The Silver Gun

by L. A. Chandlar

  We went inside, making the bells on the door jangle harshly. Sitting at the desk was a woman who was most definitely not Roxy. She had a giant, towering hairdo coming straight off the top of her head, dyed a very artificial orange that clashed wildly with her long, green dress from circa 1900. Her makeup was caked on, with shocking blue eyelids and about a gallon of eyeliner and mascara. Her nails were so long they started to curve downward like claws and were painted bright pink to match her lips. She was paralyzingly vivid, and had a weird air of the film The Bride of Frankenstein, which had come out last year. My eyes kept trying to blink the color away.

  Then my eyes traveled downward to where she displayed the biggest . . . um . . . Let’s just say that when those guys had been discussing the “knockout,” they hadn’t even come close to doing her assets the justice they clearly deserved.

  Roarke and I were making a valiant effort to drag our eyes away from her bountiful display, and I said, “Ahh . . . ehhh . . .”

  Roarke came up with, “Hi. Uhhh . . .” Nice. Real nice secret agents.

  I was suddenly overcome with a Southern accent, which seemed to appear out of nowhere when I was trying to be covert. “Hello there, ma’am, my name is Bobby Drake, and this here is my fiancé, Mr. Dudley P. Richardson.”

  Dudley gave me a dirty look. He must have felt compelled to also be Southern, because he answered in a slightly less exaggerated accent than mine, “Hello, ma’am. How are you today?” He held out a friendly hand as he tipped his hat.

  The lady must have liked my Dudley’s looks, because her guard, which had been up when we first entered the room, was now completely discarded. She held out a too-friendly hand that squeezed his with an energy that screamed, Meet me out back. I didn’t think it was possible, but she wanted to further enhance her cleavage, so she took a deep breath that threatened to overwhelm her already precariously buttoned dress.

  She batted her eyes and blushed beneath her very orange makeup, saying in a nasally Brooklyn accent, “Why, hello, Mr. Richardson, how can I help you?” Since she was completely ignoring me, I was given the time to look at everything in the office. There were a few dusty photographs on her back shelf, and other than that, a lot of staplers, pencils, calculators, etc. Typical office paraphernalia.

  “I was wondering if the Schmidt brothers are in today. I have a friend who does business with them, and he recommended them highly,” said Roarke, with a hopeful look toward the back office.

  “Oh, no, they’re not in right now. Should be back in a while. Are you here for an estimate?” she asked, with the here sounding like heeya.

  “Ahhh, yes, an estimate. Do you think they’d have time to fit us in?” he said, hoping that she would give us some more information that we could work with.

  “Well, that’s a tough question. They have a lot going on this next month, but I think after that, they should have more openings. What exactly would you like to have done?” she asked, getting out a notebook.

  “Well, ah, the usual. I think just the regular job would be plenty,” Roarke tried.

  She gave us a queer look, and I thought she had us, but she said, “Ssssssso, you want a septic tank put in? Huh, you two look like city types, not country. You have a country house or sumthin’?”

  Roarke sounded relieved. “Oh, yes, in Long Island. Do they go out that far? And also, do they do other construction jobs? We may be doing a whole remodeling job, and we’ll be looking for help.”

  “Oh, sure, they do everything. Have every tool imaginable.” She took on a conspiratorial tone, and with a proud look on her face, she said, “They can even do demolition. They’re always talkin’ about how much they love tearin’ stuff down and how they like to blow things up.” She laughed like a proud mama. “Like grown-up little boys!”

  I wasn’t laughing, for two reasons. One, I paled at the fact that these guys liked to blow things up. Two, I had just spotted a guy who looked like a weasel coming up the walk, followed by two brawny men whom I immediately recognized and whom I was pretty sure would recognize me. I had seen them around the offices with Finn, and I was certain they were part of the Tammany Hall crew.

