Conned: A Bureau Story (The Bureau Book 6)

by Kim Fielding

  Despite Crespo’s easygoing manner and pedestrian discussion, there was something… odd about him. Thomas couldn’t put his finger on it. Maybe if he concentrated hard enough it would come to him, like a word he was struggling to remember. Or maybe he was only imagining the oddness.

  If Crespo truly was peculiar in some way, Thomas might have expected Abe to comment on it. But Abe remained uncharacteristically quiet, holding his glass with one hand and rubbing his temple with the fingers of the other.

  Crespo had paused his speech as if waiting for Thomas to process these thoughts. “So at the moment,” he continued, “I’m trying to cover almost all of Northern California with just a little bit of help, which is crazy. This place is crawling with weird shit.”

  Abe nodded his agreement but remained silent.

  “Abe France,” Crespo said, shaking his head slowly. “I’ve seen your show and it was remarkable. You’re really, really good. But the séance thing—real or a schtick?”

  “You were telling us why you’re here,” Thomas reminded him.

  “Right. Sorry. But like I said, someday soon I hope we can have a talk, Mr. France. Maybe after I get back from Tahoe.”

  It was his eyes, Thomas decided. It was hard to make out his irises, but they seemed to shift color, briefly flashing to hues not generally seen in humans: canary yellow, magenta, violet, silver. Thomas had no idea what that meant and decided not to remark on it.

  “So,” Crespo said, winking as if he and Thomas were in on some joke, “why I’m here now. There’s a magic thingamabob. An amulet. I think you know about it already. It’s bad news, okay? The kind of thing that oughtta be locked away somewhere safe. But everyone wants it, and it’s been all around the world. Landed in San Francisco less than two weeks ago aboard the President Pierce. Fellow who brought it here turned up dead two days later at a whorehouse in Becket Alley.”

  Four, Thomas thought. That makes four. “Where’s the amulet now?”

  Crespo spread his arms. “No idea. Look. I know that Townsend is mixed up in this and that he hired you. He’s probably offering you a lotta dough for the thing. But the Bureau would really like to see it tucked away somewhere safe. I don’t really have time to track it down, and I dunno that I’d have more luck than you at it. So I’m gonna ask you real nice: if you find it, let me know.” He took a business card from his pocket and set it on the desk. “Somebody’ll answer that number twenty-four hours a day.”

  Thomas didn’t take the card. “Why would I do that?”

  “’Cause we’re the good guys?” Crespo laughed at his own humor, then his expression became more serious. “I could threaten you, I guess, but I don’t think you’re the type who reacts well to threats. I hear the last fellows who tried it are sleeping six feet under in Boston now.”

  Abe snorted as if this amused him, and Crespo gave him a quick glance before returning his attention to Thomas. “How about if I appeal to your better nature?”

  “I don’t have one.”

  “Dunno about that. The world will be a safer place if that amulet stays out of Townsend’s hands—and out of the hands of every other bastard who wants it. So there’s that. Also, we can pay you. Not as much as Townsend probably, but not pennies either. And there’s another thing.” He leaned forward again. “I think you oughtta consider joining us.”

  “Joining you?”

  “Signing on with the Bureau. Steady pay, interesting work, some travel. Sometimes you get to fight dragons.” When he smiled, his teeth looked very sharp.

  “I work alone.”

  Crespo gave Abe a significant look before shrugging. “Like I said, the Bureau gives its agents a lotta leeway. But you can think on it. You too,” he said to Abe, who appeared startled. Then Crespo stood and set his empty glass on the desk. “Thanks for wetting my whistle.” He clapped his hat on his head and started for the door.

  “What if I keep the amulet?” Thomas asked.

  Crespo swung around, grinning. “Then I guess I’ll come after you next.” His eyes went crimson for a split second. Then he was gone.

  16

  Abe reached for the bottle of rum. “That was interesting.”

  “You know about the Bureau?”

  “I’ve heard a few things.”

  “From?”

  “Magicians. Spiritualists. People like me.”

  Thomas barked a laugh. “There are no people like you.”

