Hot Lead, Cold Iron

by Ari Marmell

  He gave me a funny look—proving that he could, at least, manage an expression—and delivered. I dropped a few cents in his sweaty palm and turned to get a slant on the room.

  Took me a minute, since he was wearing a much cheaper suit than when I last saw him—anonymity again, I supposed—but I finally spotted him. No amount of shabby dressing was going to hide that five-dollar haircut, or the immaculately shined shoes. I found him off to the side, in a row of chairs lined up against a wall. Cheap, cramped little dinguses, with trays nailed to the left arm instead of any sorta legit table—but it put us out of earshot of anyone else in the joint, and it kept either of us from having to sit with our back to the room.

  Thoughtful gesture on his part, but honestly, with my hearing, I don’t much mind putting my back to a room.

  Much.

  He nodded as I approached but didn’t bother to stand, finished chewing a mouthful of pastrami on rye, washed it down with a big gulp of a Coke that was just about the same color as his hair. I sat, giving him a pretty solid up-and-down—I’d only met him the couple of times, and trusted him roughly not at all—and he returned the examination in kind.

  I wondered exactly how I looked to him.

  You see, that’s one of the things about me—about most of the aes sidhe, actually. None of you mortal-types see us exactly the same way. Sure, I knew basically what he saw: little taller than average, kinda skinny, narrow nose and chin, sorta sandy hair and ocean-colored blinkers. (Between the sand and the water, I used to tell people I was a son of a beach, until I realized, way too late, that it wasn’t even a little bit funny.) But the details, the angles, the exact shades, the wrinkles and freckles and whatnot; those coulda been anything. It’s never dramatic—show any handful of people who know me a photo, and they’ll all recognize me; they’ll just think it’s a bad picture—but I’m always curious. I was wearing the same overcoat I usually wear, kinda dirt-colored and well loved. (Which I’m sure most of you mugs’ll take as a euphemism for “worn and threadbare.” Okay, fine, it is worn and threadbare, but damn it, it’s comfortable.)

  I knew he’d finished his studying when he blinked and sniffed once. “New suit?”

  Yeah, it did have that clothing shop smell to it. I’d decided buying a new suit was probably less expensive, and certainly less hassle, than finding a tailor and a drycleaner to fix what Winger’s thugs had done to my old one. Of course, even new, the blue pinstripe would have to be pressed twice to look good enough to be called “cheap.”

  “Wanted to dress my best for our meeting, Mr. Baskin,” I said, making no effort at all to sound like I meant it.

  He chuckled politely, then lifted a napkin, wiped a tiny bit of soda from the corner of his mouth. “It’s done, then?”

  I nodded, reached into my overcoat and produced the envelope. “It’s done.” I slapped it down on the table beside his sandwich wrapper.

  His shoulders visibly sagged, his expression softened. For a man accustomed to standing in front of judges, juries, and crumbs who’d happily whack him for a shot of whisky, he was showing an awful lot of emotion.

  Then again, I’d seen the pictures. If I’d been an Assistant State’s Attorney, I’d have been relieved to get ’em back, too.

  “The negatives?” he asked.

  “Inside, with the prints.”

  He swept the envelope off the table and into a waiting leather briefcase. “And the subpoena?”

  “Served.” I grinned. “And he actually flashed it to Lieutenant Keenan, in a room full of bulls. No way he can make like he never got it.”

  Baskin laughed aloud. “Well done, Mr. Oberon, very well done.”

  “Yeah.” My smile fell a little. “Maybe not that well done. There were, uh, complications.” Briefly, and leaving out pretty much every mention of magic (as well as any reference to how bad I got pummeled), I gave him the skinny on what had occurred.

  He was shaking his head long before I’d finished. “Not very subtle, were you?”

  “It wasn’t the clean sneak I was hoping for, no. I’d cased the joint for three straight nights; just my bad luck he decided to come in late today.” I shrugged. “But it worked out, minus a few bruises I could do without.”

  “And the police report?” he asked. I watched him rotating his glass around and around, his fingers leaving streaks in the condensation, and I knew what he was asking.

