by Tee Morris
I removed the painter’s cap and scratched my noggin, trying to itch the answer out of my brain. You don’t walk into an office as clean and organized as this and have to struggle to find something. I could tell from the absence of an old newspaper and the lack of clutter on his desk that there was no room for anything out of order. The easier it was for him to find, the happier he was and the more he could accomplish. I knew whatever I was missing was staring me in the face.
Then I realized I was staring at the Assistant D.A.’s desk. Considering the current state of Chicago, would I really keep mafia files on the other side of my office, or within arm’s reach?
I hopped down from the chair and waddled over to this fine mahogany keep, taking a closer look at how well this thing was put together. The obvious craftsmanship that went into creating this monstrosity, I had to wonder what the District Attorney’s desk looked like. It must take up one wall and continue down another!
The top drawer opened with no effort and its contents were as neat as a new blade, back from the forge and sharpened to a fine edge. Pencils were grouped with pencils. Erasers were grouped with erasers. Yeah, this Assistant D.A. redefined the term “particular.” There were three small drawers on the left hand, and two drawers on the right. The top-right drawer, which was smaller, kept memo pads of various sizes. It was the most cluttered area of this office, as smaller pads slid freely over the larger legal-sized notebooks. (It would have come as no shock to me if he had partitioned the top drawer to remedy this. Maybe that was his weekend project.)
The larger drawer was locked. Oh, the search-and-infiltration memories this drawer brought back! Journeying down stone corridor after stone corridor, all doors unlocked or open…and then there was that last one on at the end of the corridor, locked. Usually, there was something mighty fine waiting for us on the other side of that door. (Although there was that one time when the locked door was actually a nursery of new-bred orcs. Yeah, that was a rough night.)
Applying the picks to this smaller lock proved a challenge, but I managed to find the necessary grooves needed to trigger it. I rapped the fork against the floor (not wanting to take any chances in scratching the oak of the desk) and passed the tongs on either side of the picks. The silver instrument vibrated lightly, and then…
Nothing. The instruments stopped suddenly, and the drawer lock remained engaged.
I gave the fork a much harder knock against the floor. Once in the cradle of charmed sound, these picks were working overtime. Let me put it another way: These metallic locksmiths were either trying to solve this puzzle of latches and levers, or knitting a sweater inside that keyhole.
I rapped the fork on the floor again, evoking an even stronger sound from its prongs. As the tone grew, the picks began to vibrate violently, and then glow. The longer they shook in the lock, the more the picks’ light-blue glow turned bright white. The glass panes of the office windows shuddered lightly, and the symphony of tinkling from the plaques, law degrees, and various other honors hanging on the walls and sitting on bookshelves swelled louder and louder, reaching a level of sound that I was sure would attract the attention of that overnight wonder of a guard.
I gritted my teeth hard to keep them from chattering as the magic I generated turned more ferocious. The picks were now bright as a pure-white, prolonged flash of sunlight catching polished silver…so bright that I could no longer look directly at it. I heard two of the Assistant D.A.’s honors shatter, along with a vase of wilting flowers at the right corner of the desk.
Then I heard a sharp crack, and the tone of my fork, shuddering of windowpanes, and dinging of glassware faded together, much like the tunes of court musicians ending with a decrescendo that leaves only a moment of silence before the nobles’ applause. The concert of sorcery was over. I almost broke out into applause myself, but I was still too busy catching my breath, wiping away the cold sweat from my brow, dabbing my lips on the cuff of those baggy coveralls.
The only sound in the office now was a steady drip-drip-drip of foul-smelling water from the vase, now partially covering the desk. Wisps of thick, pearly smoke slipped off my picks. Placing a hand on the drawer handle and closing my peepers, I whispered a quick prayer to the Guardians as I gave a gentle pull.
The drawer slid closer to me, and I gave a heavy sigh of relief. I dodged a throwing dagger on this one, I thought as I looked on the treasure waiting for me.
