Chapter 13
Chief Benson sat at his desk early in the morning sipping coffee. He was in a devil of a mood.
He was starting to realize that perhaps he had permitted his optimism to run a bit wild because he had been elated after the death of Heavy Sam. He had been growing more and more concerned that he was going to become a bullied puppet for that freak rather than a well-paid collaborator.
He had felt—and still felt—that he would have a much better working relationship with Mr. Brass, and as soon as he had heard of Heavy Sam’s death he had hoped that he would soon be hearing through his contacts that Brass had consolidated his grip on the city’s underworld, at which point Benson would send an emissary to the highest member of Brass’s organization that he could get to and politely request a meeting to discuss their mutual interests.
However, there had been no such news. On the contrary, the underworld in Sivingdel was in a state of disarray. Around ten or so of Sam’s top guys had gone completely solo and were duking it out over who was going to be top dog. Although he had never known who Sam’s connection was, the word on the street was about three of Sam’s top guys knew and were able to establish it once Sam kicked the bucket.
That obviously put them miles ahead of their other competitors, but it certainly didn’t mean they should be sleeping well at night. Each individual in this trio was at great risk of being murdered by one or both of the others, since success in taking out one competitor would greatly increase his market share and taking out both competitors would likely assure him dominion over Sam’s old empire in one fell swoop. Thus, any of them who were not attended around the clock by competent, loyal guards were dead men walking.
But they didn’t just have each other to worry about. Their seven inferior competitors were no laughing matter. The word on the street was some of them were seeking connections outside Sivingdel. Others were grudgingly buying from the trio. His sources told him this was mostly done on a rotating basis, as they had no desire to help any of the trio in their quest for absolute power. On the contrary, they were merely biding their time until the right opportunity for assassination presented itself.
And there were even a few who hoping to join Mr. Brass’s gang. The fight between these Brass and Sam had quickly become the talk of more than just the underworld. Secondhand and then thirdhand descriptions of the epic brawl to the death between these two juggernauts had already become the stuff of legend. Benson wondered whether it would only be a matter of time before the National Boxing Commission sent out a recruiter to divert this prodigy from a life of crime to a life of societally condoned violence and glory, or perhaps ordered an investigation to see if one of its existing champions was moonlighting as a drug dealer in Sivingdel, so grandiose were the descriptions of Brass’s pugilistic abilities.
This all whetted Benson’s appetite mercilessly to meet the mysterious Brass, and it further reinforced his theory that this was no lifetime criminal. There was no field he knew better than criminology, and men with boxing talent such as Brass’s ended up in championship matches, not duels to the death with rival kingpins.
Every rule had its exceptions, and he had occasionally come across—in his decades’-long career—a talented boxing champion-in-the-making who had deviated from that path due to being kicked out of his local boxing club for troublemaking or even banned from boxing entirely for that reason. Such men earned a name for themselves before turning twenty and then were usually dead or in prison by age thirty.
Brass didn’t fit that profile. He was by all reports a man who appeared to be in his early thirties and who had appeared in the underworld as impromptu as a lightning bolt on a sunny day. Something had pushed this man into a life of crime only recently. Of that, Benson was sure, for otherwise he would have already become a legend long ago.
Perhaps he is an ex-boxing champion who is selling Smokeless Green to support his habit or pay off some debts.
It wasn’t a bad theory, but if he were an ex-champion, he probably would have enough money to buy Smokeless Green at one of the few elite clubs that only permitted gentlemen. But he knew that wasn’t necessarily the case, as these clubs usually only accepted the wealthiest of the wealthy, something that usually didn’t happen to your average ex-champion. An athlete would only find such doors open to him if he were a legend. And because only these elite clubs provided Smokeless Green lawfully, even those men who were legally “gentlemen” under SISA were reduced to purchasing it on the street, although they themselves were committing no crime in the act of doing so.
Still, somehow this didn’t quite fit either. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but this Brass character didn’t seem like the drug addict type. He didn’t have a direct informant inside the Junkyard Gang yet, but what he was able to learn through secondhand and thirdhand sources painted the picture of a calculating businessman, not a wild drug addict.
Benson’s sour mood was also due to the fact that since Sam’s death he had lost the lucrative side salary that he had grown quite accustomed to, and he was eager for a replacement, as otherwise early retirement would be out of the question, and he was already growing displeased with the increasingly dangerous nature of the job.
Crime in almost every category was up.
This was unacceptable. It was one thing to take payoffs from a kingpin with near monopoly control of the underworld. That was not only lucrative but beneficial to the residents of Sivingdel. Crime had actually been going down under Sam’s reign. Something told Benson that Mr. Brass could do even better, but that was a moot point now.
The word was that Mr. Brass was struggling to step in and truly take advantage of the situation, due to supply problems. This was bad both for Mr. Brass and Benson. Here, Brass could probably acquire three of Sam’s former wholesalers without so much as an argument. And once those forces were united, it was likely several more would do the same, as they would rather serve under the man who battered Sam to a pulp than to his erstwhile subordinates, even if for no reason other than vanity.
And once that happened, Mr. Brass would have all the muscle he needed to take care of the others. And better than that, he would have Benson’s full backing. Selective policing was a valuable military tool for an up-and-coming kingpin. Benson was sure he could convince Brass of this axiom and that it was worth paying a pretty falon for.
Brass’s supply problem convinced Benson all the more that this was no career criminal, and in fact he feared Brass might be getting in a bit over his head. He would like to meet him as soon as possible to find out how long this supply problem was going to last. After all, if you didn’t have the proper connections to supply the city, you had no business getting into duels with freakish monsters like Heavy Sam. There was no cash prize to be awarded after such victories, just new market share. And if you didn’t have the product to fill that market share, you not only risked your life in the process of acquiring it, but then put your life at greater risk for having earned a name for yourself.
He wondered if Brass knew just how much trouble he was potentially in. Before, he was barely a dot on the map. Now, he was one of the most well-known players in the city, even though he apparently didn’t have the ability to expand beyond his small-time junkyard clique. With Sam’s death he had gained the chance of a series of subsequent bloodless victories, but every day that went by where he furthered his reputation as unable to provide outside his small circle he put himself in increasing danger.
Sam had only agreed to duel him because Sam was larger than three average men glued together, he was embarrassed by his failed assassination attempt, was restrained by Benson from carrying out an all-out invasion and massacre within the junkyard, and he had underestimated Brass’s fighting capabilities. Benson knew that Brass was unlikely to settle any future quarrels by a semi-fair, one-on-one duel. Furthermore, Benson had no control yet over any of these vying kingpins. This meant that the moment they stopped seeing Brass as
a potential boss they would see him as a target to be eliminated by assassination.
Benson wasn’t sure how much time Brass had before that happened, but Benson had his own timeline he was dealing with. He had told his officers not to look the other way anymore when it came to brazen drug dealing, since all bribe money had dried up (he called this “their bonuses”).
He didn’t want any of them needlessly risking their lives arresting violators of The Gentlemen’s Law, as he called it. Yet he knew that the violence between the vying kingpins was likely to start picking up in intensity very soon, and he wasn’t going to stand by and let his city get turned into a battlefield.
The underworld needed consolidation . . . and fast.