Choked Up

by Janey Mack

  She went quite still. “Coerced?”

  “Uh, no. Consensual. So, I’m not sure why he’s sending me presents.”

  “I knew you were Catholic. I didn’t realize you were raised in a nunnery.” Kaplan scoffed. “A blow job doesn’t necessarily delineate a definitive sexual preference.”

  Gee thanks. I think I prefer stupid to stupid and naïve.

  “Your unauthorized interview and feckless rescue to keep Renko off the radar has jeopardized this entire operation.”

  My face turned to stone. I may have to lie here and take it, but I wasn’t gonna smile about it. “Do you want me to cancel the meet with Renko, ma’am?”

  Kaplan fingered the thick strand of Mikimoto pearls at her throat. “It’s clear Renko is wooing you on the pretext that you can provide inside police information. That’s not something I can or will facilitate.”

  Guess I’ll be scuttling my brothers’ police work all by myself. “I’ll manage.”

  Wow. Thanks for the helping hand.

  “If Renko is after more than police information, your Mr. Bannon may become a liability.”

  “He won’t.”

  “If he does, I will request the necessary assistance to remove him from the situation. Special Unit has a long-standing relationship with the NSA. They appreciate our tip-offs on mercenaries and other undesirables.”

  My hands went numb. Now you’re just getting nasty. I flexed my fingers, careful not to let them curl into fists, as I might lean over and punch her in the face.

  Don’t let the baby face fool you, sister. I’m as full of acid and ire as an IRA enforcer.

  “Don’t you want to be a field agent, Miss McGrane?”

  No. Not like this. Not one goddamn bit.

  “You’re free to resign, of course.”

  Like hell. “No, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Well, then. Let’s hope you possess the necessary intellect to stay alive in this job. All signs point to the contrary, although I expect we’ll find out soon enough.” Kaplan raised her shoulders in a shrug so tight it could have broken her back. “Enjoy your date with Mr. Renko, Special Agent McGrane.”

  I must have been wearing my distress on my sleeve, because when I went to Edward Dunne’s office to requisition more Visa cards, he took one look at me and whisked me off into his private quarters at the end of the Onyx wing for green tea and ginger snaps.

  Nestled into two chintz overstuffed armchairs with a spindly-legged mahogany table between us, he poured the tea and I poured out what went down with Danny Kaplan.

  “You’re convenient and far closer to the Steal-Tow epicenter than anyone else we have, which is why Danny leapt on you like a two-dollar tart.” Edward shook his head. “Of all the times for Walt to go on holiday. You’re a wee bit unseasoned, shall we say, to go up against one of the best of the Slajic clan.” He took a sip from his china cup. “Walt will pitch a ruddy fit when he finds out.”

  “Sawyer wouldn’t have recruited me if he thought I couldn’t handle it.”

  Edward gave a doubtful chuckle. “You don’t handle evil, my dear. You kill it.”

  Maybe I was in over my head. “Swiping intelligence from my brothers isn’t what bothers me. Roles reversed, they’d do it themselves.” I leaned forward. “Danny threatened to go to the NSA about Bannon if this doesn’t play out.”

  “Aye. A Class-A bitch, Danny is. The only cork in the bottle’d be Walt tellin’ her not to.”

  “Will he?”

  “I don’t know.” Edward clucked his tongue in sympathy. “Mightn’t matter if he did.”

  Chapter 18

  Ragnar kindly carried the two heavy bags Hank had insisted I take. Because living in a mansion with a state-of-the-art security system and four police officers armed to the teeth apparently wasn’t enough. I faithfully promised to set up a perimeter defense in my room as well as the hallway with the gear. Which, when I opened the bags, looked like it would take the entire weekend to set up.

  I had two backpacks, one full of dirty PEA uniforms, the other an overnighter. Dumping it all in the hallway, I went upstairs. It wouldn’t take long to get ready, but what in the Sam Hill was I going to wear?

  Hours later a heaping pile of discarded separates lay on the bed. I moved onto dresses. Next on the pile was a pink Rickie Freeman, too frock-ish. Then an über-conservative black hit the pile, followed by a deep-V short red Jovani dress. Way too sexy.

