Intro--Their Story To Tell
I
The middle-aged redhead shifted in his seat nervously. It was not often that the owner of this home returned calls, and even less often that he extended invitations to his home…Especially people like him, a former reporter and current novelist. He checked the batteries in his tape recorded for the umpteenth time--yes, they worked, and yes, he had spares--and then went back to fidgeting.
Daniel Lee McConnell, New York Times bestseller and writer of over twenty true crime and history books, had come to Paradise to do what he apparently did best: write a book. There were no major books written about this city and its amazingly interesting, if bloody, history, and it shocked him that no one had taken advantage of such a literary goldmine. He had mentioned this place in his books in passing before (“Rumors were that he got his start in Paradise”, he once said of the former drug-lord Enrico Velazquez in the biography he had written about him), but had never done an exposé of it. His background as an investigative journalist helped him find trails to follow, and so far, they all led here, to this large mansion in the part of town that had once been called Eastern Heights.
A door opened suddenly near him, causing him to jump slightly.
“The Don will see you now,” a deep voice spoke from the direction of the newly opened door.
The mansion’s one ‘manservant’--one look at him would tell any reasonable person that this was a bodyguard, not a manservant--had just opened the door to what had to be the owner’s study. Bald, well-built, eyes obscured by sunglasses, and well-dressed, he had the look of a bouncer for a high-end nightclub. He was not the type of man McConnell wanted to anger, so he scrambled to his feet and entered the room that had just been revealed. The second he was in the room, the heavy wooden door (oak, perhaps) slammed shut behind him. His eyes took a second to adjust to the dimmer light.
The room was apparently a study, as there were bookshelves along one wall and two different desks, one being a somewhat modern-looking computer desk and the other being a large hand-carved monster that may well have belonged to a king at one point. The carpet was thick and was a rich crimson color. The velvety, deep crimson drapes were drawn on the windows save for a small slit in the very center, letting in just enough light to see by. Facing this light with his back to McConnell was an old man, ever-so-slightly overweight with a glaring bald spot amid silvery gray, thin hair that still held traces of the oily black it had once been. He was wearing an expensive robe that matched the color of the drapes and carpet, and it had a gold monogram on the back, a fancy and intricate D and V intertwining with one another. Without turning, the old man spoke with some kind of accent that McConnell couldn’t immediately place, and suspected that it was a local one.
“You must forgive me for not having you in sooner…I was in the middle of an important phone call, you see.”
“There’s no need to apologize to me, Mr. Vennicci…”
“Please, call me Dominik. Calling me ‘mister’ makes me think you see this as business, formal and impersonal.”
McConnell couldn’t believe his ears. Don Dominik Vennicci, a.k.a. ‘The Don’, former boss of the Paradise Mafia and one-time mayor of the city, was asking someone he’d only spoken to on the phone to call him by his first name. He further surprised McConnell when he continued talking, as if he were talking to an old friend and not a complete stranger.
“So, Danny--You don’t mind me calling you Danny, do you?--I was wondering when a famous writer would come here…I’ve read all your books, by the way. Superb. I even have an entire shelf dedicated to them right over there.”
“Th-thank you…”
“You’re very welcome, Danny. On the phone, you said you wanted to talk about the Union of Paradise and how it came about, yes?”
McConnell wasted no time in turning on the tape recorder. “Um, yes, that’s right.”
“To understand how the city was put back together, you have to understand why it was apart in the first place. You’ve done your homework--you always do with everything you write--so you know the early history of this town.”
“I know what the books say. I don’t know if it’s the truth…Since the history books were written by people who’d never been here before.”
“Why don’t you tell me what you know, so I don’t have to end up telling you things that don’t need telling?”
II
Paradise started out as a kind of trading post for the natives of the area. Back then, it was called a native name that meant “Where Death Met Life”, referring to it’s location on the ocean while being surrounded by some of the harshest desert and wasteland on the planet. The fishing was good, and there were trails that led from this trading post to others to the North and South, which would later be called North Beach (now a famous resort town) and Santo Arena (a place that, like Paradise once was, is overrun with crime, but not to the extent that Paradise was), respectively.
