The Gold Pawn

by L. A. Chandlar

  My gunman ushered me out of the car on the opposite side to where Donagan and Eliza were still talking earnestly. It ended up giving me the perfect opportunity to overhear part of their conversation, so I stayed quiet and compliant.

  “Eliza, my beauty.” God, he makes me want to gag. “Trust me. You need to decide where your loyalties lie. I love you and I know the best for you. We can do this together. Now we have quite a prize for our big poker game. That will give us what we need to flush the pawn out, darling. And that will provide us with more money and grandeur greater than even you can imagine. Besides, he keeps drawing blanks. I’m beginning to suspect he’s off his game and that he can’t be trusted any longer.”

  Eliza had been looking at Donagan like a puppy looks at a masterful owner. But a flash of uncertainty and confusion raced across her face in just one instant, to be then quickly secured back in place. Hmm. Loyalties. Does he mean Tucker? Donagan kept going, relentlessly backing up his argument, and her face and heart seemed to be devoured before me.

  Lucky for me, by that point, my gunman had tired of the conversation and had already started to take me off toward the building, so I didn’t attract Donagan’s or Eliza’s attention at the moment. There was no way in hell I wanted it known that I had overheard them. I looked about, searching, newly desperate for my own grave situation. How was I going to get out of this mess?

  Inside, I lost track of Fio completely, not hearing a sound nor hearing a single thing that could help. I was taken to a room where there was a mat on the floor and one small light on a table. It wasn’t filthy, just dusty. But before I was left alone and locked in, I got the meeting I had been dearly hoping would be overlooked.

  “Mmmm,” came the oily voice of Donagan from behind me. I whipped around to face him. “You just look . . . good enough to eat, Lane, my dear.” I backed up as my heart raced. My fear seemed to fuel his desire for me as he stepped closer. I suddenly remembered that in a ridiculous moment of a swashbuckling nature when I was getting ready that night, I had strapped my dagger to my thigh. Something about my red dress had engendered romantic visions of pirates and swordplay. That one, clear, funny memory brought me to myself and helped assuage my fear. Plus, I had a weapon; I was by no means helpless. I controlled my breathing.

  Donagan drew near. His pale face, rust-colored hair, and scarred mouth that had been covered over by makeup repulsed me. He started to stick out his tongue like he was going to lick my face. I was prepared to rip that smug look right off him, my anger got such a strong hold of me. But before either of us could react, a loud blast with glass breaking and screams exploded from another part of the building not too far away.

  Donagan shoved me and I fell backward onto the floor, banging the back of my head on a table. I heard a bolt slide across from the outside of the windowless room. Despite a possible fire and the fact that I had no escape, I was deliriously excited to be away from him.

  I stood up and straightened my dress. My hair was coming out of its neat updo, so I took it down, smoothing it out around my face and over my shoulders. I retrieved my dagger and held it in my hand, the cool ebony and the weight of the handle a pleasing sensation. Having prepared myself, I felt much better. I could hear a lot going on in the factory: shouts, orders given and received. I smelled smoke . . . I started to think of options for the moment when someone came to my door. If someone came to my door. But before I could get any farther, I heard the bolt thrown. I got to the other side of the door, ready to pounce.

  The door swung quickly open, but I stayed stock-still, frozen in place by surprise.

  “Lane? Come on! We gotta get outta here!” she commanded.

  Holy shit. It was Morgan.

  CHAPTER 52

  We slunk our way out of the factory completely unnoticed. She had taken me by the hand as I had been absolutely gobsmacked into immobility. She pulled me along, murmuring angrily that I had those ridiculous high heels to contend with and that great big, swishy red dress, could I possibly be more conspicuous, et cetera.

  We got outside and ran to the back of the factory. We met up with three of her urchin buddies and I started to get an idea of what was going on.