  Roarke saw the look on my face and started to make sounds of leaving, but the secretary had also spotted them and was telling us to wait. We hastened to make an exit and narrowly made it out the door before she could lay her claws on Roarke to forcibly stop him. However, we came to an abrupt standstill just outside. Roarke and the small, weasely guy came face-to-face—well, face to chest. They backed up and let us out first. We thought we were home free, but the secretary came bouncing out after us, wanting to make sure that we officially met the Schmidt Brothers. I tried to keep my face down so that the big guys couldn’t look at me too closely.

  Just when I thought my heart couldn’t possibly race any faster, Finn walked by. He walked past and stopped at a newspaper stand just a few feet away, out of view of the Schmidt brothers. It took everything I had not to turn and look at him.

  The short one, who seemed to be the leader, was directly in front of me. He was talking with Roarke, and the secretary was rapturous that she had caught us in time. Roarke was doing a fine job talking up our Long Island home and even had a great line about his reference to the Schmidt brothers from an acquaintance he’d met at a club, a Don Wilson Somebody.

  The threesome was an unusual little group. The two big guys must have been twins, as they looked almost identical. The smaller, weasely guy didn’t have their brawn or height, but something about his narrow eyes and pointy nose was definitely a blood relation to them. I thought we were doing swimmingly, when the big guy on the left suddenly lowered his gaze and took a good look at me. I kept busy adjusting my skirt and dodging his glance.

  But then he said, in a muffly sort of voice, “Hey, Boss! That’s Lane. That Lane girl. You know.” He said the you know with great emphasis. I really didn’t care to be this famous. Weasel stopped in midsentence, his head jerking back like he’d been slapped.

  He stammered out, “What the . . .” and I tried out something I’d been wanting to test for a while. You know how all the women in movies try to go for the slap on the face of the man who just made them angry? And the guy always sees it coming, and he grabs her wrist before she can slap and then gets that maddening grin? I hate those scenes, once again proving that I see far too many movies.

  Anyway, I stepped up and made a big show of drawing my left hand back for a mighty slap, and I could tell Weasel was going to react just like I expected and grab my wrist with pompous aplomb. But before he could, I quickly stepped with my left foot and drove with the power of my right shoulder and right fist as hard as I could into his unsuspecting stomach, resulting in a great big, “Oooof!”

  It took everyone by surprise as he doubled over, giving Roarke and me a precious couple of seconds to scramble away. I did have one quick moment when I looked back at Finn and we locked eyes. He was outright laughing, trying unsuccessfully to hold up a newspaper to shield himself. My smile matched his, and I raced away with Roarke, blending into the thronging crowds of Chinatown.

  After we felt like we had put enough distance between us and the Schmidt brothers, we slowed down and started evaluating what we had learned. We were so out of breath, it took us a few minutes to gather ourselves. We were now in Little Italy.

  Chinatown butts up against Little Italy, and it always takes me by surprise to see such vastly different cultures colliding. Within view were many restaurants, green and red awnings, no more strange critters in the windows, several shops with tasty-looking pastries, and many men and women enjoying a chat in their native tongue outside on the stoops. Roarke and I found an unoccupied one and sat down to rest.

  “Well, that was refreshing, Roarke. We should do this more often.”

  “Oh, yeah, I know how to show a girl a good time,” he said, dimples showing.

  “Yeah, and if you play your cards right, Chesty LaRue back there would love a little alone time with you, Dudley.”
r />   He groaned. “Thanks for the excellent name, and what’s with the Southern accent?”

  “I have no idea. It just comes out,” I said resignedly.

  “Well.” He let out a big breath of air, finally getting his breathing back down to normal. “I think that those guys are definitely involved with Daley Joseph, and they look good to me to be the ones who could handle some kind of bombing attempt or something along those lines. But how did that guy know you?”

  “I’ve seen those two bigger ones around the office. I think they’re part of the old Tammany guys. I saw them talking with Finn once.” I paused, letting that soak in. “He was there today. Finn.”

