by Ari Marmell
Contents
Cover
Also by Ari Marmell
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
A Brief Word on Language
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Fae Pronunciation Guide
About the Author
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM ARI MARMELL AND TITAN BOOKS
Hot Lead, Cold Iron: A Mick Oberon Job
Hallow Point: A Mick Oberon Job
Dead to Rites
Print edition ISBN: 9781785650970
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785650987
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: August 2016
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Ari Marmell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Copyright © 2016 by Ari Marmell. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Dedication:
For George, because everything is always in part for
George, but it’s still sometimes good to remind her.
A BRIEF WORD ON LANGUAGE
Throughout the Mick Oberon novels, I’ve done my best to ensure that most of the 30s-era slang can be picked up from context, rather than trying to include what would become a massive (and, no matter how careful I was, likely incomplete) dictionary. So over the course of reading, it shouldn’t be difficult to pick up on the fact that “lamps” and “peepers” are eyes, “choppers” and “Chicago typewriters” are Tommy guns, and so forth.
But there are two terms I do want to address, due primarily to how they appear to modern readers.
“Bird,” when used as slang in some areas today, almost always refers to a woman. In the 1930s, however, it was just another word for “man” or “guy.”
“Gink” sounds like it should be a racial epithet to modern ears (and indeed, though rare, I’ve been told that it is used as such in a few regions). In the 30s, the term was, again, just a word for “man,” though it has a somewhat condescending connotation to it. (That is, you wouldn’t use it to refer to anyone you liked or respected.) It’s in this fashion that I’ve used it throughout the novels.
CHAPTER ONE
Every now’n again, I stop and really listen to the crickets.
It’s the pixies, see? Some of ’em sing along with the crickets, voices real high and squeaky ’cause their pipes are so tiny. Others got these real little fiddles and… Well, point is, if you bother to listen—which most of you don’t—and really know how to listen—which even more of you don’t—you can hear the pixies in among the crickets. Maybe you can actually make out a few words or tatters of meaning, maybe all you get is their general mood, but it can put you wise to how things are going in the tiny little bastards’ corners of Elphame.
Of course, that’s what, maybe one night in a thousand? Rest of the time, it’s just a whole swarm of bugs makin’ whoopee and irritating the spit outta everyone else around ’em. So kinda like all you lugs, then.
Yeah, sorry. I was more’n a little cranky that night. Where was I?
Right. Crickets. There were a lot of ’em, and they were loud.
It was one of those spring nights where you could forget the oven of summer was comin’ up before too long and the breath off Lake Michigan was nice and cool enough that you almost didn’t mind the stench of fish and the garbage that’d been dumped into the waters. A whole lotta acres of parkland stretch along and away from the lake shore, with winding sidewalks and copses of trees and statues to various folks you all like to think were special or important. Not so far you can’t still hear all the lovely sounds of the city, but far enough they ain’t too overpowering. Guess that’s why the damn crickets hadda pick up the slack.
This particular copse of trees was way on the south side of the greenery, part of a whole slice of park tucked away where nobody hadda lay peepers on it unless they wanted to. Y’know, where they could put the attractions and events meant for the poor saps who didn’t have the right income or skin tone. Right now, that slice was playin’ host to a traveling carnival, one of about half a million that’d come to the Windy City over the past few months. The Chicago World’s Fair was barrelin’ down on us like a freight train in heat, and while a handful of circuses and carnies figured they might make a few bucks settin’ up shop in town at the same time, most of ’em didn’t have much interest in competing. So they came’n went even faster than normal, popping up like weeds and fading again like… well, dead weeds, I guess.
This particular collection of cheap eats and rigged games and rickety rides that shook and shuddered worse’n a palsied Chihuahua didn’t strike me as much different than any other. Lights were still on, a few of the machines still ran, a cut-rate band organ still vied with the crickets and the rest of Chicago to see who could be the most obnoxious. I guess the place had a few customers, late as it was. Even from here I could smell the sweat and the grease and the burnt sugar and the drying kids’ vomit, and thank God for my aes sidhe senses ’cause I sure wouldn’t wanna have missed that delightful treat, would I?
Point is, I hadn’t the first or faintest notion as to what made this traveling carnival at all special. Can’t really say I cared much, either. But something musta been valuable or hinky about it, since the ginks I was lookin’ for wouldn’ta been here if it wasn’t.
Half a dozen of ’em, give or take, the usual gorillas in the usual glad rags with the usual bulges in their coats that didn’t come from anything friendly. Even if I hadn’t already known, I coulda figured what sorta hardware they were packin’ by the smell of the steel and gunpowder.
And there he was, right in the middle. The boss, the capo, Nolan Shea. Tall, kinda lanky but round-faced. One of those guys whose mug was always flushed, like he was real hot, real lit, or real steamed at someone.