  I sputtered, “You mean to tell me . . .” But Morgan cut me off, telling me efficiently that it was not the time for loud voices and everything would be explained later. I shut up with a hand brought quickly to my mouth to stifle the absurd laughter, making two of the boys snicker at me. They all gawked incredulously at my bigger-than-life attire. We walked even farther west, being a less conspicuous area where Donagan was unlikely to follow, but a much more difficult location to find a cab. However, Providence gave us a kind, if not humorous, hand and we found a huge junk cart whose driver was willing to haul us all uptown. I gave him one of my tiny diamond earrings as collateral and told him to go fast. We directed him to take us to the main police station.

  Morgan and I sat side by side, but with the loud ruckus of the horse-drawn, clanking junk-mobile, it was impossible to carry on a conversation. Plus, I had to hold on for dear life.

  The junk cart was loaded in hillbilly style with mounds of junk teetering precariously on all sides. We made a mighty clinking and clunking noise rolling at breakneck speed down the streets. The kids thought this was the most fun they had ever had, far better than any parade or police chase they had ever witnessed. I, in my glorious, full-length red dress, sat on the back of the truck, clutching to the side as we careened around corners, my legs dangling carelessly off the back, high heels held in one hand, dagger in the other, red-painted toes dancing around in the considerable breeze.

  We at last slowed down as we pulled up in front of the solemn, stern police station. After a wind-blown drive, with ears ringing, we arrived.

  Words fail me as I try to fathom what we must have looked like pulling up to the police station. It seemed that the entire department came flooding out of the precinct to witness our arrival. We stuttered to a stop, the horses loudly panting and shuffling, as a large metal pot lost its precarious grip and clattered to the ground, noisily bouncing along down the street. The stunned police force sort of melted apart in front of me on my perch, revealing Finn, hands on his hips, eyes burning like fire, searching. For me.

  A wildly awkward silence ensued. I stammered, “Hi. Um . . .”

  Then my police buddy Scott, the one who seemed to always be there right at my most stunning moments, was standing next to Finn and sputtered into the dead quiet, “Her dress . . . the wild hair . . . a dagger . . . ? She looks like a pirate.” And then completely lost it. He started laughing so hard he threw his arms around his waist as he bent over from the loud guffaws that were emanating from his shaking body. Then of course my urchin friends, who were just dying to see how this would all pan out, started laughing and giggling, and then it spread to everyone else.

  Finn walked over to me, pulling me off the back of the truck and crushing me to himself. He set me down and took my face into his hands. “What am I going to do with you?”

  I shook my head, just as dismayed. “I have no idea. Good luck.” Then he laughed and kissed me soundly.

  Morgan came sauntering over with a smug look on her smiling face. Finn gave her a knowing look and smacked her on the arm with his fist, like he would a buddy. “Nice job, Morgan.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What?” I exclaimed. “No. You did not hire her to keep an eye on me. You did! You dogs!”

  She came over to me and laid a small, motherly hand on my shoulder (even though I was taller than her). “Well, someone has to watch out for you.”

  “Yeah!” squeaked a tiny miscreant hopping off the truck. “And that ain’t easy, lady!”

  I gasped, “You! You?” I went over to him, grabbed him under the armpits, and brought him to my eye level. His grubby little face was looking right back at me, his small hat off-kilter on his dirty head, his freckled face smiling for all it was worth minus its one tooth.

  “I remember you from the coffee cart out
side City Hall! Have you all been tailing me?”

  “I’ll explain later,” said Finn, totally enjoying himself, but then turned determinedly solemn as he addressed the kids. “But for now, did you find out anything about Mr. La Guardia?” he asked.

  They told him they couldn’t find him in the factory, and that from what they overheard, they figured he had been moved before they had thrown their homemade bombs into the building for a diversion. I looked at our band of Irregulars with a cocked eyebrow and more than a little concern at their wily ways.

  “All right,” said Finn. “Miles arrives tomorrow and hopefully he will have been invited to the game by then. He should have the where and when. Now we just have to decide how to handle it.”

  I told him what I’d learned. “I overheard Donagan and Eliza talking. I think he’s trying to get her to side with him and ditch Tucker; he kept talking about her loyalties. And he mentioned that they have a nice prize for the poker game that should give them enough funds to get their hands on the pawn and that the pawn will deliver them treasure beyond their wildest dreams. Finn, I think Fiorello is the prize. It’s a high-end poker game with all of Fio’s enemies. The ultimate game.”