They were all here. Alfonse “Scarface” Capone. Anthony “Pretty Boy” DeMayo. Frank “The Enforcer” Nitti. Rio. McGurn. It was dossier after dossier of the Organization, many of them incomplete and only a sacred few with red tabs marking their folders. No doubt, those marked folders indicated the ones who were somewhere in The Big House.
I pulled out the DeMayo folder and started flipping through the various clippings and pictures of Capone’s showy second-in-command. It looked like DeMayo loved the ladies, and he loved the lifestyle. I paused at the sight of one picture where he had his arm around my client’s waist as she offered up a polite smile for the camera. Tony was obviously captured in a moment of true hilarity, because his mouth was open so wide that a marsh bat could fly in, remove his tonsils, and fly out without catching the roof of his mouth. He had Julia Lesinger in one hand, and a smoldering stogie wedged between the index and middle finger of the other.
Surrounding him were a variety of mob types (including an inside contact of mine that I was needing to get hold of) and a few of Julie’s types—rich, good girls sampling the wild life. Yeah, life was good to Tony. Damn shame life couldn’t remain so kind to him.
Julia’s expression gave me a slight chill because of its complete detachment from the raucous setting. The people around Tony were definitely putting on a better act than she was. Or maybe Tony was, in fact, that funny of a guy. Maybe he was the life of the party, and Julia preferred to put on the airs of high society for this moment captured by Eastman-Kodak. Or maybe she knew what he really was at his core.
In my world, the minor nobility ranks—Countesses, Viscountesses, Barons, and (especially) knights—really enjoyed the privileges and prestige of their titles, but they were appointed their titles. You can dress an ogre in the finest silks of the Hun-she Dynasty, adorn them with the finest jewels from the mines of Gryfennos, encase their feet in the softest, most supple leather of the Elvish tanneries and bestow upon it the title of “Lord Constable of the Realm,” but that doesn’t change what you’ve dressed up in your Sunday best. That ogre, bathed, dressed, and titled, is still an ogre, and will tear out your throat so it can gnaw on your trachea. Same thing can be said for minor nobility. A peckerwood with a title.
That was the look Julia Lesinger had in this photo: a princess in the company of Baron Peckerwood.
I continued through the file’s contents. Not so much as a mark, check, or a star to hint that DeMayo was caught with his hand in the cookie jar and singing to the D.A.’s office or Uncle Sam so he could keep feeding his late-night social habits.
I had to give the D.A.’s office credit: They were trying to catch the same big tuna that kept eluding the Fed’s lures, hoping for a moment when they would be there and the Feds would not. You would think that Capone would sweat being tailed by both the Feds and the local cops, and he would sweat it, too, if they were working together. Capone probably figured he could count on the “healthy competition” between state law enforcement and J. Edgar’s boys. And as the G-men and cops tripped over one another trying to trip up Capone, Capone sidestepped the law and ran his business much to the chagrin of honest folks.
And that was the end of the file. Nothing. According to what was in my pudgy little hands, the D.A.’s Office knew DeMayo was part of The Business, but lacked any hard evidence that could persuade him to turn on his Big Boss. Of course, finding a witness willing to step forward against anyone in Capone’s organization was about as likely as finding a survivor from a goblin bachelor party.
I returned the file to its rightful place among the lower dregs
of Chicago society, removing the picks from the drawer’s keyhole as it slid shut. The instruments were still warm, their heat just seeping through the leather pouch.
Suddenly, my hand whipped back on feeling a sharp sting of electricity from the drawer’s keyhole. I must have brushed against it while keeping an eye on the door for any visitors curious about the earlier noise I was making. My hand tingled lightly and I gave a small, spiteful laugh as I rubbed it.
The lock’s bolt sliding into place seemed a lot louder than it should have been, but I chalked that up to my nerves playing tricks on me. I carefully stepped through the puddle formed at the corner of the desk, wiping my shoes clean on the modest office rug before returning to the hallway.
I could hear a commotion downstairs growing. The weekend shift was arriving.
I came back down the steps at a quick pace, unheard by the workmen who were lining up lunchboxes. Two guys were trying to talk in hushed voices about being stuck on the Saturday shift, but I could hear every word. Safe to assume the supervisor hadn’t arrived yet.
