A short, squat man in a pinstripe suit, which he probably thought made him look quite menacing but actually made him look like he was playing dress up with daddy’s clothes because it was two sizes too big, stepped into the circle of dim light. He’d attempted to slick back his hair like a gangster from a Humphrey Bogart film, but his hair clumped together in thin, lanky hanks that kept falling forward into his eyes whenever he moved. He was constantly pushing his hair back, coating his hands in oils and pomade and giving his skin a greasy sheen. “I’m Roger Kirkpatrick, and you’ve been stickin’ your nose in where it don’t belong,” he said, affecting the worst tough guy tone I’d ever heard.
This was the man who was going to turn the city’s criminal world upside down? This was the guy who was doing things in a new way? He looked like every single noir gangster cliché rolled up into a single, lumpy package. Granted, just because he looked like a joke didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous.
“I’m a little upset about how you treated my good friend Clarence,” he continued, circling around us like a shark scenting blood. “He was one of my best, and he’s out of commission for at least a few weeks while he heals up. The man’s jaw may never be the same.” There was mock disappointment in the gangster’s voice. He was taunting me, but I wasn’t going to give him much satisfaction.
“Y’know, if Clarence was one of your best, your little hostile crime takeover action probably isn’t as serious a concern as I’ve been led to believe,” I said with a laugh. “Tell me, did they put his feet in casts? I wanna sign ‘em.” A thug—I couldn’t tell if it was the same one as before or not—leaned in again and slugged me right across the face. Same place the first punch had landed. I saw those little cartoon birds for a second after that one, but didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing it hurt. “Might wanna teach your boy here how to throw a punch, Rog,” I said, affected machismo dripping from my voice. At least, I hoped I came across sounding tough. It’s awful hard to do that when you can’t feel much of your lower jaw.
“Detective Hazzard,” Kirkpatrick said, coming to a stop in front of me once more. “I admire the bravado. Really, I do. But you’re playing for the wrong team here.”
“You mean Team Law and Order?” I asked, spitting blood on the floor.
It was Kirkpatrick’s turn to laugh. “Your client is the Boss, the head of the Organization. How is working for a mobster like him supporting law and order?” I could see Ellicott’s face out of the corner of my eye; he looked shocked to find out I wasn’t completely on the up-and-up, but I figure he was bound to discover life’s little gray areas sooner or later anyway. What I found particularly interesting, though, was that Kirkpatrick referred to the Boss as “him.” Apparently, for all of his power and knowledge, Kirkpatrick wasn’t aware of the Boss’s true identity. That would be useful, if I got out of this business alive.
Kirkpatrick leaned in close, our noses almost touching. I could smell what he’d had for lunch. It’d involved tuna.
“The Organization is a relic, a dinosaur,” he growled. “It’s a thing of the past, and it’s time it was put out to pasture.”
“So’s your mom,” I spat, blood spattering on Kirkpatrick’s face. He flinched, straightened up, then punched me as hard as he could. I fell back, toppling over onto the floor in a clatter of cheap furniture and two-hundred pounds of aching detective. As I lay there, groaning, Kirkpatrick casually pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped my blood from his face.
“You,” Kirkpatrick said as two of the thugs righted my now rather rickety chair, “are a bit of an asshole, aren’t you, detective?”
“A bit,” I replied, blood dribbling down my chin onto my shirt and tie where it mingled with the bloodstains of a dozen such incidents. I guess I get punched a lot.
“So, the question now is, what do we do with two such tough assholes?” Kirkpatrick continued, beginning his circling routine again. “Before you even think about asking, no, we won’t be letting you go. I’ve spent years building this confederation, gaining the trust and support of a variety of criminal entrepreneurs, and I will not have an insignificant louse such as yourself mucking everything up.” Kirkpatrick snapped his fingers, and one of the thugs pulled out a pistol. It was a simple semi-automatic, nothing particularly special or remotely fancy about it. But then again, it didn’t have to be. A plain pistol will kill you just as dead as the fanciest modern assault weapon, and with way less fuss. The thug handed it to Kirkpatrick, who stopped in front of Ellicott. He cocked the hammer of the gun and leveled it at Ellicott’s head. “Any last words, hero?” Walter Ellicott sat stone-still and silent, giving Kirkpatrick no satisfaction.
