by Anne Stuart
"How much did you have to threaten Mary for that one?" Rafferty asked dryly.
"No, she agrees. You know Mary, she's just a little nervous around you. You can't blame her…"
"I don't blame anyone," he said.
"Do you mind? Us naming him after you?" Billy asked, suddenly anxious.
"No, Billy. This way, at least something of me gets to stick around after Valentine's Day."
"What do you mean by that?"
Damn, he'd forgotten about Helen and her inquisitive little mind. He turned to her. "Just that I've got to get back to where I came from on Sunday. I never get to stay too long."
"And that suits you?"
"Let's just say I'm used to it. Billy, we need to celebrate!"
Billy was weaving slightly. "I need to sleep. They're moving Mary and James to a private room. I don't know how we' re going to afford it… "
"It's taken care of, Billy. Don't worry about it."
"Rafferty, are you sure?"
"I'm sure. I'm going to take Ms. Emerson home. She looks about as dead as you do. Give Mary my love, and tell her thanks."
"But I want to see the baby," Helen protested, as Rafferty caught her arm.
"You can see him tomorrow—"
"After waiting this long, I'm not leaving until I see him," Helen said stubbornly.
He knew she'd be stubborn, known it from the moment he met her. He turned back to Billy with a weary sigh. "Does this crazy hospital allow it?"
"I don't know," Billy said. "But I'll sneak you in."
He had to grant it to Mary Moretti—she was a fighter. She lay in the pristine white hospital bed, circles under her eyes that made her look like a raccoon, pale and exhausted and utterly radiant. She was even able to look at him without flinching, and he knew from experience just how hard she found that.
Helen was cooing and fussing over the wrinkly red scrap of humanity that the Morettis had just brought forth. Rafferty glanced toward his namesake, and the little creature let out an astonishing howl. "He's got your lungs, Billy," he said wryly. "And Mary's reactions."
"No," Mary said, obviously steeling herself. "We want to thank you, Rafferty. For everything you've done for Billy, but especially for right now. We want you to be little James's godfather."
"I always fancied myself a godfather," he murmured with a wry smile.
"Rafferty." Billy's voice carried its own warning, and Rafferty controlled his irreverence.
"I'd be honored, Mary. But you know I won't be here for his christening."
Mary, who knew exactly where and what he would be, nodded. "You'll be back next year. We'll do it then."
He smiled down at her, keeping his expression entirely devoid of mockery, and for the first time Mary didn't flinch. She smiled back, tentatively, and he nodded.
"I'm going out in the corridor," he said. "I don't think all this company's good for my little namesake. Say your goodbyes and leave the new family in peace, counselor."
"I'll be there in a minute," Helen said, still staring at the fussy little newborn with rapt adoration.
The corridor was deserted when he stepped out, closing the door silently behind him, deserted except for the white-coated orderly sorting things on the meal tray. The lights were turned down low, and it took Rafferty a moment to wonder why people would be having a meal at a little after one in the morning.
"Hi, there, Jamey." Drago's dark crazed eyes met his from across the cart. "Long time no see."
Jamey didn't move. He was blocking the doorway, and if he knew Helen Emerson, and in less than twenty-four hours he'd begun to know her very well, she wouldn't be making any haste to follow him. Particularly since he told her to. There was no need for him to panic.
"Drago," he said, acknowledging him.
"Morris," Drago corrected him. "You forget, I've got my new life. My happy, productive new life."
"I'm sorry about your wife."
Drago shoved the cart against the wall, the sound sharp and violent in the hushed hallway. "Why don't you just take a little walk, Jamey? I never liked you, but I'm willing to overlook that fact if you make yourself scarce. After all, we went through a lot together." Drago giggled, the sound boyish and eerie. "There's nothing like sharing a violent death to create a little male bonding. You heard about male bonding, Rafferty? Like in the beer commercials."
"Leave the Morettis alone, Drago."
