by Tee Morris
“Until a bookie gets wind of it, and then that bookie goes to somebody and then that somebody goes to somebody, and we start climbin’ the ladder.”
“Capone likes my Chili and Rueben Special,” Mick whispered.
“And you think I’m crazy for hitching a ride with him.”
“Well that what separates me from you, pal. I just give the man's lunch to one of his goons and call it a day. I don’t go ridin’ around in the man’s Caddy!” He considered me for a moment, and then asked me, “So how about you tell me why Capone was thinking he’s your taxi?”
By the time I finished my exasperated sigh, Mick was back in his workshop, toiling over a bubbling cauldron and daring to look into my future, possibly seeing visions of my breath setting the walls on fire.
“Well,” I finally began, “seems that Al and I—”
“Al?!” Mick barked. “You two on a first-name basis or something?”
That comment won Mick a smirk. I could hear Capone calling me “Short Stuff”. I could hear myself calling him “Scarface”.
I nodded. “Or something.” One more sip of tea, and I continued. “Mr. Capone and I are both Cubs fans. He happened to see me at today’s game and—”
He had just unscrewed a small jar of something and then froze. “You were there today, at Wrigley?!”
“Do you want me to tell this story or not? ‘Cause, lemme tell ya, you’re turning this campfire yarn into a bard’s epic poem with these interruptions.”
Mick pursed his lips and nodded, just before emptying the jar’s rust-colored contents into the pot before him. My eyes managed to catch a glimpse of the label, or at least part of it. One word: Cayenne.
Yeah, maybe I asked for that.
“So anyway, I was there at Wrigley today, watching the Cubs get trounced. It wasn’t pretty. I stuck around to the bitter end, even stuck around after the game. I wanted to get a closer look at these Mariners. I’m telling you, Mick, those guys were amazing!”
“Well, I didn’t like takin’ that bet, but everything I’ve read about them makes me believe that ‘amazing’ doesn’t even come close.”
Mick was right, but I couldn’t go any further than that. He was just getting a hang of my Orc and Ogre references. How the hell was I going to explain to him that I had a honker that could smell magic?
Then I noticed my mouth beginning to water. That afore-mentioned honker was now picking up the “copulating uglies”-strength chili. My stomach gave a rumble.
“Let’s just say there’s something unnatural about the kind of baseball I was watching today.”
“Unnatural?” Mick then poured a few generous ladles of the special chili into a deep, wide bowl, paused, and then asked me in an odd tone, “Or supernatural?”
What kind of cockeyed question was that?
Mick was coming around to the bar and I still stared at him. When he presented me with the custom-made culinary delight, he shot his eyes repeatedly to the cash register. I followed the quick glance, and just visible—even with it wedged between the register and the wall—was the latest Amazing Stories.
This was another reason I wasn’t too comfortable with the idea of telling all to Mick. He knew enough about me to know I wasn’t from around these parts and that my background was, if anything, unique. Only my girl Miranda knew the whole story; and right now, I wanted to keep it that way. I wish I could tell you that choosing one friend to confide in was a difficult one, but Miranda was the best choice for two reasons. The first was that she’s a pretty level-headed girl. Miranda didn’t go flying off the handle concerning trivial stuff, although she did treat me to a bath in Buckingham Fountain for keeping a secret from her.
The other reason: Miranda didn’t read Amazing Stories.
I never thought of myself as a connoisseur of anything in life. I was just a working class Dwarf doing my best to make a living for myself in this new world of mine; but when you’re cooped up in a library, you tend to treat yourself to something new every night. I tried every kind of book out there, and when it came to Science Fiction I just couldn’t wrap my brain around it. The whole notion of what these authors were pitching to me—time machines, invaders from Mars, trips to the Moon—I mean, were these guys serious? Alright, maybe Verne nailed the whole submarine idea, but that’s a reach. Now we had Amazing Stories, taking some perverse pleasure in leading credibility on a long walk down the docks to where no one’s around to hear the bullet. The stories and serials this rag sold to the American public involved ray guns, bug-eyed monsters, and all kinds of plots to take over the world.
