by Ari Marmell
“Still, I’m sorry I was so—”
I pointed a finger at her.
“Quit it! Trust me, kid, you’re doin’ fine. Better’n most people would be, under the circumstances.”
“You swear?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Okay.” She abruptly looked up, and her grin wasn’t shy anymore. “Long as you remember that before you try giving me the ‘This is gonna be dangerous, maybe you shouldn’t come along’ speech.”
Wasn’t just her looks that were sharp, that one. I probably wouldn’t have given her that spiel tonight; she really had saved my bacon at the hotel. But I had thought about it, a little.
And no, I didn’t think she’d engineered the whole conversation to get there—her nerves were genuine—but she sure wasn’t slow on her feet.
All I said, though, was, “Noted. Gimme one minute.”
I wandered out into the hall, over to my favorite device in the whole damn world. I snarled at the blower, it snarled back, and I made the call I hadda make—as quickly as I could possibly get it done.
“Right,” I said, pokin’ my head back into the office. “Shall we?”
She handed me my hat—I scowled at it, but the getup woulda looked incomplete, and conspicuous, without it—and we were off. Just another Chicago couple, out for a night on the town.
After a while, as we got near the L, she said, “So, um, you might’ve already explained this that night. I don’t… entirely remember the specifics of the conversation we had after we fled the hotel.”
“‘Fled’?” I protested. “I don’t flee.”
“We dusted out in a rush before the police could respond to all the shooting. What would you call it?”
“A daring escape.”
She snorted. “Fine. After our daring escape from the hotel, then.”
We stopped long enough for me to slide a handful of coins over the counter to a bored young cat in a starched uniform, and then wandered up to the platform to wait for the next train.
“All right, what am I explaining to you?”
“The hotel. Why’d Fleischer put Nessumontu up there at all? Why not just take him when they first ran into him? He said himself the ‘sorcerer’ had enough power and enough men to at least take a shot at it.”
At this hour on a weekday, in my part of town, the platform wasn’t too terribly packed, so it was eggs in the coffee to find us a spot we could talk—at a hush, at least—without any chance of bein’ overheard. Sure, any random mug who did happen to eavesdrop on our conversation’d probably just assume we’d gone whacky, as opposed to actually believin’ a word of it, but even so…
“You gotta remember,” I told her, “nobody had the slightest idea Nessumontu himself might have an opinion on any of this. Far as Baskin, Fleischer, or anyone else knew, they were plannin’ a heist, not a kidnapping.”
“So, he… What? Wasn’t ready?” The screech of the brakes and the nauseating scent of scraping, sparking iron put the kibosh on the conversation long enough for us to board, and then find a couple seats at least half a car away from anyone else. The L lurched into motion, I acknowledged and then put aside my usual train headache, and the world was nothin’ but constant rocking and more metallic screeches.
Well, that and a quick poke at my elbow.
“Huh? Oh, right. Yeah, wasn’t ready. I mean, you’re gonna want a whole different set of locks and whatnot if you’re tryin’ to keep a mummy from gettin’ up and takin’ the run-out than if you’re tryin’ to keep others from gettin’ to him, right?”
“Makes sense.”
“And it ain’t just about the locks or guards or doors. You’re talkin’ magics, too. It’s one thing to ward a relic so it ain’t easy for others to detect it. It’s a whole ’nother kettle of horses to bind a walking-dead guy so he can’t break free, or draw on whatever mojo he might possess. Between researchin’ what he’d need and then actually sketchin’ the glyphs and circles, casting the rituals? I’m frankly surprised it didn’t take Fleischer even longer to set up. Come to think of it, he may not’ve been ready. Us showin’ up at the hotel probably forced his hand. Might mean things ain’t as secure as he’d have hoped.”
Tsura frowned. “Or maybe the three days it’s taken him to set up the showing were enough to shore all that up.”
“Or maybe that, too.”
“So did our rushing him actually help us in any way?”
“No idea, kid.”
She jabbed my arm with a finger again, this time a little harder than an attention-getting poke.
