by P. N. Elrod
“Lebredo took it,” said Escott. “Where it is?”
“But he didn’t, said it was too much trouble. He told me to go along with him on that. He just let it drop to keep you both in line.”
I shook my head. “A bluff.”
Gordy shrugged. “Poker was his game.” We all got out and watched him walk down the pier to the rowboat. He started talking to the oarsman, telling him about the change of situation.
“I hope he remembers to leave his gun with Lebredo so the bullets match up,” I said.
“He might also wish to clean the magazine and the unspent bullets left in it of any prints as well,” Escott suggested.
“I’ll make sure,” said Bobbi. “We may need the car. Will you be able to get home all right?”
“Yeah, I’ll call you tomorrow night. Promise.”
She kissed me again and went to join Gordy.
“What a very remarkable girl,” Escott commented as we walked slowly away, headed for my car that I’d parked near the club.
“I think so.”
“You know this makes us all accessories after the fact?”
“Yeah, but do you think she should go to jail?”
“Not for a single hour.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but he was tired and it was a long walk for him. He eased into the passenger seat with a grateful sigh, then pulled out the list and squinted at the figure-covered pages.
“Benny said something about substitution.” I started the motor.
“Then it shouldn’t be too difficult to solve.” He nodded at the eastern sky. “You’ll have to hurry, the dawn does not wait.”
“I should be the one to say things like that.”
“Yes, but you’re not as melodramatic as I am.”
“That’s a shame. Considering what I’ve become, I really ought to go in for it.”
His eyebrows twitched. “You’re not seriously thinking of acquiring a black opera cape?”
I chuckled. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s the wrong season and they cost too much anyway.”
He looked relieved.
LIFEBLOOD
1
Chicago, September 1936
“BE a sport,” I said to the bartender, not quite meeting his eye, “I’m nursin’ a broken heart.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he replied, and continued polishing a glass with a gray rag.
“No foolin’, I got the money.” And I fumbled five singles from my shirt pocket and let them flutter onto the damp black wood of the bar. “Come on, that’s worth a bottle, ain’t it? I won’t make no trouble.”
“You can make book on it.”
He had a right to be confident. We were nearly the same height, but I’m on the lean side and he was built like a steam shovel and just as solid. He thought he could take care of me.
He stopped polishing the glass and put it down next to the bills. I smiled and tried to look friendly, which was a hell of an act under the circumstances. This was one of those cheaper-than-two-bit dives where you take your life in your hands just by going to the men’s room. From the smell of things, the facilities were located just outside the front door against the wall of the building, gentlemen on the left, ladies . . . I renewed my hopeful smile and rustled the bills temptingly.
He looked at them, then gave me a fishy eye, gauging my apparent drunkenness against the lure of the money. It was a slow night and the money won. His hand made a move for it, but mine was a little faster and covered three of Washington’s portraits first.
“Wise guy,” he said, and took a bottle of the cheap stuff down from the shelf behind him. Hell, it was all cheap, but that hardly mattered to me, I only wanted an excuse to hang around.
“I’ve had some, but not that much.” I left two bucks on the bar, took the bottle, glass, and remaining money, and tottered to the second booth in line along the wall. With my back to the front door I settled in, using the careful movements of a drunk who wants to show people he isn’t. I spent a lot of time counting my three dollars and putting them away before pouring a drink and pretending to imbibe. Ten cents for the whole bottle would have been an overcharge; the stuff smelled like some of the old poison left over from before repeal. I brought the glass to my lips, made a face, and coughed, spilling some of it down my well-stained shirtfront.
While I was busy dabbing at the mess with a dirty handkerchief, a big man in dark gray came in and went straight to the bar. He was in a suit, which was wrong for the neighborhood, and he was in a hurry, which was wrong for the hour. At one in the morning, nobody should be in a hurry. He ordered a whiskey with a beer chaser and took a look around. It didn’t take long; except for me, seven booths, and the bartender, the place was empty.
He studied me like a bug. I pretended real hard that I was drunk and simple-minded and hoped he’d buy the act. It helped that I wore rough work clothes that stank of the river and past debauches with the bottle—just another country kid corrupted by the big bad city.
Apparently I was no threat. He knocked back the whiskey and took the beer to the last booth next to the back door and sat on the outside edge, where he could see people coming in from the street. I used the tilted mirror hanging over the bar to watch him. It was an old one with flecks of tarnish like freckles, but his reflection was clear enough. He hunched over the beer and drained it a sip at a time, with long pauses in between. His soft hat was pulled low, but now and then his eyes gleamed when he used the mirror himself. I kept still and enjoyed his slight puzzlement when he couldn’t spot my image in the glass.
Another man walked in from the night and hesitantly approached the bar. He was also too well dressed, but was a bit more seedy and timid. He had a tall, thin body with a beaky nose that supported some black-rimmed pince-nez on a pastel blue velvet ribbon. He wore a cheap blue suit, the cuffs a little too short and the pants a little too tight. His ankles stuck out, revealing black silk socks peeking over the tops of black shoes with toes that had been chiseled to a lethal point. He affected a black cane with a silver handle, which would buy him eternity in this neighborhood if he waved it around too much.