Mick ate this stuff up the same way Chicago ate up his chili, and I couldn’t help but harbor a sneaking suspicion that he believed the yarns Amazing Stories spun in their pages. By the Fates, how could anyone in their right minds take that Science Fiction crap seriously? Which is not to say I had anything against fiction. In fact, after the bowl of chili Mick was cooking up for me, I had a feeling that later tonight I’d be in for a long sit on the can with The Mystery of the Blue Train, turning the well-worn pages until Poirot nabbed his man.
I rolled my eyes as I looked away from the magazine and back to my wide-eyed friend. “Yeah, Mick. Why don’t we call it supernatural?”
“Hey, there’s a lot of weird stuff out there, Billi. You know? Maybe those Baltimore Mariners got something up their sleeves, something they ain’t comin’ clean about to the rest of the league?”
“Well, if they are fiddling with technology from the planet Crackofmyass,” I scoffed, motioning with my full spoon to Mick’s curled-up magazine, “I think that would be something hard to hide.”
My first bite of dinner instantly opened up my nasal passages and even brought a bit of moisture to my eyes.
Mick took a lot of pride in my reaction. “How’s that, Billi?”
I continued to chew, silently motioning to my half-full iced tea.
Before Annabelle left us, Mick stopped her. “Leave the pitcher, hon.”
Well, I did ask for it; and boy those Orcs and Ogres were grundle’malking rough and hard, like wild dogs in spring.
“So,” Mick began, a smug tone in his voice, “as you’re thinking my Science Fiction don’t know better, how come you think it ain’t something otherworldly?”
“Well,” I said hoarsely, taking a moment to whet my whistle before continuing, “have you read anything about a falling star hitting Baltimore?”
“No.”
“Asked and answered.” The second bite’s kick was just as powerful as the first, but I didn’t mind. Even at this strength, the chili was a much needed savior to a dreary (and, at one point, dangerous) day. I gave a smile at the crunch of fresh onion and bell pepper, and then paused before continuing my meal. “I will agree with you on this, Mick. There’s not one of those guys I recognize from any other team. If this were a cream-of-the-crop collection of all the stars from both leagues, I’d believe some of what I saw. They were rookies, Mick. Even the older ones. Every last jack one of them. Chicago’s got experience on their side, and nothing they did could turn the tide of this game.”
“You thinkin’ somethin’s not jake with these Mariners?”
I popped the spoon in my mouth, cleaning it to a near spit-polish when I pulled it free. There he stood in front of me, The Would Be Detective of Planet Crackofmyass, ready to grab his 38-caliber ray gun, climb aboard his spaceship, and solve the mystery of the Baltimore Mariners: aliens from the evil empire of Fartinthetub.
The fresh vegetables crunched loudly for a few moments, and then I gave a sigh. My breath was potent enough to curl my mustache.
“Nah, Mick. Maybe I’m just a sore loser.”
Chapter Five
Early Risers in the Windy City
A ripple of pain shot along my soles, a reminder of the Sorcerer’s oath I took to make sure Baddings Investigations would be secure in our cash while surviving hard times. My body had finally caught up with me, and this morning I felt it all: double bookings as Waldorf, the
excitement of going to a Cubs game, and the tension of sharing a ride with Al Capone. Yeah, I seemed to forget that I was no longer a Dwarf in my thirties and forties, full of courage for the missions, attitude for the higher-ups, and spunk for the ladies when I’d come home triumphant, when all this lust for life had been backed up with that unending drive of youth. I wasn’t too worried about those three earlier charms slipping away from me the older I got, but feeling the aches and pains from head to toe, I knew now that in my youth I’d taken for granted that drive that got me up in the morning, gave my body the ability to ignore said aches and pains, and threw my fat ass into gear. Hell, I pondered, still staring at the ceiling, I wonder if the youth of this world truly appreciates that enchanted fire inside of them. Do they truly realize—or even truly appreciate—the gift bestowed on them by the Fates?
