As Righty rode home that day, a lot of thoughts were going through his mind, and they each competed so fiercely for his attention that he was having a hard time taking them on one by one.
First and foremost in his mind was the realization that he almost died today. And not just him, but also his seven customers, four of whom had surprised him unspeakably by standing and fighting with him rather than leaving him to a certain death at the hands of the dozen thugs who had ambushed him.
As a result, two of his customers had died today, and if not for the sudden appearance of that strange, freakish creature that—either by luck or due to some inexplicable vendetta against Righty’s would-be assassins—had selectively chosen Righty’s enemies as the target of its afternoon amusement, both Righty and all of his customers would have been cut to pieces today.
That thought had a sobering impact on Righty’s mind. He knew from the get-go this was going to be a dangerous course he was taking in life—both in terms of risk from the police and from those he would deal with in the underworld—but never had he expected to find himself so hopelessly outmanned, caught off guard, and inadequately armed.
He realized that if he was going to continue on this course, he was going to first get a sword. And not just any sword. A top-notch, bona fide killing tool and preferably one that could somehow be adequately concealed. Secondly, he was going to have to learn how to use the darn thing. And not just how to twirl it around a couple of different ways, but to make it an extension of himself—to use it like a brush in the hands of a master painter.
And lastly, he was going to have to get some better armor. He didn’t ever want to take a shot like that to the knee again and find himself incapacitated. The next time no savage beast was going to emerge from the sky to do away with the jackals lurking above his incapacitated body.
He didn’t have the foggiest clue where or how he was going to accomplish any of those three things, let alone all of them, but the resolution was etched in granite in his mind right now that he would do all three one way or another.
The next focus of his analysis was that he was going to have to find out from Tats a lot more about the structure of the underworld in Sivingdel. He had plopped right in the middle of it, like an animal transplanted from one habitat to another, and he was starting to realize the enormity of the consequences associated with not knowing who the major players were.
Not too long ago, he had killed Big Frank, and now today he faced Big Frank’s brother with eleven other men. Who would it be next time? Big Frank’s other brother . . . and with two dozen men? Or perhaps Big Frank’s cousin with three dozen friends?
Yes, it was definitely time to have a long talk with Tats about the power structure in Sivingdel, even if only in that particular section of the city. Tats would surely see the logic in that, having just lost two of his own men today, and a third counting the crew member who had turned tail and ran, turning himself into an enemy.
He had seen a lot of dreadfully famished-looking kids rummaging through the trash in that area of the city. Then, an idea struck him. Without even hardly touching his profit margin he should be able to make a loyal lookout of enough of those kids to be well-apprised of any unpleasant arrivals. Furthermore, truth be told, it ate at him to see human beings in such miserable conditions, although that wasn’t something he planned on sharing with Tats, Spider, or any of their gang.
Lastly, he realized he was going to have a hell of a lot of explaining to do with Janie. Fortunately, there was no liquor on his breath, so convincing her he wasn’t back to his barroom-brawling days shouldn’t be too difficult. But he was making a lot of money fast, and he knew the annuity was a one-use-only lie. He was going to have to get some legitimate business going at his new store in Ringsetter fast.
Once he was ready to expand, he was going to need to get someone else to manage it, and then he was going to need to open up a couple stores in Sivingdel. He didn’t want to start attracting too much attention to himself in Ringsetter. He had enough already as the washed-up would-be boxing champion who had turned into a professional beer and whiskey guzzler and lumberyard man who had suddenly turned sober and started working as a clerk and who had then suddenly bought his own store.
One more wild move like the kind he had been making, and there would be little gossip besides that of Righty Rick. And that was not the kind of thing he wanted. Although there had been no police enforcement so far of the Smokeless Green prohibition, he suspected that wasn’t something that was going to last forever, and he wanted to make sure that by the time that changed for the worse he was either out of the game or so far on top he could control things to his advantage.
But as for right now, he was nothing more than a middle-class man who was rapidly acquiring cash. He knew that getting cash was important, but it wouldn’t mean power in and of itself. A man could have a house full of cash and lose it in a fire or in a single burglary. Cash was a road towards power, but it wasn’t itself power. Power meant having land—lots of land. It meant owning businesses. It meant having powerful friends. It meant having access to the services of deadly people. He had none of that. In spite of his growing potential, he was as vulnerable as a baby eagle just poking its beak out of its egg.