The Minor Deities of Doomed Men

Part Four

"A Beta Version Eternity"

Fredano Broco took great pride in the fact that his great-great-great grandfather fought alongside Simon Bolivar in the liberation of Columbia. His distinguished relative was at Bogota when Bolivar revealed his master plan of uniting all of South America. That Bolivar's dream quickly soured was history; that his noble relative switched allegiance to the ill-fated Urdaneta government was left unmentioned. Broco saw himself as a visionary in the Bolivar mold, with perhaps a touch of Al Capone. He had a flair for the dramatic, liked word games and spoke several different languages. Currently, at the age 65, he was studying Mandarin Chinese.

Above all else, Broco was a businessman. Business was about profits. Let others worry about morality; there was no money in it. Cocaine was a product like any other. It had always brought in money, but it didn't really explode into a billion dollar industry until the Reagan White House. Crack cocaine was much cheaper to produce and it was the cash crop the CIA demanded to support the Contras. The CIA frequently used the illegal drug trade to create quick cash. From Viet Nam, to Afghanistan to Kosovo, all insurgent forces favored by the US were supplied by drug money. While Mrs Reagan was scolding a nation to "Just Say No," her husband's administration was unloading crack into America's inner cities. It was one of the greatest jokes in the drug world.

The current feverish, infantile Plan Columbia had indeed suppressed a lot of the cocaine production in Columbia, driving up the street price. And Broco's Peruvian coca fields were now making more money than ever. Nothing favored the illegal drug industry more than America's War on Drugs. Broco fully expected the next four years to be highly profitable indeed.

But two bits of news from faraway Gotham reminded him that not everything was running smoothly. One of the Vespucci's had lost a son and another son was injured and the blame was being placed upon his East Coast division, Sangria Azul. The Vespucci family was a throw back to the Black Hand. Extortion, arson, bootleg whiskey, blackmail and union fixing had made them strong. But the docks were no longer so tightly unionized, scandal was embraced instead of hidden and their flimsy hold on the heroin trade, something old man Vincent Vespucci barely understood, was no match for the hunger for cocaine. Broco knew his men had not broken the truce; years ago he had learned that the best murder weapon of all were the police. The police not only killed for you willingly, they helped keep the streets clear of independent dealers and jackrabbit operations. Broco was a capitalist who knew that only the strong survive. Sooner or later old man Vespucci and his noisome family would have to be swept aside. In the meantime, it might be easier to appease Vespucci honor by offering up a sacrificial lamb, especially in light of the other news from Gotham - the Carnival was in town.

***

Plasmus hated pretty boys and compared to him, everybody was a pretty boy. His skin was hot poison, a steaming quivering disease of anger and hate. The only pleasure left to him was in giving out pain. The man had fallen and dragged the woman down with him. The man sat there on the sidewalk, stupid with fear and Plasmus reached forth to destroy him.

And he was struck with such great force, that found himself suddenly in the street. Plasmus looked up. Standing by the man and woman was a yellow creature with savage clawed hands and glowing red eyes.

"Etrigan is here to reclaim the tool of Merlin!" the demon shouted. Already, Jinx from her spot in the air was directing her green flames at the creature. Hougan had grabbed the woman's hair was pulling her to her feet. Plasmus bellowed his rage and charged at Etrigan.

The speed of the demon was incredible, in one fluid motion, he bashed Hougan in the face causing him to drop woman and dodged Plasmus' head long attack. The demon seemed uninterested in the attack from Jinx. The blind man in white snarled and hid his face from the demon as if worried he would be recognized.

Constantine snapped out of the fog in his head. He caught Victoria Powerstone as she fell

from Hougan's grasp. "Get us out of here!" he hissed into ear. "Think of somewhere safe! The beach. The beach!" To the surprise of all, Victoria and Constantine vanished.

"I'll send you to hell!" Plasmus shouted, getting to his feet again. "I'll burn you to ashes!"