I mumbled some Dwarven curse as I sat up and scooted over to the edge of my bed. These self-pitying moments were becoming a little too frequent for my taste this year. It was probably brought on by the times, but this melancholy—a word that just makes me want to slap the shit out of bards and minstrels for thinking it sounds prettier when put to music—just chafed my ass worse than the muck mites found in the Eastern Swamplands of Acryonis. I didn’t have to give into it, though. I could wallow in my self-pity all day until the dragons returned to their caves to roost, but what would it accomplish? Absolutely nothing.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Baddings, I thought. You got a case. Make it a good one.
My feet touched the small step by the bed and warned me with a few good throbs that they weren’t going to touch ground without some sort of protest. I just ignored the pain as best as I could while crossing my apartment to the wooden step ladder that lifted me up to a Human’s eye-level with the sink and mirror in my bathroom.
“Hey, Beautiful,” I finally muttered out loud to the reflection. “How about we go get a coffee and a Danish somewhere? Start this day right?”
I was a particularly cheap date, especially when I was taking myself out. There were plenty of coffee shops within a few blocks that would deliver, and maybe a cup or two of java would blow the cobwebs free. Then I could hit the library to see if there were any back issues of the newspapers to shed some light on this new ball team from Baltimore.
With the water running and the rhythm of the bristles resonating in my noggin, I thought back to that night at the Rothchild’s and the conversation between Miles and Bruce. They had really made an impression on me.
“Today’s fortunes could disappear tomorrow,” Bruce had said to Miles. Pretty profound, considering the source. Also carefully crafted. Was it a friendly warning, a threat, or both? “Not mine, Bruce. Not mine.” Miles had answered as he handed Bruce his empty glass and gave his shoulder a light pat. “Be a chum and fetch me a fresh martini. I, for one, feel like celebrating tonight.”
I didn’t know this Miles character from a hidden passage in an abandoned keep, but in that reply he came across as a cocky son-of-a-bitch, stepping dangerously close to being an arrogant bastard. If a friend had ordered me to “go fetch” like some kind of well-trained hound, I would have done so, but not before adding in some kind of secret ingredient to that drink. What that secret ingredient would be, would depend on how much my friend pissed me off.
Well, those society dinks had a pretty convoluted idea of what a friendship was all about. I knew that. They didn’t have friendships so much as they had mergers and professional relationships. The friendship was strong and unbreakable, provided both sides had something to gain. It sounded like Bruce wanted out of this business venture he’d agreed to with Miles, and Miles found their parting of ways an unacceptable condition to their arrangement. That assurance, or promise, Miles dealt kept haunting me, and I had to wonder how he could remain so assured considering the country’s state of financial chaos.
Humans, though, liked to throw their words around, making people think their stones were bigger than they really were. That was a constant between both realms, but even more common on this side of the magic portal. The folks who actually made good on their claims were people who made the headlines, guys like Moran and Scarface. Maybe ol’ Miles just loosed those words like an Elven archer, knowing that they would hit something somewhere.
I gave my mouth a good treatment of Listerine. On a morning like this, it helped me open my eyes a little wider. A few splashes of cold water and cologne, and this Dwarf would be hitting the wardrobe for threads that were far lighter than my Waldorf costume.
***
The usual double-takes, the usual snickers. I didn’t really care to give anyone the cursed eye this morning, but I was feeling off-kilter. As a matter of fact, the mea culpa I’d endured while waking up was lingering. It was helping me get through the aches and pains of my feet, my back, and my sore arms. I always did regret the armored cartwheels, but the crowd loved them and they got me gigs.
This was one of those mornings when I couldn’t afford to wallow in my self-pity. I needed to keep my eye on the prize; and with this case, there was a new brass ring to focus on.
Perhaps that was why I was noticing the looks. Most days, I could tune them out like a bad radio program, but today I felt the stares as heavy reminders that I wasn’t from around these parts. Stare all you like, I thought with a sly grin. We have more in common than you might think. And that sly grin became a full-out smile as I made out the coffee shop only a block away. The java was not on par with Mick’s, but they did serve some incredible pastries there.
