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The Magon Corporation

“. . . rulers of the darkness . . .”
Eph. 6.13

Dokey was furious that the gang’s raid on the liquor store had been a fiasco. He’d been in too much of panic himself to use the gun and had dropped it into a trash can in case the cops caught up with him later. Someone would have to pay for it.
Until they knew who the scapegoat would be, the gang members shuffled nervously, not daring to look Dokey in the face.
“Don’t blame us, Dokey,” said Iggy. “We wasn’t to know the old man out the back was calling the cops.”
“Whose fault was that?” demanded Dokey.
He looked at PK.
“You should of hit him, you gutless little punk. You could of got us all in the can.”
He closed his big fist and hit PK on the side of the head.
Dokey had a reputation as a street fighter but there was nothing scientific about his style of fighting. When he got mad with people, he just hit them. He was half a head taller than Iggy, who was the next biggest boy in the gang, and two stones heavier. Although only seventeen, he had the muscles of a man.
The slightly built, younger boy reeled under Dokey’s blow.
“You chicken-livered, freckle-faced, red-headed little creep.”
He punched PK again on the head.
PK looked stunned.
The gang fell back. Dokey was getting mad. They could tell from the way his face darkened, and the gleam that came into his eyes. This time he drew his arm back, to get more force into the punch.
“Preacher’s Kid!”

PK felt the fury coming on him, saw the red mist descending in front of his eyes.
His arm shot out and he caught Dokey on the jaw with a left hook. He followed with a right jab and another left hook to Dokey’s jaw.
“Don’t you call me that! Ever!”
He spat the words through clenched teeth.
Shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe what had happened, Dokey swung a punch at PK.
PK parried it with his right and caught Dokey with a left uppercut that snapped his head backwards. Dokey dropped his arms and swayed. His eyes were glazed
PK hit him again and this time Dokey went down. He staggered to his feet groggily.
PK hit him in the mouth, splitting his lip, and then on the nose, drawing more blood. He hit him between the eyes.
“Hey, PK,” said Iggy. “That’s enough.”
Bending down, PK hit Dokey in the mouth again, smashing two of his front teeth. His knuckles were smeared with Dokey’s blood. It splattered on his shirt. His hands were shaking, from the pain and from rage.
“Man,” said Iggy, “I think you’ve killed him.”
“If he calls me that again, I will kill him,” said PK. “I’ll kill anyone who calls me that.”
There was disbelief and fear on the gang’s faces.
“Yeah, PK, whatever you say,” said Iggy.
He turned to the gang.
“What are we gonna do with Dokey?”
“Leave him, Iggy. Let’s get outa here.”
Iggy turned up his ghetto blaster. It was playing “Lust to Kill” by the gang’s favourite rap group, Sons of Gorom. The gang knew the words by heart and snapped their fingers to the beat as they dispersed.