  “Won’t mention the photos. I’ll cop to the B-and-E, say I was just trying to make sure to deliver your summons and I didn’t think Winger’s boys would let me get near him.” I paused, then, “You can arrange to have the breaking-and-entering charge dismissed, right?”

  “I can. You’ll get a slap on the wrist, I’ll cover the fine, we’ll make some noise about pulling your PI ticket if it happens again. No big deal.”

  “Swell.” We sat for a moment, letting the ambient voices wash over us. I took a swallow of milk, and tried not to pull a face; still cold, damn it.

  “Look, Mr. Baskin,” I asked finally, “put me wise about something.”

  “Yes?”

  “I understand why everything had to happen all at once. You snatch the photos before you serve him, and Winger might take a powder somewhere you can’t reach him. You deliver the subpoena first, and he leaks the pictures. I get all that.

  “But why subpoena him? Why not have the cops pinch him? You obviously had them in the area in case of trouble—no other way they’d have gotten there so quick once the shooting started—and I know you’ve got enough on him to send him over for years. So why isn’t he in jail right now?”

  Baskin leaned toward me, and damn if his eyes weren’t almost glowing like will-o’-the-wisps. “Because I don’t just want Winger. I want Surrey!”

  Made sense. Alderman Joel Surrey was the man who’d appointed Winger as his committeeman for the ward. Had to figure that, corrupt as everyone knew Winger was, Surrey must be in on it.

  “I’ve been trying,” Baskin was saying, “to get Surrey since before we nailed Capone! If I can get Winger to testify against him…”

  I nodded slowly. “And in the meanwhile, Winger gets to think about how long you can lock him up if he doesn’t cooperate—and to think about what Surrey’s going to do when he hears about the subpoena.”

  “Exactly.”

  There was more to it than that. Baskin’s words tasted like lies—or some of them did, anyway. Maybe he had other plans for Winger, or for Surrey; maybe he had something else going, investigative or political, that he didn’t want to tell me about.

  Or hell, maybe I was wrong. I can’t always tell, especially with accomplished liars, and I’ve been way off before. Frankly, it didn’t matter. Everyone in this town plays their little games, and everyone’s corrupt or dirty somehow. If Baskin wasn’t on the up-and-up, well, that was none of mine.

  I took another sip—a bit warmer now, thankfully—and held out my hand. “You’ve got something for me?”

  He frowned. “Yeah.” He reached back into his briefcase, brought out something wrapped in crumpled brown paper and tied with twine. “A few bucks to cover expenses, and the, um, item. This wasn’t easy to get, Oberon, not even for me. If it’s some kind of joke…”

  “No joke. You asked what my services would cost, this is what they cost. This time.”

  Shaking his head in such clear bewilderment I wanted to burst out laughing, he handed it over. It sat in my hands, feeling right. I got a charge just holding it.

  You’ll chuckle at that, later.

  I squeezed from my chair, leaving most of the glass of milk behind, and opened my kisser to offer “g’night” when I caught just the faintest narrowing of Baskin’s lids.

  Damn, I’d really hoped to avoid this…

  “Tell me, Mr. Oberon: Did you look at the photos?”

  “Course I did,” I told him flatly. “I had to be sure what I had, didn’t I?”

  “I see.”

  I leaned in, putting my hands on his tray. I didn’t push into his
thoughts yet, but I was gathering myself up to do it if I needed to. “Way I see it,” I said, “we’re just two Joes who worked together on something—not friends, maybe, but friendly-like. We can go about our business, maybe work together again in the future, and both be happy, confident that I’m hardly about to risk my professional reputation by squealing your secrets.

  “Or you can decide to come after me ’cause of what I know. Hell, you’ve probably got enough on me to prefer some real charges. But right now, all you gotta worry about is Winger talking about those pictures; nobody’s gonna believe him on his own. But you make me an enemy, I’m gonna have to testify to what I saw, and then he’s got corroboration from a guy with no good call to want to help him. Ain’t as bad as the photos themselves, but you can be damn sure it’ll make the Tribune.

  “So you tell me, Mr. Baskin. How do you want it?”

  A few years passed in the next couple of heartbeats. Then he leaned back, reached for what was left of his Coke, and gave me the shallowest of nods. “Have a nice night, Mr. Oberon.”