The demon laughed. "Do you really want to see the fires of hell? Do you really think you fully understand pain and suffering? I think not! But I'm a willing teacher!"

Jinx shuddered as she heard Plasmus screaming. Plasmus who did not feel anything was screaming in pain. And then both Plasmus and the demon were gone. Their plan that seemed so flawless had fallen apart in a matter of seconds. But such powerful adversaries made her realize the Thought Stone was all the more desirable.

Hougan, his nose bleeding looked up at her in astonishment. "What do we do now?"

"You follow me," said the blind man as he emerged from the shadows. "The demon will return shortly. We must flee!"

"Follow a blind man?" Jinx scoffed. "I think not."

"Then remain here to be slaughtered like a pig," the blind man said. His face was turned towards her and filled with such hate and anger it made even her balk. "Quickly now!" The blind man moved with a rapid ease. Hurrying, certainly, but not in a panic. Hougan, who often claimed to be a master of men, tagged along like a faithful dog. Since Jinx was unprepared for their plan failing, she also followed, flying several feet in above them both. The blind one interested her. She realized he must be the dreaded Mr E, the time walker, who was said could not be killed. It was something she would have to put to the test later. All in good time. First and foremost she had to get her hands upon the Stone.

***

Constantine lay on his belly, moving his hands through the sand. The light of the moon was diluted by the lights of the city and the sand looked blue in the shadows of night. Cold, soft.

Hot, hard. The slow moving waves of the harbor. A distant tug fighting the current with a laboring motor. A car horn from the street. The lazy clanging bell of a warning buoy, far away.

Constantine took a deep breath, sucking it all in. The salt, the rot, the smog, the ten thousand smells of civilization and the constant perfume of the sea. He rolled over to his back and exhaled.

"Are you okay?" Victoria asked, gently touching his check.

Constantine laughed. "Am I okay? How stupid can you be?"

Victoria's hand retreated to her lap. "I didn't know any of those freaks!" she said defensively.

"Ow!, damn." Constantine muttered. "What did you do to my head?" He sat up tenderly, as if nursing a massive headache. "You yanks lack poetry, did you know that? You have no sense of proportion. It's all or nothing with you, all the time. No looking, all leaping. Ow! What did you do to my head?"

"I'm sorry," Victoria said softly, not sure what else to do.

"I'm sure you are," Constantine replied, staring at his shoes. "And I'm sure it would be a right good apology too, and you'd mean it and you'd go ahead and do it again. You're a selfish

little fool; we've got that much in common. But you're playing with things you can't understand

because they can't be understood. It's outside logic, get me? But it has a logic of its own."

"What are you talking about?" Victoria said.

"I'm talking about the goddamn bloody stone, you stupid bitch!" Constantine shouted at her with unexpected fury. "I'm talking about you having the power to rip the bleeding planet apart into tiny little pieces, you empty headed cow!"

Victoria's eyes filled with tears, more out of confused and hurt feelings than out of fear.

"Oy! I'm sorry, love, really I am," Constantine sagged back to the sand. "You messed up the chemicals in me head. Made me love you The brain's not the best place in the world to be playing, mine especially. And now my cover's blown, such as it is. That's what I get from too much TV and not enough time reading. I should have expected something, but you've thrown us all for a loop, dear."

"You know about the wish-come-true?" Victoria said, calmly.

"Oh, just about everybody in the magic kingdom knows about it. Wish-come-true is a good name for it, by the way. But there's a price. There's always a price to pay." Constantine sat back up. "Yeah. I came all the way from Merry Old England to get the stone from you. Those other goons who jumped us are also after the stone. There's bound to be one or two or even a dozen more out there. You're playing in the Great Game, and you don't have a rule book. I know you're not going to believe me, but you've got to give me the stone. Now." He held out his hand.

"But it's mine! I need it," Victoria hissed, moving away from him. "This is worth millions!"

"Money is the least of your worries, pet. I can get you to safety, those other blokes will kill you." Constantine stood up. "This is tricky stuff, even for an expert to use."