PK turned his back on the gang and walked down the alleyway into the street. His fury was subsiding. His head was ringing from Dokey’s punches and his hands ached but he held his shoulders back, his head high.
He’d walked a block and a half when he became aware of someone following him a few paces behind. He paused, his muscles tensed.
“PK.”
He turned.
He saw a slim man of medium height. He wore an light-coloured, expensive-looking suit and suede shoes. His shirt was dark silk, there was a diamond pin in his tie, and he wore a soft black hat. He had a swarthy complexion and a dark, neatly trimmed goatee.
“I saw what happened back there,” said the stranger. “That was quite a fight.”
His accent was foreign.
“May I introduce myself? My name is Mr Magon.”
He held out his hand. PK shook it, wincing slightly. He had a feeling he’d seen the man somewhere before.
“You have seen me before, PK,” said Mr Magon. “I’ve been watching you for a long time. I know a lot about you.”
“What do you know?” asked PK warily.
“Many things,” said Mr Magon. “I know what happened at the liquor store this afternoon. You and your friends were lucky. A few minutes later and the police would have caught you. It was a very clumsy attempt to steal a few dollars and a bottle of liquor.”
“Are you a cop?”
Mr Magon chuckled.
“On the contrary. I am . . . let’s just say a businessman.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you. I think I can find a place for you in my organisation.”
“Say . . . ,” said PK, drawing in his breath. “I know who you are, Mr Magon. You’re the . . . ”
He felt his arm caught in a vicelike grip.
Mr Magon looked at him and PK saw the warning. Two fierce points of anger burned coldly in Mr Magon’s eyes.
“That is a name you will never use in my presence. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Mr Magon. I’m sorry.”
Mr Magon relaxed and smiled.
He opened a gold cigar case, took out a small cigar and lit it with a diamond-studded lighter.
“There are certain rules in my organisation that people break at their own peril. You will learn what those rules are. I take it you are interested in my proposal.”
“I sure am, Mr Magon.”
“Good. I will take you to my office. We can talk in private there. But first, you need new clothes. Come with me.”
He led PK into Pirelli’s, an exclusive menswear store.
“Go into the washroom and clean yourself up. Then we will make you respectable.”
In the washroom, PK washed his hands and face and combed his hair cautiously. There was a lump on his head where Dokey had hit him. Looking in the mirror, he saw the blood on his shirt and realised he’d been lucky not to attract the attention of a cop.
Mr Magon was waiting for him in the store. He selected an expensive Italian silk shirt from a rack.
“Nice pattern,” he said, holding it up against PK. “Very classy.”
He chose a pair of slacks from another rack, a belt, a jacket, socks, underwear, shirt and shoes.
“Put these on. Leave your own clothes in the changing room.”
PK put the clothes on. He liked the new look. Mr Magon had style, that was for sure.
Mr Magon was waiting for him at the counter. There was no sign of a clerk and the cash register was open.
Mr Magon saw him looking at the banknotes.
“Help yourself, PK. I own the store.”
PK stuffed the wad of banknotes into his jacket pocket.
Back on the pavement, Mr Magon made a call from his cell phone. Within seconds, a black limousine pulled up at the kerb. A uniformed chauffeur sprang out and opened the door.
“Take us to the office, Giorgio.”
“Yes Mr Magon.”

PK leaned back in the limo seat. The upholstery was soft moulded leather, amazingly comfortable. There was a television and video, a stereo, a writing desk, even a liquor cabinet. The car seemed to glide, noiselessly, through the traffic.
“You like my limousine, I see,” said Mr Magon. “The President of America has a car just like this. It has half-inch steel inside the doors, bullet-proof glass and a steel plate underneath the floor. That should protect us pretty well, don’t you think Giorgio?”
“Yes Mr Magon.”
“By the way, this is PK. He will be working for me.”
“Glad to meet you, PK,” said Giorgio. “If there’s anywhere you want to go, just let me know. That’s what I’m here for.”
The limousine pulled up at the entrance to a high-rise building with the name Magon Tower set into the black marble in gold lettering. A uniformed attendant sprang forward to open the limo door for Mr Magon.
Inside the foyer, another attendant was waiting by the elevator doors.
“Welcome to the Magon Corporation,” said Mr Magon. “My office is on the top floor. But first, my casino might interest you.”
They caught an elevator to the casino. Dark-suited croupiers were waiting to usher them in. There were hostesses too, some extremely pretty ones, PK noticed.
“Good evening Mr Magon. Is there anything I can get you, sir?”
“Good evening, Raoul. Get some chips for PK.”
“How many, sir?”
“A thousand will do.”
“Very good, sir.”
“And get one of the girls to bring us some champagne. Two glasses.”
An attractive blonde brought them the champagne on a silver tray. She curtsied slightly and smiled at PK.
“Hi, there,” said PK, smiling back.
“Here are your chips, PK,” said Mr Magon. “The game is easy, just put them down on any number you like.”
“Number thirteen,” said PK.
The croupier spun the wheel.
“Dix-trois.”
PK sipped champagne, his eyes following the girl across the room.
“You’re in luck. Try again,” said Mr Magon.
“Thirteen,” said PK.
The croupier spun the wheel.
“Dix-trois.”
“Cash up his chips, Raoul,” said Mr Magon.
Raoul brought him the money, crisp wads of hundred dollars bills, on a silver platter.
PK stared, momentarily forgetting about the girl.
“Put them in your pocket, PK” said Mr Magon. “It’s time for us to have a talk.”

