Hot Lead, Cold Iron

by Ari Marmell

Several old strips of newspaper and packing paper drifted down from the winds to settle over me. I sort of dizzily glanced aside, squinting against the dust the impact—my impact—had kicked up. Much to my surprise, my wand was still sitting in the palm of my hand, in a slack grip that could be called a fist the same way local grain alcohol can be called a fine aperitif. “That,” I muttered, wheezing a little around the throbbing ache in my chest, “could probably have gone better.”

  “I’d say so,” the extra-large goon commented, setting a pool-table-sized foot down on my wand—and, rather more uncomfortably, the hand holding it. I actually heard the bones in my fingers creak in protest. “I… What the fuck kinda heater is that?”

  “It’s not a heater. It’s a magic wand.”

  “Uh-huh.” His tone, his gaze, his body language, all of it more or less screamed that he’d decided I was a lunatic. It didn’t get him to take his foot off me, though. “And what’s it do?”

  “Well, among other things, it catches on fire.” Which it then, with a mental nudge from me, proceeded to do.

  Or at least, he thought it did, which amounted to the same thing.

  He actually leaped back, swearing something ugly, beating at the sole of his shoe. I took the opportunity to stand, wincing a little, and to shrug the litter off my chest and shoulders. A flick of the wand yanked away a tiny portion of the big palooka’s luck; as he hopped back, trying to examine his “burned” foot, his other heel snagged on the slats of a broken crate and he toppled backward, landing as hard as I had. He flung his hands out, trying to stop himself, and I saw his pinky finger snap between the joints where it dragged down the side of the nearest wall.

  The fella was tough, I’ll give him that. He didn’t do more than grunt at the sudden agony. But for most people, pain just makes their mind even easier to access. I strode over to him and tapped him on the temple with the wand.

  To him, thanks to another tiny surge of magic, it felt more like being “tapped” on the temple with a sledgehammer, and he was out quicker’n a candle in a monsoon. Sleeping minds are even easier to access than pained ones, and I spent a good minute reaching through his dreams, dragging them to the forefront of his mind, burying his conscious thoughts as deep as they’d go. He’d sleep for a couple of days, now, assuming nothing too violent happened to him in the interim.

  Maybe I’d call a meat wagon to take him to the hospital before I left. We’d have to see how charitable I was feeling.

  I took a moment to dig through his overcoat pockets, found the wad of dough I was expecting, and wandered down the alley toward the heap that called itself Four-Leaf Franky.

  He was staring at me, bleary and blurry, his broken glasses hanging from one ear. His hair, the color of summer-burnt grass, was standing up in spikes, and he was already forming two impressive shiners. His suit, which looked as cheap as mine—actually, I think it was mine, just in green instead of blue—was badly rumpled. But then, that might not have been from the beating; all of his suits have been slept in so often, they oughta charge rent.

  I leaned in, plucked the bent frames off his ear, and stuck ’em back on his face. The lenses were cracked, but I guess it was better’n nothing.

  “Oh! Hey, Mick. How you been?”

  I couldn’t help but notice that his lips weren’t swollen or bleeding, that his teeth were all present and accounted for. “Not bad, Franky. Been better. So have you, from the looks of it.”

  “Yeah.” I saw his gaze flicker nervously past me, toward the thug crumpled a ways down the alley. He blinked twice and went pale. “Wow. You do that?”

  I pulled open his coat, shoved the cash into his inside pocket. I also found a couple of thin gold chains hanging around his neck.

  Not at all unusual, not with Four-Leaf Franky. He always had gold on him—chains, rings, watches, whatever. He was always losing it, either hocking it for cash or, more often, getting beat-up and robbed for it, and he always had more within a few days. When you have tastes like Franky’s, it helps to have his relatives, too. He’s mixed-race, see, and while he’s mostly aes sidhe, I happen to know that he’s also related to an old bloodline of leprechauns.

  So yeah, that Franky was wearing gold wasn’t surprising. That Paul Bunyan back there hadn’t taken it, however, was. At which point, I tumbled to exactly why.

  Ah. Right. I shoulda expected something like this. Franky’d always been nothing more’n a cheap conman, the kinda guy who’d happily chisel little old grandmothers out of their gin money. (Cards or bottles, take your pick.)