“Anyone ever tell you how reassuring you are?”
Wow. Déjà vu.
“No, but you ain’t the first to ask me.”
We spent the next ten minutes lost in thought, me ponderin’ my history with Ramona and everything I’d felt—or thought I’d felt—for her, Tsura contemplating whatever a scared-but-determined fake-carnival-gypsy descendant of the Greek oracles might contemplate.
My life is filled with some weirdly specific questions.
And regrets.
I spent part of the ride prayin’, though I ain’t positive to whom, that this wouldn’t be one of ’em.
This was gonna be dangerous, and not just to life’n limb. Even the best victory I could imagine had us comin’ outta this with some powerful and violent people steamed at us. Tsura said she understood all that, but did she really? Her clairvoyance was useful and she was a smart cookie, but none of that meant she really knew what she was gettin’ into. And Pete? Pete hadn’t been allowed to choose at all. He’d been dragged into this, and made to think it was what he wanted. Maybe it woulda been better for everyone if I’d stayed the loner I’d been for decades.
Too late now.
Hope you know what you’re doin’, Tsura. Hope I do, too.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was comin’ up on eleven when we got where we were goin’, arm in arm so we’d look all respectable.
The warehouse was a hunkering, square monstrosity, fat’n lazy as buildings go. Dirty red walls, flat roof, big honkin’ windows so dark and thick they were no more transparent than the bricks. The loading platforms, sittin’ at truck height, were closed up tight, locked, and guarded by men openly carryin’ Tommies or double-barreled street sweepers. Broad steps led up to the door, which looked to be the only easy way in—also guarded by goons packin’ big gats. On the steps stood a handful of other guests, dressed to the nines, waitin’ their turn to enter.
“Why aren’t the cops all over this?” Tsura whispered, peepers dancin’ between the hardware and the formalwear.
“Fleischer probably paid someone off. Ain’t exactly uncommon. Since Prohibition, I been to illegal shindigs much more conspicuous than this.”
“My faith in your city’s law enforcement is withering by leaps and bounds.”
“Welcome to Chicago.”
We were among the last people to climb the steps. The two tuxedo-clad goons workin’ the door took one look at me and went for their roscoes. They didn’t draw, but the meaning was clear as crystal. The few other guests still lingerin’ outside stepped back, wisely gettin’ outta the way of whatever was comin’.
“I guess Fleischer told ’em to watch out for me,” I groused.
“You think?” Tsura’s tone was tightly pinched; she was keepin’ her cool, but only with a fingertip grip.
“Take it easy.”
I smiled real big, though I decided at the last second not to wave; they mighta taken it wrong.
“Evening, boys.”
“Boss don’t want any trouble here tonight, uh, O’Brien,” one of ’em snarled at me. “So we’re supposed to give you the chance to walk away. But you ain’t comin’ in.”
“O’Brien?” my “date” whispered.
“You wouldn’t believe how often I get that. I could tell you stories…”
“Maybe another time, huh?”
“Come on, pal,” I said, more loudly. We were just a few long paces awa
y, now. “I ain’t here to start anything. But we got as much right to examine the goods and make an offer as anyone, don’t we?”
“I told you, you ain’t comin’ in. And that’s close enough!” Gink half-lifted his shotgun, but it was already too late.
See, he was right; I was close enough.
“We got as much right,” I repeated, starin’ into and past his pupils, pluckin’ at the strings of his brain, “to examine the goods and make an offer as anyone else does.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, real thoughtful now. “I suppose you do.”
“What?” his buddy demanded. “Stan, what the hell are you—?”
More smiling, more eye-contact, more whammy.
“I think Stan’s got a point, don’t you?”
“He does, sure. Just don’t gum anything up in there, willya? You’ll get us in trouble.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I assured him before leading Tsura past the both of ’em and into the warehouse itself.
“That’s creepy,” she said.
“Is it? Well, they’re creeps, so that’s okay.”
She decided not to respond to that. Too blinded by my impeccable logic, no doubt.
