Hard Magic gc-1

by Larry Correia

  "Mr. Torrio says he knew three Sullivans in the Volunteers," the one with the shotgun said. "Which one is you?"

  "Well, I ain't the dead one. So I guess I'm the pretty one," Sullivan answered. The goon pumped a round into the shotgun's chamber for emphasis. "Jake… Sergeant Jake Sullivan. The one that saved Lenny's sorry ass at Second Somme."

  The goombas exchanged glances, and finally the weapons were lowered. "You's good. That's what he said you'd say. Mr. Torrio will see you now." He put one arm over Jake's shoulder and steered him into a long brick hallway. The door slammed behind.

  "Welcome to the Grid Iron."

  The club was about the ritziest thing Sullivan had seen. The exterior was a crumbling warehouse, but the inside was a palace. The brick walls had been covered in blue and white curtains, and an actual chandelier had been hung from the rafters. There had to be fifty folks on the dance floor, and double that sitting along the bar, drinking themselves stupid on quality Canadian booze. The front of the space was filled with round tables and diners. The smell of fine cooking made Sullivan's stomach rumble. The waiters were even wearing tuxes.

  The back of the warehouse had a stage, and the music was both loud and good. A sparkling bridge spanned the stage over the band, darn near big enough to be an orchestra, and a long-legged dame was crooning a tune. She had great pipes.

  One goon had remained at the door, and the other led Sullivan along the wall and up a flight of metal stairs. A balcony circled the room, and once at the top, they entered the private lounge, consisting of some leather couches overlooking Lenny Torrio's kingdom. There were tables in darkness along the back, and Sullivan could make out a few shapes behind the glow of cigarettes. He had entered the inner sanctum.

  There were two more muscle types camped at the top of the stairs. Jake saved them the trouble of the pat-down and handed over his spare gun. It was a beater Smith amp; Wesson Military amp; Police.38, but he couldn't afford to replace his precious.45. "I'm gonna want that back," Jake stated as the guard carried the revolver away.

  Lenny Torrio was sprawled between two chippies in slinky gowns. He was wearing a red silk robe over his clothes. "Sarge! How you been?" he shouted in greeting. He snapped his fingers and the girls jumped up to leave. "Get outta here. Can't you see I've got business to conduct?" He smacked one on the rump as they hurried away. "Have a seat. Have a seat!"

  Sullivan settled his mass onto the couch across from Lenny. Physically, Lenny Torrio hadn't changed much. He was still a skinny, bug-eyed, hyperactive type. The con was going bald now, but he'd slicked what was left over to one side in a failing attempt to hide it. "Hey, Lenny. Been a long time."

  "Sure has. You want a drink?" He didn't wait for an answer, but clapped his hands. "Yo. Amish, get my boy a drink! What're you waiting for?" Lenny turned back to Sullivan and frantically rubbed his nose. "Help these days… What can you do?"

  Sullivan just nodded. "Nice robe… you supposed to be Rudolph Valentino?"

  Lenny cackled, way too hard, slapping his knee. "You were always a crack-up, Sarge. Mr. Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Funny, huh? That I'm on top of the world, and last I heard you were a slave to the feds." A pair of glasses and a bottle were placed on the table between them by a cross-eyed man, who quickly hurried away. "How's that treating you?"

  "Pays the bills."

  "Good thing I'm a legitimate businessman." Lenny poured them both a drink. "And Rockville? Is it as tough as everybody says?"

  "Worse." Sullivan took the whiskey, pounded it down in one gulp, and set the glass back on the table. It burned going down. He'd never liked Torrio. The man was slime, always had been, always would be, and the only reason he'd been in the First was because a Brooklyn judge had given him the choice between serving his country or serving hard time, and for somebody like Torrio, that meant Rockville Special Prisoners' Wing.

  "So… you talk to Matthew lately?"

  So that was why his door goons had asked him which Sullivan he had been. Torrio had always been scared of Jake's big brother, and for good reason. He had been the meanest bastard in the First, after all. Sullivan shook his head. "You don't want to go there. I ain't my brother's keeper." He changed the subject. "Thanks for talking to me."

