The Case of the Singing Sword (The Billibub Baddings Mysteries)

by Tee Morris

  “Really? What was the old show?”

  “A Salute to Prohibition,” she smiled brightly, obviously enjoying the irony of the show’s subject matter. “For the finale, we all dressed up as Lady Justice, with swords in one hand and scales in the other. The balances were done up to look like two whisky barrels!”

  “Sounds like a riot!” I nodded in satisfaction. “Thanks again, Glenda. You’ve been a big help. Enjoy breakfast.”

  She gave me a nod and then started down the sidewalk for home, her hips working like a pendulum with her dancer’s derriere serving as a fine counterweight.

  I took another bite of the croissant and looked into the bakery window. The old man was staring at me, but this time I didn’t bother to go for the subtle glance away. I could see in his eyes exactly what I saw in the mirror this morning before I left my hovel. Strangely enough, we shared something in common. How ironic that the two of us were on opposite sides of this town and sharing parallel lives.

  I wish I knew enough Italian to tell him, “Brother, I know exactly how you feel. You and I are slaying the same dragon.”

  If my hunch was right, I was about to enter the dragon’s den tonight.

  *****

  The cabbie was thrumming nervously against the side of his car door when I came around the corner. With a flash of my Lincoln, the cabbie gave a nod and drove up to the front of the bakery.

  “I’ve been sitting here with the motor running,” Driver #2347-5 grumbled over his shoulder, “and you know gas ain’t cheap.”

  He was looking for an out, regardless of how much I was paying for his cab and his time. As I had said before, Sunday was a tougher day to get a hold of a cab. It was not impossible or out-of-the-ordinary, though, for a cab to be seen alongside the road with the motor running. He was probably a little nervous already when, out of all the establishments opening its door on an early Sunday morning, I chose to duck into an alleyway. Then I reappear outside a bakery opposite of the same alleyway? You didn’t have to be as clever as a Wright Brother to know what I was up to.

  I handed the cabbie my Lincoln. “Give me a little more of your valuable time, mac, and Lincoln will have some company. I hear Alex Hamilton is looking for a pal right now.”

  This cabbie already had two Lincolns in his pocket, and I was getting ready to throw in a ten. He would be sitting pretty after this fare, maybe even able to call it a day before the afternoon was done, provided the speakeasy’s crew didn’t catch us.

  “Where to?” he said, putting the cab in gear.

  “Around the block.”

  The cabbie turned around to look at me. “Say that again?”

  “Around the block, and then we sit tight. You just wait on my word, and we move.”

  The cabbie nodded, still trying to noodle through what I was asking him to do. In a few minutes, we were back around the alleyway by 21st and Clarendon, but this time parked at the top of the block. We sat there with engine running, watching the front end of the white bakery truck sticking out of the speakeasy alleyway.

  I could see an orc dressed all in white sitting in the driver’s seat, sucking on a product of Phillip Morris, occasionally checking his watch as if he had to be somewhere soon. I’m sure if anyone were to ask, he was picking up a delivery for a Sunday night service or maybe a wedding celebration somewhere on the outskirts of town. If we were in a small town somewhere, this much activity on a Sunday would warrant lots of questions from the local law enforcement. That was one of the beauties of this shire. Even on the human’s “day of rest,” something was always going on in Chicago.

  “How long are we sitting here, Shorty?”

  “Until Abe, Alex, and I say so.”

  The cabbie turned around to eye me suspiciously. “Look, mac, where I dropped you off is under protection. Everyone knows that. I’m not going to cross Big Al. So either we go someplace other than here, or you get the hell out of my cab!”

  Damn, I was hoping to avoid this. Guess I was going to have to change the rules on this poor mook.

  “Okay, okay; let me make this worth your while.” I pulled out a handkerchief from my coat pocket and opened it up to reveal a beautifully engraved gold coin wrapped up in it.

  The cabbie was fighting to keep his deadpan, but I could see his pupils dilating in anticipation, his eyes squinting at its unexpected brilliance.

