m choosy about my company,” answered the capped crusader. “I’ll be watching you.” “Watch your back too, if you’re gonna keep mouthing off and showing disrespect,” Boss Deadeyes warned. Hatman pulled on his Jets cap and left via the window. He didn’t bother opening it first. The Boss lit up another cigar. “I thought that went well,” he commented to Myra. “Let me see if I have understood this correctly, Ms Kline” commented Justus Screwdriver, criminal middle-man and international power-broker. “You propose to kidnap a close associate of the Lair Legion. You intend to have the Necromancer General conduct an occult ceremony to transfer Boss Deadeyes so-called death touch from your ‘aura’ to hers. You then intend to provoke Vendredi into activating your death since this will actually result in his murdering Ms Ashling.” “All-out war between Vendredi and the Legion,” agreed Mayor Klein. “No holds barred. And if Deadeyes dies and all the cartel heads he’s touched die with him, well that’s where we step in to fill then power vacuum.” Screwdriver considered this. “It is an attractive proposition,” he agreed. “But risky.” “What’s the risk? The Legion are smart enough to work out what killed their precious Lisa-clone. And I hate to admit it, but Vendredi’s tough enough to put up a good fight when they come for him. He might even get one or two of the heroes before he goes down. It’s a win-win scenario.” “And what do you require from me?” “Some hired help to snatch little Asil. Some people in place ready to step in if Deadeyes takes out the underworld leaders of Gothametropolis. The Necromancer General’s already on board. The rest is easy.” Screwdriver calculated the odds. Then he smiled. “Ms Kline,” he replied. “I believe we have a deal.” Continued… Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2008 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2008 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