"Like you, I suppose?" Victoria laughed scornfully. She stood up and backed away from him. Constantine got to his feet, moving gently, carefully.

"I'm skilled enough to know your wish-come-true has got to be boxed away." Constantine took a step forward, arms at his sides. "You don't realize how dangerous it is."

"Bull! That's bull!" Victoria shouted. "I can have whatever I want, and I want it all. I'm not giving it away, not now, not ever! I'm making a deal that will give me more money than a punk like you would ever see in a million years!"

"Just hear me out, okay?" Constantine paused and frowned. "What deal? What do mean you made a deal? Why didn't you wish to win the lottery? Wouldn't have that been easier?"

Victoria's eyes widened for a moment. "Just shut up," she shouted and vanished.

"Damnit!" Constantine kicked the sand in impotent fury. He swore again. On the plus side, she hadn't buried him up to his eyeballs in the sand. That gave him a thought. He bent down and grabbed two handfuls of sand and dumped them into the pockets of his coat. Insect repellant.

Why hadn't she wished for the lottery? It was one of the most common, mundane wishes in any place where a lottery was held. Someone dull enough to come up with a horrible alias like "Victoria Powerstone" must have spent hours dreaming about a lottery win. But the lottery had clearly never occurred to her. Why not? Unless...

"Oh no," Constantine muttered to himself. Why hadn't he seen it earlier? He hurried toward the city, hoping he would be in time and knowing in his heart he was already far too late.

***

"I'm asking you to put a price tag on it," Diego Klaus said. "That's all. Nothing more.

Why does this have to be difficult?"

"Seems easy enough of a question to me," Ryan Osoda said. He had showered and was in a clean suit, but still felt a need to go back to his apartment, shower again and get royally drunk.

He looked at the diamond, roughly the size of a softball, sitting on the work table of Swaxbee's

jewelry store.

Swaxbee frowned. The diamond had returned to him in a most unsavory manner. Trying to explain to these gorillas that the damn diamond was unnatural in its size and perfection and thus highly suspect and essentially worthless would be a waste of time and possibly lead to other difficulties. But word of the diamond had spread, as not all jeweler's were as tight-lipped as Swaxbee. He had warned the young couple that a diamond of this size would most likely have name and it had apparently found one; ' BFD' for 'Big Fat Diamond,' although not everyone used the word 'Fat.' Swaxbee didn't want to think of what happened to the young couple who had first shown him this rock and his main goal in life right now was to get rid of the two cops.

"Please, " he said. "You have to understand. If you could find a buyer..." He rubbed his nose. Why not tell them something close to the truth? "If you could find a buyer, this diamond would fetch anywhere between... eighty and two hundred and fifty million dollars."

Klaus let out an insane little giggle. Still giggling he reached forward and wrapped up the diamond again. "Now that didn't hurt, did it?" They left the jeweler to think about what might have hurt if they felt so inclined and with a needless warning not to say anything to anybody. Who did they think they were kidding? Half of Gotham must know they had it.

Wearing neon signs might have been less subtle. Swaxbee was relieved to be rid of them and under his breath he mouthed a silent curse.

"Eighty to two hundred and fifty million dollars," Klaus said giggling in the car. "Let's round it out and call it I don't know, say, one hundred and seventy million." He giggled again.

"Who's got that kind of scratch?" Osoda said grumpily, turning the car in slow, lazy left onto Canal Street.

"Who else?" Klaus said smiling. "The Sangria Azul. Unless maybe you think Bruce Wayne wants to buy it? Oh no, I think owning the world's largest, most perfect diamond is something that the Sangria Azul might go for. Make a hell of a pinky ring, don't you think?" Klaus laughed and laughed at his joke. And even Osoda grinned a little.

***

Bad Grit was in the back booth of the Powder Keg Inn. His hand was infected. Whatever hair gel Marty had used had gotten into his wound which was now inflamed. His hand hurt more than ever before. Someone suddenly slid into the booth across from him. Startled, Bad Grit looked up, ready to fight, sore hand or not. Instead he looked puzzled.

