Devil With a Gun

by M. C. Grant

  But if I wanted that life, I should have gone for a boob job and found myself a shallow millionaire—there are certainly plenty of them around, or so Mary Jane tells me.

  In the lobby, Mr. French’s door is the first to open. This time, he’s not holding Champagne.

  “Miss Flynn,” he says. “I have been watching the news. Did we … did we—”

  “That wasn’t you,” I assure him. “We were there to rescue Bailey. That’s all.”

  “But the fire, the shooting—”

  “Coincidence,” I say, repeating the lie and starting to believe it. “The building belongs to a nasty man with a lot of enemies. We were lucky to get Bailey out in time.”

  “So we did good?” he asks.

  I smile, cross the short distance between us, and envelop him in a surprise hug. I’m not a very physical person, and the embrace is awkward for both of us, since my need for comfort makes it more something I’m taking rather than giving.

  Plus there’s the vast height difference.

  “We did great,” I say, assuring myself as much as him.

  When I release the poor man, Mr. French’s effervescent smile is back where it belongs.

  “I never doubted it for a moment,” he says. “I was just telling Baccarat that there had to be an explanation. We are so pleased that Miss Brown is safe.”

  “I’ll let her know.”

  “Yes, yes, please do.”

  When I arrive at the top of the stairs, Kristy and Sam are waiting on the landing.

  “We’ve been watching the news,” says Sam. Her arms are wrapped tight across her chest, a shield of muscle, flesh, and bone.

  “Are you okay?” asks Kristy. Her chest is unguarded, open and exposed.

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “You don’t look it,” says Kristy.

  “When do I ever?”

  “Guns again?” Sam snaps. The lines around her mouth are so tight they look like broken stitches.

  “Coincidence,” I say. “I went to rescue Bailey, nothing more. I didn’t start the fire.”

  Sam’s eyes blaze white-hot. “Trouble has a nasty way of following you around, Dix.”

  “Maybe,” I say, “but so does hope.” I point at my apartment door and flash a glimmer of gnashed teeth. “Those women in there lost their father twenty years ago. Roxanne was stolen away and made into an addict and whore, and Bailey is so full of unanswered questions she’s practically bursting out of her own skin. So, yeah, I caused some trouble. I pulled them both from the clutches of a monster and that has repercussions, but tonight I’m also bringing them together with a man neither of them knew was still alive. Tonight, Roxanne will meet her father for the first time, and maybe—just maybe—that will bring some healing. You know me better than this, Sam. I may be a bitch at times, but I don’t do it selfishly.”

  “Sam wasn’t—”

  “Yeah, she was, Kristy,” I interrupt. “And I can’t blame her for being frustrated, but I also can’t change who I am. If I could do my job without bringing it home with me, I would. I’m not egotistical enough to think I’m changing the world, but if I can make a difference in someone’s life every now and again, then that’s what I’ll do. Yes, I love you both; no, I don’t want to see any harm come to either of you, and I’m sorry if I cause you worry and stress and sleepless nights, but, well, that’s part of the price for having me as a friend.”

  There’s an awkward pause where the air feels thick and hot before Sam says, “Feel better?”

  “Not really,” I admit.

  Sam moves forward to wrap me in my second awkward hug of the day.

  She whispers in my ear, “We love you, too, Dix, but work harder to keep the trouble off our doorstep.”

  “I’ll try,” I say quietly.

  Kristy joins in for a three-way cuddle before we break apart and head into our respective apartments.

  Closing the door behind me, I see Bailey and Roxanne look over from the couch where they’ve been drinking coffee and playing with the cat. Showered, dressed, and alert, they look more like sisters than ever before.

  “Hey, Dix,” says Bailey. “You OK? It sounded like an argument out there.”

  “I’m fine. Kristy and Sam saw the news and were worried that’s all.”

  “I couldn’t find your TV,” says Roxanne.

  “I use the laptop if there’s something I’m interested in.”

