Paladin Blake & The Secret City

by Eric Nylund

  Jacques returned and fished three bottles of bourbon from the autogyro’s hold. “They are sending a car from the tower. It will only be a moment.”

  A tall man sauntered into the hanger. He wore greasy coveralls and a gun-belt with two ivory-handled Colt revolvers. Scars raked down the left side of his face where he was missing an eye. He removed his smoldering cigarette from his leathery lips and did a double take at Paladin and Tennyson.

  Paladin knew him-Cold Justice’s pilot, “the Judge.” He’d taken the law into his own hands and killed a dozen men and woman during the Texas-Oklahoma riots…most of them innocents who had simply gotten in the Judge’s way. Paladin tried to act nonchalant, even though his heart raced and his hand now rested on his .45.

  The Judge’s eye darted between Paladin and Tennyson, then briefly to Jacques. He then tossed his cigarette butt to the ground, crushed it under his boot’s heel, and continued walking toward his plane.

  A silver limo rolled to a stop in front of the hangar. “Our ride,” Jacques said. “As you can see our new friends have impeccable taste.”

  “Great,” Paladin muttered, not taking his gaze off of the Judge. He eased into the back of the limousine after Tennyson and Jacques.

  “The King’s Cross,” Jacques told the driver.

  As they drove away, the Judge walked to the hangar doorway and watched them go.

  The hair on the back of Paladin’s neck prickled. He didn’t like this…one word from the Judge and every cutthroat on this island would be tearing the place apart looking to kill Paladin Blake.

  The car sped away from the airport, the acceleration cushioned by the crushed leather upholstery. Inside, the car had polished silver trim and a stocked bar complete with crystal decanters and gold-tipped cigarettes. Outside, however, there were barbed wire fences and tin-roofed huts amid fields of sugar cane and tobacco and red peppers.

  “This island used to be farmland,” Jacques explained. “I believe they made hot sauce here.

  Well,” he chuckled, “they still do under a new label. Those that fall into the debt of Die Spinne are put to work, a form of indentured servitude.”

  “More like slavery,” Tennyson whispered. “Barbaric.”

  “Considering the alternative,” Jacques replied as he poured himself a martini and eased into the seat, “they are getting off easy, non?”

  They wound up the hills then down again. The shacks gave way to white adobe buildings with red Spanish tiled roofs; starlight faded under the glare of flashing neon signs. A strange mix of people moved briskly on the streets-men in suits, with gowned women on their arms alongside well-armed pilots in bomber jackets and scarves.

  The limousine rolled to a stop on the cobblestone entryway of a Colonial mansion with Greek columns and a wide porch. A red neon cursive “X” strobed from the second-floor balcony.

  A doorman dressed in a Napoleonic army costume-but with a modern Winchester rifle-opened the door for them. As Paladin stepped from the car, he noted machine gun nests on the roof.

  “Come, gentlemen.” Jacques strolled thorough the entrance; Paladin and Tennyson followed.

  The foyer had black marble floors, and overhead a crystal chandelier bathed the room in warm lighting. To the right was a ballroom crowded with men and women, clustered around tables covered with cards and chips and red franc notes. A roulette wheel spun; there were roars of delight.

  Jacques led them left to the cloakroom. A girl in a French maid costume stood on the other side of a counter; beyond were racks of camel hair overcoats and sable furs and locked strongboxes. Jacques whispered to her in Creole then handed her a wad of francs. She curtsied, led them in back and pointed to a rack of suits.

  Jacques looked Tennyson up and down. “A forty-eight regular will do for you, Monsieur Tennessee.” He sorted through the tuxedos on the rack then handed one to Tennyson.

  Jacques then picked out a coat for Paladin. “Forty-four tall for you.”

  Paladin looked at the proffered coat like it was a coiled cobra. “I don’t wear monkey suits.”

  “Very well, Monsieur,” Jacques said, “then you will have to allow me to negotiate on your behalf. You cannot enter the casino in such attire-even if you had the moon to offer.”

  Jacques’ eyebrow shot up. “There are standards, after all.”