It wasn’t long before foreigners heard about the fishing spot, and soon they arrived from all over--North and South America, Europe, Africa, and Asia--to take advantage of it. The native peoples fled either North or South, and very, very few remain in Paradise even today. The trading post became a village, and then a town, and soon its name was changed to its modern one. Soon, a railroad was built to connect Paradise to its neighbors, but it was kind of far away from where the city was at the time. The arrival of the railroad signaled the beginning of the Division. New people began to arrive via the railroad. Those with money and purpose headed East, toward the sea and opportunity. Those with nothing--the poor, the ill, and the criminal--had no choice but to head West toward the desert.
Centuries later, Paradise was a large city, and the divisions of old had put the city into seven ‘boroughs’ or ‘areas’. The area bordering the ocean was the home of the fishing trade that had given the city its fame and fortune, and came to be known as The Docks. Going West, the next area was made of the homes of the wealthy fishing and railroad tycoons, as well as other rich and/or famous people. That area was called Eastern Heights, called so because the houses (‘mansions’ would be the more accurate term) were built on slight hills in case of a flood by hurricane. Continuing West, we come to the heart and soul of the city: Downtown Paradise. Complete with skyscrapers and busy, traffic-jammed streets, it is often compared to a miniature New York. Next is the home of the railroad tracks, long since out of service due to sabotage, called Middleton. As the name suggests, it is smack-dab in the center of Paradise, and the tracks themselves, in the middle of Middleton, cut the city in two. Once out of Middleton, one finds themselves in Grid City, an area of rundown apartment building with grid-like streets. Still going West, the next area is known only as The Slums. This area is very filthy and crawling with vermin and criminals. And last, continuing on until the desert itself, is the area known by several names. Some call it the Slums of the Slums. The locals call it The Slums2, or The Slums Squared. This is the worst of the worst--there are people without electricity, and almost no one has running water.
The people of Eastern Paradise tend to look down upon those from Western Paradise as bums, prostitutes, and thieves, while Westerners tend to be suspicious of Easterners, and hold the opinion that they are stuck-up and snotty. Slummers, as people from The Slums or Slums2 are called, are particularly suspicious of government officials, especially law enforcement.
Why nothing was done to improve conditions in the West is a topic of hot debate among historians, with theories ranging from pressure from gangs to politicians just not caring about the Western half of their city.
III
“And that’s all I know,” McConnell finished, slightly winded from all that talking.
Finally the Don turned to face him. His face was leathery and gave away that he was much, much older than he sounded. His hands were knobbed and curled with arthritis, and glinting on his right ring finger was a large red stone, most likely a garnet, set into a gold ring. “Well, it’s about right. That’s Old Paradise in a nutshell.”
“So, Dominik, about the Union…”
“Ah, yes, the Union. When I was a boy, I lived in Middleton, on the Western side of the Tracks”--that’s how he said that word, as if it needed capitalization--“and I had dreams of making it big in politics. My lifelong goal was to see the town unite, to tear down the barriers and get rid of the different names. Of course, the East didn’t want to listen to some Western punk. When I was twenty-three, so very long ago, I ran for office for the first time. Of course, the entire West, which had more than twice the population of the East, voted for me, and yet I lost. I lost because the election was rigged. The elections were always rigged so that the wealthy stayed in power.”
“You’re saying that a political machine was running the city?”
“Oh yes, with money and violence. I continued to try every time an election came up, for every possible position, and I began to learn how the machine worked. I realized that, perhaps, with even more money and more violence than the machine, one could beat it.”
“And…that’s how the Mafia came into being?”
“It started with just me and a few friends who held the same views as myself. We all happened to be of Italian descent, so someone made the joke that we were becoming a modern-day Mafia. The name stuck.”
“So…How, exactly, did the city become one? The history books say that it involved you and this group you had formed, a unit you called--”
“The Sweepers. Do you know why I called them that?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
“It’s because they can clean out a room like nothing else. One Sweeper can take out a house full of common thugs; I know this because I’ve ordered them to do so before. But yes, the Sweepers were instrumental in the Union.”