  * * *

  I couldn’t tell you if I had a nice night, but apparently I had a long one. The sun was already poking at me through the blinds in my office window by the time I stirred the next morning. Actually, it had to be afternoon if I was getting sunlight up my nose, since my office is a basement room, and the only windows are narrow little things way up by the ceiling; but if I’m just waking up it’s morning, goddamn it.

  I admit, I was a little dizzy and disoriented for a few. I’m not actually used to sleeping all that much; just a few hours every couple of days, more so my brain can dream and take the run-out from this world of yours for a little while than because my body actually needs the rest. But after the last evening, with all the magic and me healing up from being beat like a drum, I suppose I needed it.

  So it took me a minute to get my head together and peel my thoughts up off the pillow enough to dope out what woke me. It wasn’t the sunlight. It wasn’t the faint ringing from out in the corridor. (I don’t keep a phone in my office—it drives me up the wall just being near the damn things—but Mr. Soucek was kind enough to let me use the payphone in the hall for incoming calls. It was the first thing he told all his tenants: “If pay-telephone in basement rings, is for Mr. Oberon. You tell him, okay?”) It wasn’t the scent of the fresh bottles of milk that appeared outside my door every morning, though now that I was awake they were awful enticing.

  No, it hadn’t been any of that, so what…?

  Oh. Yeah, the ham-fisted pounding on my door just mighta done the trick. As I said, I was a little slow for a spell, there.

  “Hold your shirt and keep your horses on, buster! I’m comin’!”

  Probably not the most gracious way to introduce myself to someone who mighta been a client, but there it was.

  I stood up, made sure I was more or less decent—shirt and slacks were wrinkled as an elephant’s grandma from sleeping in, but they’d do—then shoved all the sheets up onto the mattress and folded the Murphy bed back up into its alcove. (A few scraps of fabric were sticking out around the edges where the doors shut, but again, it’d hafta do.)

  Looking around, everything else was clean enough; not neat, since the place was cluttered with enough papers to rebuild a tree, but clean. It’s not much of a home—or much of an office, for that matter—but it’s what I had. Small desk with a matching swivel chair and a big honkin’ typewriter. (That typewriter actually killed a man, once, but I don’t ever tell that story.) Smaller chair in front of the desk; file cabinet; tiny, decrepit icebox, not kept as cold as most, where I keep my milk and a few dollops of cream for celebrations. There’s a spindly rack, with a dusty hat I never wear—hats don’t feel right on me; just because you Joes can’t see the pointed ears don’t mean they ain’t there—and that usually holds my overcoat, ’cept that was currently draped over the back of my chair. Fireplace along one wall. The tools are brass; no iron in here, no way.

  Oh, and over in the corner, an old radio the size of a doghouse. Yeah, I have a radio—it’s about the only thing in here more advanced than a light bulb—though I gotta keep it unplugged most of the time or I go stark raving. I don’t much care for what you people call “music” nowadays; give me a lute-and-flute jig or Bach’s third Brandenburg Concerto over a jazz trumpet or a crooning canary any time, no matter how smooth. But Waters and Ellington and Armstrong are what you mugs listen to, so those of us who wanna fit in to your world, that’s what we gotta listen to. Thanks for nothing.

  Anything else I had to do last minute? Nah; the package Baskin gave me was sitting on the edge of the desk, but it was wrapped. Bathroom door was shut, so the client—or whoever—wouldn’t see the blood and dirt clinging to the brass tub. The nook over in the far wall, where the refrigerator used to be before I moved in, was a little mildewed in the corners, but not enough for your average Joe to notice. Besides, I kept it that way on purpose.

  So I was about as ready to entertain a caller as I was gonna be without a shower and a few more hours of shuteye.

  With what I already knew was a futile attempt to straighten my shirt, I scooted to the door, slid the deadbolts aside, and pulled it open. The face on the other side was clean-shaven and just a little swarthy. He mighta been Italian, or Mexican, or just tan; features weren’t ethnical enough one way or the other to be sure.

  I noticed, in passing, that the payphone had stopped ringing.

