Throughout his entire life, Vicious would often hear the words of Black Rafe in his mind, as if Rafe were some kind of ghostly advisor. However, in actuality, he had Rafe less than three years.
They were an eventful three years. Rafe took him everywhere the night was alive. They went to the gyms that opened their doors to the down-and-out fighters now training young ones, and to anyone else who wanted to work out without worrying about having to be social or pretty. (Rafe: "Take care of your body, and it'll take care of you. It's an old saying, but that don't mean it ain't true.") They went to opium dens and other places where the drug users and sellers met. (Rafe: "You can sell drugs if you want, but don't use them. You use drugs, you're a loser. Period.") They went to a show on The Strip, but only once. (Rafe: "Seen enough? Silly, ain't it? Sex is a little like drugs. Sell it if you want, but don't go depending on it, or you're just another loser, like those guys in there.") They went to after-hours gun shops, and he learned the different kinds of handguns and ammunition, and the benefits of each. (Rafe: "Since you ask, I use a Colt, myself. There's history to it, and it's a good weapon. Some say the USP is more reliable -- that's why it's standard issue in the ISSP, because most of those assholes don't know how to take care of their weapons -- but the Colt's faster and more accurate.")
They also went to shops that sold blade weapons, and he finally got the chance to hold a real sword, a katana. Rafe was amused at his interest ("Useless damned weapon. No reach. But it looks real pretty. It's got style.") Vicious was startled at how much it weighed, and almost fell with it the first time he tried to pick it up. The store owner started to laugh, until Rafe turned and said, "Don't laugh at this kid, or in a coupla years, he's gonna be in here taking your head off with that thing." Rafe's purpose, however, was to introduce him to daggers ("It's always a good idea to have a blade somewhere. You never know when you might need it."), and except for drinks at the bar, that was the only time Rafe actually bought him something, a throwing dagger to fit in his boot.
Following Rafe, he got fit, he grew strong, and he learned things the church school wouldn't dream of, never mind teach. Not just how to kill efficiently, although he did learn that, but also, among many other things, how to keep his emotions from ruling his head. He stayed at the orphanage, however, and that, too, was primarily because of Rafe. ("You got free room and board, and you're getting a good education. Money don't mean anything to you, so you don't need work, and you ain't big enough for people to be taking you seriously anyway, not yet. And nobody there makes you obey any rules, from what you tell me. So why the hell would you want to leave?")
The people of the night got to know him. Most were amused by the contrast between Rafe's darkness and his own pale coloring, and he got the nickname of Rafe's Little Spook, but that didn't bother him. He was accepted, and he made friends, among a group of people who were totally sincere, because to them, social amenities meant less than nothing. His coloring, however, brought up one of the few things that, at least after that first night, actually surprised Rafe about him.
They were at Rico's gym, where Vicious was learning martial arts from a guy who wasn't much taller than he was. When he first met Sam, he flat refused to bow or call him Master, tradition be damned. Rafe negotiated a deal; Vicious didn't have to do it unless Sam could knock him down three times in a row. That feat took Sam approximately ten seconds, and Rafe laughed like a loon afterward. But Vicious had learned respect, and now he was progressing rapidly. Pleased with himself after his latest bout, he stepped off the mats, wiping the sweat from his face and neck, and emerged from the towel to see Rafe staring at him with a peculiar expression. "What's wrong?" he asked. "What did I do?"
"Nothing. I just figured out who you remind me of."
"I remind you of somebody?"
"Yeah. At first it was just the hair, so it didn't quite click. But when I saw you move just now, it came to me. You look like The She-Wolf. You related?"
"I don't know."
"You don't? I figured a guy like you would have already broken into the files and figured out who your parents were."
He didn't know the orphanage had files like that, but he wasn't about to admit it. He just shrugged, and then said the thing that surprised Rafe. "I don't really care, so why bother?"
"You don't care? That's your blood."
"My blood is my blood, not somebody else's. And whoever they are, they left me there, so they didn't care about me. Why should I give a damn about them?"
"Ain't you even curious?"
"No."
"Not even a little?"
"No." He sat at Rafe's feet, pulled off his T-shirt, and toweled more sweat. "Who's The She-Wolf, anyway?" That at least sounded interesting.
"She used to be a magician. Hitwoman, to you. She was freelance, worked for all the syndicates, like me. Damned good, too. She used to move so smooth, it was a pleasure to watch her. And fast -- when she wanted to be, she was like a ghost, blink and you'd miss her."
That was even more interesting. "You liked her?"