  "What? Just because you'd sell your own kind out to the government, I'm not supposed to entertain an old friend?"

  Sullivan let the dig flow off him like water off a duck's back. He didn't rile easy. "My own kind? You mean crooks or Actives?"

  Torrio shrugged. "Both. I heard why you went upriver, so in your case it's the same thing. Guys like us are better than everybody else, so you got made an example. You should know that better than anybody, Sarge. We should be running this show, not them. Normals just keep us down. Times are gonna change though, I tell you that."

  Sullivan nodded like Lenny was just full of wisdom. He was full of something, but it sure as hell wasn't wisdom. He scanned the room. The men at the tables weren't clearly visible, but they were far enough not to eavesdrop over the music. The one named Amish was standing with arms folded about ten feet away. "I need some information…" Sullivan paused, frowning, as he sensed the intrusion. "And tell your boy to get out of my head before I open his."

  Lenny was surprised that his man had been caught, but he played it like he was offended. He turned toward the cross-eyed man. "Amish! Are you trying to Read my guest?"

  "Sorry, boss," the man replied sheepishly.

  "Beat it, retard!" Torrio threw his glass at the goon, missed, and it shattered on the far wall. The goon scurried away. "Sorry about that. You know how it is."

  "Yeah. I know how it is." He decided to get right to the point. "I heard Delilah was coming to do a job for you."

  "Who's asking? You? Or J. Edgar Hoover?"

  "Just me."

  Torrio shook his head. "I got no idea what you're talking about."

  Sullivan leaned back on the couch. Let the games begin. "I can't afford to pay for information, Lenny. I don't give a damn about the government, and they don't know I'm here. I got lied to about Delilah, and I want to know why."

  "I make my living by knowing what's going on, Sarge. That'd be like me asking you to… I don't know… lift something heavy for free."

  "I saved your life."

  Torrio snorted. "Are you kidding? You didn't go out of your way for just little old me. You saved everybody you could. I just happened to be one of them."

  "You did happen to be one of them," Sullivan said. "Remember that, and every time you look around your fancy club, and your fancy whores, and your fancy booze, you should remember that you should be too busy being dead to enjoy any of it."

  "I worked hard for what I got."

  "And you'd be fertilizing a field in France if I hadn't carried you, on my back, through a quarter mile of hell."

  The mobster seemed to think about that. "You know, Sarge, the Chicago family could use a tough man like you…"

  "I just want to know about Delilah."

  "You were sweet on her back before Rockville, weren't you? She sure was a babe." Lenny's teeth seemed too big when he smiled. "Gotta be nice for a guy like you to have a girl he can't break by accident."

  Sullivan was tiring of this. Maybe it was just the cold giving him a headache, but he was about done with the mobster's nonsense. "My business is none of your business."

  Torrio sighed. "All right… for old times' sake. But then we're even, and I don't ever want to see you again. Capishe? Talking to somebody like you hurts my reputation. I show weakness and that asshole Capone will run me out in a box." He paused to pour himself another shot, got confused as to where his glass had gone, so took Sullivan's instead. "The Grimnoir was looking for her, but she was on the run. They paid me to find her. I got her to come out of hiding so they could pick her up. Looks like they did, though from what I heard, you gave them one hell of a fight."

  The name meant nothing to him. "What's a Grim Nor?"

  The mobster downed his drink. "Not Nor. Nwarr. You'
d think you'd spent enough time in France to not butcher everything. But they ain't French as far as I can tell. That's just what they call themselves. I don't know who they are, real secret bunch, but they seem to know everybody, and their money is green and there's lots of it. I think they're some sort of crew, but they're connected, big time."

  "What did they want with Delilah?"

  "Beats me. The one I talked to said they were on the same side and wanted to protect her. Delilah was hiding out up north. The law's been hunting her since she killed those lugs that went after her."

  The Chicago agents had been told the five mutilated corpses had belonged to innocent victims of her rampage. That had never sounded like Delilah's style. "Who were they?"

  Torrio looked at Sullivan like he was thick. He licked his teeth. "You got no idea what you're getting into, do you?"

  "You know us Heavies are dumb, Lenny. Humor me."