The chatter came to a halt at the sight of me, and I clearly heard, “What the hell is that?” and “Is the circus in town?” followed by a few chuckles from the other three in the crew.
“You know something, pal?” I began, pointing a finger at the “Circus Comment” clown. “If the circus was in town, I’d give you the sound advice to ask if there was a job opening for mucking out the elephant’s car! You’re going to find yourself shoveling shit if you don’t make some progress on this lobby pronto!”
One of these Rembrant-flunkies, still buttoning up his coveralls, didn’t bother to look at me as he asked, “And just who’re you, Shorty, to be barking at us like some kinda mutt?”
“I’m the mutt that’ll piss on your leg and tell you it’s raining if you don’t drop the attitude! Now, if you want to keep your job, send a crew upstairs to the seventh floor. Some dink left the Assistant D.A.’s office a mess.”
“Seventh floor?” another worker, the “What the hell” guy, piped in. “We haven't even finished the second!”
“Doesn’t matter who made the mess!” I snapped back. “You know how these bureaucrats are! They are elected royalty. If there is anything wrong in their offices, it’ll be our fault. So clean it up! Now I want three people here and two on the second floor. I’m going to call in a second team.”
“Jesus, are we that far behind?”
It’s amazing how much bigger I look when I rest my fists on my hips. Letting out a heavy sigh, I looked up to the ceiling as if I was about to blow my top. This was my little one-man show, and I wasn’t going to disappoint.
“All I know is I got the phone call this morning to be here, do the walk-through, and let you dinks know where we stood. Now it’s our asses if we don’t gain some ground with this job, so GET GOING!” I grabbed my coat and switched the painter’s cap for my fedora. “I’ll be right back. Call in that second team.”
Halfway down the steps, I saw a mousy excuse of a human pass me, casting a nervous glance at first but then staring at my coveralls. He was probably thinking, “Those look like mine,” but then dismissed the thought, figuring I was way too short to fit into anything of his. He must have missed the rolled-up cuffs or sleeves. Too bad I had to leave so soon. I would have loved to hear him say, “Anyone seen my cover—hey, wait a minute…”.
A few minutes later, the coveralls were bunched up in the floorboards of the cab that I’d caught a block away. I was back in the preferred fit of my coat, my hand still tingling a bit from what happened in the Assistant D.A.’s office.
The last time I saw something like that glass-shattering sideshow, it was deep in the musty darkness of a labyrinth back in Acryonis when I was working with a rather tricky lock. My boys and I watched as my charmed instruments took on a glow, vibrated inside the keyhole, and then came to a rest. When I rapped the fork harder against the stone wall of the maze, like I’d just done in the office, some of us shielded our eyes at the light generated from my picks.
That was when our mage-in-residence (it was always a good idea to travel with some kind of sorcerer when breaking into an enemy stronghold, especially if that enemy was suspected of allying themselves with necromancers) gave us the bad news that we were not going through this door anytime soon. There was some serious magic in place, broken only by equally powerful magic—magic we didn’t possess.
The buildings of Chicago passed by me, but I was paying less attention to the city and more to the people now awake and roaming the sidewalks. Someone out there, someone working for the Chicago D.A.’s office, was casting spells on office furniture. Not particularly powerful magic, but enough to discourage any humans from trying to pick the lock of a particular desk. Much like Acryonis, Chicago was a town of surprises and secrets, and this secret was a doozie. It had been a long time since I’d gotten this homesick.
Spellcasters in 1929 Chicago. Just when you think you’ve seen it all in this town…
Chapter Three
Getting on My Bad Side
Chicago has gone unsung for its hidden treasures for as long as I’ve known her. When it comes to culture, sports and just about everything else, people drone on and on about New York. Oh, if you want theater, go to New York! If you want the latest fashion, go to New York! If you want to see a real ball team, go and see the Brooklyn Dodgers in where? New York! (Eh, the Dodgers and the Yankees can go sit in my hat. They pretend to be a team wrapped around one or two real players. Don’t get me started…)
While dinks continue to babble on and on about how great New York is, Chicago gets labeled as a den of crime and corruption. They tell us that New York, compared to a second-rate shire like Chicago, is a realm fit for kings, queens, and nobility—where the streets are paved with gold, everyone thrusts out a helping hand, and doors of opportunity and prosperity open wide around every corner.
