Hot Lead, Cold Iron

by Ari Marmell

  She shook her head stubbornly. “You’re lying. You’re a liar!” But it sounded, to me, more a plea than an accusation.

  “Why would I?”

  “Politics. You’re trying to get to Goswythe, aren’t you?”

  I grinned at that. “I’m aes sidhe, sister. What’ve I got to fear, politically, from a phouka?”

  To that, she had no answer. Except, eventually, despite a jaw clenched in dogged anger and denial, to yawn. And yawn again. About two minutes later, she was so far out even Prince Charming woulda had a job of waking her.

  Yeah, I slipped a teenage girl a Mickey. I ain’t exactly proud of it, but what else could I do, tie her up? I couldn’t have her running off until I’d worked out my next step.

  Of course, the drops would only work for an hour or two. I spent a few minutes concentrating on her, L&G at hand, delving deep into her sleeping mind. I shuffled her thoughts like trick cards, pulling her dreams and her exhaustion to the top, her conscious thoughts and her fear below. You folks don’t have the same kinda mental defenses when you’re out; it was easy enough to do, and oughta keep her snoozing until midday tomorrow. More’n enough time to do…

  Whatever the hell I hadn’t figured out yet.

  I carefully carried her to the bed and pulled the sheets over her, took her place in the chair, and thought. Half an hour of that and I had nothing to show for it but an empty glass. My brain was chasing its own tail, round and round, and wouldn’t have known what to do if it caught it.

  Couldn’t take her to the Ottatis, not until I could convince her to stay and I knew it was safe. Couldn’t even tell ’em I had her, since Bianca and Orsola’d never agree to leaving her here with me. Couldn’t take her to the cops or the state. Couldn’t just leave her here indefinitely; even if I thought she’d stay, which she wouldn’t, I wasn’t in the market for a long-term houseguest. I even thought about taking her back to Elphame and asking Ielveith to put her up for a while, but again, Celia wasn’t likely to just stay put. And anyway, I couldn’t put Iel in the middle of this, not with Goswythe’s political ties.

  I had a bitter, deceitful, semi-brainwashed teenaged girl on my hands, with magic powers and a troll-sized chip on her shoulders. It was every parent’s worst nightmare, and I hadn’t signed up to be a damn father.

  Well, fine. I got up, snatched my coat off the rack, and headed back out. If I couldn’t decided what to do with Celia, I’d work on the other end of the problem while the question simmered.

  It was time to learn who’d arranged for her to vanish, who I was hiding her from. And the name on the very top of that list was “Bumpy” Vince Scola.

  * * *

  I asked for Pete more from habit than anything. Frankly, I’d expected to have to talk to Keenan, which woulda made things a little harder. Turned out he was there, though; happened to be filling out some forms after his beat. Dunno if that was my unique style of luck rearing its head again or just, y’know, the regular kind.

  Anyway, there were a few minutes of static and distant voices on the other end of the blower, then a thump, and then, “Hi-ya, Mick.”

  “Pete. How’s things?”

  “Got no kick.”

  “Good. Uh, that’s good.”

  Silence, and a whole mess of it. Then, “Whatever you’re gonna ask me that you don’t wanna ask me, Mick… go ahead and ask.”

  “All right. What can you tell me about where I might find ‘Bumpy’ Scola this late?”

  For a little while, all I heard was breathing. “Wow. Didn’t you promise me something about not mixing with certain ugly characters on this case?”

  “Wasn’t my choice. And I promise, I’m being careful.”

  “Yeah, you promised that, too.” He sighed near deep enough to inhale the blower. “All right, hang on…” Another minute, and then he was back. “You got a pencil?”

  “No need. I’ll remember.”

  “Yeah, I’ll bet.” Pete rattled off a few names and addresses. “Can’t make you any guarantees, of course.”

  “Of course. Much appreciated, Pete.”

  “Great. You can buy me a milk.” The horn clicked and went dead, and the irritating stinging in my ear faded by half. I hung up the receiver—making the other half go away—and headed upstairs to the street.

