1929 Book 4 - Drifter

by ML Gardner

  Aryl smiled. “Well, good for you. There’s a career highlight,” he said, raising his water glass.

  “No.” Sloan shook his head. “Not so much.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s not like I figured it out and rushed in to save the day. The only reason I got him is because they used me as bait. And here’s the kicker. The guy that was doing it…I knew him.”

  It was Aryl who fell silent now. Sloan watched him.

  “I see what you’re doing,” Sloan said, pushing his empty plate away.

  “What?” Immediately Aryl looked defensive.

  “I didn’t get to the part where I told you about lying to my wife and you didn’t get to the part about the guy getting ten times, whatever that is.”

  Aryl nodded to some wait staff across the room. “I think we’ll get the boot soon. Looks like they’re trying to set up for dinner.”

  “I’ve only been with you a few days and my schedule has already gone to hell. I don’t even know what day it is,” Sloan said.

  “This is usually when I sleep,” Aryl said, glancing at the bright afternoon sun streaming in the windows. “I actually wouldn’t mind a nap. What little we slept last night wasn’t great.”

  “No, it wasn’t. But later we have to both finish what we started.”

  Aryl stood, pulling his napkin from his lap and tossing it on the table. “It’ll all get said. I enjoy your stories. It’s interesting and something else to think about. But we both know I’m the only one who needs to do the talking.”

  Sloan watched as he walked away.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Mr. Sullivan.”

  ***

  When he arrived at their room Aryl was already laying in one of the twin beds. The drape had been drawn and while the room was dim it was far from dark. Sloan kicked off his shoes and lay down, unaccustomed to sleeping in the daytime no matter how tired he was. Aryl had one arm over his bag at his side, the other draped over his eyes, his hand hanging limp. Sloan tried the position, finding it blocked out enough of the light but found it difficult to drift off.

  “Care to finish?” Sloan asked, unsure if Aryl were even still awake.

  “Sure,” he said from beneath his arm.

  Chapter Eleven

  Ten Times

  We assembled in front of the warehouse sometime after 4 a.m. When everyone was accounted for, we began walking. The only weapons were two of Mickey’s biggest men, the ones who stood by his door. One walked ahead of the group, the other behind. The few loitering on the sidewalks cleared well in advance of our approach.

  Mickey walked with Birdy’s arm laced through his, as if they were a couple out on an evening stroll. She was terrified, shaking even, but followed Mickey. Gina walked beside me, still looking concerned. I had begun to sweat from the pain, hoping Mickey wouldn’t notice and that Gina would.

  “What’s ten times?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

  “It’s what Mickey does to anyone that mistreats his girls. If he punched her, Mickey’s guys give it back ten times.”

  “That’s brutal.”

  “It is,” she said. “But it keeps order. Keeps the girls safe, mostly. Keeps Mickey feared and respected, most of all.”

  Mickey knocked on the door of a large house. A distinguished man that I presumed to be Yurik opened it.

  “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Have you now? Why is that, Yurik?” His smile was as tense as their business relationship.

  “Because one of my men showed up saying he made a big mistake. He begged me to fix it and when I got it out of him what happened, I figured you’d be over to come to a settlement.”

  Mickey turned to Gina with a gloating look.

  He waved Mickey in, allowing for one body guard. The rest waited outside. Gina kept her eyes on a sweep the entire time, squinting through the shadows around us. She swiped my arm.

  “Keep your eyes out. Don’t just stand there.”

  I looked up and around, not sure what I was looking for. Everyone was on edge, waiting.

  After several minutes, the door opened and I heard a man’s pathetic whimpering.

  “I didn’t mean it! I wasn’t in my right mind! I didn’t know she was your girl!” None of the excuses thrown at Mickey’s feet were effective as two of Yurik’s own men dragged him outside. They handed him over to Mickey and stepped back.

  Mickey waved to Birdy. She scurried over to him.

  “You sure this is the guy?” She looked up timidly and nodded. Mickey took her arm. “Are you sure, Birdy? He’s gonna get ten times. I need to know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this is the guy who mistreated you.”

  She raised her head, looking him square in the eye. “It’s him.”

  Mickey nodded and the men proceeded to drag him around the corner, all the while he cried and begged. He took Birdy’s arm and they began walking.

  “Where’s he taking her?” I asked Gina.

  “To watch,” she said. “It’s a sick justice. But it’s justice none the less.”

  My apprehension was obvious and she stepped closer, leaving the others to stand guard. She slipped her hand in mine.

  “You don’t have to watch. Not this time. It’s enough for Mickey that you’re here.”

  We returned to the warehouse just before dawn. I hadn’t said anything about what just transpired and from the sound of ten times justice, I was thankful I hadn’t witnessed it. This time, Gina’s words echoed in my ears.

  This way of life seemed more foreign to me than my own identity and thinking of that, I was tempted to run. Of course my lungs still felt wet and heavy, I wouldn’t get far before Mickey’s men caught up with me. Besides, I was so late for my medicine I was almost growling with agitation. Gina was the link to my relief and I couldn’t stray far from her. Not right now.