  "They were men you don't want to cross, Sullivan. When they missed her, they stuck the law on her. Nobody messes with them. Not the feds, not the mob, not the army. They're bad news. That's all I'm saying." He thumped his glass back down and stood. "You need to get out of here, and stay out of this if you know what's good for you."

  Sullivan stayed seated. The couch was comfy. "So… you told this Grimnoir bunch which blimp Delilah would be on. Was that before or after you told the Bureau of Investigation?" Lenny's face slipped for a second as he said that, and that second told Sullivan he had called it right.

  Torrio composed himself, playing offended. "You calling me a snitch?"

  "The BI prefers the term informant," Sullivan smiled. "How much was the reward on that? Here you are, giving me lip about working for the Man… At least I'm honest about it. I like to pick one side and stick to it. But you… you were always good at playing all the sides."

  "Get out of my club." Torrio's robe whipped dramatically as he pointed at the stairs.

  Sullivan stood. "See you 'round, Lenny."

  Lenny Torrio waited until Sullivan had picked up his piece and was escorted out before summoning his imp. The spindly little creature crawled out of the shadows under the couch and clambered onto the table. Half monkey, half reptile, its bat face opened in a hideous grin of jagged black teeth as it waited for the evening's orders.

  "Follow him," Lenny ordered. "I want to know where he sleeps."

  The imp shrieked, leapt from the table and scurried up the bricks and out the nearest barely-open window. Spreading leathery wings, it disappeared into the night. Lenny poured himself another shot as his guest inevitably joined him. The Oriental had been waiting patiently in the darkened recesses of the balcony. The man made Lenny uncomfortable because he just stood there, like he was at attention or something. "What?"

  "Will this man be an issue?" His English was perfect.

  Jake Sullivan was probably the stubbornest, most single-minded, unwavering, bravest, and therefore dumbest son of a bitch Lenny had ever met. "Probably. He was asking about your outfit, about those men the Brute girl killed."

  "What does he know?"

  "Not much. He hadn't even heard of the Grimnoir."

  The man nodded. "So… You told him then?" There was a thinly veiled threat in the words.

  "Not about you people, of course," Lenny sputtered. "I'm not stupid. Look, if I had known you wanted Delilah, I would have turned her over to you, and not them. That wasn't my fault. I've got my sources looking for these Grimnoir people and the other two men you want, and as soon as I hear anything, you'll be the first to know. Your boss can take that to the bank."

  The Japanese man raised a single eyebrow. "The Chairman will be pleased to hear that, and you will be exceedingly well paid for your services. By the way…" He reached into his suit and removed a heavy pouch. It clinked as it hit the table and a few octagonal gold coins spilled out. "Your source in California was correct. We found Traveling Joe, but we still desire something that was in his possession. Part of a device. It was missing."

  Lenny nodded as he took the piece of paper, examining it briefly. It was part of a mechanical drawing way beyond his understanding. He stuck it in his robe with one trembling hand. "I'll see what I can do." Lenny Torrio could find anyone or anything, because that's what he did, that's what had made him a powerful man. He was the best Finder in the business.

  "Is there any chance that this man would be willing to be in the Chairman's service?"

  "Hardly." Torrio laughed, then stifled it quickly. "No offense intended of course. But old Jake has always been set in his ways. He sees things real simple in black and white, and once he sets his course, you can't sway him."

  "An admirable quality. Alert me when your demon returns. Your friend is too curious and will need to be dealt with. I will require the services of your staff." He bowed slightly before returning to his table.

  Lenny tried to pour himself another drink, but his hands were shaking too bad, and he spilled a bunch of the expensive hooch on the table. His old pal, Sullivan, had been right. He had a knack for playing more than one side. Unfortunately he'd just been drafted by the worst side of all, and there wouldn't be any turning back now. "Sorry, Sarge." He finally gave up and took a long drink from the bottle. "This is just business."