  I got lucky again—and again, it was genuine, not because I was fiddling with things. There was no reason to assume Scola’d be at any of his publicly known joints or hangouts, but after another interminable ride on the L, I found him in only the second place I looked. In the Cicero neighborhood, there’s a whole cluster of speakeasies gathered near each other. A few of ’em used to be run by Frank Pope personally; now that he’s a lieutenant for the Outfit’s “board of directors,” he’s handed over a lotta his places to his own people.

  Including, in the case of a joint called Kenson’s Fine Smokes, to one Vince Scola.

  Even this late—or maybe I should say especially this late—there was a lotta folks moving in and out of the conspicuous redbrick building. Some wore working-class duds, cheap suits and driving caps or drab cotton dresses; others had donned their most formal glad rags, tuxes and gowns for an evening on the town—and most of ’em weren’t bothering to even make a show of carrying pipes or stogies when they left. I swear, a rabid werewolf could teach these mugs a thing or two about subtlety. Not that being subtle was all that much a necessity in the Windy City.

  I took a deep breath, hauled out the L&G, and waved it in front of my face a couple times, applying illusion like stage makeup. I said before, it ain’t easy tossing magic around without any specific targets, trying to fool any eyes and any minds that happen to swing my way. But I wasn’t making any major changes—just enough so nobody’d recognize me if they saw me again later—and since each of you humans sees me a smidgen different anyway, it wasn’t too hard.

  I made my way inside, past shelves full of cigars and pouches of tobacco, along with a few booths and private rooms that were empty except for a couple geezers puffing on meerschaums. Finally, at the rear of the shop, a heavy steel door marked “Private” was hanging wide open, and most of the customers were moseying on through without so much as a peep from the two bruisers standing alongside. Occasionally, one of the lugs would stop someone—not a regular, I imagined—and chat for a minute before letting ’em through.

  I expected the same treatment, and wasn’t disappointed. Got a few questions, asking where I’d heard about the place, whether I was a cop, all the usual bunk. Got a furrowed brow when the galoot on the left checked my holster and found the wand, and a pitying headshake when I gave ’em my “I don’t carry but it’s intimidating” speech.

  Other customers, regulars who didn’t have to endure getting pawed, were jostling past me on their way in and out, and right when the fella had finished frisking me, I let myself get shoved into his partner by some bird in a Panama hat. I traded the goon’s angry glower for an apologetic grin, and made my way inside…

  Carefully hiding the roscoe I’d swiped from him up my overcoat sleeve.

  The backroom was basically a nightclub in full swing. Couples swirled and slid and Charlestoned across a broad dance floor under the cheerful gaze of a dark-skinned trumpeter doing a better’n-passable Louis Armstrong. Waiters gussied up in white tails circulated around the dance floor and between a couple dozen tables, delivering food that not a lotta people’d ordered, and drinks that everybody had. From the finest bootleg liqueurs to mid-grade whiskey to cheap bathtub hooch, you’d find it all on the menu here.

  Except milk, probably.

  I mingled for a few, nodding to people at random, trying to sway a little in time with the music (and again missing the jigs of past centuries). I blinked through roving banks of cigar smoke, and I gotta tell you, dressing it up in tails and cut crystal don’t make the mix of sweat and booze smell any more appetizing.

  And then I found him. Knew it hadda be him, with all the mugs and muffins fawning all over him, and some quick eavesdr
opping confirmed it. He had a private booth in the back, of course, because they always do. Boxed in on three sides, with yet another monkey-suited gatekeeper standing watch on the fourth, Vince Scola sat at a table with a blonde on each arm, and a couple more Mob-looking types gathered around. Scola himself was markedly unimpressive; his mustache looked like a gerbil’s tail, and if he was more’n five-eight standing then I’m a spriggan. But his coat was spotlessly white, his shoes gleamed brighter’n the crystal chandeliers; store-bought class, all the way.

  He was also human, far as I could tell from here—which, to be square, I hadn’t been sure of. I’d thought maybe Fino’d made an enemy of something worse’n he understood. Had to get close to be absolutely sure, though.

  I took a minute to reinforce my illusion and made for the booth.