"Oh, I will." He stepped away from the cart and advanced on Rafferty. He was a slight man, wiry, with a nervous, edgy way about him, always fidgeting, always moving. He looked no different than he had the morning of February 14, 1929. Except his eyes were a little madder. "It's your girlfriend I'm after. Don't go thinking she's finally going to be your salvation. I'd think after sixty-four years you would have given up on the notion of finding true love. Let's face it, Rafferty, you just aren't lovable." Drago giggled again.
Rafferty shrugged. "Apparently not. I'm not expecting redemption from Helen Emerson. I'm just trying to keep her safe."
"Forget it, pal." Drago rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. "There's nothing you can do to stop me. I'm going to finish her off. I have to. And as long as you're a modern-day zombie you can't do a thing. Here." He reached out his hand. He held a gun there, a snub-nosed, very lethal gun modern enough for Rafferty not to recognize the caliber. "Why don't you try it?"
"I'm not interested in games, Drago. Leave Ms. Emerson alone. Find some other game to play."
Drago shook his head slowly, his eyes darting over Rafferty's shoulder as the door behind him began to open. "Sorry, pal. I've got to finish the story. She's got to pay for what she did. I'm a man who never forgets what's owed him. You remember that."
Rafferty reached behind him, catching the door latch in his hand, pulling it tight. He remembered, all right. Drago had a capacity for violence and revenge that had made him a legend in a time when such stuff was ordinary. "Leave her alone, Drago. Or I'll…"
"You'll what, Rafferty?" Drago taunted. "There's nothing you can do to stop me, and you know it. As long as I'm alive and you're still in your own personal limbo you can't do a thing to me. You can't shoot me, stab me, I bet you can't even call the cops on me. I'll be there when you least expect it. You got in the way yesterday, but you won't always be around. Maybe I'll just wait till the fifteenth. She'll be all mournful, wondering why you just up and left her without a word, and she won't even know what hit her."
She was pulling at the door with all her strength, yanking at it, while he held on just as tightly. "Get the hell out of here, Drago."
"Why don't you let the little lady out, Jamey? Let her face her nemesis?"
"You're crazy…"
"That's nothing new, Jamey." Drago laughed softly. "I always was."
With a final jerk Helen hauled the door open, stumbling into the hallway and falling against Jamey. He caught her arms, shielding her with his body, shielding her from seeing and recognizing Drago, shielding her in case Drago decided to shoot after all.
"What's wrong with you, Rafferty?" she demanded, pulling away from him and tugging her hemline down. She glanced down the corridor, at the white-coated figure disappearing around a corner. "Was that the doctor? Is there something wrong with Mary or the baby?"
"That was just an orderly, trying to throw us out," he lied easily, casually. "It's starting to snow out there. Put your coat on, counselor, and I'll get you safely home." At least he hoped he could. A man determined to kill Helen Emerson would wait until her bodyguard made his forced exit on February 15. But Ricky Drago wasn't a sane man. And he didn't look like a man who was willing to wait much longer.
The car was where he'd left it, adorned with a parking ticket. Rafferty scooped it off the windshield and tore it in half before he opened the door for the uncharacteristically silent Ms. Emerson.
"I'm going to have to pay that ticket," she said with an attempt at severity that only sounded sad.
"Come on, counselor. A lady in your position should know h
ow to fix a parking ticket," he said, coming around and sliding into the driver's seat before she had a chance to realize she'd been outmaneuvered. "You should have learned that your first day in law school."
"We don't 'fix' tickets in Chicago, Rafferty," she snapped.
"Then things have changed even more than they seemed to." There was no sign of Drago when he pulled out in front of an oncoming ambulance, veering out of the way just in time, but he couldn't be too careful. He stomped on the gas, and the puny little engine jumped forward, sending them surging across the wide street, directly in the path of an oncoming truck. Helen shrieked and covered her face with her hands, Rafferty deftly missed the huge vehicle, and started a mad race down the broad, almost empty boulevard.
While she continued cowering he turned on the car radio, breathing a sigh of pleasure as the unexpected sound of hot jazz came over the speaker. Reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes, he plugged in the lighter, hoping to get a reaction out of his passenger.