He tried ordering a sherry and got a look of contemptuous disbelief instead. He had better luck asking for gin, then made a point of wiping the rim of the glass clean with his printed silk handkerchief before drinking. After taking a sip, he dabbed his lips and smoothed the pencil line under his nose that passed for a moustache.
He looked around, as nervous as a virgin in a frat house. He noted me and the man in the back booth, and when neither of us leaped out to cut his throat, he relaxed a little. He checked the clock behind the bar, comparing its time to a silver watch attached to his vest and frowned.
The bartender moved away, no doubt driven off by the scent of dying lilies that the newcomer had doused over himself. A cloud of it hit me in the face like exhaust from a truck, and I gave up breathing for a while.
He looked at the watch again and then at the door. No one came in. He removed his hat, placing it gently on the bar, as though it might offend someone. From a low widow’s peak to the curl-clustered nape, his dark hair had been carefully dressed with a series of waves that were too regular to be natural. He removed his gloves, plucking delicately at the fingertips, then absently patted his hair down.
The bartender caught the eyes of the man in the booth and shrugged with raised brows and a superior smile as though to say he couldn’t help who walked through the door as long as they paid. The man in the booth hunched closer to his beer and watched the mirror.
Two minutes later a lady walked in, probably the first one to ever cross the threshold. She was small, not much over five feet, wearing emerald green with a matching hat and a heavy dark veil that covered her face down to her hard, red lips. She carried a big green bag trimmed with beads that twinkled in the light. Her green heels made quite a noise as she crossed the wood floor to the tall man at the bar. He straightened a little, because polite men do things like that when a lady comes up to them, and he did look polite.
&n
bsp; She glanced around warily, her gaze resting on me a moment. She must have been pretty enough to be noticed even by a drunk like me; at least she had a trim figure and good legs. I gave her an encouraging, if bleary leer and raised my glass hopefully. After that she ignored me and tilted her chin expectantly at the tall man.
He frowned, worried, but gathered up his hat, cane, gloves, and drink and followed her to the second-to-last booth at the end. She sat with her back to me and the man slid in opposite her with his back to the big man in gray, who was now pressed tight against the wall. She seemed not to have noticed him.
The gin placed his cane across the table, the curved handle hanging over the outside edge. His hat went next to it and the gloves were tucked into a pocket. I could tell he was nervous again from the way he fussed with things. He quietly asked the woman if she cared to have a drink. She shook her head. He repeated the gesture to the bartender, who then moved down to my end and picked up another glass to polish. He was watching me, but I was in a slack-jawed dream, staring into space, at least at the space occupied by the mirror behind him.
The man in gray leaned to the outside and craned his neck. He could see the bartender and was now worried that he couldn’t see me as well, but it was too late to investigate the problem without calling attention to himself.
The woman stared at her companion, her breath gently ruffling the veil. Her voice was pitched low, but even at that distance I had no trouble hearing the conversation.
“Do you have it?”
The man cocked his head to one side, favoring her with the stronger lens of the pince-nez. “I might ask you the same question.” His voice was flat and breathy, as though he were afraid the let the words out.
She didn’t like him or his answer, but eventually lifted the purse from her lap to the table. With her left hand she pulled out a slim leather case and opened it for his inspection. It was no larger than a pack of cigarettes, and she held it ready to pull back if he grabbed it. He peered at the contents a moment, then drew a jeweler’s loupe from his pocket.
“May I?” He extended a manicured hand. She hesitated. “I have to verify that it is genuine, Miss . . . er . . . Green. Mr. Swafford was very clear on that point.”
She put the case on the table, her right hand lingering inside the big purse. “Just as long as you know that this is genuine,” she told him, and turned the bag to let him see inside.
He stiffened, his eyes frozen on her hidden hand. He licked his lower lip. “V-very well.” Slowly he picked up the leather case, removing the pince-nez and screwing the loupe into one eye. He examined what was in the case for ten seconds and reversed the motions, replacing it back onto the scarred tabletop.
“Well?” she said.
“It is genuine.” He settled the pince-nez back on his nose.
“I knew that, let’s get on with it.”
“Y-yes, certainly.” From his coat pocket he produced an envelope and gave it to her. She opened it and examined the contents in turn, pulling out one of the hundred-dollar bills from the center. A second later she looked up and grabbed the leather case.
“You can tell Swafford it’s in the fire,” she said in a voice like ground glass.
His eyes darted unhappily from the empty spot on the table to her veil. “But why?”
“These bills are marked. If there’s cops outside you’re a corpse.”
“No, please, I didn’t know about this, please wait!”
She didn’t look like she was ready to move, but the man was unnerved. Behind him the big guy had shifted a hand to the inside of his coat, which explained why she hadn’t noticed him; there’d been no need to notice her partner.
“I-I don’t understand this. Mr. Swafford entrusted me to verify the stamp and to pay you—nothing more. I assure you that I had no idea—”
“I said it’s in the fire.”
“But wait, please, you have no idea how valuable it is—”
“Five grand. I only asked for half.”