  Gina and I walked far behind Mickey. Behind the group entirely. She surprised me and held my hand, walking along as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But she dropped it the second Mickey’s shoulder twitched, threatening to turn around.

  After the third time, I folded my arms across my chest, not allowing her to grab it again. Besides the fact that my lungs ached, I realized fast enough that if she needed to hide something from Mickey as innocent as this, we’d better not be doing it at all.

  ***

  Though I was starving, I no longer wanted food. I quickened my pace as we got closer to my room. Gina slowed hers.

  “C’mon,” I said, taking her arm, urging her along.

  “Needy, are we?” she asked with the playful grin again. Needy was an understatement. I was growing down right desperate, my insides beginning to contort, my brain beginning to burn within my skull.

  She tortured me by opening the lock and the door slowly. When we stepped inside, I turned expectantly.

  “Don’t you want something to eat?” she asked.

  “Later. I’m hurting too bad right now.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll go get you some food—”

  I grabbed her arm. Away from Mickey’s judging eyes, I was freer to express myself. “No, I need it now.”

  She looked down at my hand with her eyebrows raised. I released her and took a step closer.

  “I’m sorry, I just really need—”

  “I know what you need,” she whispered. “I’ll give you a little. Just to take the edge off. But then you need to eat.”

  “And after I eat?”

  “Then I’ll send you off to dreamland.” Her smile was sweet as she pulled the bottle from her pocket. “Just the tiniest sip,” she warned.

  She kept her hand on mine as I brought it to my lips, pulling the bottle away before I was finished. She corked it and slipped it out of sight.

  She took my hand, squeezing it. “I’ll be right back with something, alright?”

  She turned to leave and I held onto her hand, reluctant to let her go, visibly worried she might not come back. Her eyes and pert little smile focu
sed on her arm, stretched out long with me tethered to the end of it.

  “It’s alright, love, I’ll be right back.”

  She brought broth and bread and had to pace me so I didn’t rush through and get sick again. I did feel nauseous, but didn’t care. After swallowing the last of the broth, my eyes were on her, waiting.

  “Do you remember what I told you when you first came here?” she asked, tossing my napkin and empty bowl on the tray, tidying up in general.

  “You said a lot of things when I first came here.”

  “When you were in the bath.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck. My shoulders ached terribly. “That Mickey would like me?”

  “No.” She pulled the bottle out of her pocket. “That everything here is earned.” She held it in the palm of her hand, just out of my reach.

  “You want me to earn my medicine? Is that it?”

  “Well, you can’t keep getting it for free.”

  I felt a ball of dread welling up in my stomach. “What do you want me to do?”

  A slow smile spread on her face. “I want to play a game.”

  “What game?” I asked warily. I had a flashing vision of darting across the room, knocking her to the ground, grabbing the bottle and draining it empty. I blinked hard, clearing the thought and looked to her, waiting.

  “I can’t tell you the name of the game, or all the rules just yet, but if you agree to play, I’ll give you this. The whole bottle.”

  “Fine,” I said and held out my hand.

  She leaned forward and then snatched her hand back at the last moment. “Wait, you’ve agreed to play but we haven’t officially started yet. Just so you know. You still have to do something for this.”

  I shook, with fury or withdrawal, I didn’t know.

  “What, then?” I asked, clearing my throat, shifting where I stood. I realized in that moment, even through the headache, throbbing joints and roiling stomach, that she was enjoying this. And I hated her for it.

  “Kiss me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Kiss me for this dose. And we’ll start the game tomorrow.”

  I stepped forward, leaned down and pecked her on the cheek.

  “No, on the lips.”

  I pecked her on the lips.

  “No!” she yelled. My eyes followed the bottle as she held it high over her head. “Kiss me as desperately as you want this dose.” She was frowning and growling now, as if she loathed me. I grabbed her and kissed her, having no idea if it was what she wanted but keeping my thoughts on the dose I was only seconds from, I worked for it.

  She pushed me away suddenly, her lips red and swollen. After a long glare, she tossed the bottle to me.

  “Shave tomorrow,” she said, touching her mouth and stepped aside. I sat on the bed and drank half the bottle. It was too much, I knew that. But I had no self control. In moments my head was spinning, my eyes growing heavy. Relief washed over me and I held the faintest smile for it. In one long, slow movement, I slumped over onto my side.

  “Thank you,” I whispered.

  She picked up my feet, placed them on the bed and then covered me with a blanket. She shivered at a breeze and complained that the window was cracked open.

  “You should keep this closed. The damp air’ll make you sick.”

  Something jerked me to consciousness. Or near it anyway.

  “What?”

  “I said keep your window closed.”

  “What did you say after that?” I slurred.

  “I said the damp air’ll make you sick.”

  Wishing desperately that I could concentrate, the words floated and bumped around in my mind. There was something in what she said or how she said it. If only I could think straight.

  The air’ll make you sick…the air’ll, the air…ll, the Aryl…

  And then I passed out.

  Sloan wasn’t sure what to say. By the time he did, Aryl had already begun snoring, seeming to drop off into sleep effortlessly. And beneath consciousness, he relived his fears; the only kind of dreams he knew how to have anymore.