She emerged long enough to glare at him. "No one's in labor right now, Rafferty," she pointed out. "You don't have to break the speed limit."
"I wondered when you were going to come up for air. Mind if I smoke?"
"Yes."
He'd already lit the cigarette, so he contented himself with smiling at her. No one was following them—for now Drago seemed willing to wait. "Cute baby," he said in a conversational tone of voice.
"Don't give me that, Rafferty, you barely looked at him," she said shrewdly. "I want the answers to a few questions, and I want them now."
"Do you? Am I being charged with a crime, officer?"
"Don't give me that, Rafferty. I want to know what's going on. Why did you keep me from coming out into the corridor? That was no orderly—I couldn't place him, but I know I've seen that man before. And what were all those veiled references to you leaving and coming back? Why can't you stay for the baby's christening? Why won't you come back for another year? How come you have thousands of dollars in cash in your wallet and no credit cards, no checking account…" A sudden horrifying thought struck her. "You do have a driver's license, don't you?"
"Yeah, I have one." It expired in 1931, but he didn't think she needed to hear that. She was already asking far too many questions as it was. And he was too busy trying to figure out how to avoid answering them, and how to finagle his way into her apartment for the rest of the night.
"Well, Rafferty? Are you going to give me any answers?"
"Lady," he said wearily, "you wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Why don't you try me?"
That was exactly what he was longing, dying to do. She didn't even realize the double entendre, she was so caught up in her questions and confusion. He pulled to an abrupt stop, turning off the car. He didn't know what to say to her. A thousand things crossed his mind, such as, "Look, lady, you're in danger," to telling her he was a man who'd been dead for sixty-four years. Neither of those stories would sit too well with the pragmatic Ms. Helen Emerson. He was better off with his usual lies.
"I've got a demanding job," he said. "I get to Chicago once a year, for no more than forty-eight hours, and then I'm gone. I didn't keep you from coming out into the corridor—the door must have been stuck. I don't know the orderly—he was just some guy. And the money in my wallet's relatively clean, if any money can be called clean. Look at it this way, Helen, you make your living off drugs and prostitution, the same as Al Capone does."
"Did," she corrected sharply. "And he made his money trafficking in those crimes, in human misery."
"And you make your money trying to stop them. Let's face it, without organized crime you'd be out of a job and on the streets. And what do you think paid for that building you're living in? You think Crystal Latour inherited it from her rich uncle? Sugar Daddy is more like it. It's a dirty world, princess, and a dirty city, and you should know that as well as anybody. So don't start giving me the third degree like you've got some sort of right, because you don't have any. I'm not under your jurisdiction, I don't have to answer to you. I'm just trying to do the best I can in the short time I'm here."
He stopped, abruptly, and silence filled the car. The streetlight outside didn't penetrate the interior of the little sedan, and he couldn't see her expression, couldn't even guess her reaction. He'd blown it. She wouldn't let him anywhere near the door to her apartment now, and he'd be forced to spend the night in the cold, watching from a distance to make sure Drago didn't decide to pay a little call.
"Are you going to take me home?" she asked finally in a subdued little voice.
"We're already here."
She craned her head forward to peer outside the window, and he could see her face. See the faint, shocking sheen of tears behind the thin, wire-rimmed glasses. "So we are," she said, reaching for the door handle.
He put out a hand to stop her. "Aren't you going to ask me in for coffee?" he said, admiring his own gall.
She laughed then, a rusty little sound. "You must have a death wish."
"What do you mean?"
"Anyone who'd willingly drink my coffee must be suicidal."
"Trust me, Helen, if there's one thing I'm not worried about, it's death." He hesitated, she hesitated. "Are you going to ask me in?"
"It's not a good idea."
"Probably not. I haven't got a hotel room. I suppose I could go back and spend the night at the Morettis."
"That would be the smartest thing," she said, not making any effort to leave.
"I don't want to."