“Hey, Billi!” called a familiar voice through the crowd. “It’s my treat this morning!”
Now, this was a nice surprise. Yeah, Jerry, I thought as my stomach rumbled. Your treat. This would be a morning for you to make good.
Detective Jeremiah Flannigan worked for Chief O’Malley and Chicago’s Finest, and yet he wasn’t an asshole. This flatfoot actually had a personality. We got on great, and on occasion would work together on the odd case or two, much to the chagrin of O’Malley.
Jerry didn’t hide the professional respect for me; and while the friendship was far from the one between me and Mick, he was a good guy. Somebody I knew I could trust. First off, his career was so spotless, so stellar that no one could hold his friendship with me against him. Even in that game of strategy and positioning for the throne, he played for keeps in being a good cop. Really couldn’t figure out at times why this guy was working hard to keep ties with me.
Maybe it was because of that morning—a morning not too different from this one—when Beatrice and I had kept Jerry above ground.
The sweet cinnamon of a Danish was in my future that morning when the alarm bell cut through the usual Chicago din like a broadsword through leather armor. Its undulating chime made everyone freeze, creating a real-world still life with only the movement of automobiles down the street breaking the captured moment. When the third chariot passed by me, my eyes caught sight of the driver nervously tapping his steering wheel. He kept looking back at what appeared to be a closed-up pawn shop. I say “appeared” because the door was slightly cracked open but the windows and items displayed therein were hardly finished in their arrangement. The engine was running; and had I noticed this guy before the bell, I would have done my good deed for the day and warned him about straining those neck muscles.
The door flew open, and people still walking by the store scattered like infantry does when the missile launched from an opposing army’s catapult descends from the skies. The car rocked as two guys hurled themselves into the backseat, one of them shouting orders to the driver. Over the alarm, an engine started to rev.
Here’s when Jerry appeared in his police detective’s best, his own boom dagger unsheathed. I’m not sure what he was shouting at that moment, but the boys in the getaway car weren’t listening. I was going to perform my good deed after all, but it was going to cost me a few bullets.
Beatrice slipped free of her holster and loosed two rounds just as the Ford pulled out into tra
ffic. Since I didn’t want to complicate things at the precinct by adding a murder charge to my good deed, I wasn’t aiming for the driver or the passengers. Both tires exploded, causing their chariot to list hard. Still the car barreled forward, determined to make Jerry a fine hood ornament.
Another shot rang out, but it wasn’t from Beatrice. The driver slumped behind the wheel and the car jerked violently to one side, swinging its passengers against the door. The Ford smashed into a parked brother, and white-gray breath billowed from the grill. One of the robbers emerged from the backseat, shotgun braced and aimed for action. Jerry knocked him off his feet with a single shot to the shoulder.
Yeah, I forgot to mention that my pal Jerry was a crack shot. I’m telling you, this guy was the perfect cop. Well, almost perfect. Keeping company with me, from what he told me, wasn’t considered good form from some of his colleagues, not that he gave a Goblin’s ass about that.
Anyway, Jerry watched the shotgun bandit fall, and it was that hesitation that cost him. The other bagman, still in the car, lifted his own boom dagger. That bullet was aiming to make Jerry’s morning even worse than it already was, and it would have done just that if my shot hadn't shattered the car window, and the bones in the bandit’s hand.
I walked up to Jerry as he was kicking the shotgun away from the bandit he'd downed. I silently gave credit to this dink pressing his hand against his shoulder. He just groaned through gnashed teeth and took his wounds like a good highwayman. The ring of the alarm bell fading into the oncoming call of a police siren was more satisfying than a tight-bodiced tavern wench anxious to break in a new pair of kneepads.
Well, okay, maybe it wasn’t that satisfying; but damn close.
When we saw the first car tear around the corner, I holstered Beatrice and said to Jerry, “Before I turn myself in, how about we get breakfast? It’s my treat this morning.”