  “Hmm . . .” muttered Finn, with his hand on his chin, pondering the problem. “I’m certain Miles will have our information. Now we have to come up with a plan on what to do with the game.”

  I looked at him and smiled. “Let’s go talk. I think between you and me, we can come up with a plan. I have an idea.”

  The freckled little boy right next to me smacked his forehead in disbelief.

  Finn said, “Bloody hell.”

  That night we met with our friends at our place for a council of war with Kirkland and Evelyn. As we all sat around the parlor, still dressed in our glittering garb from the ball, the plan solidified in my mind. I had talked with Finn about the general gist of what I was thinking. As we sat together on the couch, I took a good look at the tuxedos on Roarke and Pete, the fancy and sophisticated dresses on Val and Roxy . . . I looked at Finn and nodded at the circle. A slow grin spread across his face and he nodded.

  “Yeah. This could work, Lane. All right everyone. We have a plan. It’s going to take a lot to pull it together and it’s quite dramatic. But given the, uh, talents of this circle of friends, I think we can handle it.”

  It was already well after two in the morning, but we finished up in about an hour. We all departed, hopefully to get a few winks. Depending on what Miles told us, we would have to be ready as early as the next afternoon. I prayed that Miles really did have what we needed. Everything hinged on knowing the exact time and place of the big game, and getting out a few well-placed messages. It would take a miracle to do it. But Team Fio had to do it. And if there ever was a group able to pull off a miracle, it was this one.

  CHAPTER 53

  Fiorello had been in their custody for only one night and one long day, but it seemed like weeks. He knew his team of capable friends would figure out a way to help him, but the waiting was killing him. That goddamn gag had been just too much. He knew he had to keep his mouth shut, but the last time they took it off he just couldn’t help himself. His outrage knew no bounds and he started bellowing and ranting. Back came the gag. The next time they took it off, he kept quiet. At least for the time being.

  He couldn’t tell where they had taken him after the factory, someplace still within Manhattan. And it was some place fancy. The bed and room were furnished with a gaudy, expensive taste. Despite the ridiculous amount of furniture in the small room, there wasn’t anything that could be used as a weapon. He’d done a good scouring of the drawers and under the bed, but came up with nothing. Even the lamp was too bulky to wield. He hadn’t seen anything of the main part of the building; they had kept a hood on him the entire way. But this room, covered in reds, greens, and gilt furnishings, had something familiar about it, like he had seen it before but just couldn’t place it. None of the hotels he had stayed in had been anything like this, though.

  He never saw anyone who seemed to be the one in charge. He figured it had to be Donagan or Tucker behind his kidnapping. But then again, it could be Venetti or another unknown criminal. God knows he had angered many, many people. He smiled to himself. He loved it that he had done enough good to make the bad guys angry. Loved it. Never got tired of it.

  He had been provided with bread and water, and he had actually slept a little on the lavish bed. He worried about Lane; he saw them grab her when he had made his foolish run out to see about the fire. Dumb dumb dumb, he berated himself. He couldn’t believe how stupid he’d been to get caught in an ambush like that.

  He stood up to the mirror over the dresser and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in his tux that he still wore from the night before. Something was going to happen soon, he felt a sort of tension in the air, and he wanted to be ready. He used a little of the water to wash his face. He ran his wet fingers through his black, wild hair and made it more presentable.

  Finally, the door opened. He thought about shouting for help, but the gun pointing at him checked that desire. At last, the guy in charge sauntered in. He knew that large frame, rusty head, and scarred mouth anywhere.

  “Hello, Donagan. Are we ready?”

  Donagan smiled at Fio’s forthright attitude, liking his aplomb, but also wanting to dig at him.

  “Hello, Little Flower. Yes. I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for this game for a long time. But you should enjoy it, it will be the last game you’re a part of, I can assure you of that. Poor, poor Marie, she’ll never really know what happened to you. Such a shame. Perhaps I’ll just make a little visit to her.”

