The Gray Swan --- Teaser --- [Eli]

Prologue:
Hanlon’s Bad Morning


The coffee was bitter, but this early in the morning it didn’t matter. Hanlon just needed to be awake. Downing the rest of the cup, he tossed it in the trash and picked up a newspaper from the stack. As he read the headline, his fists closed around the edges of the paper, white-knuckled.

‘WHO REALLY RUNS THE CITY?’

On one side of the front page was a picture of the city mayor, taken at a recent press conference. On the opposite side, a police sketch.
He stared at the sketch, looking into the empty eyes staring back at him from the page.
Tommy Carelli.
That damn bastard, always one step ahead of them. One step ahead of him. He was just trying to make them look bad, now. The talk of the town, Boston’s personal legend. Depending on who you asked, Tommy Carelli was many things. He was a godsend and a demon. A businessman and death itself. The hand of karma and a downright madman. All of these descriptions had come from those who had met the man, or claimed to. And out of all of the terms that he’d heard, Hanlon’s personal favorite was ‘gentleman’. Gentleman, for crying out loud. The only thing Hanlon would ever call him was criminal. Murderer. Smuggler. Swindler.
Tall tales and gossip passed from ear to ear had shaped Carelli up to be a household name throughout the city, like some kind of exciting movie character. Some even rooted for him in his ‘epic war with city law enforcement’. But the fact still stood, the man was a criminal, and a criminal only. And criminals-
A glint of silver caught Hanlon’s eye, and he looked over the edge of the paper at the source. A boy, no more than fifteen, stood by the road, waiting for a gap in traffic. Looking at him for a moment, Hanlon determined that the glint must have come from his ring.
Wait.
That ring.
It couldn’t be.
It was.
Dropping the newspaper in the trash can, Hanlon started quickly toward the boy. “Hey, kid!” He called to him.
The boy started speaking before he turned around. “Call me ‘kid’ again, see what-“ He stopped short as he saw the cop approaching him. “Oh, officah. How a’ ya doin’ this fine day?” His accent was odd, like a mix of the local Boston dialogue and something else. Brooklyn, maybe. There was a kind of arrogance in that voice that grated on Hanlon.
As he got closer to the brat, he could see the embellished letter ‘C’ carved into the ring. No question now, this was one of Carelli’s boys. “I just want to ask you a few questions.” He assured him, trying his best to remain polite and calm rather than start yelling.
The kid gave him a blasé look but Hanlon could practically feel the sweat running down his brow. Guilty as could be. “Questions, eh? Sorry, pal, don’t think so. I don’t really have time fa this right now, so…” He shrugged, giving Hanlon a half smile and glancing at the street, no doubt to see if the traffic had thinned enough that he could make a dash for it.
“Well, you know what, pal, it isn’t really optional.” Reaching him, Hanlon reached out quickly and grabbed the boy’s wrist tightly.
The blade was in his face faster than he could have even thought of going for his pistol, the glinting tip a centimeter away from his eye. “You like my knife, son?” The kid was still using a normal conversation tone, with just a hint of malice. “Now, I’m only gonna say this once, so listen up, ‘kay? You don’t wanna fuck with me.” He seemed like he was about to lower the knife, then changed his mind. “And anothah thing, ya gotta not call me ‘kid’, alright? It’s disrespectful. I know this might be hahd fa you to believe, but last month, I turned twenty-five. Not. A kid.”
That certainly was hard to believe. The kid couldn’t be over five foot four.
Glancing down at his captured wrist, the boy continued. “Now. Ya gonna let go o’ my ahm, or is theah gonna be a problem?”
Like hell. Fuming from the blatant disrespect, Hanlon lurched the boy’s arm downward, successfully pulling the knife away from his face. Reaching to his hip, he could feel the sweet grip of the pistol as the sharp pain erupted in his hand. The blade went clean through, scraping the bone.
Hanlon let out a pained yelp as the boy yanked the blade out, instinctively pulling his hand from the other’s wrist. Free at last, the kid bolted while Hanlon clutched his wounded hand. By the time he regained his composure and grabbed his gun, the damn brat was gone.
 