His goons had been jawing for a while now without spouting one useful word, grousing about what they’d rather be doin’ or worrying that the Outfit might stumble across ’em. (As if any of the local trouble boys woulda had any reason for being here in the park this time of night. Then again, I still didn’t know why Shea’s people were here, either.) Now that Shea’d rejoined ’em—they’d all been prowlin’ around, trying to get a better slant on the carnival, and he’d been the last to get back—I was hopeful I might actually hear somethin’ worth hearing.
At which point I took one goddamn step and somehow managed to si
dle right on into a protruding tree branch. Gnarled and spindly as a grindylow’s finger, it snapped right off, and if it wasn’t as loud as a gat, it was sure noisy enough.
Plain, random bad luck. I’d had more’n my fair share of that lately, and if I was the paranoid sort, it might not’ve been feeling too random anymore.
Well, yeah, I am the paranoid sort. So it should be pretty easy to figure on how I felt right about then.
“Evening, fellas.”
I didn’t exactly have my mitts up as I stepped from the shadows under the trees, but I made a pretty clear show of keeping ’em away from my body. I wasn’t lookin’ to mix it up with these mugs, let alone get into a shoot-out with ’em.
Judging by the half-dozen roscoes pointed my way, they didn’t necessarily share my preferences in that regard.
“Say,” I continued, “how about you ask your boys to take it easy, Mr. Shea? I just wanna jaw a little.”
“I know you, pal?” the red-faced thug demanded. He had the kinda almost-Irish lilt you sometimes hear from guys who don’t have an Irish lilt anymore. “You’re ringin’ a bell.”
“Vacuum salesman, boss,” one of the others whispered to him with that same not-accent. “He broke into your place once.”
Shea’s lamps widened a bit at that, even as mine narrowed. What were the odds any of ’em woulda recollected me at all from that one night, let alone details like my cover story? More bad luck.
“I remember,” Shea growled. “You’re one of the Shark’s guys!” A few hammers clicked at that.
“You got some sharp people working for you, Mr. Shea. But I’m not your enemy. I ain’t a salesman, and I don’t work for Mr. Ottati. Well, only the one time.”
“You ain’t helpin’ your case here, boyo.”
Boyo? “I’m a PI, Mr. Shea. I was helpin’ Ottati out on a personal matter, that’s all. And I’m only here now to put a question or two to you. After that, I’ll be outta your hair and you can get back to whatever the hell you’re doing.”
I kinda wanted to ask what the hell they were doing. I’da just figured they were maybe runnin’ a protection racket on the carnival—every one of ’em that came to Chicago wound up lining somebody’s pockets—’cept Shea’s crew was the Uptown Boys, and they answered to Moran’s Northside Gang. No way they’d risk the kinda heat it could draw, comin’ this far south, this deep into Outfit territory, for something as penny-ante as extorting a cheap traveling show.
Hell, maybe they just had a beef with someone who worked there, or had used the carnival to smuggle something into town. That stuff happens all the time. Didn’t make a difference to me—wasn’t what I was here for—and I was pretty sure that running my yap about it wasn’t gonna make Shea any less inclined to fill me so full of holes you could use me to strain soup.
Of course, he’n his torpedoes looked like they were right on the verge of squirting metal anyway.
I decided I didn’t feel like getting shot tonight.
“This is how it is, Mr. Shea. I got no intention of ratting you out, either to the bulls or to the Shark. We can have our conversation and go on our merry way. You start with the shooting, though, you think that circus music down there is gonna drown out that much noise? Even assuming you rub me out and make tracks before anyone shows, you’re gonna have a lot of people askin’ questions. You want the coppers and the Outfit knowing someone’s got an interest in that sideshow down there? Fine, start throwing lead. You wanna keep everything quiet? Let’s talk.”
I’da climbed into his head if I had to, juggled his thoughts a tad to make sure he did what I wanted, but I was a little nervous about the idea. I was already havin’ a run of misfortune, and usin’ any kinda mojo under those circumstances is chancy. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. Shea didn’t look none too happy about it, but he lowered his piece and waved for the others to do likewise.
Which didn’t mean he might not try to have his boys whack me some other, quieter way, but people and creatures a lot nastier’n him had tried, and I remained thoroughly unwhacked.
It also didn’t mean he was ready to answer my questions without a few of his own, first.
“How the fuck did you even know to find me here, Mr…?”
“Oberon. Mick Oberon.” No sense in not telling him. I might look a tiny bit different to every mortal, but still basically like the same guy. Wouldn’t take someone with Shea’s resources more’n a few minutes to dig up my name once he knew I was a private dick, and I was trying to get the gink to trust me some. “And that’s what I do. I find people.”
“In other words, somebody spilled.” His tone of voice didn’t leave a lotta doubt as to what’d happen if he found out who the pigeon was. Somehow, I didn’t think that me tellin’ him the poor sap didn’t have a choice, that I’d pushed myself into his head and made him sing, would go over real well.
“I’da waited until you weren’t in the middle of work,” I said instead, “but I’m kinda in a bit of a hurry here. All I need to know, Mr. Shea, is where I can find Phil Peppard.”
“Who?” He didn’t even try to sound genuine.
