City of the Snakes by Darren Shan Read Free Book Online Page B

That’s how I knew he
    (
probably
)
    wasn’t dead. He often said he didn’t care what happened to his books once he died, so since he’d taken the time to spirit them away before blowing up his house, I assumed it was because he hadn’t yet finished with life.
    I don’t really expect Bill to show his face at a fair like this, but I come anyway, to mingle, observe, hope. These people get around—some haveflown in from distant cities and countries, just to circulate for a few hours in search of a missing volume—and they tend to know, or know of, everybody within their exclusive circle. Maybe one of them has run into Bill, or knows somebody who has, and I’ll overhear them talking about him. A thin straw to clutch at, but when you’re as desperate as I am you’ll clutch at anything.
    I spend four hours in the dry, studious, murmur-filled rooms, circling silently, eavesdropping, studying faces. I ask no questions of the buyers—I tried that in the early days, but it only aroused people’s suspicions—though sometimes I’ll stop by a quiet table stacked with the sort of books Bill favored (Steinbeck, Hemingway, Dickens) and linger a few minutes, prompting a bored proprietor to start a conversation. On such occasions I’ll casually steer talk around to an old friend of mine—“Bill Casey. A police officer. Had a full set of Hemingway firsts”—and gauge the reaction. Some recall him, but all believe that he died in the blast. Nobody’s heard word of him in the decade since.
    As the fair draws to a quiet close, I make my exit. I’m not disappointed but I feel downhearted. It’s at times like this that I realize just how blindly I’m casting about for my old friend. He has all the world to hide in, and I’ve no clue where he might be. The odds against my finding him are immense. If I were in control of my senses, I’d cut my losses and call it quits. But I’m not. Haven’t been for ten years. So I’ll continue, like the senseless, dogged, single-minded beast that I am.
    The city’s an ancient, sprawling, troubled beast. Founded by Indians, it’s been built up over the centuries by the Incan priests who fled from the conquistadors and made their home here. They rule from the shadows, which maybe explains why the city is dark and menacing at heart. Chaos flourishes here, nurtured by the
villacs
, who ladle power out among the various gangs, pitting black against white, Italian against Spaniard, Irish against everybody. Street laws hold the gangs in check, but those laws change abruptly in accordance with the dictum of the priests.
    The last weekend’s been especially rough. Major clashes in the northwest between the Kluxers and Troops. The Kluxers are an offshoot of the Ku Klux Klan, led by Eugene Davern, the guy who owns the Kool KatsKlub. Five years back I’d have said Davern was crazy if he thought he could take on the Troops. But power’s been slipping through the new Cardinal’s fingers. Individuals have defied him and he hasn’t cracked down hard. The belief on the street is that Capac Raimi’s weak, out of touch with the pulse of the city. Revolt’s been in the cards for ages.
    Davern and his Kluxers are the start. I hate those KKK sons of bitches—I’ve strung up more than a few of them these past nine years—but they’re a powerful force and Davern’s a shrewd leader. I doubt they can defeat the Troops alone, but if other gangs riot and Raimi’s forces are split, they might just pull it off.
    Not that The Cardinal will notice. Word has strengthened over the weekend. It now seems certain Raimi’s no longer running the show. Some say he’s been killed, others that he quit, more that he disappeared mysteriously. Whatever the truth, he’s not
in situ
at Party Central any longer. I don’t know who
is
in charge, but I don’t envy him. The city’s facing its worst bout of mayhem since the race riots of some decades back. I pity the fool charged with the hopeless task of averting