She took a deep, shuddering breath. "I don't know what you're used to, Rafferty, but I'm not it. I'm not someone you can sleep with, then disappear two days later. I'm not made for casual sex."
"I know that."
"Then I don't think…"
"I'm not asking for sex, Helen. I'm asking for a place to spend the night."
Silence again. "You don't want me?" she asked in a quiet little voice.
"Counselor, I would give twenty years off my life, if I had them, to take you to bed tonight. But frankly, I've had a lot of women in my time, and I know when a woman's ready for a tumble, and when she's not. You're not. I'd like to spend the night on your sofa, drink your god-awful coffee in the morning and take you to see the baby again when visiting hours start. I don't want to spend the night in some anonymous hotel room, watching home shopping on the TV."
"I thought you liked home shopping."
"A little goes on a long way. What do you say, counselor? If I promise to keep my wild desires to myself, will you let me stay?" He practically held his breath, waiting. He didn't want to spend the night on the streets, watching her windows. He didn't want to spend the night on her sofa, either, but at least it would be comparatively warmer. Though not as warm as it would be in her bed.
"All right," she said finally. "But if my brothers ever hear about this they'll skin you alive."
"Trust me, Helen. I don't spend much time gossiping with cops."
There was no sign of Drago as he followed her up the front steps of Crystal's old building. No sign of anyone, and yet he could still feel that odd, prickling feeling on the back his neck. Drago was nearby.
Damn it, it wasn't fair. Drago was right—there was no way Rafferty could stop him if push came to shove. All he could do was keep Helen Emerson out of his range, and he could only do that for his short, allotted time span. Billy could do something. But if Billy managed to take Drago out before Drago got to him, he'd face charges of murder.
Hell and damnation. Why couldn't he be like other people, simply stay dead once he was killed? Why did he have to come back to troubles like these, impossible troubles? Why did he have to come back to a woman who disturbed his equilibrium, scraped his nerves, fired his libido and generally drove him crazy?
He did a subtle reconnoiter of the apartment, making sure every entranceway was locked and barred. If Helen noticed his edginess she was too nervous herself to comment on it. His next step was to turn on the television.
Home shopping was finished for the night, and an old Humphrey Bogart movie was playing. One that still looked strangely modern to Rafferty's eyes.
"I love that movie," Helen said wistfully.
"Stay up and watch it with me," Rafferty suggested. "I'm not tired."
"l am."
"Just tell me what's happened so far."
He was doing it on purpose, but thank heaven she was too tired to realize it. She sank onto the sofa, curling her long legs underneath her, and took off her glasses, rubbing her eyes. "He's an ex-sailor, Lauren Bacall's the widow of a friend. Edward G. Robinson is a gangster, sort of like Al Capone."
"He doesn't look like Capone."
"Oh, I don't know. I've seen some pictures…" Helen said, yawning, her defenses beginning to slide.
Rafferty sat on the opposite end of the sofa, not close enough to scare her away. She glanced up at him, a skittish expression in her eyes for a moment, and then she leaned back. "He doesn't," Rafferty said.
"Anyway," Helen said sleepily, "they're on one of the Florida Keys. Key Largo—that's the name of the movie. And a hurricane is coming." She yawned, and her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then opened again. "And the gangster is trying to get back into the country after he was deported…" She snuggled down lower in the sofa. "Just watch for a bit, and then you can ask me questions."
He watched, all right. He watched her. She was already asleep, her long eyelashes fanned out against her pale cheeks, and her long thick hair was tangled around her face. He reached out and took the glasses from her limp hand, then held them up to his own face. They were practically clear glass. Typical Ms. Emerson, looking for all the defenses she could find.
It would take more than clear glasses to protect her from the likes of Ricky Drago. It would take more than a family of cops.
Somehow or other Rafferty had to find a way to stop him, before it was too late. Or next year, when he returned, Helen Emerson would be gone.
Chapter Seven
« ^ »
Rafferty didn't want to sleep. When you only had forty-eight hours a year to live, you didn't want to waste it in bed. Alone, that is.