  Paladin grabbed the suit. He slipped into the tailed coat. It fit. Jacques handed him a bow-tie and Paladin awkwardly knotted it. It felt good to dress up, Paladin thought. He’d been living like a pirate for a week.

  He glanced in the mirror and smoothed back his hair. From the waist up he almost looked respectable. That was the problem; Matthew Blake wasn’t supposed to look respectable. He didn’t dare clean up anymore.

  As the Frenchman sorted through pants on the rack, Paladin growled, “This’ll do, Jacques.”

  “Very well, Monsieur.” Jacques looked them over with a pained expression. “I had hoped you could be more…presentable. C’est-la vie.” He led them back through the crowds in the casino to double doors in the back. He whispered to the two guards there, and they let them pass.

  The next room housed another casino, but for a different class of customer. There was no poker or craps here. There were padded stools and girls circulating with trays of drinks between the baccarat and blackjack tables. Gold coins and private notes of credit littered the green felt. The gamblers wore tuxedos and sported monocles. Their diamond cufflinks gleamed.

  Jacques cut through the room to another door, guarded by a single man in colonial costume.

  He frisked Jacques, and removed his small .38-caliber pistol. Paladin reluctantly handed over his .45s. Tennyson, to Paladin’s surprise, removed a sawed-off shotgun from his coat and surrendered the weapon. The guard then frisked them thoroughly, apologized, and unlocked the door.

  Beyond was a parlor with gilt wallpaper and floors covered in thick oriental rugs. The far wall was all windows that overlooked the harbor. The air inside the room was thick with smoke.

  Paladin smelled something sweet and rich in it-he couldn’t place the scent, but it tickled his nose, enticed and repelled him at the same time. It felt like he was drowning in honey.

  Flora was here.

  Paladin’s heart fluttered. She stood in the corner, by the windows, the glittering lights in the harbor and the moonlight on the Gulf of Mexico creating a halo around her. Men and women swarmed around Flora, fixed on her every word. She wore a clinging black satin dress that flowed over her body as if it were liquid. Her red hair was piled high on her head and tiny curled wisps fell about her cheeks. Emeralds adorned her delicate neck and brought out the color of her eyes-eyes that suddenly fixed upon Paladin.

  Flora smiled at him, but it immediately faded, and she bit her lower lip and her brow crinkled. She looked around the room, then back to Paladin. Her smile returned, but it was somehow colder.

  He took a step toward her. Finally. He had to quietly and quickly escort his sister out of here, get back to the airport and-Flora turned and whispered to the woman next to her.

  Paladin stopped dead in his tracks.

  The woman next to Flora wore a gown of white silk that flared about her feet. She wore diamonds in her black lustrous hair. Her deep blue eyes flickered casually from Flora to Paladin, then back to Flora.

  Paladin remembered this woman’s features: the wide expressive eyes, the full lips, and tiny dimple in her chin. When he had last seen her, he was strapping her into a parachute and practically throwing her from a doomed zeppelin.

  She was the pale man’s companion, the secret mastermind behind a Unionist plot to bomb Washington, a plot he had foiled two years ago.

  The women left their admirers and walked arm-in-arm to Paladin.

  “Good evening, Mister Blake,” the woman in white said. “I see you’re a gambling man.”

  Chapter Seven: Sugar and Spice and Everything Vice

  Paladin didn’t like games-especially when the wager was his life. “Am I a gambling man?
” he replied, struggling to meet the steady gaze of the woman in white. “I suppose so.”

  “So your sister has said.” She tilted her head and the diamond brooch in her dark hair flashed. She offered her hand.

  He was sure he had seen her before-not only on the pale man’s zeppelin, but also with Flora.

  He had an image of the two together-giggling, dressed in uniforms-but when? Paladin took her slender hand and kissed her white glove.

  “A gentleman pirate?” she cooed, smiled and dimpled her cheeks. “How novel.”

  He released her hand and cast a hard gaze at Flora-hoping she understood that one slip of his real name would get him killed.