From the casino, they took a private elevator to the top floor of Magon Tower. Two big men in dark suits were waiting. PK noticed the bulges of the shoulder holsters under their jackets.
“I’m going into my office with PK,” said Mr Magon. “I don’t want to be disturbed.”
“Yes sir.”
Mr Magon sat down behind his desk. It was bare apart from a jotter pad, a pen holder and a globe of the world. He leaned back and lit a cigar.
“I know what you’re thinking, PK. You’re wondering why I’m offering you a chance to work for the Magon Corporation. Why I chose you rather than Dokey.”
“That’s right, Mr Magon.”
“Let me explain. You’re a PK . . . a Preacher’s Kid, right?”
“Yeah!”
“You don’t like being a PK do you?”
“I hate it!”
“You have red hair,” said Mr Magon. “And freckles. That makes it even tougher, does it not?”
“I hate them too,” said PK fiercely.
“And you’re left-handed.”
“Yeah!”
“That’s good. I will let you into a secret. I am a PK myself. My father was a businessman in the old country. He was very wealthy. He was a preacher too. He loved people to sing his praises and tell him what a big shot he was. But I knew what he was really like. A big nothing. I stood up to him, just like you did. My father threw me out of his house.
“I had to leave the old country. But I found a way to get back at him. My father had many people working for him, running his business empire. I persuaded them to work for me. It was not difficult – I paid them well. Little by little, I took my father’s business away from his control. He has nothing now, PK. I own it all and there is nothing he can do about it. Look out the window and tell me what you see.”
“Lots of buildings, Mr Magon.”
“That’s right, PK,” said Mr Magon. “You’re looking at banks, insurance companies, hotels, department stores, movie theatres, bars, restaurants, casinos, bath houses, night clubs. You name it, my employees control it. The Magon Corporation controls every institution in this country. And not just in the United States, PK. I operate in every country of the world.
“I will let you into a secret. All my top employees are PKs. You know why? Because they are rebels, and they have big chips on their shoulders, and they want to get even.
“I have plenty of work for them to do, PK. Working for me, they can get even with their fathers, get even with the cops, get even with society. I pay well. All the money you want and more. Think about it, PK. Fancy clothes, fast cars, liquor, girls . . . you like girls don’t you?”
“Yeah,” said PK, thinking of the hostess.
“You are interested in my proposal?”
“I’ll start whenever you want, Mr Magon.”
“There are certain conditions,” said Mr Magon. “There is a contract you will have to sign.”
“I’ll sign it, Mr Magon.”
“Good, I will have my secretary draw up a copy with your name on it. You will need to sign it in blood. It is a custom of the Old Country. A little prick of the finger, that’s all. Nothing to worry about. But first, PK, there is a favour I need. You are the only person who can help me.”
Mr Magon went to the window and looked out.
“There is a smart alec cop who has been causing trouble for the Magon Corporation. Normally the police give me no problems. Most of them are on my payroll. This cop is different. Do you know Sergeant Troy Goddard?”
“I know him.”
“As well as being a cop, he is a preacher. That is why I want him stopped. Can you use a gun?”
“You bet I can, Mr Magon.”
“I do not want any mistakes, PK. I will have Giorgio take you to the range for some practice. Then we will go down town and you can take care of Sergeant Troy Goddard for me.”