Inside was all echoes and shadows and the scent of old wood dust, the ceiling and the far walls soaked in gloom. We made our way straight through the massive building in a path formed by a line of dim overhead lights, accompanied by the ring of our own footsteps and the hum of distant conversation. I could just hear the occasional breath, taste the edges of an aura, enough to know that those pockets of darkness hid more of Fleischer’s goons. I didn’t bother tryin’ for an exact count, since the only two numbers that woulda mattered were “enough to make a difference” and “not.”
At the far end, everybody had gathered in an amorphous cloud of formal rags, mostly blacks and blues and browns for the gents, more of a rainbow for the ladies. Rows of chairs had been set up facin’ a raised work area-cum-stage, which was currently blocked off by heavy curtains. Even from a ways away, I could tell that a handful of ’em weren’t near as human as they looked.
One of those not-humans broke away from the pocket of conversation she’d been part of, much to the disappointment of everyone else, and moved to meet us.
“Mick.”
“Ramona.” Her dress was slit just a bit too high, cut just a bit too low, to be entirely proper. “You’re lookin’… predatory.”
“How kind of you to notice.” She raised an eyebrow at Tsura. “New pet?”
“Funny. I—”
Tsura’s fingers tightened on my arm hard enough to make a halfway decent tourniquet. Her cheeks’d gone a sharp red, and her breath was comin’ fast and uneven.
“Turn it off, Ramona,” I growled.
“Hmm? I’m sure I don’t know what you—”
“Turn it off.”
Ramona sighed, tossed me a smile with no goodwill in it, and just like that Tsura’s breathin’ evened out. Didn’t seem she was gonna stop blushin’ any time soon, though; I tried to look like I didn’t notice.
“Don’t muck around in my friends’ emotions, sister,” I warned her. “Not ever.”
“Sure, whatever.” Ramona glanced back at the assembled audience. “You ready to tell me what it is I’m to do here, Mick? Your plans were pretty vague beyond ‘Help me make sure nobody walks away with the mummy.’”
“I prefer ‘open-ended for maximum flexibility.’ You know, maybe help me convince a few guys they got better things to spend their money on. Or back me up if things get violent. That sorta thing. Don’t worry. I’ll let you know if I need you, and when—unless what I need you to do is so obvious I don’t have to let you know.”
“That is impressively unhelpful.”
“Oh, good. I rehearsed it for just that effect.”
She turned without another word and made her way back toward the chairs.
“Mick…?”
I reached down and patted Tsura’s hand.
“That’s what she does, kid. And she can do it to almost anyone. It’s how McCall got to Pete. Don’t let it eat at you.”
She forced herself to smile. “You remember how I said I was ready for all of this?”
All I could think to do was offer another pat.
Not that Ramona was remotely the only soul here I recognized, though of course I didn’t know everybody. Fenway was a shrewd, grossly overweight mug who I knew occasionally worked as a middleman for Hruotlundt. Lairgneigh, who woulda sent half the room screamin’ if they could see through her human-seemin’ to what she actually was, represented someone in Chicago’s Seelie Court, though it mighta been any one of a handful. She sneered at me as I drew near, so I tossed her a friendly wave. Got another, much darker sneer from a boggart I didn’t know personally, and didn’t want to. I wondered if he was here for Eudeagh, “Queen Mob” of the Unseelie Court herself.
And there were plenty of others, men and women who either were, or who represented, a wide swathe of Chicago’s supernatural and/or occultist population. I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t give passin’ thought to solving a whole mess of the city’s (and my) problems by barring the door and settin’ the place on fire.
“Isn’t that the witch?” Tsura asked, sorta pointing over my shoulder with her chin. “Gina?”
I didn’t need to look; now that I felt for it, I could taste her aura among all the others.
“Yep. Not surprising, really. If Scola heard about the showin’, she’s the one he’da sent to check it out.”
“I thought… Aren’t they part of rival gangs?”
“Fleischer woulda guaranteed this to be neutral ground. If he wants the best price on Nessumontu, he’s gotta make sure those kinda beefs are left at the door.”
