“Bull—”
“Look at me.” Lickter threw out his arms. “I’m a middle-age hired gun. Slow, soft around the middle. The only reason I’m still alive is that I’ve accepted my role, and I play the game better than the rest. I’m a winner,” he paused to emphasize each of his next words, “just like you.”
Starr stood, pushing into Lickter’s face. “So what exactly is your game, Sheriff?”
He didn’t bat an eye. “I’m the gloves. I handle things. Things like Oleg.” Starr felt a poke in his stomach. “Things like you.” He looked down to see Lickter’s .38 stuck in his gut before the sheriff slowly put it away. Starr sat down, wincing when his wounded cheek contacted the stool. “The first thing you need to learn is that no one holds all the cards. Not me, not Ms. Lloyd, certainly not Oleg. You just need to know as many of them as possible and predict their order.”
Starr stopped him. “Tell me one thing, and I’ll keep listening. Or don’t, and I’m going to bed.” Lickter nodded. “What’s Oleg’s card? What is it that he’s holding that Ms. Lloyd wants so badly?”
“Now that’s a good question.” Lickter pulled the map from his pocket and spread it over the bar.
TWELVE
Starr, James Starr
Starr awoke in the morning to the rap of a delivery boy at his front door. By the time he opened it, a reminder of his new life dangled from the knob—a tailored mourning suit with pinstripe pants from the most auspicious shop in town. After inhaling an unsweetened bowl of oatmeal and sponging off with the remaining lukewarm water left on the stove, he tried on the suit. It fit better than the one he’d ruined the night before. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, the truth of Lickter’s speech at the bar churned the oatmeal in his gut.
He had come to Austin and run for office to make a difference. Now the finery of representative had been whittled away to that of a tawdry pawn. He kept coming back to what Lickter had said about being a winner. Unapologetically, Starr wanted to win. He’d been a winner in the arena. He’d be a winner now. Besides, the only other option was allowing Oleg to threaten, terrorize and kill. If winning the governorship happened to be the result of doing what had to be done, then all the better.
G.W. Lloyd was conniving, dangerous and powerful. But Lickter was right. She was offering him everything he wanted. Sure, he’d been set up, but the only way out now was forward. He’d have to be smarter. Win the girl, win the people and win the office. He was no longer a rube from the country, the child of tenant farmers. He’d be the next governor of Texas, the youngest the state had ever known.
He reloaded the .38 Ms. Lloyd had given him and spun the cylinder before slipping it into the shoulder harness. For a fading second Starr thought of his younger brother in the trenches. Instead of facing an enemy of sweaty men face-down in the mud, he’d be rubbing elbows with wealthy industrialists intent on a different kind of warfare.
Lickter had explained G.W.’s plot to bring Oleg and his machines of war out into the open by hosting an exclusive auction attended by the Southwest’s wealthiest investors. He’d given him instructions to keep an eye on both Oleg and Daisy. Starr relished the opportunity to look Oleg in the eye using his new found perspective. If he was going to win, he needed to read the man. Forget the bread crumbs Lickter and G.W. were dropping. Why was a Ukrainian refugee really sparking anarchy in Austin, TX?
Their breakfast together had painted Oleg as less of a vapid idealist and more as a man with a bone to pick. So what did he have to gain from an auction? Money didn’t seem a likely answer. A desire to instigate violence via propagating machines of war seemed too vague for a man so otherwise calculating. No one was giving him the whole story, so he’d have to read between the lines. He dropped his bowl into the basin and turned down the sheets on his bed, hoping the mundane movements would jar his thoughts.
If Ms. Lloyd wanted the technology, then what did Oleg want? His roving mind returned to the chaos of the gala. Oleg had approached them with purpose. How could he have missed it? The show had been staged with G.W. Lloyd as the intended audience. So whatever existed between Ms. Lloyd and Oleg was mutual. She wanted to ruin him. He wanted to ruin her. But why? And why were they being so indirect? I’m the gloves. Starr recalled another bit of his conversation with Lickter.