  Abe wasn’t sure how to take that, so he let it go. “Sometimes the Bureau comes nosing around. There was a fellow—he was Konigsmann until the war, and after he became Carlyle the Great. He’d do a hypnosis bit that wasn’t bad. But then a couple of the fellows he’d had on stage stole dough from their employers, and they weren’t the type to steal.”

  “Everyone’s the type to steal,” Thomas scoffed.

  “Would you?”

  “If I was desperate enough.”

  “Well”—Abe gulped some rum—“these people weren’t desperate. And Carlyle was spending a lot bigger than he should have.”

  “He was… bewitching them into stealing for him?”

  “Maybe. Anyway, from what I hear, the Bureau went around asking questions—and Carlyle disappeared. Nobody heard from him again.”

  No great loss, Abe had thought at the time. Carlyle was a mean bastard who’d steal other illusionists’ tricks and who liked to cop a feel of his pretty female assistants. But Abe had been intrigued by the idea of the Bureau, as well as slightly wary. Since his scams stayed on the right side of the law, the Bureau never came after him. But Crespo had certainly known who he was, which was a little unsettling.

  “Do you think Crespo’s the murderer?” Abe asked.

  “I don’t know why he’d show his face to me if he was. I get a weird feeling from him. But I don’t think he’s the one I’m looking for.”

  “Hmm.” Abe had also sensed something odd, but although he was usually very good at reading people—he had to be—he couldn’t get anything from Crespo. There was an opaqueness to him, as if he were wearing a mask. “Are you going to give him the amulet?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “It’s what an honorable man would do.”

  Thomas’s lip curled. “I’m not honorable.”

  “Sure you are. I’ve seen it myself. Birdie says so too.”

  “Birdie!” Thomas snarled. “He wasn’t all that smart when he was alive. I doubt death has improved him. And why do you keep rubbing your head?”

  Abe jerked guiltily. He hadn’t realized he was doing it. “Headache. Too involved with Birdie yesterday and with Helen today. And I’m hungry. Let’s go have dinner.”

  “I’ve wasted too much time socializing already.” Thomas pulled out his notebook and stared at the pages, pretending Abe wasn’t there.

  Thomas was an intriguing man even while sitting motionless. Well, not truly motionless—his hands shook a little. It had grown dark outside, and the office lights cast Thomas’s face into stark brightness and deep shadow, like a poorly developed photograph. If Abe tried, he could see Thomas through Birdie’s memories: younger, looser, clad in a muddy uniform. Even then, though, Thomas’s eyes had been troubled, and he’d trusted almost no one.

  But Abe could understand why Birdie had set his eyes on Thomas, then set upon his body. Had eventually fallen in love. Thomas wasn’t just a handsome, well-made man, but also the type of man to anchor to, a solid island in the stormy seas of life. Even his hardness was attractive. Abe couldn’t abide a soft man.

  He wandered to Thomas’s side of the desk, and when Thomas still ignored him, knelt beside him and used the arms of the chair, swiveling Thomas to face him. He could smell Thomas now—cigarettes and soap and sweat. Just a few inhalations were enough to make Abe hard.

  “Don’t—” Thomas began.

  Abe was already unfastening Thomas’s trousers and reaching in to grab his growing stiffness. Thomas’s cock felt heavy and solid in his palm, the pulse rapid, the skin smooth. Maybe Thoma
s was going to protest again or even push him away, but Abe leaned forward and reverently kissed the crown, and Thomas groaned and spread his legs wide. His fingers threaded through Abe’s hair.

  Thomas tasted good, and when Abe swallowed him down, the fullness in his throat calmed him. Spirits never bothered him when he had sex. Nothing did. Sucking cock meant he could concentrate on one thing only, the urgency of the moment, the single-mindedness of his objective, the purity of his goals. He was good at it too. Knew how to make a man come fast and fierce or how to draw things out with sweet torture. Knew how to pull sweet blasphemies from a man’s mouth or make a man pull at Abe’s hair and thrust until Abe’s eyes watered and his lungs begged for air.

  “Sweet Jesus,” Thomas cried and then roughly pushed Abe hard enough that he fell onto his ass.

