Devil With a Gun

by M. C. Grant

  “But that was twenty years ago,” I say. “Why are you still hanging around in Lebed’s territory?”

  The Samaritan starts walking again. “I’ve been avoiding him for a long time,” he says, “but a friend asked me to be his eyes.”

  “His eyes?” I ask.

  “Things are changing,” he explains. “My friend can’t stay in the shadows any longer, but he needed me to look out for … ” He hesitates. “That’s why I was outside the tea house when that Russian pig attacked you. I thought that maybe—”

  “Maybe I was someone else,” I finish.

  He nods sheepishly.

  “Who?” I ask, already sensing the answer.

  “His daughter,” says the Samaritan. “My friend’s daughter.”

  “Joseph Brown’s daughter,” I say. “Bailey Brown.”

  The Samaritan nods. “She was never supposed to come back here, to get involved again. Now everything is changing.”

  “For better or worse?” I ask.

  “That remains to be seen.”

  We continue to walk, sticking to the shadows and alleys, scaring the occasional rat and suspicious cat. My Samaritan knows most of the disheveled castaways and junkies who are rising to scrounge breakfast from a bottle, needle, or street kitchen, and he nods to them as we pass.

  “How long have you been living on the streets?” I ask.

  “I don’t.” He smiles. “These are my work clothes. After Lebed’s men butchered my hands, I went a little crazy. Booze, pills … lots and lots of pills. Thought about joining the thousands who’ve swan dived off the Golden Gate, but I was saved by a smile.”

  “A smile?” I ask.

  “She’s a redhead, like you, sent from heaven itself. She convinced me I still had value, and we started a street mission together. Then her father died and we used the inheritance to buy a piece of land outside the city. We’re building a community there for those who don’t have a community. Families who’ve fallen on hard times, you know? You’d be shocked how many car windows I knock on to find a family inside with nowhere else to live. This whole country is built on a foundation of broken promises, and we’ve forgotten that we’ll be judged not on how we treat our wealthiest citizens but on how we treat our poorest.”

  “And Joe Brown is with you?” I ask.

  “I call him Radar.” My Samaritan chuckles. “You know, from that TV show M*A*S*H? If you need something, anything, Radar will find it. I don’t know how he does it.” He winks. “And I don’t pry too closely either. Some things are best kept a mystery.”

  “But your mission is religious?” I ask.

  “There but for the grace of God,” says my Samaritan.

  “And yet you killed that man last night.”

  He stops walking and turns to meet my gaze. “I did kill him,” he says matter-of-factly. “I didn’t know I was still holding onto that much anger, but when his throat was in my hands, not even the devil could have pried my fingers loose.” He breaks off eye contact. “Obviously that’s a metaphor; I haven’t had actual fingers for a very long time.”

  “And what about Joe?” I ask. “Why did he leave his daughters at the mercy of Lebed?”

  He starts walking again. “You’ll need to ask him.”

  “I’d like to. So would his daughters. They’re both safe by the way, no thanks to him. Can you arrange a meeting?”

  “He’s coming to town.”

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Will he meet with us?”

  My Samaritan points to the mouth of an alley where a stand of cabs is lined up waiting for passengers.

  “We’ll be in touch,” he says.

  “You better be,” I snap back. “It’s time everyone got some answers.”

  Thirty-Nine

  Before climbing into the taxi, I try to calculate if I have enough time to rush back to the apartment and let Bailey and Roxanne know their father is definitely alive before my eleven o’clock meeting at the office.

  It would be the generous thing to do, but my grumbling stomach argues that if I head toward the office now, I’ll still have time to get something to eat before the meeting starts.

  Bailey and Roxanne have waited twenty years for this news, my coffee-deprived brain argues, what’s another two hours? Selfishness, mental fatigue, and caffeine-withdrawal win.

  The taxi drops me at Mario’s Deli, where my nose and salivary glands lead me inside.

