Devil With a Gun

by M. C. Grant

  The reporter touches her ear as a question comes in from her anchor.

  That’s correct, Clive, she says when the captions catch up to her lips again. When we asked about a possible gang connection, Detective Sergeant Frank Fury blanked us with a strict “no comment.”

  The fiery twinkle in her eye tells the viewer that she doesn’t appreciate Frank’s unhelpfulness. She touches her ear again and nods.

  Drugs have not been ruled out either, Clive. In fact, one bystander who didn’t want to go on record has informed me that the building housed at least one illegal meth lab. And as you’ll remember from my award-winning investigative piece last year, crystal methamphetamine is an extremely dangerous drug to produce exactly because of its flammability. This, she indicts the building behind her with a subtle hand gesture, could quite easily be the result of a drug cook gone wrong.

  I switch off the TV. When the on-the-spot news teams aren’t spoon-fed information, they tend to ramble and hope nobody notices. Drug cook gone wrong? Good grief.

  I turn to Bailey. “You nearly ready? I could really use a beer.”

  Thirty-Five

  The taxi picks us up in front of Bailey’s apartment, a short walk from the salon, and takes us to the Dog House. While I look like I’ve gone three rounds with a bruise-knuckled smoke monster, Bailey is practically glowing with a freshly scrubbed face, new haircut, clean underwear, and fresh clothes.

  If this were a fairy tale, it would be called The Princess and the Ugh.

  “You sure know how to make a girl feel good about herself,” I grumble as we push open the doors to the bar.

  A loud cheer erupts as soon as we step inside, shattering my feelings of inadequacy and sweeping them off to a corner. The bar is packed with gorgeous, muscled men with too much alcohol diluting their blood and enough scar tissue to show it isn’t a new experience.

  Before I can speak, two of the wrestlers hoist me on their shoulders and parade me around the tiny bar as if I’ve just bagged the Snitch to win a Quidditch match. Despite a brief flush of embarrassment, I find I enjoy it—especially when I reach the bar and Bill hands me an ice-cold Warthog.

  The men quickly turn their attention to Bailey, and a fresh round of beer is soon flowing as I slide into my usual spot beside the stool reserved for the ghost of Al Capone. I clink glasses with Bill.

  “I take it the boys did alright,” he says.

  “Couldn’t have been better,” I say. “Overturning the car was a nice touch. Brought the cops running.”

  “How about inside? Any trouble?”

  I shrug, unable to be glib. “Any trouble you can walk away from … ”

  “I hear that, but—” Bill’s large forehead furrows. “Dix. I’ve been watching the news. You’re wading in some deep muck here. They’re talking terrorists, gangs, arsenals, drugs?”

  “Would you believe me if I said it’s supposed to be a nice little upbeat story for Father’s Day?”

  Bill’s mouth splits into a wide grin before a rumble erupts from deep in his belly to become a room-filling guffaw. He still has tears running down his cheeks when the door bursts open and Frank shoves inside with a face like he’s been chewing a nest of wasps.

  The crowd quiets slightly as Frank pushes his way through to the bar and sits next to me.

  Bill wipes his eyes and pours Frank a non-alcoholic O’Doul’s.

  “Busy night?” Bill asks.

  Frank nods silently before turning to me. “You been watching the news?”

  “The fire?” I ask.

  “Building has links to your Russian friend, Krasnyi Lebed.”

  “Was he inside?”

  Frank squints as if trying to get a better read on my face. I can’t tell if he’s amused or angry, but I’m leaning toward angry.

  “There’s at least six bodies and signs of a gun battle.”

  “Rival gang?” I ask.

  “Not their style.”

  “Hmmm.” I take a swallow of beer.

  “One witness saw two women fleeing the scene.” Frank glances around at the crowd. “Plus a group of very large and boisterous men.”

  “Hmmm.” I take another swallow.

  “One of the women was described as having red hair and wearing a green trenchcoat.”

  “Hmmm,” I say for the third time and hand my empty bottle to Bill in exchange for a fresh one.

  “Did you go to the gun range today?” Frank asks.

  I shake my head. “Too busy.”

  Frank reaches into his pocket and removes a small bottle of clear liquid and a clean handkerchief. He takes my right hand and turns it palm side up.

  “You mind?” he asks.

  I turn my attention to my fresh beer, not wanting him to see the nervousness in my eyes.

  He sprays the liquid on my palm and waits.

  Nothing happens.

  After a minute, he wipes off the remaining liquid with his handkerchief.

  “OK,” he says. “Now tell me what you were doing there.”

  I turn to look him in the eyes. “First tell me what that was about.”

  “Diphenylamine solution,” he says. “If you fired a gun recently, it would turn blue. I’d hate to think that I’m helping a killer.”

  “You could simply ask.”

  Frank’s lips twitch. “Have you killed anyone today?”

  “No,” I say, relieved that I can be honest. “Not today.”