  “Smart idea, Franky. What’d you owe him for? Gambling? Hooch? Skirts?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mick,” he protested, in a tone of voice that said very clearly, “I know exactly what you’re talking about, Mick.”

  “Sure, sure,” I said, patting his cheek. “Next time, though, you gotta make it look more legit. Nobody who knows you would ever believe that anyone who was hitting you didn’t sock you one in the kisser. That’s the first place anybody would wanna hit you.”

  He gave me a wounded look.

  “And make sure they take the gold, too. Otherwise, nobody inside is gonna buy that you were actually robbed. You did want them to think that, right? So they wouldn’t blame you for losing all the wagers you were holding?”

  Franky sagged. “You won’t say anything, will you, Mick? It’s just, these guys really want their scratch…”

  I shrugged at him. “None of my business either way. I gave you back your cash; up to you what you do with it.” I aimed a thumb over my shoulder. “He’ll be out for a good long while, so if you stick the money back in his coat, no skin off my nose.” I stretched out a hand, helped him to his feet. “But you could do me a favor, Franky.”

  “Yeah? What’d that be?”

  “I’m looking for a human. One who was Taken, sixteen years back.”

  Franky nodded. “Changeling?”

  “Yep. Ottati family.” Franky didn’t react to the name, but that didn’t prove much. Franky’s one of us, so I can’t always read him as well as I can you mugs—and I know from experience he’s a solid liar. “I know you’re even less popular in the Seelie Court than I am these days—”

  “Hey, now!”

  I ignored his complaint. “But I also know that you keep in contact with more of the folks back home than I do. Way I see it, if anyone’s heard anything about this, it’d be you.”

  It wasn’t the longshot you might think it was. Most of the time, a changeling swap is pretty public on the Fae side of things. We brag about it, show off our new pet or slave or whatever. Hell, I’ve actually seen formal parties thrown just for the “coming out” of a new human child added to someone’s collection.

  Yeah, it’s ugly. But it’s also out in the open. Which is why I was more’n a little shocked when Franky said, “I dunno, Mick. I mean, I can think of a couple of swaps around the time you’re talking about, but that name ain’t ringing any bells. You try talking to Lenai or Gaullman? Or maybe Pink Paddy?”

  “Saw Paddy and Lenai before I came to you. And you and I both know how useless Gaullman is these days.” I shook my head, bemused. “Really, Franky? You got nothing?”

  “Sorry, Mick.” At least he had the grace to pause and mull it over again. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground for you, but I just never heard anything about who you’re looking for.”

  “Damn it! You know what that means, right?”

  Franky frowned. “I dunno that it means anything, Mick. I don’t have the kind of connections I used to, and—”

  I waved a hand, already dismissing him. Yeah, it might not mean anything. It might just be that Franky missed hearing about Ottati’s daughter when it happened, or any mention since.

  And Lenai did. And Pink Paddy. Possible, but not too probable.

  Or it meant that someone was deliberately keeping it hush-hush. And if that were the case, this was something more than your average, everyday changeling swap.

  I wande
red from the alley and back toward the train, leaning into the wind. I never did call an ambulance for the big guy, or find out if Franky gave him back the cash. I was kinda distracted at the time, hunting for another alternative and whimpering to myself when I couldn’t find one.

  There was nothing else for it. I was gonna have to visit Elphame.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was witching-hour dark by the time my scuffed Oxfords reached the steps of home—partly because I’d decided to hoof it the few miles back to Pilsen, rather than spend one more minute on the goddamn Metropolitan Elevated. The L may not be nearly as bad as a flivver, but a guy can only take so much, y’know?

  I’d spent most of the walk hunched, not just against the wind but the moisture in the air, a light shower that was more or less atomized by the constant gusts, transforming the world into one big puddle of wet. I decided—kinda petulantly, I’ll admit—that since it wasn’t strong enough to come down in drops, it wasn’t technically rain, and so I hadn’t been wrong in my earlier predictions.

  I’m like that, sometimes.