  Chapter 5

  Gentlemen, we have now reached the last point. If anyone of you doesn't mean business let him say so now. An hour from now will be too late to back out. Once in, you've got to see it through. You've got to perform without flinching whatever duty is assigned you, regardless of the difficulty or the danger attending it. If it is steering the clouds and calling down lightning, if it is hurling fire or steel, if it is breaking the Germans' will, or dragging their Battle Zeppelins from the sky, if it is the closest kind of fighting-be anxious for it. You must know your Power, how to shoot, and how to stay alive. No matter what comes, you mustn't squeal. Think it over-all of you. If any man wishes to withdraw, he will be gladly excused, for others are ready to take his place.

  – General Theodore Roosevelt, from speech given to First Volunteer Brigade

  (Active) before second battle of the, 1918 Chicago, Illinois Sullivan tossed and turned, fevered dreams eating at his peace.

  Finally he gave up, and lay there, shirtless and sweating, miserable and sick, partially awake, his mind still running through the remnants of a muddled dream. Fields of mud and broken trees sticking out of the ground like splintered bones and so many Zeppelins in the air that they seemed to blot out the sky the Germans they just kept killing over and over and over while the Kaiser's sorcerers would just wake them up and send them back into the fray until their bodies had been so pulverized that they could no longer hold a rifle his brother getting half his face torn off by artillery and General Roosevelt dying in a spray of blood and fire under the claws of a Summoned and…

  Then he was awake. Sullivan sighed, staring at the dark ceiling. His internal clock told him that it wasn't even close to morning, but he wouldn't be falling back asleep any time soon. He decided that the dream must have been from talking to Lenny. It had reminded him of the bad old days.

  He heard flapping at the window, and at first he dismissed it as just a pigeon. But it sounded too… leathery. Sullivan just kept breathing deep. Listening.

  Amish McCleary didn't like being called a retard, but he was too scared of Mr. Torrio to complain about it. He would prove to the boss that he could pull his weight around here, and that he wasn't just good for eavesdropping on meetings with bootleggers and hustlers.

  He was going to pop the Heavy himself. The big lug had a reputation. He was supposed to be a real tough guy, a hard case, but Amish knew nobody was that tough when they were asleep in bed and you kicked in the door and sprayed them down with a Tommy gun. Who cared if he was asleep? The word on the street would still be that Amish McCleary had been the man who'd had the balls to take down Heavy Jake Sullivan.

  That would show Mr. Torrio. Even Al Capone would have to respect him after that, and maybe then nobody would make fun
of his cross-eyes anymore.

  The Jap sat next to him in the front of the Packard. Amish was scared of Mr. Torrio, but he was terrified of the Jap. One time Amish had gotten curious to see if the Japs thought the same as white men, so he'd used his Power to try to Read him, even though Mr. Torrio had warned him not to. It was like his Power had hit a brick wall. Amish wasn't a very strong Reader. His Power barely worked once in a while, and he could only really get into the heads of the really dumb. When he tried to read smart people he just kind of bounced off. The Jap hadn't just bounced him, he'd booted him out of his head and across the street. Amish's head had ached for the last three days straight.

  The Jap didn't bother to look at him, like he was too good to give Amish the time. "The demon returns," he said simply.

  The Jap must have had really good hearing, because Amish didn't hear the wings flapping until ten whole seconds later. Mr. Torrio's imp settled on the side mirror and squawked at him. Amish listened for a second. He didn't speak Demon good like Mr. Torrio, but he could get the gist of it. "The Heavy's asleep. Let's go."

  The Jap held up a hand. "Send one man in first to make sure the lobby is clear."

  Amish hesitated. Mr. Torrio had put him in charge, not the Jap. He didn't know who the Jap was supposed to be or who he worked for, but all of a sudden he thought he could give the orders? But Amish hesitated, because first off the Jap scared him to death, and second, it was a good idea.

  Daniel Garrett checked his pocket watch for the fifth time. It was almost three o'clock in the morning.

  "It is exactly two minutes from the last time you checked," Heinrich stated, not looking away from the window. The German seemed nonchalant as he watched the nearly empty street and the front of the Rasmussen Hotel, but Heinrich was always composed. The entire world could be exploding around them in flames and Heinrich would still play it cool.

  "Well, sorry. I don't have your Teutonic nerves of steel," Daniel muttered. "Are they moving?"

  "Nein. Only the one went inside, probably to check the registry. The others are still waiting. We should take them now."