  Nobody noticed at first, since I was just a fella strolling across the joint, maybe looking for a table or a friend. Eventually, however, the goon started to straighten, uncrossing his arms, just in case… And when it became clear that I wasn’t turning away, he said something over his shoulder and took a step forward to keep me from passing.

  “You lose your way, bo?” he asked when I stopped in front of him. “This here’s a private table.”

  “Nope,” I said. “Wanted to give you something.” And I raised my fist.

  The guard’s hand went under his lapel for his piece. The two wiseguys and Scola did the same, and even the two molls were hauling derringers from their bags. I had six separate pipes pointing my way before any of ’em noticed that I was holding the Colt toward ’em butt-first.

  “Jumpy, ain’tcha?” I asked with a grin.

  The palooka took the heater from me, then glanced back over his shoulder again and shrugged. “Boss?”

  “Let him through,” Scola ordered. His voice had an irritating, nasal pitch, but his elocution said “education.” (Though of course, it coulda been lying; ain’t as if none of these gang boys put on airs.)

  “Sorry for the theatrics, Mr. Scola,” I said as I arrived at the table. “The gat belongs to one of your boys out front. I just wanted to make a point.”

  “Dangerous way to do it, pal.” As he lifted his glass, I spotted a thin chain, wrapped tight around his wrist, peeking out from under his cuff. It was simple, subtle—but quite telling if you knew what you were seeing. The links looked silver, mostly, but I could sense a few iron ones from across the table as a faint itch on my skin. No reason for that combination of metals on a cat like him—it sure as hell ain’t stylish—except protection. The bracelet had to be a charm or fetish. “So what point would that be?” he finished.

  “Security, sir. You got a problem with it.”

  “And you can fix that, Mister…?”

  “Chulainn,” I said. “Cal Chulainn. And yeah, I can.”

  “All right, Mr. Chulainn. Sit down, and let’s talk.”

  I could give you the whole conversation—I claimed I was an ex-cop and a security guard for hire, spouting out enough of what I’d learned in my years as a PI and a copper’s friend to make it convincing—but frankly, it’d be pointless. What mattered was I’d got close enough, for long enough, to tell what I needed to tell about Vince Scola.

  He was human. I’d figured that already, but now I was sure. And he was no warlock; not even remotely enough of the smell and taste of magic on him. But there was a little—a slight tang to his words, his breath, his aura, faint as a sprinkle of incense in a bonfire.

  Which meant that while Scola was no spell-worker, he’d spent time with someone who was. At the very least, I was right about that narrow chain, and what it was for. And that meant my night wasn’t finished.

  I eventually made my excuses, leaving Bumpy with a number where he could ring me if he decided he was interested in my services—a number I knew wasn’t actually in service—and headed out. Time for yet another trip on the L, to the last address Pete had given me.

  Scola’s home.

  * * *

  It wasn’t actually that far a trip, and if I hadn’t felt the hours sifting away like flour in a sieve, I’d have just walked it rather than sucking up more of the train’s lovely ambience.

  See, unlike most of Chicago’s Italian mobsters, a small number of ’em—including Scola—had decided to stay near their roots, rather’n move to more affluent communities. Scola’s house wasn’t actually in Little Italy proper, but it was damn close. Still inside the immigrant community called the Hull House Neighborhood, Bumpy’s place was a small two-story affair just off Roosevelt Road. It was nicer than most of the houses around it—cleaner, a little more modern, with more expensive trim and fancier curtains—but not a lot nicer, and not too much bigger, so it didn’t stand out much.

  The entire place was ripe with marinara, thanks to the breezes coming in over the twenty-eight zillion restaurants of Little Italy, and sang with the rattle of old cars and squeaky hinges. The Hull House Neighborhood was home to a lotta Eastern Europeans as well as Italians, so in the dark I didn’t stand out too badly. Folks and flivvers passed me on the street fairly constantly, chattering in half a dozen different languages, but I never got more’n an occasional second glance or half-hearted nod. More or less anonymous, I strolled past the house without stopping, trying to get a slant on the place—and the people who weren’t just the neighborhood’s average Joes.