  “Would this change your mind? It’s worth a couple of Franklins. I need to keep an eye on that bakery truck, and if you help me with this, it’s yours.”

  “Let me see it,” he said gruffly. He took the coin in his hand, palming it to feel its weight. He flipped it over, trying with little success to read the various glyphs stamped into its smooth, polished surface. “It’s heavy.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded, my attention returning to the orc behind the wheel of the bakery truck. Unloading was taking longer than I expected. I wondered if there were any pals from Scotland or Ireland paying a visit, too. (Can’t let the Canadians have all the fun.) The guy turned around again briefly, just checking the progress of his pals and the out-of-town guests. He was getting nervous. Any minute now, he was going to be underway whether the shipment was off completely or not. They were already pushing their luck because they were making this drop in broad daylight and on a Sunday. So far, no cops or Feds in sight.

  Finally, I watched the goon reach under the steering wheel and start up his truck. It was time to go for a ride.

  “Okay, cabbie,” I said, “time to go.”

  “You bet, mac,” he replied.

  The bakery truck pulled out of the alleyway just as my driver got his cab in gear. We were about a half block away, playing second shadow to this truck that worked its way through the streets of Chicago.

  “How am I doing?” My cabbie glanced in the rear-view window, trying to catch my reaction. “I’m not crowding him, am I?”

  “You’re doing okay. Keep this distance, and you should be fine.”

  I glanced for a moment at the cabbie and gave a heavy sigh. I’m not one for changing the rules like this, but I couldn’t afford to lose this lead. Didn’t make me feel any better playing the magic card (or coin, in this case) on this poor sap. The coin—a one-use-only charm engraved with each races’ native tongue—was issued to all of us who assaulted the Black Orcs’ keep on Death Mountain.

  The humans had a name for a mineral that had suckered in a lot of “forty-niners” into thinking they struck the mother lode: “fool’s gold.” I called this trinket “the fool’s gold coin” because it really wasn’t gold, and it made people easy marks. My driver was now susceptible to my commands for a period of time, and once the spell wore off, he wouldn’t remember a thing between taking the coin and snapping out of the trance later.

  “All right, traffic’s starting to thin out,” I said as we neared the warehouse district. “You think you can give him a little more room?”

  “Sure thing, pal.”

  Although I couldn’t help but like this guy’s hospitable disposition, the spell was unsettling nonetheless. It was a temporary, altered state of being, and it was that “altered” part that was making me more and more uncomfortable. In my world, there was a basic Law of Magic: The longer an exposure to a spell, the more unknown a spell’s counter-effect would be. Magic of any kind tends to completely skew nature so that an individual’s reactions become harder and more unpredictable than a cranky swamp serpent. This was the caution we were always given when the mages would impart their “gifts” to us in the form of a fool’s gold coin, or even something like the Sword of Arannahs. In using magic, a chain of events is set into motion, and if you’re not careful, you could quickly lose control of those events.

  And then, you’re truly screwed.

  The cabbie started whistling cheerfully as we crossed over another pair of railroad tracks, behind us the skyscrapers of Chicago several city blocks away. The buildings around us now were short, squat buildings, large only in their width as opposed to their height. Far ahead of
us, the bakery truck began to slow.

  “Give him more room, cabbie,” I said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “In fact, go on and stop here.”

  We pulled over to the curb and watched our bakery truck pass two more warehouses before stopping. Even though it was two in the afternoon, the truck suddenly turned on its headlamps, then off they went, and on again. One row up, a large warehouse opened its doors. The truck revved its engine and then disappeared in the gaping maw that slowly shut once the truck was safely inside.

  “All right, cabbie. That’s it,” I said, opening the door and stepping out. “You can go home.”

  “You need any help with your bags, sir?”

  I took a deep breath of the dockside air and felt my stomach roil. The smell of the docks always made me queasy.

  “Nah, just give me a moment to get it out of the car, and then you can get out of here before things get ugly.” I needed to chew on a bit of rubenna root, provided I still had some in my backpack. Best thing for a stomach that wasn’t settling right. “This will only take a sec.”