  At Marie’s name, Fio’s wrath boiled up and over and in agony he lurched forward, ready to pound the hell out of that bastard. But Donagan leveled the gun at his head. “Ah, ah, ahh . . .” he crooned, like a mother warns an errant child. “I wouldn’t do that. We don’t want to make a premature exit, now do we?”

  Donagan’s singsong, oily voice grated on Fio like nothing else. But he knew he had to keep his head. As long as he was alive, there was still a chance. It may have been a slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

  “All right. That’s better. Now, let’s go.” Donagan pointed out the door. Another guy bound Fio’s hands behind his back, then led the way with Donagan behind him, the barrel of the gun digging into his spine.

  They marched down a few hallways. The lush carpeting soaked up the sound of footfalls, gilt-framed pictures lined the walls, and there were a couple of tables placed along the way with a profusion of flowers overflowing gold vases. The red, green, and gold reminded Fio of the Russian Tea Room.

  They turned down another, much narrower hallway, then up a flight of stairs and then down yet another hall that was darker and narrower. They had to walk closely, single file. He could feel Donagan’s breath on the top of his hair. They passed three, four, five doors. Turned one more corner, then stopped. The corner made it an even tighter fit. The door in front of them was number 607. The dark green door had the numbers in gold upon it, and he could hear the unmistakable clink of poker chips on a table on the other side along with a murmuring of low voices.

  The lead guy knocked on the door once. Then three times. The sounds within stopped. Fio could tell Donagan was holding his breath. Footsteps made their way over to the door. The lead guy stepped in and then moved to the side. Donagan pushed his gun farther into Fio’s back, nudging him through the doorway, making his grand entrance.

  Fio blinked hard. Arranged around the table were three men of obvious mobster glory and two richly if not outrageously dressed women, clearly top-notch mobster women. And then . . . then . . . He blinked harder, the breath whooshing right out of him.

  Donagan edged into the doorway, still behind Fio. He started in on a pompous announcement that sounded like he had rehearsed it in front of a mirror. “Ladies and gentleman. I have before you the Mayor of New York City!”

  And then it hit him. A catch in his throat cut off th
e next arrogant declaration just as he was opening his mouth. Donagan stuttered, “Wh-what?”

  Fio looked around the table. Dressed in incredible getups that almost obscured their real identities were the most welcome, warm, strong, determined group of people he had dearly wished to see more than anything in his life. His starving eyes hungrily ate up each of their faces: Finn. Lane. Mr. Kirkland. Evelyn. Roarke. Peter.

  Mr. Kirkland, Finn, and Peter simultaneously leveled their guns at Donagan and the other guy.

  Donagan was flabbergasted, but still in control. He cleared his throat, then said, “Well. I guess we have a change of plans. But don’t forget that I still have a gun right in our dear Little Flower’s back. Don’t move. In fact, you better put your guns down unless you want my little shield here to get blown apart.”

  Fio, caught in the euphoric ecstasy of being saved, was suddenly crushed by the fact that he couldn’t see a way out of this. His friends carefully placed their guns on the table. No. No. It had to end. He couldn’t still be held captive. He had work to do! But then two things happened at once.

  A voice he knew well came from behind him, surprising them all.

  “Donagan! Did you do it? Did we get it?” It was Eliza coming down the hall, completely unaware of who was in the room.

  Then, as Donagan had been distracted but still easily keeping his gun right in Fio’s back, Lane pulled something out of the front of her dress. “Donagan! Here! You want this? Take it!” And she threw something gold and shiny right into the left hand of Donagan. As he caught it, he shoved Fio into the room with a mighty heave.

  Fio was launched forward, falling against the table. Everyone grabbed their guns at once and Finn and Pete leaped around the table to go after Donagan. Roarke and Mr. Kirkland helped Fio up, making sure that he was all right and unbound his wrists. He could barely control his thoughts and all his questions and grateful things to say all came tumbling out at once.