  I wriggled out of a beige Calvin Klein sheath dress that needed to be shortened. Which I’d told myself to do about a thousand times and hadn’t. “Aigh!”

  Clothes lock: that horrible paralyzing moment when you’ve tried on everything you own and it all sucks.

  Back to the closet.

  I mean, really, how hard can it be to find an outfit to wear on a date with a bisexual, Serbian Mobster with a penchant for torture?

  I surveyed my walk-in closet in my bra and underpants, completely stumped.

  “Why ssso sseriousss, Sisss?” Cash asked in a passable Joker, lounging against the doorjamb.

  “Jeez!” I yanked a T-shirt off a hanger and put it on. “What do you want?”

  “Your crap is everywhere.” He pushed himself off the door frame and started bouncing from foot to foot, shaking out his arms. It was physically impossible for him to remain still. “You moving back home?”

  “For a couple days. So beat it, will you? I gotta get ready.”

  “You and Bannon splitting up?”

  “No. He’s out of town.”

  “Oh yeah?” He snorted. He threw a couple of jabs in my direction. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with Thor hanging around in that rickety blue pickup?”

  I winced and started flipping through skirts. Oh God. Ragnar. I hadn’t even begun to consider how to get rid of him. “Maybe.”

  Cash’s brows disappeared beneath his bangs. “You’re cheating with him?”

  “No! And for God’s sake, will you quit jumping around? He’s a pal of Hank’s . . . It’s complicated.”

  He waved a hand at the scattered clothes. “What’s all this for, then?”

  “A friend asked me to dinner, that’s all.”

  “Sure.” He nodded. “Not to judge or anything but . . .” He tugged his ear. “A relationship’s pretty much fecked if you put a tail on your girl.”

  Supes Awesome. Dating advice from the clown who’d put baby powder in my blow-dryer, frozen marbles in my bed, and still regularly strung plastic wrap across the doorway.

  Hold up.

  If anyone could help me lose Ragnar for the night, it’d be Cash.

  I heaved a world-weary sigh and put on the sad face. “Hand me the phone, will you?”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not going. Thor will follow me and the whole thing will end in a raging hassle. I’m just not up for it.”

  “When’s your date?”

  “Nine-ish.”

  Cash’s eyes lit up. “Leave it to me. I gotta call Koji!” He sprinted out of my room. Then popped his head back in. “The red. Definitely wear the red.”

  At 8:55 p.m. Ragnar moved his surveillance to the east end of the house, Cash was nowhere to be found, and Stannislav Renko’s Land Rover idled in the driveway. At 8:59, the driver came to fetch me from the door. It was the newspaper reader. He was wearing a dark suit and driving gloves.

  I opened the door. He smelled like raw chicken and looked like he wanted to tear my throat out.

  Guess he’s still a little miffed over Stannis’s backhand.

  My text alert went off. Cash. “Excuse me.”

  “No. Leave now.” The driver moved forward.

  Hands off, buddy. I slipped past him and trotted to the car, trying to put some distance between us. Raw Chicken followed a little too close behind me, his palpable dislike starting to make me more uneasy than uncomfortable.

  I checked the text from Cash.

  In position. Rt out of driveway & rt again

  The driver opened the door with a jerk
and I got into the empty car, pulling my foot in a frog’s hair before he slammed the door on my ankle. Jerk. I waited until he started the ignition. “Please turn right out of the driveway. And take the first right after that.”

  Raw Chicken glared at me from the rearview. “Do not tell me how to drive.”

  This one wasn’t up for debate. “Mr. Renko would prefer it.”

  He made a sound as though he was about to spit, but exited the driveway as instructed. Ragnar let us get to the end of the street before following. It was dark. Too dark to see what Cash and Koji had planned.

  I tucked my legs up beneath me, twisted in my seat, and watched through the rear window.

  Waiting.

  Ragnar’s headlights followed us onto the street. He got about sixty yards. A loud bang followed by the grating mechanical screech of the truck seizing up.

  Oh shite. I hope they didn’t wreck his truck....

  A new backpack of guilt to look forward to carrying. Jaysus.

  I blew out a breath and turned around, quick enough to catch Raw Chicken’s pervy ogle in the rearview.