  I didn’t think anyone was home—or if they were, they were either asleep or sitting in the dark, ’cause there wasn’t so much as a flicker of light from around the curtains—but that didn’t mean the place didn’t have eyes on it. I counted three separate flivvers with guys just sitting in ’em, parked here and there along the street, and I had to suppose there was at least one other team a little more carefully hidden. The boys in the cars were barely making half-hearted efforts to keep their hardware outta sight—guess they assumed everyone already knew why they were here—and I spotted a Tommy in the nearest car, in addition to whatever smaller rods they mighta carried. Sharp of Scola to keep his place under guard, but inconvenient for me.

  Not too inconvenient, though.

  I crouched behind a small, poorly trimmed hedge, a few houses down the street, watching them watch the house. I drew the L&G, but even with the wand, I let the magics flow slow and careful instead of a sudden yank. I wrapped wisps of extra luck around myself, luck drawn from the fellas standing guard, but I didn’t wanna do anything too dramatic—no accidental gunshots or engines coughing up steam or anything. Too obvious. Just a little bit, then a little bit more…

  A coupé roared around the corner, the next street over, motor roaring and tires squealing. And every one of Scola’s lugs, every one, jumped and twisted in his seat like someone had set his back hair on fire, hand reaching for a gat, to see what the hell the commotion was all about.

  Lucky break, huh?

  I was off and sprinting, ducked low as I flashed through the intervening yards and into the narrow walkway between Scola’s house and his neighbor’s. A tall wooden fence blocked access to the back yard, but I’d expected something of the sort. I jumped, not at the fence but at the wall of the house, fingers and toes sliding into the tiny mortared slots between bricks. I climbed up a little and then crossed over the fence headfirst, clinging kinda lizard-ish to the side of the house. I could feel the contours of every brick, every bit of mortar, find handholds that none of you could find, put weight on my joints that none of yours could take—and still my fingers ached, tendons straining and grit rubbing at the quick under my nails.

  I dropped to a crouch in the tiny “alley,” landing in half-grown grass, gritty soil, and what was probably dried dog shit.

  Dog? Shit.

  I heard the barking even before it came barreling around the corner from the back yard proper, a big honking boxer mix, all jowls and teeth and trails of splattering spit.

  Funny thing about dogs, though—they’re all emotion, not a lotta thought. I lunged right back at him and snarled, throwing every bit of anger and frustration I had (
lots) behind it.

  Last I saw of him was his tail disappearing back around the corner so fast his frightened yip—and a pungent puddle of piss—lingered in his wake. Honestly, I’d probably just ruined him as a guard dog for the rest of his life, but he’d make Scola a fantastic pet: nice and friendly and just a little clingy.

  Keeping one shoulder to the wall, and trying to ignore the blinding stench of the newly moistened soil I was creeping through, I slid around so I could peek into the back yard itself. The entire lot was surrounded by the same fence I’d climbed over, and the yard was empty of much besides slightly overgrown grass, a couple saplings, and a ten-by-three flower garden. That last, sprouting mostly gardenias that mighta smelled nice without the eau de dog, was the only part of the yard that showed much evidence of upkeep.

  Though I couldn’t see any signs, I was sure Scola had peepers on the yard; he wasn’t stupid enough to guard the front and not the back. One of the houses backed up to his, maybe? There were a few lights on in the one off to the left…

  Well, didn’t matter exactly where. I knew I couldn’t just strut across the back yard and make for the door. That left the windows here, on the house’s side, either of which woulda made for a fine entry if they hadn’t been on the upper floor. And climbing up to ’em would put me square in the sights of anyone watching from those houses, and from the goons in one of the cars out front.

  So, more waiting, more drawing of magics around me with the wand—messing, this time, with how human sight would interpret the patterns of light and darkness around me. It took a few minutes, but the silver of the moon finally dimmed behind a passing cloud, and I was climbing, jamming my fingers hard and painfully into every nook and cranny. If any of the guards did happen to glance my way, they’d see nothing but a little movement in the pall of shadows cast across the side of the house, maybe the waving of branches in front of a street light. They’d have to really look, really think on it, to notice that nothing local could possibly be casting that shadow.