“I… guess that makes sense.” She sounded doubtful.
Meanwhile, though, I’d gotten a whiff of somebody else I knew, somebody whose presence I did find a bit surprising.
“Speakin’ of rival gangs…” I steered Tsura around the edge of the growin’ throng. “How’s it hangin’, Archie?”
You remember Archie “Echoes” Caristo, don’tcha? Thin, hair greased back slick enough I’m amazed he can keep a hat on, real irritating verbal tic? Important mostly ’cause of who he works for?
“Oberon.” He clamped his cigarette in his teeth to free up the hand that’d held it, reached out and shook mine. “What’re you doin’ here?”
“Window-shopping. Peeked inside and realized I hadn’t picked me up a summer mummy for this year.”
“Summer mummy. Cute. Who’s the tomato?”
“Tsura,” she answered for herself, followed by a long string of Greek. She smiled through it all, and her tone was polite enough…
Archie looked back at me.
“It’s a traditional greeting,” I lied blandly. “She’s pleased to meet you.”
“Pleased to meet me?” He sounded more’n a touch doubtful. “Took that long to say it?”
“Well, it loses something in translation.”
“Loses… Right.”
I leaned in some.
“Archie, what’re you doin’ here?”
He tossed a suspicious glance over his shoulder.
“Boss got wind of this, wanted me to look into it.”
“Fino wants to buy a mummy?” That didn’t sound right.
“Probably not. Pretty sure even if he did, lotta these gavones would outbid us. But he… Well, y’know, with everything around his momma’s death, and everything with Adalina… He’s keepin’ a closer watch on the weird hocus-pocus shit goin’ on in this city.”
Great. That was all I needed. Still, I couldn’t blame the guy. Wasn’t as though I’d had any luck wakin’ his changeling daughter up, myself.
And, of course, thinkin’ about that reminded me why I was even here, which brought a whole new wave of guilty anger.
“You know, Oberon… The boss’n me, we had no idea you had any kinda angle on this. I’m sure Fino woulda talked to you, at least let y
ou know we were looking, made sure it didn’t gum up anything you had going, if he knew.”
“Not a problem. No reason he shoulda known, and it’s not gonna mess up anything for me. Um, except…”
Damn. Wouldn’t mess up anything for me.
“Archie, I’m gonna make a real strong suggestion here.”
“Yeah?”
“Leave. Don’t make a show of it, don’t tell anybody why. Just go.”
“Just go?” Now he was suspicious; I could taste it in his words. “Why? You got somethin’ going you don’t want the boss to hear about?”
“Oh, for the love of… No, that ain’t it. Fino’s a friend…” Well, sorta. “And he wouldn’t want anything happenin’ to you.”
Archie stiffened, and just that quick, he was dangerous. He coulda had a gat in his fist, or his fist in a face, in half a heartbeat.
“You expectin’ this place to get hot?”
“As hell.”
“As hell.” He nodded. “You need backup?”
That… was actually touching, in a mobster sorta way.
“I appreciate that, Archie.” I really did, too. “But no. Just get your ass outta here so I don’t gotta explain to Fino why it got filled with lead. Please.”
Took him a minute to decide if he trusted me or if I was hidin’ something, but in the end he nodded one more time, tipped his hat, and slowly—still mingling, actin’ a lot more subtle than I’da given him credit for—made his way back toward the long hall of shadows that led to the exit.
After that, it was a few more minutes of mingling—which, in a shindig like this, was about one-fifth actually yappin’ with people and four-fifths tossin’ nasty expressions at ginks you either didn’t know or didn’t much care for. I spent most of the time tryin’ to keep a slant on the boggart, since he seemed the most likely to try pullin’ a fast one before the show even got rolling. I mean, most boggarts I’ve met can’t take much of anyone or anything with ’em when they pull that “disappearing down their own gullet” act, but you’re never certain with those bastards. Maybe this one had some means of dragging a mummy with him, for all I knew.