"Tinkov?" He whispered. "But I thought --"

"My death was greatly exaggerated," Tinkov said smiling. "And yours as well, I see."

"But how did you get here?" Bad Grit, a skilled warrior of both weapons and lies, did not believe in chance meetings. Nothing was ever that simple.

"Much the same as you, I suspect. Boat, train and automobile. The American boarder is easier to cross than they'd like to believe, especially from the North." He smiled again. "What's wrong with your hand?"

"Muggers," Bad Grit said with a weary smile. "Shot through the hand. But I killed them both."

"Certainly," Tinkov said. "You should have that looked at."

"My...insurance is not up to date," Bad Grit said ruefully.

"Listen," Tinkov's voice dropped even lower. "I am Carnival now."

Bad Grit's eyes flickered, but he betrayed no emotion at this news.

"We could use a man of your talents. One or two handed." Tinkov said.

Bad Grit was unsure of what to say. That the Carnival happened to be in Gotham and that Tinkov, the butcher of the Libinka mines, would happen to turn up in his booth was stretching things too far. There had to be a darker force at work.

"Gotham is great town," Tinkov said, raising his voice again. "You can find anything here, if you know where to look." His voice dropped again. "Even a witch."

Bad Grit again betrayed no emotion. It wasn't a dark force at work at all, but a Devine one. He smiled, ever so slightly. "Tell me more."

***

Michael "Thrill Ride" Carroll, 39, kicked out of the IRA for being too violent in 1983, recruited into the Carnival June-July 1991. Wanted for kidnaping, murder and arson. Last known photo August 23, 1993.

Ali Fuad AKA Mahomet Ali Foad AKA Allen Frank AKA Frank "Magic Act" Allen, 37, skilled in disguise and languages, rumored to have embezzled several million from Usama bin Ladin, recruited into the Carnival 1988, but possible involvement dates back to 1979 at the age of 15. "The Bill Gates of Terrorism" TIME article Oct, 15 1994, (enclosed). Suspect in several murders targeting policewomen in Europe. Wanted for questioning. Last known photos Oct 15, 1994 as Mahomet Ali Foad June 20, 1990 as Allen Frank.

Segrio "Fun House" Tinkov, 38, wanted for war crimes in Kosovo, accused of killing 250 men, women and children trapped in the Libinka mines with napalm. Recruited into the Carnival 2000. No known photo.

USA contact agent: John Wayne "Freak Show" Martin, 27, former member of Aryan Nation, former member of Knights of Truth, removed from Navy training after failing psychological exam, failed admission exam for San Palo CA Police Department. Recruited into the Carnival Feb-March 2001. Wanted for questioning as "John Doe No. 2" (unconfirmed) Last known photo from high school yearbook, Jefferson High, Columbus, Ohio, 1989.

The Carnival appears to be a terrorist group without any ideological frame; it is destruction for the sake of destruction, but it should be noted they are willing to die for their "cause." (See inserts) Unclear origins but a possible splinter group from The League of Assassins. Leader unknown. Base of Operations is nomadic. Main source of money appears to be bank robbery and ransom payments. Unlike other criminal organizations, the Carnival has no apparent ties to any illegal drug activity, but that is mainly speculation. The size and force of the Carnival remains unclear. The four members of the Carnival rumored to be in Gotham now are after an unspecified piece of military hardware. That "Magic Act" is with them suggests something out of the ordinary and/or very expensive. It appears the Carnival would like to become better noticed.

Batman dropped the report. Some things never change. If you wanted to make it into the "big time" of criminal activity, sooner or later you had to take your act to Gotham. But if they were in town strictly to shop, that narrowed the range down considerably. Plasma weapons were good for cutting out bank vaults, but not necessarily something an organization would risk it's top money man for. Biologicals, given Gotham's recent history, weren't necessarily something that would get a group noticed, and sadly, they were fairly cheap to make. Fortunately, the TIME article made everything crystal clear.