They each had something over the other, Starr was sure of it. Of course Yuri Medved and G.W. Lloyd both had something to hide while Oleg Rodchenko and Gwendolyn Winifryd were threatening to reveal the secrets. But he still couldn’t figure what Oleg had to gain from any of it.
He shook out the shoulders of his new suit, swelled his chest and drank in the power that came with responsibility. Already, he craved it more than he ever had spirits. He ran the back of his hand across his cheeks, feeling the stubble from yesterday. He thought the day-old growth spoke of a man with grit. Let the sheriff continue to handle things. Gloves had never really been his style. Starr had exchanged his chaps and spurs for a three-piece suit, but he could still take the bull by the horns.
~~~
On his way to pick up Daisy, Starr stopped by the stables to feed Willy a can of molasses oats as an apology for his second consecutive day of tardiness. News of the burned bodies on the capitol lawn had spread throughout the city, creating even more tension between the locals and the striking farmers, who were seen as the source of the problem.
The owner and operator of the livery seized Starr to grill him about the event. Starr joked that if he told him he’d have to kill him before assuring the man he’d pass along any news. The look in the livery owner’s eyes told Starr the horses would be unattended by afternoon if tensions got any worse. Maybe getting out of town was the right idea. If he’d had family in the area, he would have instructed them to do just that.
When Starr finally opened the stall gate, Willy shied away from him. “Whoa, boy. It’s still me.” He shook the can of grain. “Nice duds though, huh?” The horse stamped and snuffed at the can. “Yeah, it’s the good stuff. Here.” He dumped the grain into the wooden feeder built into the stall.
“I can’t stay long this morning—” Willy snorted as he chomped at the grain. “Fine, it’s almost noon.” Starr stroked his neck. “It’s not like I’ve been sleeping in.” Willy snapped at him before bobbing his head several times and butting Starr in the stomach.
“Hey, take it easy. I’m doing what I think is right. It’s not easy for me either.” Willy bore his teeth and released a whistling fart. “Let’s not say things we can’t take back later.” With a final toss of his mane, Willy buried his nose in the grain. “The suit and gun don’t mean I’m not still Jim Starr.” But as he spoke the words he realized he wasn’t sure at this juncture in life who Jim Starr was.
“Hey, I have a feeling I’ll need you before the day’s through, so don’t wear yourself out with that filly.” Willy tossed his head, shoving Starr backward. “What? I’ve seen you two trotting around the yard. I’m just saying.” He scratched between the horse’s ears. “Save a little just in case.”
~~~
Thirty minutes later Starr arrived at the Grandview ballroom with Miss Lickter on his arm, this time in a golden gown. The hemline came to a pinnacle in the front at her knees before tapering to cover her calves in back. The neckline mirrored the same pattern, plunging between her breasts and rising behind her shoulders before forming a narrow collar around her neck. The cut and style lent her a refined and delicate look while the color, nearly blending with the ocher hue of her skin, aroused a carnal yearning in him.
Her dazzling looks combined with her perfume meant he would have the opportunity to observe the room while people’s attention hovered around his date. And she knew it.
“Name?”
The couple stopped at the welcoming table. “Senator Starr, James Starr, and Miss Daisy Lickter.”
“Ah.” The attendant ran his finger along a separate list, much shorter than the main list of guests. “Special guests of G.W. Lloyd. Welcome. You can skip the next table
seeing how you won’t be participating in the auction.” Starr followed the man’s gesturing arm past several guards accepting large amounts of money in exchange for bidding fans. “But all guests are required to submit to a security check.” He allowed his eyes to flutter up and down Daisy. “I do apologize for any inconvenience.” He leaned forward now speaking at a whisper. “But after last night’s, ahem, unpleasantries.” He lifted a brow and ended there as if that explained everything.
Starr frowned. Unpleasantries? What the hell? But before he could speak Daisy intervened. “Of course. Thank you so much.”
He rolled his eyes and moved slowly toward two of Lickter’s men who where busy patting down the guests immediately in front them. Then he remembered the shoulder harness. But I’m part of the security. He scanned the entryway for options, coming up empty. Finally he and Daisy reached the front of the line.