  Flora cleared her throat. “Karina Von Gilder, allow me to introduce” -her mouth quivered with a half-suppressed laugh-“my dear brother, Matthew Blake, distiller of fine sprits and smuggler extraordinaire.”

  She whispered to the dark-hair woman, “Be careful, Karina…he’s a the lady killer.” Flora saddled next to Paladin and laced her arm through his. “Matthew: meet Miss Karina Von Gilder, owner of the Kings Cross and practically everything else on this rock.” She cupped her hand over her mouth and said, “She’d be quite the catch, too…one of the richest and most beautiful women on two continents.”

  “Don’t embarrass your brother,” Karina said coolly. “He’s certainly been through enough this evening traveling to our island.”

  That was an understatement. Paladin had fought his own brother, torched the family moonshine operation, and trod through every seedy bar in New Orleans to get to Le Coeur du Minuit-“Midnight’s Heart.”

  “I’m sure the two of you to are itching to get together-” Flora said, “-and talk business. But give me a few moments with my brother. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen him.”

  “Of course,” Karina said. “I shall await your pleasure, Mister Blake.” She glided away with effortless grace. Jacques approached her, wringing his hands and bowing as if she were royalty. He held out the bottle of Black Knight Bourbon for her inspection, but she ignored him.

  Flora grabbed Paladin’s arm and led him toward the bar, brushing past Tennyson.

  “Miss Blake,” Tennyson said startled. “How good to see you again.”

  Paladin shook his head at Tennyson. “Get that limo, Tenny,” he murmured, “minus the driver. And be ready for anything.” Paladin quickly glanced around the room-all the doors guarded. “Bring the car around back if you can swing it. Get our guns on your way out, too.”

  “Understood.” Tennyson nodded to Flora and left.

  Flora watched him go. “Tennyson,” she muttered with a scowl, “your ‘ever-faithful manservant.’ Do you still feed him scraps from the table?” She dragged Paladin to the bar and sat with a flourish of her black satin dress. She spoke French to the barkeep and he returned with two drinks. She slid a highball glass to Paladin. “Drink it,” she hissed. “It’ll look strange if you don’t.”

  Paladin looked at the drink as if it were poison.

  “It’s only water,” Flora said. “I know better than to try to ply you with liquor.”

  He took a cautious sip. “What are you doing here Flora?”

  Her lips parted in a grin. “I’m having fun. These people have money and power and aren’t afraid to use them. They know how to live…unlike some men I know.” She swilled the contents in her glass. “What are you doing here?” she whispered. “Do you know how many people on this island would like to see you dead?”

  “Probably not as many as would like to kill me.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I came for you, Flora.”

  “That’s sweet of you, brother. But let’s try the truth. What Blake Aviation Security scheme are you running today?”

  “Matthew and I are worried about you. Your drinking, this lifestyle, and your new friends…they’re more dangerous than you realize. I’m here to take you home.”

  “I see,” she said and stared into her drink. “You think ‘poor little Flora’ is all sugar and spice and everything vice. I hate to disappoint you, but I’m all grown up-and there’s no home for me to go to. You and dad and Matthew have seen to that.”

  It was true. Neither of them had a real home or family anymore, but that’s what Paladin was here to set straight. Now all he had to do was find a way to tell her that without sounding like a sap.

  He looked around the casino at Flora’s “friends.” They wore designer gowns and smart tuxedos and jewels. They spoke in French and German. Opium smugglers? Moonshiners?

  Who were they really?

  His gaze landed on the dark-haired woman, Karina; she was lovely and smart…and deadly.

  She had engineered the theft of a Lockheed prototype, almost started a war-and was the architect of a scheme that would have killed or injured hundreds of innocent bystanders. She had fooled everyone…including Paladin.

  “Who is she?” he asked.

  Flora drank deeply from her glass until there was only pink froth at the bottom. “Karina Van Gilder, I already told you.” Her eyes narrowed. “You really are interested in her. I wonder why?” She scooted closer to Paladin and set her hand on his arm. He smelled the same overly sweet odor on her breath that filed the room. “We were at Smith together. You met her in ‘28.”

  Paladin visited Flora the summer before she dropped out of college. He remembered her very young and awkward girlfriend who had eyes for him. This was the same woman?

