by Tee Morris
“You kids comfy?” Mick asked, turning up Il'yich’s melodic tribute to the star-crossed lovers a few notches. “How about a nice dessert? On the house. Got a chocolate pie so rich I can barely afford to make it.”
Tempting. With a dinner at The Palms so clear in my future a Seer could see it blindfolded, I knew I should take Mick up on the offer of free food.
Not tonight. “Sorry, Gertie, but I’ve got to go,” I grumbled, gently nudging her to the edge of my booth seat. “I’ve got to make a phone call and cross my fingers that this case is taking the turn I think it’s taking.” I shoveled a few last spoonfuls of Mick’s best and then slapped a fiver on the table. Not that Mick deserved the tip after playing Village Matchmaker. Isn’t there a saying in this realm about the road to Hell and intentions?
I gave the tie a tug and the hat an adjustment before heading for the door. My hand hadn’t reached its handle before I froze. The chill was reminiscent of an ice dragon’s afterfrost.
An extreme cold. That’s what I felt, and my outstretched hand balled into a fist. Yes, Billibub Baddings, you are truly a Grade A dink.
I turned around to where I had sat. Still in the booth, her profile visible over her shoulder, was my dinner date. She wasn’t looking at me when she spoke.
“Wednesday,” she said. Her smile surprised me. “Pick me up at 6.”
Okay, dinner at The Palms, next Wednesday. I would either knock a hole in the kitty or pull a few more double-duty days as Waldorf.
My lips parted to say something, but she merely inclined her head. Odder still, her smile widened. “You’re welcome, Billi.”
This girl had some Elven Art in her veins. The ability to say, “You’re off the hook, Baddings…for now…” and, “I really do understand. Just go. Go, and do what you do,” with three simple words. That was some real magic.
I gave a little chuckle in spite of myself and left for the streets of Chicago, the jingle of Mick’s door chimes heralding my departure into night’s embrace.
Chapter Sixteen
Top of the Ninth
My new travel pipe wasn’t as compact or as comfortable as my favorite one, but my biggest fan amongst Chicago’s Finest had slapped that particular luxury out of my face at Benny Riletto’s crime scene. I did possess a second Acryonis-made pipe, but on account of sentimental reasons I chose to leave it behind in the office. The last time I’d smoked that pipe, all hell had broken loose on Chicago’s waterfront warehouse district.
I didn’t feel like tempting the Fates tonight.
Jerry puffed his own smoke, letting the thick, acrid wisps race out from between his nostrils. This must’ve been something he’d seen one of his pals back at the station do with a bucket of finesse. Jer still needed practice, though, as he was suddenly hacking and coughing up a storm in the car.
I passed him a canteen of water. This wasn’t the first time we had enjoyed one another’s company in the wee small hours of the morning. I was prepared.
“So,” my friend wheezed, “tell me again what we’re doing here?”
“I told you,” I muttered, reaching into my coat pocket for the flask. “We’re shopping.”
“Huh,” he grunted. “So are there some special sales going on at two in the morning at B.D. Waterson and Sons that I don’t know about?”
“Yeah,” I said, removing the cap as my eyes narrowed on the boutique’s main window. “A clearance sale.”
My nostrils picked up the scent of the bathtub gin and I took in a few whiffs. Deep whiffs, as a matter of fact. This batch had taken a bad turn and was nigh undrinkable, but I’d needed to put it to some kind of use. The incidents both at the Rothchild Estate and here had gotten my brain working, and I’d come up with this as a practical application.
The fourth whiff caught Jer’s attention and he noticed the flask, along with the sharp, unmistakable smell that it contained.
“Now, I am sure I’m gonna hear exactly why you got a flask of—” He leaned in, took a quick sniff, and recoiled. “—really bad bathtub gin.”
“Medicinal purposes, my friend,” I said. One more deep sniff should tide me over for the evening. I was about to give the honker another treatment when I saw the beam of light shimmer in the bottom left of the window and then disappear like a spirit retreating to shadows when a cleric closed in on it. “You see that?”
Click-clack was the cop’s answer. Yeah, he saw it.
His door opened, but I grabbed him by the arm. “Pal, I know you’re probably going to hate this, but I want you to cover my backside. I need to take point.”