“Could you…be more specific?”
The old man smiled. “Ah, but that would be so very rude of me.”
McConnell was confused. “Rude?”
“You see, Danny, it is not my story to tell you. I was barely involved at all…I was merely the CEO, if you will. The success behind a business is usually not the CEO, it’s his employees. If you want the fullest story…You’ll have to go to the people who were involved.”
“You mean…The Sweepers?”
“The ones that are left, yes. It is THEIR story, after all. I have called all of them and told them you would be along. That was my ‘important call’ I mentioned earlier.”
“Oh…Well, I’m very grateful, Dominik. If you could tell me, I need--”
“Their names, right? Here.” The Don reached across his desk and handed McConnell a piece of stationary, adorned with the same monogram that was on his robe. Printed in elegant handwriting were several names and addresses. Some of them he knew--he saw the name of a famous boxer and the name of the current mayor of Paradise--but there were many he didn’t know. “Now, not all of them are Sweepers. Some of them are just people who were close to the story. Like Valdesh Artivle, for instance: he’s a weapon smith. You’ve probably seen his work and not known it. Then there’s Naomi-chan; you wouldn’t know her, but she’s rather famous in this region. She’s the lead singer of the band SIREN. They’re going on tour next month, so you came at the right time. They’re rather good, and if you want to understand the culture of the city more, which I’m sure you do, you should give them a listen. Some of their lyrics actually describe major events of the Union.”
“Really? I guess I’d better go buy some of their CD’s…Well, Dominik, I thank you for your help.” McConnell rose to leave, and he reached across the desk to shake the old man’s hand.
“It was my pleasure. One more thing, though…On the back of that piece of paper, there’s some dates and the name of the local newspaper, Ledger of Eden. Now it’s called the Paradise Journal. I suggest, before you talk to the Sweepers, that you go look up the incident that…got the ball rolling, if you will. The catalyst.”
The incident that began the chain of events that led to the Union…The history books mentioned no such event. McConnell would just have to break out the greatest investigative tool in the world: the library card.
IV
McConnell laid out the old newspapers in front of him on the table he had set up for himself. He decided to go with the oldest one first, dated about 25 years ago.
He almost did not want to believe what he was seeing. Perhaps what the Don was talking about was on another page? He had never said it was front-page news, after all.
After flipping through the paper, he realized that this wasn’t only the front page story, it was the ONLY story. Maybe something so horrific really had been the cause of something so wonderful…
McConnell was no stranger to violence, but something like this was beyond violent. It was more horrific than anything he could have ever imagined for one of his own works of fiction. But he had been warned by his colleges that he was taking on more than he thought he was, and he couldn’t quit with not even half of a story.
He steeled himself and returned to the front page. He supposed that the government here had no problems with the media showing crime scene photos, completely unedited, on the front page of newspapers and magazines. The headlines blared “COP SHOT, WIFE AND CHILDREN SLAUGHTERED IN THEIR HOME!!! Felix Gainesbourough of the PLED and his family were murdered last night!”
The first picture showed a man in his mid-to-late twenties with long brown hair and brown eyes, wearing nothing but boxers laying on his side in a pool of his own blood with a gun laying nearby. In his hand was a cell phone, which the inset picture showed a close up of. The local emergency number was shown on the screen. The caption stated, “Friends on the force state that this phone isn’t his! Could it be his killer’s?!?!” and “Medical examiners say it took over an hour for Felix to bleed to death from a small gunshot wound that would have left him paralyzed from the waist down!!”
McConnell read the article and learned that Felix had come downstairs to get a drink and had surprised the killers, and that there had been two assailants. One, a gunman, had shot Felix and later turned the closet where the Gainesbourough’s child and his best friend, who the Gainesbourough’s had pretty much adopted, were hiding into Swiss cheese. Thankfully, their bodies had been removed before the picture had been taken; McConnell didn’t think he could stand the sight of two bullet-riddled five-year-olds. He continued reading the article, and learned that the other assailant had carried a knife. His eyes found the picture of the master bedroom, and he immediately wanted to throw up.