  Mr. Soucek’s building was also a greystone, a little better kept-up than the heap hosting the prizefight. Three stories tall—plus the basement—it was, with the exception of a few potted plants and a little dirty-white trim around the ground-floor windows, pretty much indistinguishable from umpteen-and-a-half other buildings in and around Pilsen, and a zillion more throughout the rest of Chicago. I trudged up the steps, unlocked the door with a tarnished old key, and stepped in from the wind and the not-rain. The hallway stank of wet wool… No, wait. That was me. Huh.

  I meandered past rows of doors, most of which had nothing but empty rooms behind ’em. Certainly no wonder that Jozka was about to lose the place, considering that I’ve tossed pennies at beggars who were probably pulling in more bread than this joint. Other’n mine—and Jozka’s own, of course—there were only four other offices open in the building: a dentist, which woulda been convenient if I ever needed my teeth cleaned; a cheap, sleazy realtor, which woulda been convenient if I ever planned to buy a rundown, foreclosed property; and a tax accountant, which woulda been convenient if I ever paid… Huh. Y’know, given how the Feds took down Capone and his boys last year, maybe I shouldn’t finish that thought.

  But there was also a membership management office for the Milkman’s Local, and that was convenient. In fact, tired and distracted as I was, I took a minute to wander upstairs and drop a few bucks in Ron Maddox’s mailbox. The local rep, Ron and I had gotten to be pretty good friends—mostly because I kept dropping a few bucks in his box now and again—so he made sure my deliveries were as prompt as any of the uptown markets. He told me I went through milk like a grammar school, and once asked if I was trying to figure out how to grow my own cow, but he was happy to oblige.

  I thought about swinging by Soucek’s office, too—it’d be easy enough to sign the check over to him and get fifty bucks back—but I just didn’t have it in me to suffer through twenty minutes of tears and handshakes and hugs and whatever other profuse thanks he would doubtless bury me under. I’d had more’n enough of you people’s emotions for the day, thanks all the same.

  I shut my door, dropped my coat on the floor vaguely near the rack, and went straight for the icebox. Filled a glass about halfway, topped it off the rest of the way with cream; I prefer to use that for celebrating, but right now I needed a pick-me-up. Didn’t even feel like waiting for it to warm up a little. Tonic in one hand, I used the other to yank down the Murphy bed and then slumped down to sit on one corner of the mussed sheets.

  Turns out I pretty much wasted the cream ’cause honestly? I don’t even remember tasting it.

  I could just throw the whole job. Ask around Chicago for a few more days, tell Bianca Ottati that I’d failed, and just keep the retainer. Even that half was more’n I needed to take care of my little housing problem. And I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t spend a good hour considering just that.

  But I couldn’t do it; didn’t feel right. Professional pride, partly. And partly… Remember what I said about getting into bargains with Fae? Yeah, that sort of includes getting into bargains as a Fae. Bad things tend to happen to us if we don’t honor our promises. That kinda trouble, I don’t need.

  So all right, fine. I had to go home again. I’d rather have shaved with a rusty cheese-grater, but I was going. But that didn’t mean I had to go now. Pete was calling on Monday, and I’d be walking him Sideways then anyway; might as well do it all in one trip, yeah?

  That meant I had a few days to follow up more Earthbound leads, and just maybe get lucky enough that I wouldn’t need to go after all. I lay back for a couple hours of dreaming, already feeling a little better, and with a pretty good idea of where to start.

  * * *

  Next morning I changed into a suit that wasn’t made entirely of wrinkles—even dusted off and donned my fedora, much as I loathe the thing, and stuck my L&G in a coat pocket since I didn’t think holsters would be appreciated where I was going—and got started. Step one was easy enough; just had to wander down the hall, drop a few coins in the payphone, and then try to ignore the sensation of holding a smoldering ember to my ear while I waited for the operator to get me the address I’d asked for. She talked, I scribbled, and gratefully hung up the damn contraption.

  Step two took a little longer, since it involved wandering through the sidewalks of Pilsen—today was just kinda breezy, enough that you wanted a coat, but not blowing so hard as last night—until I found a secondhand shop that had what I needed.