“Come again?” he quipped. “You want to take point with what? That thing?” he asked, motioning to the battle axe tight in my grasp.
The last time I’d had this old girl out to play was that earlier-mentioned night on the waterfront. While the travel pipe might have tempted the Fates, the axe was a good call. Maybe I would carry the Cleric’s Blessings and not have a need for it.
The weapon gave a soft hum as I lifted it up with one hand, while I opened the passenger door with the other. “Trust me, Jer. This little Acryonis Slugger of mine packs a wallop. Let’s go.”
We crept across the empty Chicago street to B.D. Waterson and Sons, slapping an adjoining building with our backs. Jer looked across the street as he pulled a torch out of his coat and turned it on, then off. He waited for a second, and then repeated the on-off pattern.
From an alleyway across the street, another light appeared and then blinked out.
“Okay, we got ten minutes before backup hits the place.” Jer whispered. “We’re going through the rear, so if our boys try to duck out, it’s covered.” He glanced at the axe, his head tipping to one side. “You and that thing of yours ready?”
I spun it in my hand, earning a soft hum as the blade flickered, and then brought it to an abrupt stop. “Watch and learn, gumheel. Watch and learn.”
Our strides were long and low, but we were slipping deeper into the alleyway like valley cats stalking their prey through the trees and rocks of claimed territory. I was taking point as promised, but trying really hard to keep it together, as I was currently down a sense.
I had to rely on the peepers and the hearing. And, of course, my judge of character. If this played out like I thought it was going to, our “master thieves” would be in for an off night. They would be played like a fine mandolin in the grip of a skilled bard.
Masons had effectively patched up the hole from the first attempt on Waterson and Sons. The back door was closed, but missing its cautionary padlock. No surprise there. Getting in had probably been a piece of cake this evening. The door only groaned a little as we pulled it back and slipped into the darkness of the jewelry store. Ahead of us we could hear the soft music of stones hitting other stones. Diamonds caressed their sisters within intricate arrangements. Sapphires struck emeralds in tiaras and ornate bracelets, and it was easy to picture rubies sliding free of their velvet displays and landing to rest against one another, clicking and clacking from the bottom of what could have been a simple sack.
The poor dinks didn’t realize that the soft music their jewelry made was a bit off-key.
We watched the two shadows lumber a bit in the darkness, talk in sharp whispers, and then split up. I motioned for Jer to creep right while I swung around to the larger of the pair. With a final adjust against the grip, I took a breath and then stepped in between the display cases behind the preoccupied thief.
“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re still closed for business,” my voice cut through the dark, “even at this hour.”
The shadows in front of me came alive, becoming the maw of some unholy beast conjured from a warlock’s spell. It could have easily overcome me, but I swept the axe back and managed to grip a forearm with my free hand.
Never let the size of your opponent throw you, figuratively or literally. I was not so much a Dwarf at that moment, as I was a pivot point. I got a hold on the figure, and rooted myself into the marble floor with a simple bend
ing of my legs and turning of my hips. The black hulk wasn’t expecting this basic martial arts move; nor was it expecting the way its self-generated momentum spun it, sending it back in the direction it had come from. The shadow shattered an empty display case, with quite a bit of fanfare.
“Freeze!” I heard from behind me.
There was another shadow at the other end of the store, and it came to an abrupt halt.
Jer called out, “I got him, Billi.”
The black blob in front of me was shaking itself clean of debris slowly enough that I was able to spare a few seconds. There was just enough light coming in from the windows to reveal Jerry rooting the second crook to the floor with the power of his gun’s threatening muzzle. My eyes returned to my own hooded burglar, its attention jumping from its smaller doppelganger, back to me.
It charged again.
Still keeping that axe flat against my back (Not yet, not yet…), I bobbed, and then drove my shoulder forward. Connecting quite well with its groin, I pushed hard against the ground. The attacker didn’t fly far, but did flip over me and crash into another display, this one still holding a few baubles and bangles.
I took a few steps back. (Okay… now.) The battle axe came out from behind my back, casting a small strip of light along the far wall. The gleam shimmered downward to stop on the burglar, its crumpled form surrounded by the glitter of necklaces camouflaged within shards of broken glass.