“Actually, I might have a couple,” I said, spitting out some more blood and what might have been a tooth. “Most of them aren’t repeatable in polite company, but given the reception we’ve received here, I’d hardly call you guys ‘polite.’” Once more, a thug punched me. I grinned up at the idiot, spit out another mouthful of blood, and said, “A word to the wise, fellas. Always tie up the feet, too.” I lashed out with a vicious kick that left the thug in no shape to ever father children. He curled around his middle and slowly sunk to the floor, emitting a high-pitched sound that only dogs could hear. Kirkpatrick turned to see what was happening; Walter Ellicott took the opportunity to kick him in the family business as well. The gun wavered and went off in Kirkpatrick’s hand, catching another thug in the shoulder and dropping him with a strangled cry. Walter sprang into action, rising to his feet and swinging around so that the chair tied to him caught the last thug in the gut and knocked the breath out of him. The sound of wood splintering accompanied the attack, and Walter’s chair was falling away from him in pieces. Meanwhile, Kirkpatrick was recovering from his blow, as was the thug I’d originally dropped. Hating myself, I rocked to my feet and fell back on the thug, splintering my chair in the process and rendering the thug quite incapable of participating in the rest of the fight. Kirkpatrick was lining up a shot on Ellicott, and I knew I didn’t have time to get up and reach him before he’d shoot. I gave a wordless cry; Ellicott dropped into a fetal position just as Kirkpatrick fired. The shot went over Ellicott’s prone body, and the former military man pushed up from his crouch like a linebacker, and shoulder-tackled Kirkpatrick, knocking the gangster to the ground and sending his gun skittering into the darkness.
Climbing to my feet, I brushed wood fragments and rope from my arms and moved to help Walter. Kirkpatrick was squirming under the muscular frame of the ex-soldier, but all to no avail. The would-be mob boss was cursing the two of us, demanding Ellicott get off of him, calling for more thugs, and all without apparent effect. I fumbled with the knots around Ellicott’s wrists, my head swimming a bit from all the punches I’d taken and the sudden exertion of our escape. Once I had Ellicott free of the ropes and the remains of his chair, he stood up, reached down for Kirkpatrick’s collar, and shook the short man vigorously.
“I’d advise telling this gentleman anything he asks of you,” I said casually as I brushed dust and debris from my coat shoulder. I think I might’ve been concussed. Again. “Of course, I’m sure you were planning on doing that anyway, weren’t you, Kirkpatrick?”
“You’re both dead men,” Kirkpatrick replied, his eyes wide with fury or fear, I couldn’t tell which.
I sighed. “Why is it you gangster types always fall back on empty threats when the chips are down, Kirky-baby?” I asked.
“Where’s Michaelson?” Ellicott asked, easily lifting Kirkpatrick off the ground by his lapels. The small gangster in the oversized suit looked to be falling out of his coat, or would have if Ellicott didn’t have such an iron grip on coat and shirt and probably a double-handful of flesh. For good measure, Ellicott gave the gangster a shake, and I’d swear I heard the man’s fillings rattle in his head.
“She’s on a job!” Kirkpatrick squeaked.
“Where?” I asked, fishing a slightly-crumpled pack of cigarettes from my coat pocket and lighti
ng the least-damaged cigarette I could find. Ellicott gave him another shake for good measure.
“City Hall!” Kirkpatrick replied, and I swear there was a hint of urine in the air as he said it.
I exchanged a grim look with Ellicott. “That seems…pretty bad,” I said. Ellicott nodded and dropped Kirkpatrick on the floor. The stubby gangster sputtered and cursed, trying to pick himself up off the floor. Ellicott lashed out with a foot and caught Kirkpatrick across the jaw, knocking him down and apparently out, and we headed for the door with all due speed.
IX.
We emerged in the Warehouse District in the early afternoon. Our weapons and personal possessions had been sitting on a table near the door, conveniently, but my car was still back at Michaelson’s apartment building in Old Town. While Ellicott ran to the nearest taxi stand to order a cab, I fired up my computer and called Miss Typewell.
“Eddie, what’s going on?” she asked when she saw my damaged face.