  The cabbie began whistling once more. That hadn’t bothered me when he was driving, but now with his window rolled down, I wasn’t certain how well sound carried around here.

  “Hey,” I said around the open trunk, “you mind keeping the musical mouth concert to yourself?”

  The cabbie glanced back at me apologetically. “Sorry, sir.”

  From the open boot came my trusted backpack of worn leather and suede. It didn’t really go with the brown pinstripe I was wearing, but the backpack was not for making a fashion statement. The soft clinking of metal against metal from the weapons once hanging in the office reassured me that I was as prepared as I was going to be for whatever I might find here. I reached into one of the outside pockets of the haversack and found a collection of small, thin roots no longer than an elf’s index finger.

  I began to chew on the end of the rubenna root and smiled at the sugar-sweetness in it. In a few minutes, those butterflies in my stomach would settle.

  I closed the trunk with a quiet thud. One last thing for me to do. “Okay, here’s what you’re going to do,” I said to the cabbie. “Turn the car around and drive out to your favorite restaurant. Buy yourself a nice meal. Just relax. And when this spell wears off, I don’t want you to worry about a thing. You’ve had a long day and lost track of time, okay?”

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” He suddenly gave a healthy yawn. “I’ve been working pretty hard lately.”

  “So go on. Treat yourself to a nice meal.”

  “Thanks, pal!” he smiled. “Can I do anything else for you?”

  “Yeah,” I nodded, holding out my bare hand. As the magic was in tune only with him, it couldn’t do me any harm. “Give me that gold coin back.”

  “Sure.” He reached into his pocket and dug out the fool’s gold coin. It covered my palm and I was impressed at how quickly it had changed. The coin was lighter, and its original brilliant sheen now appeared dull in the intermittent sunlight.

  “Did we settle on the fare, sir?” the driver asked.

  I had promised him a Hamilton, but he was already several Lincolns in the black after picking me up this morning, waiting all afternoon, and then getting me out here. Did he really earn Alex’s attention? I’d been hoping to keep that charm for later tonight. Looking at the tarnished piece of metal covering my small palm, I breathed heavily.

  “Yeah,” I said. “We’re square.”

  “Good night, sir,” he replied happily.

  I watched the cab disappear back into the thicket of brownstones and skyscrapers, and then I cast a glance ten warehouses down to where the truck now kept safe harbor. It was still too early to poke my head in Capone’s storage unit and take a look around. I had to wait until tonight. While it takes a serious pair of stones to bootleg in broad daylight, it wouldn’t be the same for the Singing Sword. Tonight was going to be when everything went down.

  Shoving the spent magic item into my pocket, I darted for the warehouse next to the one with the white truck. Thanks to the enchanted lock picks, I was on the other side of the door in two waves of a magic wand. This warehouse was nothing out of the ordinary. The smell of sawdust hung in the still air. It would have been nice if all the wood stored in this unit brought back the sights and sounds of sleeping in the unmarred groves of my own realm, but instead there was a sharp, sterile scent of cut wood. I chewed a bit more on the stick in my mouth, suckling a bit more of its sap.

  I settled against the door I came in, glanced at my wristwatch, and waited.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hell, Hell, The Gang’s All Here

  So there I sat, my favorite tobacco offsetting this particular warehouse’s sharp lumber smell. Twice, I needed to disappear into the shadows when a wide-shouldered, fedora-wearing silhouette stopped by to make certain the door was locked. No doubt it was Capone’s boys checking to see if any of the neighbors were home.

  As the sun began its descent, the ivory-white panes of frosted glass high above began to yellow. Yellow deepened into red, and the red cooled to indigo, until I was left with only the glow from my bowl illuminating my wristwatch. When even the weed in my pipe was nearing its end, my final drag produced enough amber light for me to glance at the time once more.

  It was just past ten o’clock, and my hourglass of borrowed time had finished pouring.