When the dark shape stood up again, I noticed the bag it was holding. A bag of stones would make an impressive weapon: a makeshift mace that could probably clock me so hard I would think I was back at the Giddy Galleon, enjoying their best brew.
When the thief’s loot clattered against the floor, I tightened my grip on the axe. That dull clamor was going to serve as his death knell.
On the battlefield, hesitation can be lethal. Now, you can sit around before you hit the green, debating what you could do in the heat of battle; but when you have a front of hungry Trolls bearing down on you, the time to think about it is over. Act, or die. Even in a one-on-one standoff like this, hesitation doesn’t work. I was only given a second to decide. In two seconds, a blade can find a gut, a dagger can cut a throat, a bone can shatter. So, ponder and plan all you like. Once in the arena, you’re making decisions that will either have you walking out on your own, or have you carried out by four of your best mates.
The shadow’s poor excuse for a battle cry confirmed it to be male. The guttural yell carried the tell-tale qualities of a deep bass voice and the gravelly undertones common to cigarette smokers. That and the mass of his forearm verified my guess as to who was hidden under this dark guise. From his clumsy run, I could see he wasn’t feeling too steady. (Hell, crashing through a pair of display cases can do that to a guy.) I knew the battle axe could easily slice him open like a holiday pig stuffed to overflowing on a nobleman’s table.
Considering all the mayhem these boys had caused, I could have turned this creep into a street beggar with one swing. Instead, it turned out that despite his botched robbery, it was going to be his lucky night. I was in a compassionate mood.
The flat of my axe connected hard with his nose, an easy target as it protruded from the cowl. Dark rivulets disappeared into the intermittent light creating a momentary web of blood in mid-air. The crunch of metal against bone made both Jer and his captive wince. The shadow, now upright, stumbled back two steps, struggled to move forward again, and then surrendered to gravity, toppling back like a mighty oak falling to the woodsman’s trade.
By the Fates, knocking him out had been a hell of a lot of fun.
“You finished dancing in the dark?” huffed Jer. “’Cause I’d really like to get some lights on in here.”
I straightened my tie and moved over to the hulk lying in the midst of shattered glass and expensive bracelets and necklaces. The cowl covering his head easily slipped off, and I bent down to get a closer look at the blood-decorated face of “Sledgehammer” Sammy Saint.
No, the broken nose didn’t make him any prettier.
“Hey, Jer,” I said, glancing up from Saint. “I don’t know if you need more light on the scene to say hello to ‘Big Joe’ Murphy of the Baltimore Mariners.”
Jer slapped cuffs on the shorter shadow-wraith, and then another removed cowl revealed my assumption to be spot-on. “Wow! ‘Big Joe’ Murphy. I wish I could ask you for an autograph,” Jer snarled, clicking the cuffs a bit tighter, “but I lost a fiver on last week’s game. Way to hustle out there.”
Since Jer was preoccupied with the visiting team, I took the opportunity to look around. My eyes fell on a necklace sporting a stone the size of a giant’s teardrop. This stone, with the smaller ones arranged around it, made a statement, all right: I have money and you don’t.
As the piece slipped into my coat pocket, I smiled at the passing thought. Maybe not on Miranda, but it would suit Gertie. Not sure how, but it would.
There was a tap-tap-tap at the door window, and we saw the uniforms bathed in the pale glow of streetlamps. Calvary was here. Maybe they were late to the party, but they were still a welcome sight.
Good timing, too. The alcohol was beginning to wear off.
***
“Flannigan!” Chief O’Malley bellowed, probably loud enough to wake the dead. In Gryfennos. “I don’t give rat’s arse about yer record or yer service t’ tha’ city! I’m gonna bust you down to an Academy Freshman fa’ this!”
Jer was getting a real dragon’s breath worth of heat. First, there was the invitation to the crime scene at B.D. Waterson and Sons. Then came me beating the Chicago swelter with a visit to the city morgue. And now, at four in the morning, Jer and I sat in the Chief of Police’s office, fresh from our late-night shopping spree at Waterson’s. Across from us, O’Malley’s thinning hair wafted around his head like a halo around a cleric’s melon.
Yep. We’d gotten his fat Irish ass out of bed.
“You know,” I piped in, “we did stop a robbery.”