“I can help you. I know other collectors, ones who would ask no questions. They’d be glad to pay you its full worth. If I had the money, I’d buy it myself.”
She took in his cheap clothes, her mouth becoming small and thin. “I’m sure you would.” Her hand shot up and knocked the pince-nez from his nose, and his head snapped back a fraction too late to avoid it. They hung from the velvet ribbon, swinging free and hitting the table edge with a soft tick.
In turn his gray eyes hardened and his cowering posture altered and straightened. “We may still come to an equitable arrangement, Miss Green.” His breathy manner of speech had been replaced by a precise English accent, and the prissy mannerisms dropped from him like sour milk.
“Like hell we will, Escott. Stand up and follow Sled out the back door.”
Escott glanced up as the big shadow of the man in gray loomed over him. “I meant what I—”
“Shut up or you get it now.”
He shot her a glum look and stood. He put on his hat and reached for the cane, but Sled grabbed it first, grinning at Escott’s discomfiture. Sled opened the back door and started through a short, dark passage that served as storage space and led to the rear alley. The bartender watched me and pretended not to notice his other customers.
I gave up my drunk act and vanished into thin air. Maybe he could pretend not to notice that, either.
Escott moved slowly through the passage after Sled. The woman was behind him, presumably with her hand still on the gun in her purse. For the moment I was only aware of their bodies and general positions. The woman shivered as I passed her, the way they say you do when someone walks over your grave. Escott paused when I brushed past him and had to be urged on; it was his way of letting me know he was conscious of my presence.
Sled was out the back door now, waiting as Escott emerged with the woman. I didn’t know if Sled had his gun ready yet, but hers was, so she’d have to be dealt with first.
I melted back into reality and solidified. From her point of view I just came out of nowhere, which was essentially correct. I slapped the gun from her grip, put a hand over her mouth, another around her waist, then half lifted her away into the dark. She made a nasal squeal of outrage, her heels flailing against my shins.
Sled’s attention cut from Escott to her, and the gun jumped from the shoulder holster to his hand like magic. Escott grabbed it, forcing it down, and used his body to ram Sled against the brick wall of the dive. He was stronger than his thin frame promised, and the bricks did nothing for Sled’s looks or disposition. He hit Escott with the cane, but it was at the wrong angle and he couldn’t put his full strength in it. There was a meaty thump and gasp as Escott slammed the man’s gun hand hard into the bricks. The gun dropped. The cane came down again. Escott took the blow against his side and at the same time led with a right that went halfway to Sled’s backbone.
While they danced around, I tore the purse from the woman. Holding on to her was like trying to give a bath to an alley cat. I pushed her away from the melee, hoping she would have the sense to run. We wanted the stamp, not her. She was agile, though; one second she was getting her balance, the next she was making an unladylike tackle for Sled’s gun.
She got it.
Her index finger slotted neatly over the trigger on the first try and she rolled and brought it up like an expert, firing point blank at me as I lunged. The yellow flash filled my whole world. I didn’t hear the thing go off, maybe at that range it was too loud to hear. I felt the wrenching impact as the slug struck over my left eye and sent me on a slow, breathless tumble into white-hot agony.
Its duration was mercifully brief. I was writhing and solid one instant and weightless and floating the next. The shock and pain had knocked me incorporeal, temporarily releasing me from the burden of having a body full of outraged nerve endings. I wanted to stay in that non-place, but Escott’s voice, distorted as though through layers of cotton, was dragging me back. He shouted my name once, and then the gun went off a
gain.
I reappeared in time to see the smoke flaring away from its muzzle. Sled launched himself away from Escott, grabbed the protesting woman on the run, and dragged her off the battlefield.
Escott was leaning against the wall and had made no move to stop them. He was doubled over, struggling to breathe, with his arms curled tight around his stomach. His pale face stood out from the shadows like a fun-house ghost. Even as I found my feet he lost his and sank to the ground.
I was kneeling by him in a second, heart in my throat. “Charles?” My voice was all funny, as though it were borrowed from some stranger.
“Minute—” he gasped. He shut his eyes, let his mouth sag, and concentrated on drawing in air. I eased him more comfortably against the wall and tried to check his damage, but he shook his head.
“How bad?” I asked.
He showed a few teeth, but I couldn’t tell if it was a grimace or a smile: with him it could go either way. His breathing evened a little and his eyes cracked open. “Where’s the stamp?” he whispered.
Stamp? What the hell did that matter? “I’ll get an ambulance.”
“No need, I’m not hurt.”
“You’re doing a good imitation of it. Just hold on and—”
One of his hands came up. “Give me a minute and I’ll be fine.”
“Charles . . .”
The other hand came up. Clean. “I’m only winded.”
“What the—”
“My bulletproof vest,” he said with an air of stating the obvious.
I checked; under the rumpled clothes was a solid-feeling something encasing his torso.
“Unlike you,” he continued, “I have no supernatural defense against flying bits of metal and must provide an artificial one.”
I was stuck exactly at the halfway point between relief and rage. He wisely chose not to laugh at the expression I must have been wearing.
“I think I shall purchase a more effective vest for the future, though, this one seems a bit too thin for the job. Now, where is the stamp?”