“Rough interrogation,” I replied, dabbing at my busted lip with a handkerchief. “I need you to see if you can get ahold of City Hall. Kirkpatrick’s planning to bomb the place, and he’s sent Florence Michaelson to do it.”
“Got it,” she said. “I’ll give Captain O’Mally a call, too.”
“Good,” I said, signing off and dialing Vera Stewart.
“You look like hell, Hazzard,” Vera said as soon as she came on.
“Kirkpatrick’s in the Warehouse District,” I said, ignoring her. “He’s in Warehouse 4, Pier 17. Short guy, bad suit, just got the crap kicked out of him by a soldier. He’s the guy who’s been trying to take over the Organization.” I closed the vid window before she could reply.
Walter Ellicott jogged up and gestured to a cab gliding to a stop at the curb. “C’mon, our ride’s here,” he said. I followed the ex-soldier into the taxi and gave the driver the address for City Hall.
“And step on it,” I said, because it’s a narrative tradition and because some customs are worth preserving.
└●┐└●┐└●┐
Half an hour later, we pulled up in front of City Hall in the heart of Downtown. The old City Hall building was tucked away in a forgotten corner of Old Town, decaying and rotten and something of an eyesore for the general populace. Or it would be, if the general populace in Old Town gave even half a damn about such things. Despite the demographic shift in Arcadia’s population—the movement of the well-to-do and powerful from Old Town to Downtown some thirty or forty years ago—City Hall had remained in Old Town until just recently. The new building, built about fifteen years ago, was a gleaming monument to bureaucracy and self-serving special interests. There hadn’t been enough money available when they wanted to build it, but the mayor at the time, Stanley Johansen, had convinced a couple of corporations to sponsor the building project. Most of it was owned by Arcadia Savings and Loan—the biggest bank in town—though Margaret Pithman had contributed a fair amount to the project, as well. The Calthus and Pithman City Hall and Civic Administration Center was an impressive building, with its marble colonnades and massive, curved, single-piece glass facade.
The sidewalk outside the building was crowded with people in expensive-looking suits and police officers in starched uniforms. I searched for and eventually found Captain O’Mally, far from his usual stomping grounds around the 4th Precinct in Old Town, directing pedestrians and gawkers away from the building in as orderly a fashion as one could in such situations.
“I see Ellen got ahold of you,” I said as I approached. O’Mally gave me the once-over, and the resulting assessment clearly wasn’t too positive.
“You look like hell, Eddie,” he said, his whiskers twitching.
“Yeah, well, I got punched a lot today, O’Mally, and the cab didn’t have that full-service medical clinic I asked for.” I was feeling rather punch-drunk and was finally understanding what that actually meant as Walter Ellicott took me gently by the elbow and led me to a nearby ambulance for some medical attention. I sat there as patiently as possible as EMTs scanned my head and various extremities, filled me with various vitamins and chemicals, and said I was lucky to be alive. Of course, they could’ve just been referring to my chronic, nearly-crippling malnutrition, but it’s hard to say. I was told to lie down in the back of the ambulance for a while, which I did without too much protest. Walter Ellicott, decorated military hero, was given a cursory examination and told he was fine, because, of course, he was.
My pocket buzzed at me, alerting me to an incoming phone call. A small vid window popped up, and I tapped it to accept the call. I saw Vera Stewart’s face again, and she seemed startled by my appearance. I was lying down at the time, mind you, so I like to think that had something to do with it. The blossoming purple bruise across the lower half of my face probably wasn’t doing me any favors, either, though.
“We checked the warehouse, Eddie,” she said. “He’s gone.”
“Damn,” I mumbled. “I guess that’s to be expected, though.”
“We know he’s out there now, at least,” she said, trying her damnedest to be conciliatory and…nice, even, I think. God only knew why. “We’ll catch him eventually, and make him pay.”
“That’s great,” I said, my voice a slow drawl. My eyes started to droop, and the thought of taking a long nap suddenly seemed very appealing. Apparently, they’d also shot me full of some painkillers to go along with all those vitamins. I wasn’t feeling any pain, or much of anything else, for that matter. “As long as you get to keep striking terror into the hearts and minds of the citizens of this great metropolis and not some other criminal mastermind.”