  Mario beams when he sees me. “Dixie, you so skinny and pale. I have a wonderful breakfast special this morning to put color back in your cheeks: local sage sausage, organic egg, and melted Gruyère with just a dab of my special spicy ketchup. I serve it on a fresh, butter-kissed bun kneaded and baked with my own hands.”

  “Does it come with coffee?” I ask.

  Mario beams wider. “Take a seat.”

  Eddie, on the other hand, doesn’t appear quite as thrilled.

  “You want me to sit elsewhere?” I ask.

  The Wolf glances once at the partially open door behind him and the looming shadow contained within before shrugging and indicating that I’m welcome.

  As soon as I slide into the booth, Mario brings over a large mug of piping hot coffee with a small container of cream on the side, just the way I like it. I savor the aroma for a moment before adding a splash of cream and taking a large swallow. Every nerve ending in my body sighs with relief. Is this how Roxanne feels when she shoots up? I wonder.

  “Rough night?” Eddie asks.

  “What have you heard?” I ask back.

  “Enough that I wasn’t expecting to see your face again.”

  “Ever?”

  “Red Swan is pissed.”

  “Then he shouldn’t kidnap my friends,” I snap.

  Eddie’s lips twitch. “I woulda placed odds that there was no way you were getting that gal out of there alive. Where’d you get the firepower?”

  I shrug. “That was coincidence.”

  “Coincidence?” Eddie actually laughs. “Man, you have a set of balls on you that makes me feel like a eunuch.”

  Mario delivers my breakfast sandwich with a side of seasoned chunky hashbrowns and a fresh top-up of coffee.

  “She a growing girl,” he says to Eddie.

  “Yeah,” Eddie snorts. “Her ball sack gets any bigger and she won’t be able to fit through the goddamn door. I’m surprised she’s not wearing clown pants.”

  I take a bite of my sandwich and almost collapse into a puddle of writhing ecstasy. “Mario,” I say in all seriousness despite the golden egg yolk running down my chin, “will you marry me?”

  Mario winks at Eddie. “Three’s a crowd, Dix, but I’ll consider it.” He laughs as he returns behind the counter.

  I take another bite. It’s just as good as the first, which makes me think polyandry might not be so bad.

  “So are we still cool?” I ask Eddie.

  “For now. Lebed is taking this personal, but he hasn’t issued a contract on you yet. At least not that I’ve heard.”

  “A contract?” I sputter, spraying food. “Seriously?”

  Eddie shrugs. “That’s how these things are done. But you’ve got certain friends that Lebed doesn’t want to rile up. Still, I’d be careful crossing the street—accidents do happen.”

  “You running a book on me?” I ask.

  Eddie nearly grins. “You’re not that famous, Dix. Nobody really cares.”

  “Flatterer.” I take another bite of sandwich.

  “It is what it is,” says Eddie.

  Walking into the NOW newsroom, people turn and stare, which makes me wonder if I’ve forgotten to wipe the yolk and sausage grease off my chin. I make a sharp right and duck into the morgue.

  “Hey, sweetie,” says Lulu as I enter. “You get those blueprints I left for
you last night?”

  “I did, thanks, came in handy.” I swivel the desk mirror on Lulu’s desk toward me and study my face. All clean.

  “Problem?” Lulu asks. “You try to pluck your eyebrows with pliers again?”

  I jab my thumb over my shoulder in the direction of the newsroom. “Everyone was looking at me.”

  Lulu smiles.

  “Oh, honey. You work the strangest hours of anyone here. Some of those young folk probably think you’re a myth. Plus this new publisher has started cracking the whip in some weird ways.” She stands up to lean over the counter and look me up and down. “On the other hand, you didn’t hear about the new dress code, did you?”

  I shake my head.

  “Issued this week,” she explains, “along with a ban on chewing gum in the office and smoking in public view where it might reflect badly on the paper. The memos will be in your mail slot.”

  I look down at myself. “Am I not dressed OK?”

  Lulu sighs. “Jeans are banned.”

  “Seriously?”

  “He wants everyone looking more professional.”