  “Yep, over by the newsstand. I wonder if he was there keeping tabs on the Schmidts or on you. He looked pretty pleased at your getaway plan, Lane. As was I. Did you see that at the movies or something?”

  “Ha! I wish! I always get fed up with the women who predictably go for the slap. It was just a little something I’ve been working on.”

  “Nice. I think you deserve a reward. How about I treat you to a cannoli?”

  CHAPTER 21

  Normality is a paved road: It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it.

  —ML

  The cannoli had been delicious. I ate two, in fact. And two days later, I was still thinking about manufacturing a way to go get another one. Roarke put out some feelers to keep track of the Schmidt brothers, but just like the void of cannoli in my life, there was a dearth of activity with the case. However, just after lunch, I received a special delivery via messenger. It was a note promising some action:

  I have a great favor to ask of you, Lane. A job. It’s a bit risky, but I know you can handle it. And God help me, I can’t seem to keep you out of trouble anyway. Meet me outside Charlie’s Club at nine p. m. Wear something sophisticated and sexy. Thanks, love.

  —F

  P.S. I know your overactive imagination will think this letter could be a trap. So to prove to you I am who you think I am, Mambo Italiano will always be a favorite.—F

  I chuckled at the overactive imagination line, because that had been exactly what I was thinking. But what kind of job could he be talking about? And, wear something sophisticated? Charlie’s wasn’t exactly a fancy place. Of course I would do it, but it was one of the most ludicrous letters I’d ever received. And that should have been a premonition.

  I arrived at Charlie’s Club at nine o’clock on the dot. I had trouble deciding what to wear, but landed on a basic black dress with a V in front and back. I didn’t have any cleavage to speak of, but the closely fitting dress highlighted, let’s just say, my best asset. And of course I had on a beautiful pair of black heels with toes peeking out, nails painted in dark red to match my red lipstick.

  I was waiting just outside when Finn walked up. He was wearing a crisp, expensive-looking black suit with a deep blue tie and a handkerchief in his suit coat pocket. The cut highlighted his broad shoulders, tall frame, and tight waist. He walked up and let out a huge whoa of an exhale. “Wow, you look beautiful.”

  “Why, thank you. You don’t look so bad yourself,” I said, with an appreciative grin.

  “Nice maneuver the other day. Where’d you learn that, love?”

  “Oh, just a little something I’ve been working on.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “You watch a lot of movies, don’t you?”

  “Sure do,” I said, with a smirk.

  “Thanks for taking me up on this job tonight.” He offered his arm, and I took it. We leisurely walked along the block toward Charlie’s.

  “Your note was pretty unusual. What exactly do you have in mind tonight, Finn? I don’t think that Charlie’s requires a sophisticated and sexy dress code, by the way,” I said skeptically.

  “Yeah, well, if you thought the note was unusual, just wait.” Uh-oh. “This is the deal. The men you met the other day—I’m sure you and Roarke figured out that those three are the Schmidt brothers. The big ones you’ve seen around your office, right?”

  “Mm hm, I saw them talking with you in our lobby once.”

  “Right, well, as you could also probably tell, those three aren’t exactly geniuses; they’re more or less the worker bees for their operation, because whoever is in charge is not telling the Schmidts any details. A smart move on their part. There’s someone who’s leading them, working out all the angles and execution. And he’s the one who could be the weak link in figuring out the threat to Fiorello and the city. Daley Joseph has been in and out of their office, but with everything we do know, we don’t know when and what they’re planning, other than explosives being involved. There’s a guy coming tonight to Charlie’s who I think can give us the clues we need. However, I think he won’t respond to me. I think he needs someone with your”—he looked at me appreciatively up and down with a sly smile—“skills.”

  “So you want me to go up to a total stranger and say something like, ‘Gee, ever work for a psychopath with diabolical nose hairs?’”

  “Might be a little too direct.”

  “I’m taking suggestions. . . .”

  “Well, I’d approach him like all men want to be approached: Appeal to his ego.”