-----

Chapter One:
Eli uses his charm in an attempt to get free drinks


Eli slid into his usual chair at the table by the window, looking out at the usual view of the harbor. Glancing around the room, a thin, older woman caught his eye. “Hey, Bets!” He called, a grin forming on his face.
She turned to face him, a look of fondness and dread crossing her face. “Morning, Eli.” She called back. “You’re paying for whatever you order.” She informed his preemptively.
“Oh, come on, ya can’t even spare a complimentary soda for ya favorite customah?” He gave her a charming smile. “Ya look lovely by the way.”
She gave him a ‘don’t even start’ look. “You know I can’t do that.” She said dryly. “It’s a miracle this place is still running even with paying customers.”
Eli gave her a clearly feigned look of disgust. “What would Guy say? He’d say ‘Betsy, ya can’t just let my baby boy dry out in the sun!’ Come on. Be a good sistah. Do what ya brothah would want.”
Betsy gave him a stern expression. “No free drinks. You know I need the money right now.”
Eli grinned at her. “Ah, I’m just messin’ with ya. I got money.”
As the woman disappeared to go about her work, Eli glanced at the newspaper on the table. The headline was followed by two pictures. One of the mayor, and one of an iffy police sketch. Not usually one to read the paper, he decided to make an exception. This could be interesting.

‘Boston’s most notorious gang strikes again, this time leaving police with the remains of a white male. The victim has been identified as “Iggy” by sources who have chosen to remain anonymous. The actual identity of the victim has yet to be determined. “Iggy” has also been recognized as a key member of the Vallones. The body was found submerged in Boston Harbor, tied to two cinderblocks.
The crime was most likely nothing more than an aspect of gang rivalry, but it has citizens in a panic nonetheless. With the bodies of Carelli’s enemies dotting the harbor, and Vallone’s piling up outside the police station, does anyone really feel safe? A recent poll states that, no, the majority of citizens populating a few mile radius of these areas are worried their own lives might be in danger.
Just this Tuesday, Mayor Stanley Potts held a press conference addressing these matters. His attempts to ease the public mind were met with a skeptical public, demanding to know just what our city government is doing to keep them safe from these dangerous criminals. This attitude led to accusations of poor organization and police incompetence due to the fact that both Carelli and Vallone still continue to elude police. The fact stands that Carelli has the town wrapped around his little finger both with his rumored citywide criminal operations, and the fear he has stricken into those who inhabit the city.’

Eli couldn’t stop the smile from crossing his lips. “They got that right.” He muttered to himself. Tossing the paper aside, he noticed the pain in his arm, along with the red stain on his sleeve. “Ugh.” The knife must’ve gone in too far when he’d plunged it into his captor’s hand. Grabbing one of the red cloth napkins from the table, he rolled up his sleeve and pressed the cloth to the wound. It didn’t seem very deep, at least, but his shirt was done for. The sleeve was sliced and bloody, and he wasn’t exactly a seamstress. Maybe Victoria could do salvage it, rather than Eli just throwing it in the trash.
Either way, he felt lucky. As the cop approached him, he’d taken the folding knife from his pocket and gotten it ready preemptively. Just in case. As reckless as he’d been, he’d come out of it alive.
Seeing Betsy coming toward the table, he hid the wounded limb under the table and smiled pleasantly at her. “Hey again!”
“Hey again, yourself.” She smiled and set down a bottle of Dr. Pepper and a smaller bottle of grenadine, along with a large beer glass. “Fifteen cents.”
Eli dropped the money into her open palm, keeping up his charming smile. “Thank you, Betsy.” He called after her innocently. When she was gone, he lifted his arm out from under the table and tended to it as best he could by tying the cloth around his arm over the wound. Satisfied with his work, he pulled his sleeve back down and dumped the contents of both bottles into the glass.
Sipping the concoction, Eli gazed out the window. That poor fucker wasn’t going to be able to use his hand again anytime soon. He regretted not taking a look at the guy’s badge while he’d had him at his mercy. Tommy always liked knowing just who it was that was after him at any given time. No matter. He’d know soon enough anyway. Tommy Carelli had a thousand eyes. At any given time, he could find out what was going on in every corner of the city; what Chip Vallone was up to, if the cops were getting close to any of his current operations, who was sniffing around what alley. Hell, he could probably tell you how many dogs in Boston were taking a shit if you asked him. So, in the scheme of things, Eli’s failure to check the cop’s identity would do little to no damage. But he would like to have helped out.
Finishing the drink, Eli stood up from the booth, dropping a twenty dollar bill on the table to cover the tip, the bloodstain on the seat, and the cloth napkin still wrapped around his arm. And a little extra to help out the business.