“Put a sock in it, circus freak!” O’Malley yelled. “I don’t think any high-falootin’ lawyer is gonna come ta’ ya’ rescue ta’nite. I’ve got you down fa’ destruction of private prop’pa-tee, assault, and interference in a police investa’gay-shun.” He snorted, and his smirk was well-earned. He had a point. To an extent. “As tha’ day progresses, I’ll see what else I can cook up.”
Jer cleared his throat. “Chief, sir, it was Billi’s idea to return to Waterson’s tonight. He not only stopped what could have been a clean-out of one of Chicago’s top jewelry dealers, but he’s also delivered two suspects from the Davenport murder to us on a silver platter.”
“I don’t care for the private dicks, Flannigan, and ya’ know that,” the Chief snapped. “I especially don’ care for tha’ freaks of nature that fancy themselves above reproach!”
“Since when have I done that, O’Malley?” I shrugged.
His dark Irish eyes narrowed on me, and I won’t lie—I was a little concerned. Any minute now, he was going to clutch his ticker and drop like a counterweight severed from a portcullis. O’Malley wasn’t just inviting a coronary. He was setting up the banquet table, giving a play list to the minstrel, and lighting the hearth in anticipation.
“Are ya’ sure ya’ want ta’ fence wi’ me, Shorty?” He loomed over me now, and I could smell the night’s crud and muck in his breath. Jeez, O’Malley, you didn’t even bother to give the pearly whites a brushing? “I’ve been more than tolerant o’ the likes o’ you, showin’ me up, makin’ me look like a fool. Well, ta’night I’m done. Ta’night I’m gonna start wi’ a clean slate, clean of the papers callin’ me a Mick cop what’s a showpiece for tha’ City Hall.” His beefy finger pointed to the phone. “Ya’ see tha’ telephone there, Shorty? I’ll be calling Mr. Miles Waterson himself on that phone later this morning and I’m gonna tell him we stopped a robbery and cracked tha’ case wide open for the murder of his worker.”
Okay, O’Malley, let’s see how long I can keep your
attention before I need to switch the die. “You’re going to call Waterson and tell him you stopped the robbery?”
“Of course I am!”
I gave a glance to Jer. “Told ya.”
My eyes returned to the Chief, watching his attempt to be overbearing fail miserably. I shook my head and gave a long, slow sigh. “O’Malley, that is not going to do you any good…nor is it going to make you any friends in high places.”
“Shit.” Jer muttered. “Billi, what did I tell you in the—”
“I’m telling you,” I said to Jer, “you got to trust me on this.”
O’Malley’s brows angled upward as he shot glances between the two of us. “Excuse me, but what are ya’ two on about?”
Jer took his hat off and screwed his eyes tight. Here was the hook we had rehearsed. “Sir, we talked about this in the car and…” he took a deep breath. “Billi’s got a theory—”
“Oh! Does he now?! The freak has got a better theory about this open-and-shut case of robbery-homici—”
“Actually, a robbery and double homicide,” Jer corrected. He looked at me with a silent plea to just skewer him with a broadsword. Seeing as I didn’t have one and that I needed to see this through to the end, he only got a curt nod from me. “And there might be a third body. Somewhere. Sir. Chief.”
“A third body? Somewhere?” O’Malley needed to remember to breathe, or that vein in the center of his forehead was going to tear through the skin and wrap around the ceiling fan. He stepped away from us, seemingly considering the possibility that the body count in this case was climbing. O’Malley reached his city map of Chicago, and then spun around to address us both. “I take it this ‘third body’ is part of his theeee-rrrie? Tell me, this theeee-rrrie of yours, Baddings—why would it concern me and the phone call I’m gonna be making to Mr. Waterson?”
“Make that call, and it’s going to tip off a series of events you don’t want.” More to the point, it was going to tip off a series of events I didn’t want. I was only a step or two away from the Pitcher’s Pendant, but if O’Malley, Jer, and Chicago’s Finest didn’t back me up on this one, the talisman was going underground. I couldn’t afford that. “There’s a bigger con going on here, and it’s a con that’s got a body count attached to it. If you don’t follow my lead and follow it good, what you’re seeing here in Chicago is just the warm-up in the bullpen.”