"Hell, no. Hardly knew her, just saw her around sometimes. Besides, she thought herself a cut above the likes of me anyway. But she was impressive. And you… the more I think on it, the more you look like her to me. I heard rumors she had a kid, but I figured those were just rumors. She was way too smart. Maybe she did, though." He chuckled. "I'd like that, thinking her kid might've come around to me."
"So why don't you ask her?"
"Don't know where she is. She up and disappeared about ten, fifteen years ago. Got out of the business after a hit went down bad. I suppose she could be found," he said, and then added, chuckling, "but I ain't gonna do it. Nobody messes with The She-Wolf's business if they want to stay healthy."
Vicious shrugged. Having a mother like that explained some of his abilities, and she sounded a lot more cool than, say, some hooker. But he honestly didn't care, nor did he ever begin to, until he lost Rafe.
That happened in the third winter after they met, and it was raining on the day he found out, just as it had been on that day. Rafe had failed to join him the night before, but that wasn't unusual. Rafe led a spontaneous life and never knew exactly where he might be at any given time. Their fall-back was always for Vicious to check at the bar whenever he could next sneak out, and if Rafe wasn't there, he'd leave a message with Sally.
He slid into the bar quietly, as usual, on the heels of another patron, and stood just inside the door shaking the rain from his coat. He knew something was wrong at once. It wasn't anything as dramatic as the whole place going silent, but a small thing: men who knew him glanced at him but didn't greet him, and some turned away. One of them caught Sally's arm and pointed him out, and when she turned her face to him, he knew.
She pointed him toward a table in the back, and he crept over there, his mind as detached as if he were dead, too, only he was still walking around. The only thing that bothered him was the horrible suspicion that Sally might want to hug him. But Sally wasn't one of the nuns. She brought a bottle and two glasses, and had a drawstring sack under one arm. Without a word, she sat down opposite him, set the sack on the floor, filled the glasses, and put one in front of him. Then she said, with blunt compassion, "Rafe's dead, Vicious."
"I know." He took a long sip of the whiskey. He was accustomed to it now and was even starting to like it. Tonight, however, it sat in his stomach and burned without giving pleasure. "How did it happen?"
"There was a big firefight down by the docks. He was there with some of the Red Dragons, just a turf thing with the Monsoons, but somebody ratted out and a lot more guys showed up than anyone expected. Then the ISSP got mixed up in it, and all hell broke loose. The guy who was supposed to be watching Rafe's back chickened out and ran off, and Rafe didn't make it."
He swallowed. "I guess he took a bunch of them with him."
"The official count's not out yet, but Rico was there just after it was over. He says there were eight guys dead around where Rafe was found. So yeah, I think he took a bunch with him. And it took a lot of bullets to bring him down, Rico says." She lifted her glass. "Here's to Rafe."
He joined her in the toast, content. That's the way Rafe would have wanted to die. But there was one loose string. "Who was supposed to be watching Rafe's back?"
"Carlo Bezois. But you can forget it, Vicious. Carlo didn't make it out, either."
That was good. Carlo would have been hard to get. But Vicious would have done it, if he'd had to.
Sally gave him a few moments quiet thinking time. Then she set the sack on the table with a hollow clump, tugged the strings apart, and pulled out a box made of some dark wood, of a color that reminded him of the altar in the church, only with a finer grain. The surface was nicked and scarred, but it was polished to an almost living gleam, catching the bar's dim light. Sally pushed it across the table. "Rafe said if anything ever happened to him, you were supposed to get this. Rico brought it back with him."
Puzzled, Vicious thumbed the latches and opened the box. What he saw took his breath.
It was Rafe's handgun, his beloved Colt. Vicious had never been allowed to even touch it before, and now it belonged to him. It rested in a satiny liner with the full clip beside it, along with a box of ammo and another metal box which probably contained the oil, polish, and cloths for maintaining it. He ran a finger along the blued steel of the barrel, then curled his hand around the walnut stock and lifted it out. He sighted down the length at Sally, and she shuddered. "Put it away, you're going to get us in trouble."
He smiled and set the gun reverently back where it belonged. He closed and latched the box, then sat with his hands resting on the top. He could almost feel Rafe in it.
Sally said, "Can you take that back to the orphanage with you?"
He shook his head. "I'll have to find someplace else."
"We'll keep it here. No, don't worry, no one will touch it. Everyone knows who it belongs to."
"Funny world."
"Huh?"
"I come out here, there's people who might want to beat me up, kill me or kidnap me into slavery. But no one will steal my gun. I go to the orphanage, I'm safe, but almost anyone there would steal it, including the priest. It's just a funny world."
"It is that," she agreed.

copyright by DragonKat, July 2002

Continue the story in Prelude, Part Five

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