The bed and the wall behind it were splattered in blood, while the blankets on the bed had completely soaked though. There was a young woman who had to at one point, before this butchery perhaps, been extremely beautiful laying in the middle of it. Her throat was slit from ear to ear, and her abdomen had countless stab wounds. In the article, though, the ME stated that her cause of death had been smothering, most likely by one of the pillows on the bed, and that the throat-slashing had been postmortem. The stab wounds, however, had been afflicted while she was alive. It was hard to tell because of all the blood, but apparently her panties had been cut and her night shirt lifted to expose her breasts. There was also evidence that she had been raped, brutally and repeatedly. This was all thought to be the work of the second assailant, the knife wielder. The photo showed one of the investigating cops reaching out and closing her eyes, a tender gesture that struck McConnell as odd.
Then again, she had been the wife of a cop. Surely other cops knew her. Either way, it wasn't important. Also in the photo was a knife, stuck in the wall behind the bed, as if someone had thrown it there on their way out. The caption read, "The suffering of young mother Pehoni Gainesbourough, whom friends and family called Penni, fills even the most seasoned detective with horror, grief, and rage. Will her killer be brought to justice?"
McConnell suddenly realized something. The name Gainesbourough…he’d seen it before. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the stationary. Sure enough, the first name on the page was a Rei Gainesbourough-Kaze. They had to be related to the victims--Gainesbourough couldn’t have been a common name…But why the second last name? There had to be a story behind it.
He’d seen enough. It was time to get back to interviewing. And, just to make sure, he’d start with the first name on the Don’s list.
V
McConnell pushed the saloon-style swinging doors to the bar (maybe ‘tavern’ was a better word) open. The Don’s list had given this address for Mr. Gainesbourough-Kaze, so this was his first stop.
When he had asked the locals for directions, they had at first been wary and suspicious. Once he had completed the address, they had lighted up. “Oh, The Wrong Side of the Tracks! You can’t be too bad if you drink there.”
He had learned that this bar had been built with pieces of buildings from Grid City, the Slums, and the Slums2, and that the owner was something of a celebrity for his drink-mixing abilities (as the owner was also the bartender) and something else that they were not so forthcoming with. McConnell guessed that he had to be one of the Sweepers.
A man in his early thirties with long light-brown hair in a ponytail was shelving bottles behind the bar when he stepped in, with his back to the door. Before McConnell could say a word, the man spoke first.
“The Don said to be expecting you, Mr. McConnell.”
“How did you know that I was him?”
“Simple. Everyone from around here knows that we are not open at this time of day, despite the fact that the ‘open’ sign is on.”
McConnell felt sheepish. “Um, well, perhaps I could come back at a better time…”
The man turned to face him. He had eyes that reminded McConnell of purple ice, but they showed no malice. “But that would be an awful waste of everyone’s time. You see, the Don called me, and I called everyone else. We figure that we did what we did as a group, and we may as well tell our story as one.”
As if on cue, McConnell heard the doors swing open, and people began to file in, the youngest ones being in their early twenties, and the oldest being a man that made the Don look like a spring chicken. They came in in silence and sat down at the bar and at the tables. The owner took his place next to a blond man with cerulean eyes who looked to be the same age.
McConnell was speechless. These people looked nothing like gangsters or tough guys…well, perhaps one or two did…but none of them struck him as being major criminals--in the end, that’s what the Sweepers were: murderers.
“I suppose we should get started…” the blond man said.
“Yes, we should…Mr. McConnell, please, have a seat,” the owner offered. McConnell sat at an empty table, got out a pad of notepaper and a pen and turned on his trusty tape recorder.
“Whenever you’re ready to begin, sirs and madams,” McConnell encouraged.
They all looked to the owner. “So, where DO we begin?” asked one of the young ones.
After a moment of thought and of looking between all of them, the bar's owner, Rei Gainesbourough-Kaze, leaned forward onto the table, his eyes glazed over as if he were daydreaming. When he spoke, it was like his voice came from another place, at another time.
“From my experience…The beginning is as good a place as any to start a tale.”