The limousine pulled up at the alleyway where the gang had gathered earlier that afternoon.
“Remember, PK,” said Giorgio, “two hands on the gun, like I showed you. Get him in your sights and squeeze the trigger – don’t jerk it. When he goes down, count to five, then put another shot into him. Then two more into the head, up close. Drop the gun by the body and walk out the back way. We’ll wait for you there.”
“Put the gloves on, PK,” said Mr Magon, peeling open the packet of surgical gloves.
PK pulled the gloves on, holding them by the wrist as Giorgio had shown him earlier.
“Remember, Dokey’s gun is in the trash can where he left it, under the newspaper. His finger prints are all over it.”
Giorgio laughed.
“Dokey could go to the chair for this, Mr Magon.”
“He surely will,” said Mr Magon. “I’ll see to it myself.”

PK felt inside the trash can. The gun was under the newspaper, as Mr Magon had said. He counted four bullets in the magazine.
He waited in the doorway, his back pressed against the door. His head had begun to throb again. The brick wall opposite him seemed to ripple before his eyes.
Then the music started, the driving beat of the Sons of Gorom and “Lust to Kill”.

“Ah gotta gun and ah got the will
A pig in my sights ah’m goin’ to kill . . .”
Sergeant Goddard had entered the alley. PK heard the voice coming through his radio.
“It could be the red-headed kid, Troy . . . he’s been seen acting weird.”
“I’ll check it out,” said Sergeant Goddard.
PK watched the broad shoulders and back of the sergeant as he passed the doorway and entered the yard.
“Hold it right there. I’ve got a gun. Get your hands up.”
“What in . . . ”
“Turn round. Keep your hands up. Back up against the wall.”
“Hey there,” said Sergeant Goddard. “Take it easy, son. Put the gun down and let’s have a talk.”
“I’m done with talking. All I ever get is talking.”
He raised the gun, two hands on it as Giorgio had shown him.
“Just a moment,” said Sergeant Goddard. “I know you, don’t I? You’re the one they call PK.”
“Yeah, I’m PK. What of it?”
“I know your dad, PK. Bob Clement is a fine man, a fine preacher. I respect him greatly. I know your mom Darlene, too. They’re worried about you, PK. A lot of folks are. They’ve been looking for you all afternoon.”
“I’ve been busy. Keep your hands up, cop.”
“PK, are you in some kind of trouble? You’ve got blood over your shirt. And on your hands. Have you been in a fight?”
“It was Dokey. I beat him up.”
“You’re the guy who put Dokey in hospital?”
“Yeah.”
Sergeant Goddard shook his head in amazement.
“Well, if anyone deserved it, it’s Dokey. Is that Dokey’s gun you’ve got there?”
“Yeah.”
“Listen PK,” said Sergeant Goddard, “I’ve got to speak seriously. You and your friends are on the road to real trouble. You pull that trigger and it’s a one-way trip to the state penitentiary and maybe the electric chair. Your prints are all over the gun.”
“Not my prints,” said PK. “I got gloves on, see.”
He dropped his gaze for a moment to his hands. There were no surgical gloves. Just dried blood. And dried blood on his shirt. A white tee-shirt with the Soms of Gorom logo. Not Italian silk.
“PK, something tells me you’ve been set up for this. Who was it?”
“I work for Mr Magon. He’s the boss of the Magon Corporation.”
“Magon?” said Sergeant Goddard. “I know Magon. That isn’t his real name, PK. He’s a liar and a murderer from way back. He’s got a lot of young fellows round here working for him. Offers them a job, tells them someone else will take the rap for doing his dirty work. There’s always some sucker who falls for it.
“Listen, PK. I’m going to give you a chance. Drop the gun on the ground and I’ll forget what happened here this afternoon. Maybe it’s for your father’s sake. Maybe it’s because a guy who can thrash Dokey is worth saving. Drop the gun, PK. In the name of God, drop it!”
The gun clattered onto the pavement..
Sergeant Goddard lowered his hands. He wiped his brow and picked up the gun. He checked it. The safety catch was on.
“PK, have you ever used a gun before?”
“No, Sergeant Goddard.”
“I thought not.”
He put a hand on PK’s shoulder.
“You’ve done the right thing, son. Get in the patrol car. I’m going to take you home to your mom and dad. And we’ll get a doctor to check out that bump on your head.”