  The street door opens again, and Roxanne bursts into the bar like Hell’s slobbering hounds are on her tail. She takes one look at me and I understand why Kristy was so frightened. There’s a streak of poison running deep within this one that’s been festering for too long. It’s in her eyes and in her blood.

  My hand tightens around the beer bottle in case I need to defend myself, then she spies her sister. Her face instantly softens and with a squeal of delight, Roxanne runs into Bailey’s arms and squeezes her tight. The affection appears genuine.

  The wrestlers let out another mighty cheer and call for more beer as the reunited sisters weep with joy.

  Frank lifts the O’Doul’s to his lips.

  “This better be good,” he says.

  “This isn’t the place to discuss it,” I tell Frank. “Feel like walking us girls home?”

  “And here I thought you were planning an all-nighter.”

  “Me?” I say as if insulted. “Perish the thought.”

  I slide off my stool and walk over to Bailey and Roxanne.

  “We’ve got an escort home,” I tell them. “Best we take it.”

  Roxanne looks at me with a mixture of both hate and resentment, but it’s fighting with something else: a gnawing need for acceptance.

  “What about me?” she asks.

  Bailey looks at us in confusion, unaware of what’s happened in her absence.

  “You’re welcome too,” I say. “But you need to want to be here. I’m not putting up with any more shit, I’ve already got enough of my own.”

  Roxanne nods. “I want to be here … with Bailey.”

  “Good enough.”

  The wrestlers groan and protest as I leave the sisters to bid their goodnights. While walking away, I notice one of the men slipping a card with his phone number into Bailey’s hand. Bailey blushes slightly when she catches my eye.

  I smile my approval in return. A good strong protector might be exactly what she needs—especially now.

  While the two women extract themselves, I step outside the bar to clear my head. The night is dark and moist. It reminds me of the disinfectant wipe that Pinch pushed into my hand while a gunman’s brain matter slid down the wall.

  Always the professional.

  Frank said there were six bodies inside the building, and I watched Pinch kill one of them in front of my eyes. Yet I don’t feel a t
winge of remorse. True, they weren’t nice men; in fact, at least two of them showed little compunction about trying to kill me. But have I changed so much that a human life can now be placed on a scale? Tip toward evil and your passing doesn’t matter?

  I pinch the skin of my forearm between finger and thumb. It hurts. No armor there, still just flesh.

  The deliberate clunk of a car door makes me lift my head to glance across the street.

  Krasnyi Lebed is standing on the sidewalk beside a chauffeur-driven Rolls Royce. Flanking him on either side are two men with masks of determined evil—gargoyles carved out of granite and humanized by Italian tailors. They are different from the behemoths who guard his office; these men are bred to kill rather than break bones.

  Lebed doesn’t say a word. Just stares. And for once I don’t have a cheeky comeback. I’m honestly too scared.

  The door behind me opens, and Frank exits the Dog House with Bailey and Roxanne in tow.

  I don’t turn around, even though I want to tell them to go back inside and bolt the door.

  The Red Swan offers me the thinnest of smiles as he lifts one of his gloved hands to his throat and slowly drags his index finger across the flesh.

  Frank moves to stand beside me as Lebed slowly climbs back inside his car. He doesn’t even care that Frank sees him. He doesn’t care at all.

  Thirty-Six

  Frank is rooted beside me in silence as the Rolls drives off. After it turns the corner and disappears from sight, he reaches into a pocket and removes a square tin of his favorite cigars.

  Unwrapping two, he snips the ends off with a slim stainless-steel cutter and hands one to me. I slip it between my lips as he flicks open a Zippo lighter and touches flame to tip. He does the same with his own.

  His hand is steady, but a vein throbbing in his forehead tells me that he’s using the ritual to contain a burning rage.

  Bailey and Roxanne watch us smoke, nobody knowing what to say—or feeling too frightened to open their mouth.

  “Let’s walk,” Frank says, indicating the direction of my apartment.

  The four of us walk.

  “Lebed,” says Frank after the first block, “doesn’t make personal appearances. He has people for that.”

  “He wanted me to see his face,” I say.

  “He’s telling you that whatever you did at that building, it’s personal.”

  “No,” I counter. “He’s telling me he’s afraid.”

  “Of?”

  I nod in the direction of the two women walking with linked arms a few steps ahead of us.

  “Of whatever secret their father knows.”

  “And he thinks you’ll expose this secret?”

  “He’s had twenty years to make it go away and failed. So, yeah, he’s scared that I’m closing in.”

  “Are you?” Frank asks.

  I shrug. “I’ll get there.”

  “And will this secret protect you?” He jabs his chin at the women. “And them?”

  I shrug again. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe isn’t good enough, Dix. This son of a bitch threatened you in front of witnesses.” His voice cracks and becomes a growl as gray smoke pours from between his lips. “He threatened you in front of me.”

  “He thinks he’s untouchable,” I say.

  “Well, he better think again.”

  I touch Frank’s arm and give it a light squeeze.

  We walk the rest of the way home in tense silence, but I know Frank isn’t nearly done talking.