Let me tell you something about New York: The Big Apple ain’t that sweet. More like it’s rotten to the core. The only gold on the streets is where bums relieve themselves. That “helping hand” is pointing the barrel of a Roscoe between your peepers. And those doors of opportunity are double-padlocked with bars over the windows.
I got all this after one visit, and that was one too many.
So, you can keep New York. My heart belongs to Chicago. And when it comes to restaurants, my heart, and on the exceptional nights, my heartburn, belong to Mick’s. That’s where I now found myself after divvying up my day between a crime scene, the Chicago courthouse, and my former haunt, the ol’ public library on Washington Street, going through past newspapers to see if anything—a string of raids, an arrest, anything—could clue me in on DeMayo playing footsie with the Feds. I wish I could say the afternoon had yielded up plenty of leads, but hell, that would’ve been too easy. “Frustrated” was the best word to describe me at this point, and the only cure was Mick’s chili special.
Thirty years ago, Mickey Nowinski’s dad came to America with a name that was tough as nails to pronounce and a demeanor to match. Seeing how things were in New York—what with the boats dumping half of Europe on America’s shores, the jobs becoming as scarce as a decent flop, and street gangs cropping up like Dunheim ogreweed—he and the family headed out west, eventually settling on Chicago because the cold winters reminded them of home. As Nowinski Senior worked his way up from dishwasher to cook, those cold winters inspired him to concoct an incredible delicacy that eventually made him owner of his own place.
Mickey Junior now ran the joint his dad started, a short-order diner boasting the best chili in town. Well, I say “boast,” but it’s not a boast so much as it is a promise. Nah, more like a pledge of honor that Mick’s meets every day! While the diner’s never short on seats, Mick’s delivery boys keep in great shape running his chili from place to place. Whether it’s the big shots of the financial hub, the politicians of City Hall, the guys down at the docks unloading barges or those construction daredevils high above the sidewalks on an
I-beam and a prayer, everybody agrees on where to find the best chili in town. Sooner or later, everybody goes to Mick’s.
Back in the here and now, Mick’s place ain’t a far cry from his dad’s. The backdrop’s a little noisier, though. The usual ting-ting-ting of the tiny brass bell above the door was drowned out by a less gentle ha-hoo-ga from a flivver outside, causing a few heads to turn my way as I walked through the door.
Which brings me to another pet peeve: Humans, either from Acryonis or right here, enjoy this great wizard’s illusion of “discretion” whenever they happen across an unusual-looking person (or dwarf). While they whisper to one another or try not to stare, the reality is that their voices carry in the wind like a battle cry and their eyes bore through you like a fireblade through butter. My ability to pick up their comments has nothing to do with dwarves possessing some sort of exceptional hearing, or anything like that. As a matter of fact, we’ve got a hearing range similar to that of humans, but God forbid humans should have anything in common with a dwarf! At least, that’s the impression I get.
When people notice a dwarf like me walking into a place like Mick’s, the resulting lull in their conversation reminds me of when me and the boys would open one of those thick tavern doors in a human-heavy village. Everybody shuts up for a moment, then goes back to their routine. Or one of those Western shoot-’em-up movies, where the bad guy in the black hat who knows he’s being talked about pats his pearl-handled six-shooter and moseys on up to the bar, relishing being talked about.
The only relish I like is the kind on my dog, out at Wrigley Field. I spent my life building up a thick exterior, but it doesn’t make dealing with whispers and snickers any easier.
The guy who works as my shield against these naysayers is my pal Mickey, who’s capable of shooting customers operating under that “discretion spell” a crossbow’s bolt of a look—a good, hard Polish stare that could stop a Blue Dragon dead in its tracks.