  But Abe was on his feet in a flash, and so was Thomas. And again Thomas was filling Abe’s mouth, this time with his tongue. He was just as desperate about it, gripping Abe’s shoulders and moaning when he could. It was as if Thomas were starving, as if nobody had ever kissed him before. The ferocity of it made Abe want to swoon.

  No time for that, though. Thomas fumbled at Abe’s waist until his trousers and underwear, like Thomas’s, pooled around his ankles. Then Thomas yanked off Abe’s suit coat and grabbed his ass hard.

  Abe tried to grasp Thomas’s cock, which stood trapped between them. “I want—”

  “I know what you want.” Growling, Thomas turned Abe and pushed him against the desk, pressing his chest to the wood with one hand splayed across his upper back. He kicked Abe’s feet apart as wide as the clothing allowed. “This will hurt.”

  “Yes.”

  The sound of spitting. A broad, rough finger intruding into Abe’s body. His hips rocking to impale himself more fully. “Yes,” he repeated, this time more roughly.

  The finger withdrew, making Abe cry out, but then Thomas spat again and pressed the head of his cock against Abe’s eager body. Into Abe’s eager body. Abe rested the side of his face on the desk and remained obediently in place, even as Thomas took his hand off Abe’s back and put both of them on Abe’s hips.

  One of the Bacardi bottles stood inches from Abe’s face; beyond that lay Crespo’s card, the words unreadable at this angle. He felt the smooth wood, both beneath his cheek and imprisoning his cock against his belly. There wasn’t enough friction to get him off, but that didn’t matter because Thomas filled him—gloriously, burningly—and the slap of Thomas’s balls against his was lovely. Every grunt and gasp from Thomas’s throat further fixed Abe to the here and now.

  This was life in its simplest, most unadulterated form.

  Thomas’s thrusts grew harder, and Abe had to clutch the edges of the desk to keep from sliding too far forward. He did his best to meet every plunge with a counter push, to drive Thomas as deeply as he could. The capped bottles shook, then toppled onto their sides, rattling in unison with the creaking of the desk and Thomas’s panting. Somewhere far away, a foghorn added to the symphony.

  “Abe!” Thomas roared before collapsing on top of him.

  That would have been enough—even though Thomas’s weight made it hard for Abe to breathe. But then Thomas suddenly stood, flipped Abe onto his back, and swooped in to take Abe’s cock into his mouth.

  Astonishment and pure pleasure made Abe climax almost immediately.

  And when he finally stood straight on shaky legs, Thomas seized his shoulders and kissed him. This time it was slow and tender and Thomas tasted of him, and again Abe wanted to swoon.

  It took a few minutes to straighten their appearance, but Abe’s hair was a lost cause until he got his hands on some Brilliantine. “Your outer door’s unlocked. What if Crespo had returned?”

  “Then he would have had a good show.” Thomas rolled and lit a cigarette with steady hands.

  They had a good dinner of oysters and steak, although Abe kept shifting uncomfortably in his chair. Every time he did, Thomas shot him a knowing grin. Abe couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Do you have séances tomorrow?” Thomas asked over a double slice of chocolate cake.

  “Canceled. I canceled the whole week, actually. All of my assistants are gone.”

  “So no income this week and you gave money to Rosie. Will that be a problem?”

  It was nice that his had occurred to Thomas, but Abe shook his head. “I can manage for a few weeks.”

  “After that?”

  “Maybe I’ll be dead,” Abe said lightly. “Then it won’t be an issue.”

  “You joke about dying.”

  Abe hadn’t exactly meant it as a joke. As far as he knew, he would be dead by the time he ran out of money. “Death has always waited just around the corner for me. Sooner or later we’ll run into each other.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather it be later?”

  The waiter appeared with the bill, saving Abe from the need to respond. He wasn’t sure of the answer. If someone had asked him that question a week ago, he might have been indifferent, but now that he’d met Thomas…. Well, if he allowed his thoughts to stray in that direction, they’d end up somewhere impossible.

  After Thomas paid the bill, they visited a couple of speakeasies frequented by magicians. Thomas sat quietly as Abe spoke to acquaintances and assessed whether they knew anything about the amulet or the murders. None did.