  “The Von Gilders have real money,” Flora said. “They go anywhere and do anything they want. They make things happen.”

  A gunshot rang out-less than a block away. No one noticed…or if they did, they didn’t seem to care. Then again, in a city of pirates and smugglers, murder and mayhem in the street was probably normal. This place, despite its opulence, gave Paladin the creeps.

  “Matthew thinks you’re in danger,” he told her. “If you won’t listen to me, then-“

  Flora giggled. “Poor Matthew. He must have been convinced I was in peril to even talk to you. Was he even sober when he told you about the King’s Cross and Die Spinne social club?”

  “He was sober…to start with,” Paladin said. “You don’t know your friends half as well as you think.”

  “Really?” Her hand on his arm gripped tighter; her nails-through his tuxedo-dug into his skin. “And what are you going to do about it?” She released him and waved the bartender over, ordering another pink margarita. “You’re in way over your head.” She closed her eyes and whispered, “Go back to Hollywood, Paladin. I’ll send you a postcard…and tell you how much I miss you.”

  She looked up. Paladin searched her eyes and saw the pain in them. She’d been running away from life since their father died, killing herself-slowly and with style, but just as sure as if she’d placed a gun to her head.

  “You’re cleaning up, Flora. Maybe not today, but I will get you out of here.”

  She smiled and stood and smoothed out her gown. “I think, you better take care of whatever business you have with Karina, and leave…while you’re still alive.”

  “Flora, I-“

  Karina walked across the room, her white dress trailing behind her. “Mr. Blake, shall we talk now or wait until tomorrow? There are other matters I must see to tonight.”

  Paladin didn’t want to stay in this vipers nest a second longer than he had to. “My sister and I are done,” he said. “For now.”

  “I must take your brother,” Karina said to Flora. “Forgive me.”

  Flora leaned into Paladin, kissed his cheek and whispered, “If anyone needs saving it’s not me…it’ll be you. Be careful.”

  Karina took Paladin’s hand and led him from the bar. “Do you prefer dice, cards, or the wheel, Mr. Blake?”

  “I thought we were discussing business, not games.”

  “Gambling is how we do business with newcomers on Le Coeur du Minuit,” Karina said.

  “They must prove their intellect, their resourcefulness, and their luck. Besides, all of life is a wager, no?”
She flashed him a dazzling smile.

  “I never to gamble with anything but my heart,” Paladin said. “But for you, I’ll make an exception. What are we wagering?”

  She snapped her fingers. “Jacques.”

  Jacques obediently stepped forward and tried to take her hand to kiss. She withdrew it. “You have a sample of Mr. Blake’s fine liquor?”

  ” Oui, Madamoiselle,” Jacques stammered. He gingerly handed her the square bottle of Black Knight Bourbon. She took it and waved the Frenchman away.

  She ran her index finger of the label. “I thought we would wager your cargo. If you win, I shall pay you the cash equivalent-say twenty-five francs a bottle? Then we can move onto more…interesting stakes”.

  “I see,” Paladin said cautiously, unsure of just what her plan was. “Cards then.”

  Another gunshot sounded-possibly in the street outside the casino. A few heads turned, but in moments the gamblers returned to their games, nonplussed.

  Karina approached a Baccarat table and with a nod of her head, the players and dealer got up and left.

  Paladin sat down opposite from her.

  She set the bottle on the green felt between them. “We have met before, Mr. Blake, but I cannot quite place where and when.” Her green eyes squinted slightly as if she were trying to see through him.

  “I’m flattered, but I don’t think we have.”

  She had to remember who he was. Paladin’s photo had been splashed on every paper and newsreel when he’d brought her brother’s zeppelin down practically on top of the Washington Memorial. So why keep up the pretense?

  Why did a cat play with the mouse before ripping it apart?

  Karina reached under the table and handed Paladin a sealed deck of cards.

  He opened it. They didn’t look marked. He shuffled, offered her a cut, which she took. “A test of luck?” He dealt two cards face down. “Lady’s pick. High card wins.”