Vera frowned. “If I find out anything else about him, I’ll let you know,” she said, then severed the connection.
I closed my eyes. I could hear lots of yelling and dozens of people milling about in a scene of barely-controlled chaos. The bomb squad was in City Hall now, and they’d found what they thought was the bomb. They were setting up to do a controlled detonation. Ellicott came back by and filled me in on all the little details I was missing out on, but at that point I didn’t really care much.
X.
I awoke in a hospital. It had to be a hospital, because no one would paint the walls of their own home that shade of institutional blue on purpose. Several studies, many years ago, declared that light blue was a calming, soothing color that would subtly influence people to be…well, calmer and more soothed, I guess. It was used in hospitals, prisons, and schools, and since I didn’t hear anyone doing difficult word problems or a lonesome harmonica moaning the blues, I figured the only option left was hospital.
I sat up slowly, slightly achy and with a head that felt like it was filled with cotton. My jaw was still slightly tender to the touch, and a bedpan I found under the bed showed me enough of a reflection to know that the bruise on face had gone from livid purple to a colicky yellow. I buzzed the nurse, who popped up in a vid screen over my bed, looking exhausted and more than a little exasperated. “Yes?” she said impatiently.
“Um, yeah, I just woke up here?” I said, uncertain.
“Ah, Mr. Hazzard,” she said, tapping a few buttons at a terminal and pulling up another vid window next to the one she was talking to me through. “You were brought in two days ago with a concussion and some internal bleeding. You appear to be stabilized now. I’ll start the discharge process for you.” The vid window snapped shut, and I was left to haul myself gingerly out of bed and shuffle around the small hospital room in search of a shower and my clothes.
The bathroom was a small affair, but what do you expect at a hospital? The water pressure was virtually non-existent, but I cranked the water temperature up about as high as I could and sat there inhaling steam and feeling it to work some of the aches out of my cramped muscles.
My pants, shirt, underthings, and tie were all neatly folded in a small chest of drawers by the bathroom door. My coat and hat were hanging on a peg by the door leading out of the room. I got dressed slowly; raising my arms t
o pull on my shirt was excruciating, and compared to the flimsy gown I’d been wearing when I woke, the cloth of the shirt felt heavy and stiff. I shrugged on my coat, loaded my personal effects into my pockets, and donned my hat as I stepped out into the nurse’s station.
The paperwork took a full hour to complete. By the time I was done, I realized I had probably signed over my firstborn and the firstborn of my cousin Shirley to pay for my stay in the hospital. For me, insurance was something that happened for other people.
I blinked in the bright sunlight as I stepped out of the hospital, attempting and failing to hail a cab. I shuffled to the nearest cabstand and tapped the button on the terminal, which promised the next taxi would arrive in less than five minutes. As I stood there, smoking my last cigarette and reflecting on how strange this case had been, I completely failed to notice the tall, thin individual who walked up behind me. That is, until he jammed a gun into my kidney and rasped in my ear, “Don’t move, or you’ll be headed right back inside that hospital.”
“Clarence,” I said, trying to sound calm. “How’re the feet?”
The thin, scaly assassin jabbed me in the kidney, hard. I winced, and turned my head slightly so I could look my captor in the eye. His jaw was wired shut, making it difficult for him to speak, and his feet were both wrapped in stim-mesh, a thick material that stimulated cellular regrowth and healing. They also released low-grade local anesthetic, making it possible for Clarence to walk around on his two gunshot feet without howling in pain at every step.
“So, Clarence, what’s the play here?” I asked casually, taking another drag on my cigarette.
“We’re gonna get in the next cab and take a ride, Detective,” he muttered, his jaw barely moving. His scales were shifting toward a vibrant orange. He was clearly enjoying his moment of triumph.
The cab arrived, and I climbed in without making a scene. Clarence had pocketed his gun, but kept it trained on me just in case. Watching him get in the cab was something of a sight to behold, what with the injured feet and all. He winced and hissed and sucked in his breath every few seconds as he slowly lowered his thin, gangly frame into the back seat of the taxi, all the while trying to keep the gun on me to prevent me from making a break for it.
The Hidden Throne (Hazzard Pay Book 2) Page 6