  “That’s weird. Everyone has a TV.”

  I smile. “I prefer to read.”

  Roxanne looks at me as though I’ve just declared that I would rather practice satanic witchcraft than peer into the lives of our new breed of reality stars: pregnant teenagers, child beauty queens, foul-mouthed illiterates, and gossipy sex fiends with IQs slightly smaller than their bust size.

  “I wanted to watch the news,” she says.

  “There’s a radio in the bedroom.”

  Roxanne glares at me again as if I’ve just made the stupidest suggestion that she’s ever heard.

  Instead of explaining myself, I say, “But I have news for you. Your father is alive.”

  “What!” Bailey gasps. “How do you know?”

  “I met with someone today who claims to be a friend of his. He’s been watching out for you two.”

  “Well, he’s not very good at it,” gripes Roxanne.

  “Where is he?” asks Bailey, ignoring her sister.

  “He’s living on some kind of communal farm outside the city. Seems he never went far.”

  Roxanne fixes me in a hard stare. “Told you I saw him.”

  I nod. “You did.”

  “But he never—” Roxanne stops talking and wipes a sudden pool of tears from her eyes. She’s also chewing the inside of her mouth, and I can see her teeth turning pink from the blood. “He never once … Never spoke. Never called out. Never tried to grab my hand and pull me away.” Tears stream down her cheeks now; a hurt and broken child. “He could have done something. Anything. At least let me know he wanted me.” Her voice breaks. “Nobody ever wanted me, except for what they could take.” Her eyes lock onto mine again, but they’re so misted that I’m not sure she even sees me. “Didn’t he see that? Didn’t he want to take me away?”

  “You can ask him,” I say.

  Bailey gasps again. “When?”

  “Tonight. He’s coming into the city. His friend is going to call me with the details of when and where.”

  “He’s been around all this time,” says Roxanne, her voice distant but edged in broken glass. “And he waits until some reporter brings us together for a fucking story before showing his face.”

  “I’m sure it’s not—” Bailey starts.

  “What the fuck do you know?” Roxanne hisses. “You abandoned me, too. You both left me in that dive to be fucked and used by strangers until I became this.” She tears at her skin, her nails scratching lines on her arms. “There is no little girl left inside for a father to find. There is no baby sister to play dolls or dress up in mom’s clothes. There’s only this … ” She rips at her dress and her hair. “A whore and a monster and a waste of fucking skin.”

  Bailey wraps her arms around her sister, trapping her arms and squeezing her tight. She makes cooing noises and motherly clucks, rocking back and forth to bring calm to the chaos.

  Feeling like a third wheel, I leave the apartment and head downstairs.

  I knock on Mr. French’s door, and when he opens it, I ask, “You don’t happen to have any cigars, do you?”

  Forty-One

  Although he prefers his pipes and exotic hand-rubbed blends of richly flavored tobacco, Mr. French keeps an exquisite cherry wood humidor packed with an assortment of cigars for guests.

  He beams at my request as though I’ve paid him the highest of compliments, which makes me feel a little less like a mooch
. He leads me excitedly through his apartment to show me his collection. When I tell him I want to sit on the front stoop and just let my mind melt for a while, he hums and haws before producing a thick Cuaba Pirámides.

  “This one is from 2008.” He smiles with delight when I frown, as this allows him to figuratively slip into his retired professor’s robes and impart some wisdom. “Like fine wine, cigars are a natural product that benefit from aging in the right environment. The years have been kind to this one, bringing out notes of chocolate, cinnamon, and a pinch of nutmeg that weren’t evident when it was first rolled.”

  “Aren’t Cuban cigars illegal?” I ask.

  “Most of the best things are.”

  He snips the tapered end for me before handing it over with a thin stick of cedar and a heavy silver lighter that resembles the jowled face of a British Bulldog.

  “You light the cedar first,” he explains. “And use its flame to light the cigar. Makes those first puffs much smoother, plus the ritual is all part of the fun.”