  “Do we get a wardrobe allowance?”

  “Nope. Dress better; same pay. That’s why everyone was staring.”

  “’Cause I know how to rock a pair of jeans?”

  “Because you’re breaking the rules.”

  “Crap.”

  “Crap indeed, sweetie. Crap indeed.”

  When I re-enter the newsroom, everyone is making his or her way to the editorial boardroom. I join the end of the line. Mary Jane Clooney—dressed in her usual look-at-me-I-have-boobs, far-too-young-for-her-age sluttire—spots me and flashes a bright smile. The twinkle in her eye is the same as that reflected in a Roman general’s when a Christian is fed to the lions.

  I shuffle to stand at the back of the boardroom as Stoogan makes a few introductory words before passing the floor over to Kenji Kobayashi, our publisher. Oddly, I find that if I passed him in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, I wouldn’t have actually recognized him.

  Publishers by nature rarely descend to their newsrooms. It’s the editors’ job to organize the daily rabble, miscreants, and talent pool, reporting to the inner sanctum only when summoned. I also hear that since Ken took over, editors need to remove their shoes before entering his office. This rumor, mostly perpetuated by me, has yet to be proven.

  But so long as they don’t mess with the copy, I rarely pay much attention to that side of the newspaper game. Unfortunately, the layers of protection between a reporter and his or her publisher have been crumbling at the same rate as the economy. And when the curtain is finally pulled back, they always appear so much smaller in person.

  The publisher opens his mouth, and the heart of every journalist breaks just a little more. Each word is about finance, cutbacks, economic woes, percentages of ads versus editorial space, doing more with less, rising insurance costs, elimination of profit sharing … blah, blah, depressing blah … until he tries to rally the troops at the end by telling them the new dress code will boost spirits by showing the city that we’re professional and committed and …

  I stop listening as my bullshit meter gets clogged by too much effluent.

  At the end of the speech, I attempt to be one of the first to escape the room but am stopped in my tracks by Stoogan calling my name. And despite my burning desire to flee, he’s still the best boss I’ve ever had; if I’m loyal to anyone, it’s to him.

  With a brave smile, I turn and push through the departing crowd to the front of the room. The closer I get, the more likely it appears that Stoogan is planning to introduce me to the publisher. And by the look on Mr. Kobayashi’s face, it also appears likely that he’s disappointed in my choice of clothing, which admittedly does smell a bit like damp smoke, burnt flesh, and fermented garbage—but just a bit.

  “Dixie,” says Stoogan as I finally break through the final line of cowardly, departing souls. “I don’t believe you’ve actually met our new publisher, Kenji Kobayashi, before.”

  I hold out my hand. “Haven’t had the pleasure.”

  The man studies my hand for a second, making me wait before reaching out and giving it a light squeeze. If he uses that hand to masturbate, it’s no wonder he looks so grumpy.

  “Dixie is working diligently on our cover feature for this week,” explains Stoogan.

  “The Father’s Day piece?” Kobayashi asks.

  I nod. “It’s turning into quite the story.”

  “Uplifting?” he asks.

  “Definitely. Father missing for twenty years. Tearful reunion with two daughters, which should happen tonight. The works.”

  He looks me up and down. “You didn’t get the memo about the new dress code?”

  I don’t spit in his eye, which, I think, is very mature. “Just heard about it.”

  “Why is that?” he asks.

  “Dixie doesn’t keep regular office hours,” Stoogan interrupts.

  “Why not?”

  “She’s a roving reporter,” Stoogan adds. “We find it works better for everyone when she’s on the street. She brings us the stories that everyone talks about.”

  “I find lack of regular hours makes people lazy,” says Kobayashi.

  “I disagree,” says Stoogan before I can open my mouth. “The best stories don’t fall into our laps. We need to go out and find them.”

  “That sounds messy,” says Kobayashi.

  “It can be,” I say before Stoogan cuts me off with a stern look.