  And there was step three: Traveling way the hell across town on the L and streetcars, to Calumet and 68th, lugging a vacuum cleaner the entire friggin’ way. Canister that coulda been the Jolly Green Giant’s thermos in one hand, an angry python’s worth of tubing over the other shoulder, I could only grit my teeth and try to ignore the people staring and the incessant hum of the electrical wires. I think if the vacuum hadn’t already been kaput inside, and so not bugging me too badly, I mighta gone right over the edge.

  Finally, I hopped off the last streetcar of my trip and wandered up Calumet, wheeling the vacuum along behind me and smiling nice and friendly at everyone I passed. A few of them smiled back; most just kept staring. The homes here were right nobby; nice red brick, multiple bedrooms, well-kept lawns, clean windows. Not mansions or anything—you’d have to go a lot farther north for that—but rich enough compared to most folks these days.

  Exactly the kinda place you’d wanna live if your goal was to enjoy your money without being ostentatious enough to attract the law’s attention. I’d have been willing to bet that one or two in every ten houses in the neighborhood were bought with bootleg profits. Be interesting to see what happened here when the end to Prohibition that everyone knew was coming finally arrived.

  I found the street number I was looking for and meandered up the walk, whistling a little jig that I don’t think any human had heard in a couple hundred years. The house was a nice whitewashed two-story, with crucifixes in a couple of the windows and enough twitching curtains to tell me that I was being watched by at least three different guys.

  Yeah, this’d be the right place, then. The door opened before I finished knocking.

  “Good morning to you, sir,” I said, touching the brim of my hat before sticking my hand in my pocket, and offered the broadest smile I could manage without causing actual injury. “I represent Credne Household Device Repair, and I would very much love to offer you a free demonstration of what we can do with—” and here I nudged the vacuum with my foot “—older and obsolete equipment such as this. Is the lady of the house in, by any chance?”

  Considering that the gorilla in the doorway was a good little Mob footsoldier, and that Ottati’s crew was currently at war with a rival, there was absolutely no way he should even have finished listening to my spiel, let alone think about my question. But I was hitting him with a lot more’n my toothy grin. My fingers were clenched on the Luchtaine & Goodfe
llow in my pocket, and my thoughts were squeezing in through his eyes and ears, insinuating themselves into his own.

  Tell ya square, I probably didn’t need to haul the damn vacuum clear across the Windy City, but… Mrs. Ottati was wise to me and at least some of the real Chicago skinny. Wasn’t too likely, but she mighta taken a few extra precautions with her security; figured a prop might help me push past any resistance.

  And if you’re all bothered wondering why I hadn’t gotten the lowdown on that kinda thing before I took the job… Shut up. I was thrown; hadn’t thought of it when she and me were bumping gums. Whaddaya want from me? It happens.

  Anyway, nope. Turned out Muscles here wasn’t any more of a brain, or any more warded against “suggestion,” than any other goon. I didn’t need to do much to him, didn’t even really control his next actions. All I did was dust some of the suspicion off my request so it sounded reasonable.

  “Hang on,” he grunted at me. The door shut, and I heard footsteps moving away. A few minutes later, one of the curtains rustled again—Mrs. Ottati seeing who the hell had been convincing enough to get one of her bodyguards to even ask such a stupid question, no doubt—and then, minutes after that, the hardwood door creaked open once more.

  “C’mon in,” the goon told me, a look of vague befuddlement on his face.

  “Right kind of you,” I said, scooping up my vacuum and stepping across the threshold…

  Fire.

  Not physical, but spiritual. I felt it searing across the back of my eyelids, inside my skull. My blood felt as though it were about to boil out through my pores, my skin to flake off and blow away. The air was a poison, my own thoughts a disease that my body needed to purge. My stomach roiled, and when I say I very nearly vomited across the carpet, you have to understand that vomiting is something we simply don’t do. I swear, I could actually smell some sort of foul, acrid smoke. Dizziness washed over me as my eardrums threatened to melt away, and if the guy hadn’t been in the process of patting me down for weapons (with the usual confusion after he found the wand), I’d have fallen right then. As it was, I collapsed to one knee as soon as he was done. I had just enough presence of mind, when the palooka looked at me funny, to fiddle with the connections on the vacuum as though I’d just spotted a problem.