"The future of terrorism," Mohamet Ali Foad told TIME, "will be nuclear. It is only a matter of money, not engineering."

And whether or not Gotham was the target for a nuclear terrorist act, the most likely escape or transport route would be by sea. As a superstitious and cowardly lot, the criminals would be somewhere near the water front. Batman planned on stopping the Carnival before they got their act together.

***

Life was unfair. His brother, dead. Mr Rip, dead. A pair of bullet wounds in the shoulder, and a nasty scar still hidden by bandages on his head. A clean shaven head. All of his wonderful hair was gone. Shaved off while the team of "doctors" worked on him while he was unconscious. It was enough to make a grown man cry.

But Dino Perrino wasn't about to cry. Not with Uncle Vincent in the room.

"So. You really didn't recognize anyone in the police blotter?" Uncle Vincent said for the third time. It was getting harder and harder to tell if Uncle Vincent had lost most of his hearing or was starting to lose his marbles.

"No. But you know, they all look the same to me." Dino said, smiling weakly.

"Funny man! You want to tell jokes now?" Uncle Vincent said, scowling. He looked like he was going to spit something unpleasant on the hospital floor. Instead he said; "The Sangria Azul has already come forward. They say the hit was done by some goons from one of those metamphetamine kitchens. Some street gang. The Crows. You know them?"

"The Crows! Yeah! It could have been them!" Dino said. "Yeah. Mr Rip and we had,

you know, taught one them a lesson only a day or two before. Damn! That was the night Bad Grit and disappeared! "

"Moron!" Uncle Vincent snarled. "It was the damn Sangria Azul. The Crows are an easy patsy. But this is what you're going to do. You're going to wipe out this kitchen, right?

I'm giving you Tony and Angel Eyes and you shut this Crow gang down forever, right? You then thank the Sangria Azul. You thank them in such a way they want to be your friend."

"I don't follow you, Uncle Vincent," Dino said.

"You do them a favor, stupid, in return for this bogus favor they're doing us. I want those bastards close when we stick the knife in, get me?"

"But Uncle, what kind of favor?"

Uncle Vincent grinned. "You're going to return some lost property to them. If my sources are correct, it's one hell of a big diamond."

"But Uncle Vincent..." Dino began.

"You're going to steal the diamond first, you idiot!" Vincent Vespucci snarled. What a moron! Just like his father.

***

Tom Taskil leaned against a wall in the shell of a building and burst into tears. His entire life had gone straight down the toilet and there was no way out as far as he could tell. He was now more certain than ever that Edith's wish-come-true was a cursed object, like that one Twilight Zone show about the monkey's hand or whatever. And since that was the case, Tom forgave her which only made him weep harder.

A hand touched his shoulder and Tom spun about in panic. Looking gently down at him was a Mexican with his black hair at crazy angles. The Mexican was smiling softly and his eyes held a demented light in them. The Mexican said something that Tom didn't understand, but the tone was gentle and full of concern.

Tom wiped his tears away and smiled weakly. "Sorry. Rough couple of days."

The Mexican said something again, then indicated with his hands he had some food to share. It suddenly dawned on Tom that he was starving. Tom stood up and fumbled a couple of dollars out of his pocket. "I'll gladly pay you, " Tom said.

Smiling, the Mexican snatched the money from Tom's hand and lead him to his little shelter. There were several paint cans that had been made into a workable stove, and Tom was struck not only by how good the cooking smelled, but how clean the living area was, much cleaner than the Mexican himself. The Mexican pointed to a spot for Tom to sit and he did. He wasn't sure why, but he felt he had found someone he could trust again.

"I'm Tom. Tom Taskil," Tom said pointing to himself.

The Mexican grinned broadly, looking crazier than ever. "Felipe Juarez," he said with a slight bow. Felipe felt himself blushing and was thankful the room was dimly lit. He now had a guide to the city. A guide who could lead him to his final journey and the promised glory of honor restored.

Next: Smaller Miracles