  “Will you join me?” I ask.

  “I would be delighted, Miss Flynn, but I am afraid I must decline. I have a Skype call lined up with a fellow philatelist who has unearthed an unusual find that I am anxious to see.”

  “Stamps wait for no man. Perfectly understandable,” I say.

  Mr. French beams again. “Enjoy the cigar.”

  Sitting on the front steps, I follow Mr. French’s cedar-stick ritual until the cigar is lit. The draw is smooth and fills my mouth with velvet smoke.

  “You shouldn’t expose yourself like this,” says Pinch, appearing on the sidewalk below me. “You’re making yourself a target.”

  I release the smoke from between my lips with a heavy sigh. “I think you may have scared them off for a bit,” I say. “That was a hell of a shot.”

  “I was aiming for the window.”

  “Bullshit.”

  Pinch grins and moves to sit beside me on the steps. “I didn’t know you smoked,” he says.

  “I don’t,” I reply. “Except for when I do.”

  “Ah. Spoken like a woman.”

  “That’s me.”

  “You don’t have another do you?”

  “We can share.”

  I pat the space beside me, take another deep pull, and hand him the cigar. He doesn’t hesitate to place it between his lips.

  Exhaling, he hands it back and says, “Nice.”

  “Mmmm,” I agree.

  We sit and smoke for a while, sharing the cigar in silence like a pocketful of secret kisses doled out one by one.

  “The Red Swan has a fierce temper,” Pinch says.

  “Shhh. I’m trying to relax.”

  “We need a plan to get him off your back.”

  “Already have one.”

  “Oh?”

  “Joe Brown has information that Lebed doesn’t want made public,” I explain. “Swannie’s been searching for him for twenty years.”

  “How does that help you?”

  “I found him. We’re meeting tonight.” Smoke rises from my mouth to dance upon a salty breeze. I can taste wood, spice, leather, and earth. “If Joe shares that information, I can use it to protect all of us.”

  “Do you think he will?”

  “I rescued both his daughters. The guy owes me.”

  Pinch plucks the cigar from between my lips and raises it to his own. “Not just a pretty face,” he says.

  Forty-Two

  Returning to the apartment, the atmosphere has a vein of electricity running through it. It’s not enough to burn or make my don’t-give-a-damn hair stand on end, but its presence prickles the skin and creates uneasy goosebumps.

  “You girls hungry?” I ask.

  “I could eat,” says Bailey.

  “Roxanne?” I ask. “What do you feel like?”

  “You don’t have much,” she answers. “I already looked.”

  I laugh, which breaks the tension and allows both sisters to share a smile.

  “I’m not much of a cook, granted, but I think I have all the ingredients for a giant plate of cheesy nachos.”

  “Dinner of champions,” says Bailey, smiling.

  “Wanna help?” I ask. “Roxanne can open the beers and you can chop.”

  From the fridge, I pull out two bell peppers—one red, one yellow—a block of aged white cheddar, a chunk of blue cheese that looks a little under the weather, two wrinkled jalapeños, and a jar of pickled banana peppers. From the freezer, I retrieve two spicy Chorizo sausages that I vaguely remember cooking sometime recently.

  While the oven warms, I defrost the sausages in the microwave and open a bag of tortilla chips.

  Roxanne hands everyone a bottle of Anchor Steam and we clink glass as if we’re just three fun-loving girls planning a night in without all of life’s excess baggage weighing us down.

  I layer the chips in a large pan, shred and crumble the cheese, and add the chopped bell peppers. Bailey discovers a small can of black olives in the cupboard and excitedly adds them to the mix. We make two layers, adding sliced sausage, jalapeños, and banana peppers to both.

  With some more rummaging, I unearth half a jar of salsa that’s only a little crusty around the edge, and a container of sour cream. Unfortunately, the sour cream has expired; the nose test tells me it’s not worth the risk.