  As soon as we enter the lobby, Mr. French’s door swings open. He’s holding an uncorked bottle of champagne and sporting an ear-

  splitting grin.

  “Celebrating something?” I say quickly before he can speak.

  His grin faltering, Mr. French reads my face and glances at Frank.

  “Ah,” he says in understanding. “Yes, well, I just … just bought a rare stamp. The Bangladesh Falcon, in fact. It completes a rather intriguing collection that I’ve been working on for several years. I wanted to share the good news.”

  “That’s marvelous,” I gush too enthusiastically. “Maybe you can show me tomorrow? It’s been a long night.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” agrees Mr. French. “That would be delightful. And,” his eyes twinkle in Bailey’s direction, “welcome back, Miss Brown.”

  As Mr. French beats a retreat into his apartment and closes the door, Frank looks over at me and rolls his eyes.

  “I don’t get it,” he says. “For such an experienced liar, there are times when you just suck at it.”

  “That’s because, deep down, I’m such an honest person.”

  “I know,” he says. “That’s why you need to stop lying to me.”

  “Would never cross my mind.”

  His lips twitch. “See. I nearly believed you that time.”

  In my apartment, Bailey and Roxanne retreat to the bedroom while I open a can of soft food for a sadly neglected Prince and fix a tall rum and ginger on ice for myself. I make the same for Frank, minus the cat food and rum.

  By the time I curl on the couch with my drink, Frank has pulled the Governor out of its case and is running the cleaning snake through its barrel and chambers. The gun is already spotless, but I can tell he finds the task calming.

  “So tell me,” he begins, “why I have six dead bodies in a burning building that you’re seen running out of?”

  “It was hot,” I say. “And you know I can’t stand the heat.”

  Frank stops cleaning the gun and glares at me until I buckle.

  “OK,” I relent and tell him everything. Well, almost everything. I don’t mention Pinch. I can’t. Pinch was there because I asked him to be. He killed those men because that’s what he does, and I knew that going in. I may not have planned for a bloodbath, but I sure as hell was glad to leave that building alive.

  “So let me get this straight,” says Frank. “You used the wrestlers to create a distraction so that you could rescue that woman in there.” He points at the bedroom. “Because somehow you feel responsible for her involvement with the Russian mob.”

  I nod.

  “That doesn’t explain six dead bodies,” he continues.

  “No,” I agree. “But I didn’t kill them, and I have no idea who did.”

  “What about the fire?” Frank asks.

  “Wasn’t me. It started on the floor above where Bailey was being held.”

  “Strange coincidence.”

  “Lebed has a lot of enemies.”

  “And the enemy of my enemy—”

  “Isn’t anyone I know,” I finish. “My plan was crude but simple. Create a noisy diversion to keep the guard busy—he’s the one you found stuffed in the garbage can, by the way—sneak in and grab Bailey while nobody was paying attention, and run like hell.” I point at the gun in Frank’s hand. “That stayed at home.”

  Frank reloads the Governor with a 50/50 split of shotgun shells and .45s before placing it back in its case.

  “Keep this close,” he says, standing up. “I’ll have a patrol car parked outside overnight, but we’re going to need a more permanent solution soon. I suggest you find this man you’re looking for before Lebed does, and use whatever secret he holds to strike a bargain. No story is worth having the Red Swan after your head, because he’s one son of a bitch who always gets his way.”

  “Always?” I ask.

  Frank bristles. “For now.”

  After Frank leaves, I lock the door, slip out of my clothes, and slide the Governor under my pillow on the couch. Once I settle in my makeshift bed, Prince leaps onto my chest and sticks his flat nose against mine to stare deeply into my eyes, as though he can read the jumble of my thoughts and wants to help unravel them.

  I scratch his cheeks and chin; his purr is a balm for my stress and nerves.


  Finally, I close my eyes.

  They’re not shut long before snapping open again with the nagging thought: How did Lebed know he’d find me at the Dog House? He wasn’t parked outside when we arrived.

  I glance toward the closed bedroom door where the two sisters are sleeping.

  Has Roxanne made a deal? I ask myself. My head in exchange for her sister’s?

  The thought weighs on my mind as I reluctantly close my eyes again. Tiredness makes me paranoid. Then again, so does being awake.

  Thirty-Seven

  When the phone rings before the sun makes its appearance, I immediately think of Dixie’s Tips No. 1, and don’t answer it.

  When it rings again, I groan and convince myself that if it’s really important, they’ll call back.

  When it rings for the third time, I pick it up and curse myself for forgetting Dixie’s Tips No. 2—again.

  “Say your name,” says the caller when I place the receiver to my ear.

  “Dixie,” I say. “With two g's, but the second one is silent. What’s yours?”

  “You already know.”

  It’s Pinch. He sounds irritable, which, in the short amount of time I’ve known him, is unusual.

  “You OK?” I ask.

  “I’m golden, but the Red Swan wants your head.”

  “He must know that’s not a smart move,” I say. “He threatened me in front of a cop. If anything happens—”