  A late-night rain began to fall—heavy cold drops that soaked Abe and Thomas despite their hats and overcoats. They stood under a shop awning while Thomas smoked. “Come to my house,” Abe said.

  “You need to sleep.”

  “I will. I’ll sleep better with you there, in fact.”

  Thomas tossed the butt away, its final glow arcing into the wet darkness. “I should go to my flat.”

  “Should is a stupid word. Who says you should?” Abe was fully prepared to out-argue him. Thomas might be bigger and stronger, but Abe knew how to talk his way into getting what he wanted, whether it be the admiration of an audience, the belief of a séance guest, or the company of a handsome man.

  “You imply I’ll keep you safe, but who’s to keep me safe from you?”

  Abe lifted his chin. “Do you think I’d harm you?”

  “I’m positive you will.”

  But when Thomas flagged down a taxi and Abe got in beside him, he didn’t object when Abe gave the driver his own address. Nothing was visible through the rain-streaked windows, and slick streets caused the driver to grip the steering wheel, his knuckles white. Abe had never learned to drive, and he wondered sometimes whether he’d enjoy it. Or whether he might suddenly jerk his arms and send the car head-on into another. He’d once met the spirit of a woman who’d died in an accident during the early days of automobiles and was convinced that motor vehicles were the devil’s work. She haunted a busy street corner in New York and exerted a gentle influence to keep careless pedestrians from being struck as they crossed. Abe hadn’t even tried to convince her to cross beyond the veil; she was doing too much good on this side.

  “I saw a monster once,” he said.

  Thomas, who’d apparently been lost in thought, turned to look at him. “What?”

  “I think it was a vampire.”

  “I have no idea what you’re going on about.”

  Abe loved it when he mystified Thomas. “Vampire. Like Dracula. This was in New York though. Two nights in a row I saw the same man at a saloon in the Bowery, very pale and creepy, and he was looking around the place like a hunter searching for prey. I mean, a lot of fellows were doing that—it was that sort of place—but he looked more interested in food than fucking. Each night he left with a different man. And each night, the cops found a corpse in the alley nearby. Papers said they were drained of blood.”

  Thomas gave an impatient huff. “Papers lie. And victims get drained of blood when they’re stabbed.”

  “They also get drained of blood when a vampire gets them.”

  Abe wasn’t alarmed by the idea that vampires existed. It was almost a r
elief, in fact, to know that the spirits and ghosts that haunted him weren’t the only weirdness in the world. There were vampires and dragons and whatever that Chinese thing was that Crespo had mentioned. And there was the Bureau, which tried to keep them orderly.

  Had Crespo been serious about that offer to join the Bureau? Maybe he’d only dropped the possibility as a joke, or as part of an enticement to get Thomas to give him the amulet. Surely the Bureau wouldn’t want someone like Abe.

  It was nice to daydream about it, though. Being a hero, almost.

  “What are you laughing about?” Thomas asked.

  “Stupidity.”

  “Mine?”

  “Mine.”

  The taxi stopped in front of Abe’s house, and Abe insisted on paying. He and Thomas rushed up the rain-drenched stairs, but Abe froze with the key in his hand.

  “We’re going to drown,” Thomas complained.

  But Abe barely heard him over the whisper of Birdie’s spirit, battering at the edges of his skull. “Leave! Quickly!” Birdie said.

  Jealous bastard.

  Abe got the door open and Thomas pushed impatiently past, barreling down the dark hallway toward the stairs.

  “Donne!”

  Thomas lunged sideways. Gunshots rang out loudly enough to deafen. And a bullet hit Abe with the force of a speeding truck.

  17

  After a brief pause and a some scrambling sounds, the hallway light switched on. The assailant’s brains were splattered over the far wall—a good thing, because it meant Thomas didn’t have to verify the bastard was truly dead. Of course there could be someone else in the house, so Thomas kept his gun in hand as he kicked and rolled the slumped corpse so he could see its face.

  “Fuck!” He kicked again when he saw who it was. Then he picked up the other gun and slipped it into his pocket. “You’ve a dead cop in your house, Abe. We need to go.”