  “Ah,” I said, nodding sagely on the outside, nervously twitching on the inside. What have I gotten myself into? “How did you know he’d be here tonight?” I asked.

  “Oh, I have my sources.”

  “You, too?” I murmured exasperatedly, thinking of Roarke and his legion of informants.

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Well, turns out this guy and his friends have a thing for the kind of music being played tonight, and it’s pretty hard finding this kind of band in Manhattan.”

  “What kind of music?”

  “Country.”

  “Country music,” I said flatly.

  “Country music. Deep, Southern, country music.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  We walked into the bar. It wasn’t a club, it was a bar. I blurted out my first question: “One more time. Why did you tell me to wear something sophisticated? I should be wearing blue jeans and a plaid shirt.”

  “Love, it’s still Manhattan. You know this is all we wear. You’ll see. And the men you’ll be approaching will appreciate your outfit much, much more than jeans and plaid. Trust me.”

  Inside the bar, there was a band already on stage just wrapping up. Sounded more bluesy than country. They finished their last song and started removing their equipment as Finn came up and handed me a beer. I just could not see how this night was going to pan out. The bar was smoky with bare lightbulbs poking out of the walls here and there, all in all a very dark room except for the stage. But Finn was right; despite a couple of random cowboy hats, most of us were wearing work clothes or dressy, New York–style outfits like my own.

  Finn stood slightly away from me so we didn’t look like a couple. As the next band was getting up on stage, a group of three men came in and stood in front of us. Men were so intriguing. I really only saw these guys from behind at first, but I could tell instantly who the leader was.

  All three had on suit pants, dress shirts, and ties, but had left their suit coats and hats at the coat rack. They were all slim, pretty well built, and looked like businessmen. But the leader had this confident air about him. And the three together were very interesting to watch. They had an appealing camaraderie, and there was a certain powerfulness about their postures.

  The leader of the band was about ready to begin, and he put on an enormous white Stetson hat that matched his white suit. They started an upbeat number that was pretty toe-tapping as I sipped my beer and tried to come up with a savvy way of starting a conversation with these guys. Then the second song crawled into existence. It was an impossibly slow song, with caterwauling lead vocals and syrupy steel guitar, and it was completely, utterly, shoot-me-now depressing. I backed up to Finn, who was still behind me.

  “You are an awful, awful man,” I said.
r />   “Enjoying the ambiance, my dear?” he said, enjoying himself.

  “You owe me big,” I groaned. The song went on and on, like they do.

  As the beers kept flowing, the guys’ inhibitions started lowering. The leader remained pretty stalwart, but his friends were shimmying, toe-tapping, and elbow dancing to the merrier tunes. At the depressing songs, they all sat down and put their elbows on the table in a dejected sort of way, nodding their heads empathetically with the droning lyrics about unfaithful women and nitpicky wives. I was going to need something stronger than beer.

  I went up to the bar and ordered a scotch. I really don’t care for the fiery liquid, except when Aunt Evelyn hands out her restorative beverages. But in this case, it seemed necessary. For a couple of reasons. The barkeep was a huge, beefy man sporting blue jeans with a white denim shirt. He was in his fifties, probably, and winked at me as he set down my glass of scotch.

  As I held the cool glass in my hand, the leader of my three guys came up and put his elbows on the bar, ready to make an order. I was about three feet away. I rolled the cold shot glass between my hands. I watched the guy, his strong hands clasping his glass. He looked up and caught my eye. I gave him a small smile and held up my glass in a cheers motion.

  He came over to me and clinked my glass, and we both downed our drinks with only a slight watering of my eyes as the fire hit my throat and my gut. He rested his elbows on the bar once again. I turned back to the bar as well, now only inches from his elbow.

  I decided on taking Finn’s advice. “You’re the guy in charge, aren’t you?” I said, with what I hoped was a beguiling tone.

  He clearly enjoyed my compliment. “Yeah, you could say that.”