  Thank God I hadn’t worn the red dress.

  Raw Chicken popped the brakes in an abrupt stop in front of a dark glass building. My first real undercover op and I was going in cold, armed only with lipstick, my own phone, ID, and a hundred dollar bill. No Kimber, no sap, not even a Swiss Army knife.

  A tuxedoed valet opened my door.

  I got out. The valet escorted me up the steps to the door of the club, where I was met by a beauty in an emerald dress. “Good evening, Ms. McGrane. This way, please.”

  Whoa. Stannis is running with the big dogs.

  We traversed a dark, narrow hallway. The only decoration, a lit easel with a black and white poster in an ornate gilt frame. Bobby Blaze—Live Tonite. Very 1940s. Very swank.

  “Eddie Veteratti’s pet project,” Beauty said. “To bring the glamour of old New York’s The Stork Club to Chicago.”

  She swung open the padded black leather doors to the lounge. “Welcome to The Storkling.”

  Game time.

  I smoothed down my prudish black Tadashi Shoji dress and scanned the darkened lounge for my . . . date?

  Stannislav Renko was standing in the corner, surrounded by a handful of goombahs. He had one arm folded across his chest, the other elbow resting on it, fist at his mouth. The ultimate Eurotrash model, if you didn’t count the missing ennui in his electric blue eyes. He saw me, and with a predatory smile, came to me, hands extended, and kissed me on each cheek. “Maisie. Come, have drink.”

  I followed him through the darkened lounge to the bar. He held up two fingers, and before I could blink, a tuxedoed bartender presented two shots of rakija.

  I surveyed the room and got that sinking feeling. I looked like an accountant who’d wandered into the Golden Globes.

  Cash was right. I should have worn the red.

  Stannis frowned. “What is wrong?”

  “Uh . . .” Just to help me fit in, a nearby pair of twentysomethings in skintight satin mini-dresses whispered behind their hands and erupted into snorting giggles. I gave him a tight smile. “I might have worn something a little more—”

  “No. You are beautiful. Restrained.” He cast a scornful eye at the women in the mini-dresses. “Not whore.”

  Jaysus Criminey. Say it a little louder, why don’t you.

  The women glared at us, turned tail, and left.

  “Now, we drink.” He handed me a shot and raised his glass. “To many enemies. For a man without enemies is worthless.”

  I can see that. We drank. “That’s a fantastic toast.”

  “Yes.”

  I trailed a finger behind my earring. “And these are fantastic, too.” I took the final thank-you card from my clutch and set it on the bar.

  Stannis picked it up and tapped it against his palm. “Thank-you letters. Pretty dress. Brave. Good breed.”

  “Well-bred,” I said gently. “Thank you.”

  “Well-bred.” Stannis slipped the card into the inside pocket of his suit coat, his blue-black hair gleamed beneath the pendant lights. “Why do you come?”

  “Why did you ask me?”

  He wagged a finger at me.

  “You interest me,” I said. And the BOC.

  Stannis gestured at our empty glasses. “Another? Or too much?”

  I hesitated. “I might get a little silly.” Talk about a whopper. McGranes were born with the alcohol tolerance of a rectory of recently defrocked priests.

  “Is okey—silly.” He signaled the bartender for another round. “How do I interest?”

  My mind flashed on Jeff Mant and a rush of gratitude flooded my head. “I feel a sort of . . . simpatico.” Even though I know what you are.

  “What is simpatico?”

  “A like-mindedness. Black sheep from the same herd.”

  Stannis cocked his head and hit his hand over his heart. “I also. That is why I ask you.”

  He handed me the shot of rakija, raised his glass just as before, and waited.

  “Here’s mud in your eye.” I clinked my glass against his and we drank.

  A chunky guy with black hair turning white in a skunk stripe came over and whispered something in Stannis’s ear. Irritation crossed his face. I couldn’t tell if it was the man’s request, the fact that he’d interrupted us, or both.

  Stannis pulled out a bar stool for me. “Please sit. You will not mind if I speak to this man?”

  “Of course not.”

