Vincent squinted and so did I. As the fog swirled I saw a man in long white robes with blank, unseeing eyes.
"Shit," Vincent growled, "how was I to know?"
"I've seen him before," I muttered, trying to remember where.
"Wouldn't surprise me," Ford said. "They're easy to spot."
"They? "
"There's a group. All blind and dressed the same way. Religious nuts. They come out whenever the fog's up. I think they worship it. They're harmless. Still…" He tapped Vincent's shoulder. "Let's go. Just because he's blind doesn't mean he's deaf."
I focused on the file as we drove. Aaron Seidelman had been born in Germany in the 1930s. His parents died in the concentration camps. He was smuggled out by an uncle. Fled to France. Worked for a living from the age of twelve. Built up a small business, came here in the 60s, bought loads of old warehouses down by the docks, most of which he'd never done anything with. Old, past his prime, but wealthy and influential.
I burst into his house with Ford, Vincent and two others. He was in a robe and slippers, listening to some classical shit, sipping a glass of brandy. He tried to fight but one of our thugs knocked him down. "Careful," Ford said. "Nobody hurts him unless Mr. Raimi says so."
I walked over to the old man and studied him as if he were one of my insurance customers. He was frightened, obviously, but there was strength in that face. A few broken bones wouldn't crack him. He'd been bullied and tortured before. He hadn't given in then and he wasn't about to start now. He held his tongue. He knew pleas wouldn't work on us, just as violence wouldn't against him.
"Well?" Ford asked. "Do you want to talk to him here or do we take him out?"
"I've never had a Jewish takeout," Vincent giggled. "Does it come with bagels?"
"Mr. Seidelman," I began, "we want your factories. I know you want to keep them in your family but your children don't care. They'll piss away their inheritance or sell to the first bidder who waves a check under their noses. They only want the easy things in life. They're useless, selfish wastrels."
"They are," he admitted. His voice was firm, healthy, unharmed by the years. "But I cannot control the world from my grave. I can, however, safeguard my business assets while I am alive, and I will never sell to one who plans to befoul what I have built. Your blasphemous Cardinal would turn my factories into whorehouses and opium dens."
Opium. Was this guy behind the times!
"I will not let him soil what I have worked so hard for. There will be no revolution, no new order." He smiled bitterly and one of his arms lifted slightly. I glanced down and noticed a faded smear, an old tattoo.
I stood back and studied him again, thinking about the way his lips had lifted, his peculiar choice of phrase. He was fit, healthy for his age, glowing skin, a fine head of hair. For some reason I fixed on the hair and an idea blossomed. I took Ford aside and whispered, "You know how the Nazis destroyed the Jews?"
"Showers and ovens," he replied, staring at me curiously.
"No. Before they targeted their bodies, they wrecked their spirits. Stripped them naked, humiliated them, starved them, beat them, covered them in filth. They deprived them of their humanity."
"Interesting history lesson," Ford snorted. "How does it relate to…?"
"I know how to crack him," I said quietly.
"Then do it."
"Whatever it takes?" I asked.
"Like I said earlier-your call."
"I want him out of here," I said to our thugs. "Stick him in the car. We're going for a ride."
I told Vincent to drive to one of our shops. I'd been there a few times for an old-style wet shave. Y Tse had introduced me to the place. It was late and the owner grumbled at being woken, but he shut up quick when he saw Ford Tasso. He got what I asked for, no questions, and stuffed it in a brown bag. I thanked him and left.
The others stared at the bag, wondering what fierce instrument of torture lay inside. I said nothing. Seidelman was trembling a little but was otherwise showing remarkable reserve.
We drove to the docks. I knew the sort of place I was looking for, a disused factory where the power had been supplied by coal-stoked fires. Large furnaces. We found one after a short search. Dragged Seidelman in and propped him by one of the cold, damp, metal walls. It had been a long time since one of these had been used in the name of evil, but memories last. I knew Seidelman wouldn't have forgotten the fate of his parents.
There were flashlights in the trunk of the car. We trained three of them on the shaking old warrior with more heart than sense.
"Strip," I commanded. Seidelman hesitated. " Strip, you Jewish scum! Now!" The words came with frightening ease, I don't know from where.
Seidelman stiffened. Tears of fury glittered in his eyes. Sneering, he stripped naked and kicked his clothes away. "So," he snarled. "You act the commander. Go ahead, young man. You would have fitted in well, ja? But I have dealt with your sort before. I did not crumble then, and will not crumble now. Your kind can never defeat mine. You tried once and failed. So try again. The fool never learns. Try and fail, bastard."
Vincent and Ford were unsettled. They glanced at me skeptically. This wasn't their style. Tasso had tortured men, women and children. But not this way. He'd never tried to squeeze a man's soul.
I stepped forward. Seidelman was quivering like a leaf now, unsure of my intentions. He didn't know how far I was prepared to go. A faint breeze blew his gray hair into his eyes. He thumbed it away. I stepped closer, opened the bag and let him peer inside. He'd been expecting a gun or a knife, something brutal. He was ready for that. But not for this.
His body sagged. "No," he wept. "You cannot do this. I am a human being. You are too. You must not resurrect the past. It is unholy."
"Sign the document," I said softly, running a hand through his hair, soothing him as if he were a child. "Sign or I'll take this out and use it." He stared at me with loathing and fear. "Nein? " I smirked when he hesitated and made a pass at his head. When he flinched, I said again, "Sign."
"You are a monster," he sobbed.
"Yes. Me, Adolf, Hermann. We're all monsters. And you are our victim. Now sign and make the monsters go away. You have a choice this time. It's in your hands."
"No," he said, taking a pen from me. "You destroyed my hands many years ago. And my will. I thought I was strong but I was wrong." He signed his name, gave me the pen and paper, and said no more.
We left him alone, crying, naked, broken. The silence in the car was oppressive. Ford and Vincent thought they'd seen it all. I'd proved them wrong, shown them a new form of cruelty, an older kind.
When they stopped to let me out, Vincent grabbed the bag. "I've got to see what's in it." He opened it slowly, as if something alive and hideous were in there. His face dissolved into confusion as the object revealed itself. "I don't get it," he said. "What's so fucking terrifying about hair clippers?"
Adrian didn't report for work the next morning either. It was Thomas again, silent, obedient, dour. The fog was clearing and we made good time on the way to my office. I called Adrian's agency and asked about him. The woman on switch didn't know him. I looked for Sonja when I got to the office but she was out. I tried calling him at home-no answer. Worrying about Adrian, I lowered myself into my chair with my first cafe latte of the day. I'd barely sat down when the phone rang. Ford Tasso. "The Cardinal wants to see you later."
My heart jumped in my chest. "Anything to do with last night?"
"Am I a fucking messenger boy?" Ford snapped. "Just get your ass there for eleven and don't be late."
"OK. See you-" But he'd hung up already.
I couldn't concentrate after that. I endured the office for forty-eight minutes, then had to get out. I called for Thomas and told him to drive around for a while. I rolled the windows down and let fresh air sweep into the car. After a while that wasn't enough. I needed something to take my mind off my impending meeting with The Cardinal. "Thomas, do you know any good sports centers?"
"Yes, sir."
"Take me to one."
"Any special preferences, sir? Bowling, badminton, gymnastics?"
"I don't care. I just want something that leaves me panting for-" Then I saw the face of the woman again and this time she was holding a tennis racket, laughing. "Do you know a good tennis court?" I asked hesitantly, trying to hold the image but failing.
"Yes, sir."