  “And that’s why it’s not for everyone,” he adds in a firmer tone. “I run a diverse newsroom to make sure we cover all our bases. Sometimes Dixie is our scout and at other times a pinch hitter. Our award nominations year in and year out attest to that.”

  Kobayashi scans me from toes to hairline, and I think I notice his nose twitch—and not in a cute Bewitched way. “Read the memo,” he says, and then leaves the room.

  “What a prick,” I say when he’s out of earshot.

  Stoogan winces and shakes his head. To change the subject, he asks, “What’s that smell?”

  “Not you, I hope. You were great. Very forceful.”

  “I’m serious,” he says and sniffs the air. “Is it you?”

  “I was in a burned-out building this morning.”

  “The one we’re reporting on?”

  “Probably.”

  “The one that none of my reporters can get inside of to find out what the hell happened?”

  “Likely.”

  Stoogan nods. “Underwood, the rookie, thought he spotted you this morning and phoned it in. He wanted to know how you gained access.”

  “I hope you told him I stole the secret to invisibility by sleeping with Criss Angel in Vegas.”

  “Since he actually saw you, I don’t think he would have bought that.”

  “Nice fantasy, though.”

  Stoogan rolls his eyes. “Help him flesh out the story with what you know before you leave. Let the publisher see you’re a team player.”

  “But I’m not,” I say.

  “Pretend.”

  Forty

  Standing on the sidewalk in front of NOW, I wish I had one of Frank’s cigars. The thoughts running around in my brain are chaotic and unfocused, like bees that have broken formation and lost their way. A smoky distraction is needed to settle everything down, but I may need something a little stronger than tobacco.

  I sense the car approaching and look up, expecting it to be the taxi I ordered.

  It isn’t.

  The vintage Cadillac is all nose and sharp angles with tinted windows and a custom-lacquered matte blackness that seems to repel light. A voice in my head tells me to run, but my stubborn feet refuse to obey.

  The Cadillac crawls closer and the rear window rolls down to expose one of the t
wo men that I saw standing beside Lebed outside the Dog House last night. His face is a slab of chiseled stone, flat and gray, and his dark eyes repel the light as effectively as the car.

  Prickly sweat breaks out along my hairline and my feet grow roots, but another part of my brain, the storyteller, wonders what kind of pain is needed to so effectively extinguish the light in someone’s eyes.

  The killer lifts a black-gloved hand, cocks his thumb, and points the barrel of his index finger at me. As a kid, I loved this game; as an adult, it nearly makes me piss myself.

  I lock eyes in defiance and decide the only thing I can do is exactly what I would have done when I was six. I lift both hands and cock my own thumbs. Double trouble.

  A gunshot cracks, splintering the air and stopping my heart.

  But I’m not the victim.

  The killer in the car howls as his severed finger spurts blood like a broken hose. Before he retreats from the window, I see a flicker of light return to his eyes—it’s dark blue and pulsing with ice-cold hatred.

  The Cadillac accelerates and vanishes.

  I uncock my thumbs and look around. On a nearby rooftop, a dark shadow rises from a prone position. It’s not a tall shadow, and he nods at me before swinging a rifle over his shoulder and retreating from sight.

  If you’re going to have a guardian angel, I tell myself, it helps if he’s a damn good shot.

  When my feet decide to start moving again, I cross to the middle of the road and nudge my toe at a small, black tube laying in a fresh splash of blood. The tube’s outer casing is stitched calf hide, while its interior is oozing human flesh and bone—the killer’s pretend barrel, his trigger finger.

  So much for the Red Swan sending a message; Pinch’s reply is easier to read: Fuck you!

  The blare of a car horn brings me back to the present. It’s my taxi.

  I kick the gloved finger into the gutter and climb into the cab. I don’t begin to shake until after we turn the corner.

  King William of Orange winks at me from his usual perch on Mrs. Pennell’s window ledge as I climb out of the cab. His furry face makes me long to curl up on the couch and cuddle my Prince, to shut off my brain for a while and give my body time to recover from the shock.