“C’mon, Mr. Shea. I know he hangs his hat somewhere in Uptown territory. I know you keep tabs on every worker who operates in your kingdom. And I know he’s freelance. He ain’t one of yours, so you got no cause to wanna protect him.”
“Maybe I just don’t like nosy bastards askin’ questions. Maybe I don’t rat on principle. I think it’s about time for you to dust, Mr. Oberon, before something ugly—”
“Mr. Shea, you really wanna rethink that.”
Wasn’t as if we’d been having a calm, friendly chat already, but now the tension got so thick you hadda chew around it to get a word in edgewise.
“You threatening me, pal?”
“No, you got me all wrong. I’m tryin’ to do you a favor. The folks I’m workin’ for, Mr. Shea? They don’t want the coppers involved, see? That’s why they came to me. But if I can’t get ’em their property back, they will turn to the cops. And I been keeping ’em in the loop, so right now they know almost everything I know.”
That last bit was more fulla horse shit than the back lot at a racetrack, but whatever works, yeah?
“So if I don’t come up with Peppard, the bulls are gonna go poking around for him next. And whether they find him or not, that’s gonna be a lotta uniforms all over your neighborhood. Since my clients are rollin’ in dough, the cops are gonna take ’em real serious, which means a long search. I don’t pretend to know your business, but that can’t possibly be good for it.
“We can prevent all that, right now, Mr. Shea. All you gotta do is gimme an address, or at least the alias he’s livin’ under. Then we can all go home and not worry about career repercussions.”
It took some hemming and hawing, some discussion with his boys, a few face-saving threats, but eventually he gave me an address offa Belmont, not too far from Logan Square.
“Oberon!” he called after me as I was just startin’ to step back into the trees. “I don’t enjoy bein’ put in this sorta position. Don’t let me see your face again. Ever. Or I might just put a slug through it.”
He probably would, too, or try to. I was already pretty well sure it was only the risk of lettin’ the cops or the Outfit know about his interests here on the south side that’d kept him from it in the first place.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I’ve had more’n enough fun dealing with you trouble boys over the last year. I don’t mean to get mixed up with you lot any further.”
Yeah, yeah, I know. Go ahead and laugh at me.
* * *
“…knew where to find him,” I was explaining to Mr. and Mrs. Marsters, sitting on a velvet-cushioned sofa in a room that probably cost more to decorate than my office cost to build, “it was duck soup to dig up not just your figurine but a whole heap of other hot goods. Once he knew I had him dead to rights, he sang like a canary. I dunno if your cousin’s gonna do any time for hiring him—Peppard ain’t ex
actly a sterling witness, and it basically comes down to who the jury believes—but I figure he’ll be too scared to try anything like this again.”
My clients, an older couple so pasty and upper-crust they resembled a pair of unbaked pies, and the younger black fellow who worked as their butler, hung on every word of my story. Well, every word I gave ’em, anyway; I left out a lot of the details, things about the underworld or, y’know, magic that they didn’t really need to hear. All they hadda know was that, yes, I’d gotten ’em their stupid little crystal wren statuette back—it was sitting on the coffee table in front of me as we spoke—and yes, just as they’d suspected, it’d been their crumb of a cousin who’d had it snatched.
On the square, though, I was barely even payin’ attention to my own tale. Whole thing’d been a minor diversion at best, something I’d taken on solely for the fee: a little bit of folding green, just to pay the bills, and an old Swiss pocket watch. No idea why I’d asked for it, but then, that was usually the case with the gewgaws that made up the bulk of my fees. Fae urges and instinct and all.
Point is, run of the mill, everyday case, kinda job you don’t ever hear about ’cause there’s nothin’ about ’em worth telling. Except things’d been goin’ just a touch hinky since right about the same time I started in on it. Stuff like that bit with the tree branch, when I was eavesdropping on the Uptown Boys. Or a few days before that, when a hinge stuck and I bashed my nose walking into a door that didn’t open. Never anything major, never anything that woulda been at all suspicious by itself. Only the fact it kept happening had made it stand out. I still couldn’t tell if it was a “natural” run of bad luck—if that ain’t an oxymoron—or if there was some kinda hex or other mystical cause. If it was the latter, it was a damn subtle one, but I didn’t wanna take steps until I was sure. Some of the remedies for normal bad luck can make it worse if the source ain’t “normal.”
And more even than that, it was makin’ me paranoid. (All right, fine, more paranoid.) I’d been jumpin’ at shadows for days by this point, sensing danger where there wasn’t any. The Marsters lived on Burton Place, real swanky digs in a real hoity-toity neighborhood. You didn’t get random street crime here, but I couldn’t shake the notion thatsomeone’d been shadowing me on my walk over. I kept a good slant on my surroundings—eyes, ears, senses you never heard of—and I made a buncha quick turns and detours. Even drew on a bit of extra luck, despite bein’ nervous about it. Shoulda been close to no way for anyone to tail me after that, and definitely no way for ’em to do it without me spotting ’em. There’d been nobody I could put my finger on, but dammit if I still hadn’t felt peepers on the back of my neck.