For a moment it seemed there might be a fight over which guard searched Daisy and which got stuck with him, until Starr realized they recognized her as the sheriff’s daughter. The guard nearest her tipped his hat, took one roving look and smiled. Clearly her clothing harbored only her dangerous figure. “Your handbag, miss?”
“Of course.” She handed it over.
Meanwhile the other guard patted down Starr, starting with his pants before working upward. Just as he found the .38, Starr located Ms. Lloyd floating quickly across the ballroom. The guard placed a hand on his own weapon while maintaining a level voice. “Sir, step aside.”
Starr held his hands out. “Now hold on.”
“Final warning, mister.” The guard drew his weapon, keeping the barrel pointed at the floor.
Ms. Lloyd reached the entrance. “Deputy Walker.” He nodded without removing his eyes from Starr. She placed her hand on his shoulder and spoke softly. “This man is with security. Let him through.”
“Very well.” He nodded at Daisy and then Starr. “Enjoy the auction.”
Starr exhaled, thanking Ms. Lloyd with his eyes. As he eased past the guard the man leaned over and muttered, “Good luck, son.” The moniker disappointed Starr. Even with a day’s growth, men barely a few years his elder insisted on the diminutive label. He supposed he’d always be Texas’ son.
THIRTEEN
A Streetcar Named Retribution
Lickter dismissed the last of his men to watch the entrances of the building for Oleg or anyone looking like a student. He needed a couple hours to attend to the more delicate aspects of the operation. With Starr protecting Daisy, the sheriff turned his attention toward the basement.
He locked the metal door behind him before descending the stairs. Up until now everything had been above the boards, if not above ground. Turning on the press left primed by Ms. Lloyd, he started printing thousands of Pride of Texas National Bank notes in the denomination of 100—illegal notes not backed with U.S. Bonds.
It bothered him a little. Pressing a finger into a man’s bullet wound was only a means of expediting justice. But counterfeiting seemed a stretch, even for him. No time to grow a conscience, he shook it off. Why should he care which crooked bastard controlled the government? At least this one had nice legs and an appetite for aging lawmen. He had to admit, his distaste for Gwendolyn and this job were at all time highs. With any luck the events of the next several hours would erase all connection to him.
Convinced the press didn’t need his attention, he turned to the issue that had nagged him since the evening before. Through a narrow hall mirroring the hall leading to the vault on the opposite side of the basement, he reached Ms. Lloyd’s private elevator. The shaft represented the second and last means in and out of the building’s securest area, which he now knew to be much less secure than he’d thought the day before.
Who the hell wittingly connects a shaft leading to the most sensitive parts of a building to a mysterious underground maze? But he knew the answer, and it didn’t surprise him or even interest him. What did interest him was seeing the tunnels for himself. He felt certain whatever Oleg had in mind involved them. Sticking the key into the slot, he tried to turn it left with no luck. Turning it right activated the familiar hum of the motor.
While waiting for the lift to reach the basement, he stared at the steady gas lights lining the hall. The glow reminded him of the human torches from the night before. The connection unsettled him until the arriving lift broke his trance. Once inside the closet he inserted the key again, this time turning it left easily. Swiftly the door shut, and the container descended to an additional depth not denoted by any schematic.
Several seconds later the elevator struck bottom. He took a deep breath as the doors slid open. The lighting from the lift had seemed bright the moment before. Now its illumination, failing to stretch more than a few yards into the gaping tunnel, felt anemic.
Awash in stale, damp air and facing an endless shaft brimming with blackness, he removed the key and stepped from the lift. A dust-covered gas lantern hung immediately on his right. The doors slid shut before he could prime and light it, momentarily sinking him into the faceless dark, defenseless against the secrets it contained.
Finally he held the lit lantern above his head, returning floor and walls. Several feet ahead of him the construction transitioned from cement to masoned stone. With one hand on his holster, he ventured into the original passage way.