  The bartender rushed in and set a glass of ice water with lemon in front of me. I watched Renko back in the corner with the goombahs. He looked mulish. At the five-minute mark, I decided to take a powder.

  I entered the ladies’, a posh affair with a separate lounge that contained dark red walls, red leather furniture, and lacquered tables. At the opposite end was a short wall separating the sinks and stalls. As I approached, I heard a loud adenoidal Jersey accent, “Still, a good-looking asshole. Gotta luv them little skinny guys. They’re like rabbits. They go all night.”

  I hovered at one side of the entry, trying to get a look at the voice’s reflection before entering. Red Dress with Purple Dress at her elbow.

  Lovely. The girls Stannis called whores.

  Purple Dress seemed somehow familiar.

  Oh crap.

  My stomach sank. She was Tony “Big Tuna” LoGrasso’s “niece.”

  Niece said, “Don’t botha, cuz not only is he a total jerk, but Tony says he’s freakin’ qu-ee-r.”

  Ah, the contemptuous slur that only an East Coaster can draw into three syllables. What a sweetheart.

  Jersey shrieked with laughter. “That explains the nun he brung. Wanna a line?”

  “Stalls only,” hissed Niece. They scuttled into a single stall and slid the lock home. “Can you keep a secret?”

  Giggles from Jersey. “Abso-friggin’-lutely.”

  A giggle then a long concentrated sniff, and exhale. “Anyways, Tony’s gonna tell Eddie that Renko’s a queer. And they’ll send him right back to Russia.”

  Jaysus crimeny.

  Another line went up someone’s nose.

  Which was exactly like what would happen to Operation Steal-Tow. Blown.

  “I mean, us?” Niece said. “We look like whores? Who the friggin’ fuck does he think he is?”

  Hank’s Law Number Twelve: Improvise, adapt, and overcome.

  How do I prove Stannis is straight in this super-prude dress?

  Lowest, common-est denominator.

  I scooted into the bathroom while they were still in the stall. I grabbed a handful of paper towels and ran them under the tap. Here goes nothing. I hiked up my skirt and pressed a wad of damp paper towels to my inner thigh.

  “Ooh.” I groaned in relief.

  The girls came out of the stall. I looked up at them in the mirror and gave a little shriek of embarrassment. “Whisker burn. My thighs are on fire.” I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “He only shaves once a
day.”

  Their eyes bulged. Jersey slapped Tony’s “niece” in the arm. “I tole you, short guys . . .”

  I threw the paper towels away. “I’m sorry Renko was so rude. Europeans, you know?”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “Tell me about it.” I gave them a covetous glance. “I’d die to wear what you have on. You look amazing.”

  Mollified, they opened their evening bags and began applying lipstick.

  “I mean, I’m wearin’ a funeral dress for chrissakes,” I said, trying to match their East Coast inflection. “But what Renko wants, Renko gets. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  They nodded.

  “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” I begged, certain they would. “I’d die of embarrassment.”

  “Sure thing.” They smiled at me, exchanged a look, and sauntered off.

  Now to warn Stannis.

  Stannis met me as I came back into the lounge. He was buzzing with a combination of vitality and aggression.

  “Could we chat for a moment?” I asked.

  Stannis gave a short shake of his head. “Forgive me, Maisie. Not at this time.” He took my arm and with only the barest pressure on my elbow, led me through a sea of gold velvet curtains into the 1940s. The Storkling was pure allure. Intimate high-backed booths broke up landing strips of tables where glitterati were meant to be seen. On stage at the far end, a flame-haired torcher in a red sequined gown warbled “Black Coffee” in front of a tuxedoed twelve-piece band.

  The maître d’ gave us a short bow and raised a palm toward a table at a large elevated platform in the back. Four men in dark suits surrounded a stout man with fading dark hair and olive skin. He was exquisitely packaged in a creamy white dinner jacket over a white shirt and black tie. They were all smoking cigars.

  We walked up the stairs. While the men all rose, only the man in the white jacket came around the table. Eddie Veteratti. Vi’s twin and head of the Chicago Syndicate. “Renko.”

  “Eddie.”

  They shook hands, Stannis finished with a shoulder grip. The Mobster’s smile went waxy.

  Uh-oh.