  He ran a hand over his hair, which was already slicked back with enough oil to lube a Ford, and said, “You keep everyone waiting this long, mister?”

  “Just the people I like,” I told him, stepping aside so he could enter.

  “Just the people you like.” He snorted, and managed, without actually touching me, to give the impression that he’d rather have shouldered me aside.

  This one was gonna be fun, I could tell that already.

  I picked up the two bottles of milk and then shut the door, taking a moment to get a good slant on him. The stripes on his jacket were wide and colorful, but the suit itself was pretty good quality; so he had money, but not a lotta taste. His shoes cost more than my wardrobe, but they were scuffed; and it didn’t take either the keen observation of a PI or the vision of the Fae to see the bulge in that coat, or to know what was under it.

  I waited until he’d seated himself, ignored the disparaging look he gave to my place of business, and then took the other chair across the desk.

  “So, you’re O’Brien?”

  My tongue almost bled, I bit it so hard. I get three or four of those a month. Yeah, this is Chicago, and yeah, I go by “Mick,” and “Oberon” ain’t exactly normal, but c’mon. The name’s right there on the damn door!

  “Oberon,” I corrected, polite as I could muster.

  “Oberon?”

  “Oberon. And you are…?”

  “Archie.”

  I waited. He waited for me to finish waiting. Apparently, that’s all he was giving me.

  “Okay, Archie. What can I do for you?”

  “Well…” He hedged, and I could hear his feet fidgeting on the carpet. “You got anything to drink around here, Mr. Oberon?”

  “I can offer you milk.” I thumped the two bottles down on the desk, next to Baskin’s parcel.

  He looked at me, expecting a punchline. I shrugged.

  “Milk. Yeah.” He shook his head. I drummed my fingers on the side of the typewriter, waiting for him to get to the point.

  He glanced up, chewing his cheek a little, and scowled. “You gotta problem with me? You’re staring. I don’t enjoy being stared at.”

  Oops. Guess I was still out of it; I taught myself to blink and fidget and all that a long time ago, but now and again I slip up. I made a show of blinking and leaned back in the seat.

  “Just wondering when you’re gonna quit bumping gums and tell me something that means anything.”

  He glowered, but I’ve gotten the Look from scarier guys than him.

  “Fin
e,” he said at last. “We need you to find someone.”

  “We?”

  “My boss and me. We—”

  I raised a hand. “You can stop there, Archie. I can’t take the job.”

  “You can’t take the job?! You ain’t even heard the job!”

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but I’ve heard enough.”

  “You’ve heard enough?”

  “You know, that’s a genuinely irritating habit you got there.” Then, before he could object any further, I said, “It’s plain and simple, Archie. I don’t work for the Outfit. Or any of their people.”

  He froze, and in that moment even the dizzying jacket didn’t keep him from looking dangerous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was flat as a bad note.

  “C’mon, Archie, you might as well be wearing a sign. The heater, the way you dress, the way you walk. You’re here on behalf of your boss. Even the look you tried to shake me with. You’re with the Outfit. You could belong to one of the other gangs, maybe, but if I had to guess, I’d put you with Al’s old crew.”

  “Be careful, Oberon…”

  “And,” I continued, ignoring what he probably thought passed for a pretty clear threat, “I don’t work for you kinda people. Ever.”

  You gotta understand, it wasn’t just that I don’t care for mobs like the Outfit and their rivals, though I sure as hell ain’t fond of them. But most of you mortals, you got no idea what they represent, what sort of effect they’ve had on the Otherworld…

  “You don’t work for my kinda people.” Archie’s cheeks were trembling, and I could hear his teeth grinding together. His hand twitched, just a little, toward his left breast.

  I rocked forward in my chair so I was standing, leaning over the desk, fists planted on either side of the typewriter. I didn’t even bother throwing any magic at him, just stared.

  Sometimes it helps not actually needing to blink.

  “Go ahead,” I said softly. “Skin it. You’ll look real nice in pine; goes with your complexion.”

  For a minute, I thought he might actually go for it and that I would have to put him down. But then his face went even redder, he growled something—probably about me “regretting it,” ’cause that’s always what they say—and he stood and stomped from the office, leaving the door hanging open.