After a few minutes he’d reached several junctions, marking his path each time with a stick of chalk. Without a specific destination in mind his only intention had been to gain a feel for the layout, but he soon lost himself in the mystery. He found the base of a moonlight tower, just as Starr had described—found the same bull’s head engraving. But by the light of his lamp he noticed something else. Near the ceiling, above the bull, an all-seeing eye glared back at him. It took him two seconds to remember seeing the same eye on the map.
Before he could inspect it more closely, a faint rustling alerted him—possibly nearby, or maybe an echo of a larger noise city blocks away. Chalking the base of the tower at head height, he crept back the way he’d come. He reckoned the tower to be the one at Fourth and Walnut, but due to the twists and turns he couldn’t be sure.
Silently he cursed himself for wandering so far afield from the Grandview just to satisfy his curiosity. Hurrying as quickly as stealth allowed, he retraced his path. Soon he paused at a four way junction, searching the walls for his chalk mark. It wasn’t there. He knew he’d left one, just like all the others. He froze, two realizations competing for his attention. One, he was lost. Two, he wasn’t alone.
Instinctively he extinguished the lantern and dissolved into an ocean of darkness—everything gone. But within seconds he noticed things from which his sight had blinded him. A subtle breeze brushed across his face from right to left. The sound of dripping water echoed. And he smelled rust—the odor of cast iron pipe left buried underground. The echo revealed a cavern larger than the tunnel, as did the movement of the air. That meant the passageway to his right had not been the one he’d taken to get here.
But the uneasy feeling from staring at the gas lights revisited him. If a large room existed here, he needed to know about it. Marking the intersection, this time near the floor, he opted for the right passage. Moving forward by touch, he indeed found a space where walls fell away into a great chasm. Overwhelmed by the space and impatient to get back to the Grandview, he relit the lantern.
Turning up the gas, the orb of light stretched further until bouncing off distant walls and a high ceiling, reinforced with great wooden beams. The whisper of the lantern drowned out the dripping water, and for the first time he noticed iron rails buried in the stone floor. His neck bristled. He followed the rails toward an opening in the long side of the room, his urge for discovery overwhelming his paranoid feeling of being watched.
As he reached the darkened tunnel, he drew his .38 and placed the lantern on the floor just inside the opening. The light revealed the tunnel to be three tracks wide. Gathering a deep breath, he darted across the tu
nnel and against the far wall. There in the shadows, an abandoned streetcar glinted in the whispering light. Behind it, countless others. A subway?
Crouched, Lickter crept toward the front car and boarded it. Dust had settled over every surface, damp and heavy with ancient grease. As he shuffled forward he flashed a quick glance toward the tunnel’s mouth where he’d left the lantern, then down at his feet. His tracks were the only ones.
Overall, the car reminded him of its cousins cruising the busy streets of Austin above ground. But gradually he noted several differences. Most glaringly, there were no windows save in the front and back. Every surface glinted with thick, armor plating. Lastly, he couldn’t recall anything on the tunnel ceilings to provide electricity.
He had stepped off the rear of the car to confirm his hunch, when his lantern went out. Pistol drawn, he spun into the opening between car and tunnel wall. In a blinding flash the narrow space sizzled with brilliant white lights, followed by a deafening roar. Like molten yellow jackets, stings struck his chest and arms, sending him flailing against the side of the car. Scurrying underneath it on his belly, he wedged himself behind its wheels while digging furiously at the fire melting its way into his flesh.
Again and again the tunnel exploded with sound and fury as fizzing pellets buried into rock and ricocheted off armor plating. More angry than injured, he rolled out the other side and bolted blindly for the front of the car, his eyes still speckled with yellow flares. By the time he got there the tunnel had gone quiet, save the ringing in his ears. Nearly blind and deaf, he needed his opponent to tip his hand in a sensational manner.
Peeking around the front bumper, he scuffed the ground with his boot. Again the pitch black of the tunnel flared with chemical light and the burn of gunpowder. As the shot pinged harmlessly off the armored streetcar, Lickter popped off three quick rounds toward their source, adding to the cacophony bouncing around the confined space.
The Austin Job Page 10
