Read Online Procession of the Dead by Darren Shan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Darren Shan
Ads: Link
Carmen’s head fondly as she pleasured him with her mouth. On the TV screen, WileE. Coyote was lugging his latest destructive device from Acme up a hillside.
Shutting the door, I returned to the spare bed, smiling, and made a note to call down for a Bugs Bunny feature the next time I was courting.
There were four classes of people in Shankar’s. You didn’t notice the divisions until you’d been there a few months. At first it looked like everybody was on an equal footing, no social discrimination. But that was just on the surface.
The first class was small and distinguished. Leonora Shankar, Ford Tasso, a few others. These were people you never approached, the cream of the crop, with inestimable power or influence. They were a law unto themselves, the gods of the company. We’d have sold our souls to get in with them but the Devil had no pull where The Cardinal was concerned.
The second class incorporated the majority. These people came to Shankar’s occasionally. They liked the restaurant, some dropping by three or four times a week, but when all was said and done it was just another place to socialize and do business.
The third and fourth classes were regulars, men and women who came every day. To them Shankar’s was home. Some stayed from opening until the early hours of the next morning. Others, with work to do, were absent for long stretches, but made at least a couple of daily appearances.
The third class was made up of veterans. The soldiers and generals from the early days, those who’d pushed The Cardinal to the top and had been put out to pasture. This was where they spent their retirement, the one place where they still meant something. They were popular among the younger regulars, sought out for tales from the past, secrets which could be divulged now that they were no longer integral to The Cardinal’s operation.
They were a mine of information. They knew everybody, where the real power lay, which avenues were shut and which were worth exploring. They knew all the big deals going down and would make introductions if you asked nicely. You found them all around Shankar’s, alone or in small groups, silent, watching, waiting to be approached and activated.
They could have been mistaken for magical statues which mysteriously came to life when the right words were uttered, had it not been for their shaking hands and trembling lips, products of old age and a life in servitude to The Cardinal. They could be spooky at times. I’d look at them and think,
Is that me? Thirty, forty years down the road, will I be sitting here, hands shaking on the head of a cane, eyes wet with tears, living off the dreams of somebody else’s youth?
I was part of the fourth and final class. There were about forty of us, in our twenties or thirties, hungry—no,
starving
—for success. We were the dreamers, the Roman conspirators, each hoping to plot and scheme our way to the top. We met every day in Shankar’s, friendly, courteous, reveling in the bonhomie, but ready to turn on each other in an instant. We were best friends and bitter rivals. Some of us would, one day, make it to the top we so yearned for, but only at the expense of our companions. We spent our time discussing the ins and outs of the corporation, who was hot, who was fired, who was dead. We followed every twist and caper avidly, treating our superiors like idols, giants to be revered. When Gico Carl offed his father and brothers and took over the western side of the city, we debated his tactics for weeks, dissecting, analyzing, learning. Always learning. When Emeric Hines—one of The Cardinal’s best legal minds—went to court, we taped his appearances and replayed them endlessly, marveling at his wicked tongue and shifting strategies, staging our own mock versions of his cases, mimicking, practicing, understanding.
The restaurant was our school. We studied, experimented and made our mistakes where they didn’t hurt us. Some of the group actually
Shutting the door, I returned to the spare bed, smiling, and made a note to call down for a Bugs Bunny feature the next time I was courting.
There were four classes of people in Shankar’s. You didn’t notice the divisions until you’d been there a few months. At first it looked like everybody was on an equal footing, no social discrimination. But that was just on the surface.
The first class was small and distinguished. Leonora Shankar, Ford Tasso, a few others. These were people you never approached, the cream of the crop, with inestimable power or influence. They were a law unto themselves, the gods of the company. We’d have sold our souls to get in with them but the Devil had no pull where The Cardinal was concerned.
The second class incorporated the majority. These people came to Shankar’s occasionally. They liked the restaurant, some dropping by three or four times a week, but when all was said and done it was just another place to socialize and do business.
The third and fourth classes were regulars, men and women who came every day. To them Shankar’s was home. Some stayed from opening until the early hours of the next morning. Others, with work to do, were absent for long stretches, but made at least a couple of daily appearances.
The third class was made up of veterans. The soldiers and generals from the early days, those who’d pushed The Cardinal to the top and had been put out to pasture. This was where they spent their retirement, the one place where they still meant something. They were popular among the younger regulars, sought out for tales from the past, secrets which could be divulged now that they were no longer integral to The Cardinal’s operation.
They were a mine of information. They knew everybody, where the real power lay, which avenues were shut and which were worth exploring. They knew all the big deals going down and would make introductions if you asked nicely. You found them all around Shankar’s, alone or in small groups, silent, watching, waiting to be approached and activated.
They could have been mistaken for magical statues which mysteriously came to life when the right words were uttered, had it not been for their shaking hands and trembling lips, products of old age and a life in servitude to The Cardinal. They could be spooky at times. I’d look at them and think,
Is that me? Thirty, forty years down the road, will I be sitting here, hands shaking on the head of a cane, eyes wet with tears, living off the dreams of somebody else’s youth?
I was part of the fourth and final class. There were about forty of us, in our twenties or thirties, hungry—no,
starving
—for success. We were the dreamers, the Roman conspirators, each hoping to plot and scheme our way to the top. We met every day in Shankar’s, friendly, courteous, reveling in the bonhomie, but ready to turn on each other in an instant. We were best friends and bitter rivals. Some of us would, one day, make it to the top we so yearned for, but only at the expense of our companions. We spent our time discussing the ins and outs of the corporation, who was hot, who was fired, who was dead. We followed every twist and caper avidly, treating our superiors like idols, giants to be revered. When Gico Carl offed his father and brothers and took over the western side of the city, we debated his tactics for weeks, dissecting, analyzing, learning. Always learning. When Emeric Hines—one of The Cardinal’s best legal minds—went to court, we taped his appearances and replayed them endlessly, marveling at his wicked tongue and shifting strategies, staging our own mock versions of his cases, mimicking, practicing, understanding.
The restaurant was our school. We studied, experimented and made our mistakes where they didn’t hurt us. Some of the group actually
Similar Books