  When I opened the door a crack and peered outside, the docks were clear in both directions. Capone’s warehouse was dark, save for the windows to the left (the back of it, if you were facing its front doors).

  I stealthily closed in on its nearest side door, keeping an eye on its front to see if any thugs were out taking the night air. As it happened, I’d donned the brown pinstripe this morning, making it easy for me to slip in and out of the shadows unnoticed. (Gotta love that Apprentice’s Luck while it lasts…)

  Just when I reached the warehouse, I saw the door handle turn.

  Had he not been chatting over his shoulder to what sounded like two others still inside, the orc in fine Italian duds would have caught me ducking behind an empty barrel. Closer to the waterfront now, I retrieved a fresh rubenna root from my pants pocket and bit down hard. I couldn’t afford my gag reflex to give me up now.

  That accomplished, I peered through the crack between my hiding place and the warehouse to see what this dink was up to. Hopefully, he would still be stationed outside the door and not casually pointing his piece at my skull.

  As it happened, the goon didn’t hear me breathing because he was breathing pretty heavily himself. His plump fingers fumbled for the final cigarette in his pack, crumpling the empty box and dropping it by his feet. The tiny flame of his match lit his double-chinned profile for a second. From the number of crumpled packs and flattened cigarette butts littering the pavement, it had been a long day for him and his pals, too.

  Pow-pow-pow!

  If the warehouse’s acoustics hadn’t amplified the sudden gunfire into a deafening roar, I’m sure “Fat Man” would have heard me jump. As it was, I doubt he would have noticed me anyway because the shots were soon followed by a thunderous Tommy gun’s reply.

  For a proud member of the big man’s club, Fat Man moved fast. (I didn’t even see him draw his piece.) The door was opened, and only a few seconds passed before two more shots exploded from inside. Then one more. Then, all I heard was silence…well, silence apart from a soft rattling that sounded like someone trying to reload a Tommy gun in the dark.

  I dared to step out from my hiding place, giving myself some elbow room as I got my gear together. From my haversack came my charmed battle-axe. I spun it lightly in my hand, smiling in satisfaction at the light hum it made. Setting it down for a moment, I slipped two smaller throwing knives into the back of my belt. (They would have normally gone into boot sheathes, but as these loafers I was wearing weren’t exactly calf-height, I had to improvise with where to keep these little gems.)

  The windows flashed t
wice, closely followed by the sound of two more gunshots. This time, the Tommy didn’t answer.

  I picked up the battle-axe again, working the rubenna root from one end of my mouth to the other like a toothpick. My stomach was okay for now…provided you didn’t count those damn butterflies that you feel right before the call of your regiment’s ram-horn.

  In his haste to re-enter the building, Fat Man had left the side door open. I gave it a push with the head of my axe and crept inside, keeping low (not too hard for a guy like me) with my choice weapon clasped in both hands.

  Once I found cover in between two stacks of crates, I hazarded a quick glance around the corner. There was the first body—the driver, his white bakery disguise now stained with red. Pretty doubtful it was cherry-pie filling he had accidentally brushed up against. Whoever shot him got close. He didn’t even have his heater out, so chances were good he knew his killer.

  The hush was broken by the sounds of someone rummaging through wooden crates, and it seemed to be coming from somewhere further back in the warehouse. I homed in on the noise, choking up on my weapon as The Babe would when he stepped up to the plate. By the volume of the commotion, I didn’t have to worry too much about being sneaky. Hell, the racket being made not only covered my movements, but also gave me lots of time to take in the carnage left behind by the gunfight.

  Close by the dead deliveryman was a trail of bullet holes extending across several crate towers. Many of them were leaking salt or sugar, but some were leaking a strong-scented clear liquid: gin.

  And there was gunfire in here?

  At least, the dink on the Tommy gun had played it a lot smarter by holding his fire the second time. Perhaps he was planning to flush the shooter out in the open, away from anything remotely flammable. He knew what was in these crates, while his opponent was clueless.

  Not a surprise. As I’d deduced by now that the shooter was blonde, I didn’t expect her to think out this situation completely.