  After sliding the nachos into the oven to melt, I open my second beer and collapse onto the couch. Prince Marmalade immediately rises from his spot on the other cushion and strolls over to curl on my lap. Aw. Despite all the womanly attention lately, he still loves me best. I scratch his ears and feel his purr rumble through me like a massage for my soul.

  Bailey keeps an eye on the baking nachos and brings them over to the coffee table when the cheese is bubbling and the sausage is warmed through.

  The three of us eat with our fingers and sip our beers.

  I wish we could laugh and talk about boys, but the night ahead weighs heavily on us all. Instead, we talk about little except how the blue cheese complements the jalapeño and what a pity it is that the sour cream was expired.

  When the phone rings, we all jump—even Prince.

  Wiping my hands and mouth on a paper towel, I head back to the kitchen and pick up the phone.

  “Dixie here,” I say.

  “Do you know my voice?” asks my Good Samaritan.

  “I do, but you never told me your name.”

  “I’m sure you could find it if you wanted.”

  “True, but I’d rather hear it from you.”

  “Tim Collins, but my friends call me Stubs.”

  “Nice friends.”

  He chuckles. “Shows they’re comfortable enough around me to joke. It took me years to get there myself.”

  “Is Joe Brown in town?”

  Bailey makes a noise, and I turn to see both women sitting on the edge of their seats, eyes locked on my lips as though they need to see the words being formed.

  “He’s here.”

  “When can we meet?”

  “Ten tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “There’s an auto wreckers off Rankin Street below 280. Do you know it?”

  “I can find it.”

  “It’s owned by a friend. The front gate will be unlocked. If Lebed’s men are following or you decide to involve the cops, we won’t be there.”

  “I understand the risks. Let Joe know his daughters are anxious to see him.”

  There’s a pause before Tim says, “I’ve never seen him so nervous. He looks terrified, but in a good way, you know?”

  “He shouldn’t get his hopes too high,” I say. “These girls have been hurt. Healing will take time.”

  “Yeah.” My Samaritan sighs.

  I hang up and look over at the sisters. “We mee
t at ten,” I say.

  In unison, the sisters exhale and recline back in their seats.

  “Anyone else need a fresh beer?” I ask, my hands shaking with nervous energy as I reach into the fridge.

  When I call Mo’s Cabs, Mo coughs in my ear.

  “How do you keep customers when you sound like a plague farm?” I ask.

  “A sexy plague farm,” he corrects in his guttural Bronx accent. “I’ve been told that I drive women crazy.”

  “But I don’t think your wife meant that in a good way.”

  Mo laughs and coughs in my ear again. “What can I do you for, Dix?”

  “I need to get somewhere tonight, but I need to make sure that I’m not followed.”

  “See, that’s why I love you. It’s never just ‘Take me to the liquor store and wait while I spend my pension check on dirty mags, cheap booze, and those tasty little peanuts coated in crushed potato chips’.”

  “That’s awfully specific, Mo, but you’re right, I don’t usually ask for that. At least not when sober.”

  “So where do you need to end up and when?”

  I’m about to tell him when a stab of doubt makes my neck ache. Last night, Lebed showed up outside the Dog House directly after Roxanne was told that Bailey and I were there. And despite the lies I’ve been telling all day, I’m not a big fan of coincidence.

  “Hold on a sec.”

  Turning to Bailey and Roxanne, who are nursing their beers on the couch, I say, “You should pick out some of my clothes to wear. It’ll be cold tonight. Dress in layers.”

  I wait until both women are in my bedroom and out of earshot before I return to Mo and quietly give him the address.

  “Keep this on a need-to-know basis,” I add. “Only the last driver should have the final destination.”

  Mo chuckles. “Man, you sound like a character out of one of those early Ken Follett novels. Eye of the Needle, something like that?”

  “I’m not quite a spy yet, but the stakes could be just as high tonight,” I say. “There are some pretty nasty people who want to put a bullet in the man I’m meant to meet. I’d really prefer it if that didn’t happen.”