  The rain tapping on the window woke him. With a gasp he sat up, glancing around in the dark. Blindly he fumbled for the light. Sloan grunted and rolled over while Aryl took stock of the room. No water. They weren’t sinking. He ran a shaking hand over his face, relieved.

  Pulling back the drape he couldn’t see anything in the darkness beyond. He could only see the drops of rain sliding down the glass. He supposed they wouldn’t be going up to the deck tonight.

  He walked over to Sloan’s bed, nudging it while reaching for a small wind up clock. It was just after 1 a.m.

  Sloan rolled and blinked. “You okay?”

  “Fine. I need to use the bathroom. I didn’t want you to wake up while I was gone and think I…jumped or something.”

  Sloan smiled. “Thanks.”

  “After that, want to get some food?”

  “I’m sure the dining salon is closed.”

  Aryl smiled. “Leave that to me. I’ll be right back.”

  But he wasn’t right back. And after nearly a half hour, Sloan began to worry. Of course Aryl had taken his bag with him, he took it everywhere. Even to the toilets. Sloan slipped his shoes on and found his jacket. After threading one arm through he heard a bump at the door. Almost a knock, but not quite.

  “Who is it?” Sloan asked, tossing the jacket and standing off to the side.

  “It’s me, open up,” Aryl hissed.

  Sloan threw open the door. “Why are you knock—” He stopped short, trying to see what Aryl was struggling to carry.

  “Room service,” Aryl said as he pushed past Sloan. He set the mound of silver dishes on the table and began to spread them out.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “The kitchen.”

  “They just gave it to you?”

  “They would have if I had bothered to ask,” he said, grinning.

  “But you didn’t ask, did you? Are you telling me you broke into the kitchen and stole that food?”

  “Oh, no. I’d never do that.” He turned and stared at Sloan.

  “Then how did you get it?”

  “Fine. I broke in and stole it.”

  Sloan looked upset as he looked over the feast.

  “Look, if it makes you feel better, write it down in that notebook of yours. Add it to my list of crimes against humanity.”

  Sloan sat down. “I’m not mad you took it.” He began fishing around the platters. “But you didn’t get any whiskey, did you?”

  Aryl laughed. “Give me five minutes.”

  “Later. Eat first. So what do we have here?”

  “Crepes, half a rack of ribs—presumably from last night’s dinner, some rolls, a noodle salad of some kind and half a cake.” He pulled the lid off of a small dish. “Oh, and caviar.”

  Sloan looked interested. “I haven’t ever had caviar. Have you?”

  “I used to eat it a lot. In my old…old life.”

  “Is it good?”

  Aryl sat down, tore a few ribs from the platter and took a bite. “It tastes like shit.”

  Sloan grinned as he took a slice of cake. “Why’d you bring it, then?”

  “Habit, I guess. Made me remember some good times we had. It’s better than thinking about the recent past.”

  “Speaking of which, you promised to tell me the rest of your story.”

  “You first. Tell me about when they locked you up and why on earth you would tell your wife you cheated on her when you didn’t.”

  “Well, I wasn’t the one who told her directly. Captain helped me do it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Helping Hands

  I woke up hearing Fred hissing at me urgently. “Sloan! Wake up!”

  “What are you doing here, kid?” I asked, sitting up on the cot. On the other side of the bars he looked scared as hell.

  “What’s going on, Sloan? You didn’t really do it, did you?”

  “No, kid
, I didn’t do it.”

  “Then why don’t you just tell them where you were?”

  “Because I just can’t.”

  He moved closer and gripped two bars, pressing his face between them. “Sloan, so far they haven’t said a word about this. The newspapers have no idea but they won’t be able to hold off for long. I overheard Captain saying that if you didn’t talk by tomorrow then he’d have to release a statement. He thinks that’ll force you to talk.”

  “So all this is off public record so far?”

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Alright, here’s what I need you to do, Fred. I need you to get ahold of Detective Goodwin in New York. Do not speak to anyone but him. Tell him what’s going on here. Tell him I need a mistress alibi and I need it quick. I need a story they can check out. He might be able to give me one. Get back to me with what he says. Can you do that for me, kid?”

  “Sure. Sure thing, Sloan. You think it’ll work? It’ll get you out of here?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s about all I can do.”

  He turned, scrambling for the door.

  “Fred! Don’t act so obvious.”

  He stopped, straightened and wiped his face clean. “Right. Sorry.”

  “Oh, and Fred, congratulations on finding Kimberly Weiss. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, Sloan.”

  “Did it work?” Aryl waved his hand, dismissing his question. “Of course it worked or you wouldn’t be here right now.”

  “It worked. Detective Goodwin gave Fred the name and address of a woman. By the time Captain sent someone to New York to check it out, Goodwin had already gotten her on board to help me. They came back and told Captain it was legitimate, that I had spent two days in New York with my mistress, Penny.”

  Aryl picked up a crepe and folded it in half before biting into it. “I don’t understand. If he was satisfied you were with your fake mistress and your wife thought the whole time that you were following leads for Kimberly, why did you have to tell her?”