Silk & Steel

by Ellen Kushner

  The pee mist had settled and he reared above me, taking a deep breath, fury in his silver eyes. I threw my arm over my head and braced to be barbecued.

  “Errrt-uh-errr-uh-errrrrrrrr!” boomed out from the speaker on my chest.

  Ash rained down on me as the White Noodle crumbled under my hand.

  Dazed, I peeked out from under my arm to see Sophia standing over me, her phone in her hand.

  “What...” I said dazedly into the sudden silence.

  “I set a rooster crow as my panic button, just in case.” She gestured to the pile of ashes under my hand. “Lethal.”

  “I thought you wanted him alive...”

  She pulled me to my feet, pressing her face mask against mine.

  “I’d rather have you alive, thank you very much.” She looked down at me and made a face. “Even if you are a walking biohazard at the moment.”

  I looked down at myself, covered in ash and weasel pee and gods knew what else from rolling around in a sewer, and a slightly mad giggle escaped my lips.

  “Besides, how rare can they be around here if we found two in one afternoon?” She squeezed my hand and stooped to scoop up the fallen umbrella. “It has to be the horny toads, which is crazy. They’re not even amphibians! Think what that means. What if it’s the word ‘toad’ that’s important and not the actual toad? And who ever heard of American Basilisks with wings? The Archive is going to freak out. I bet they’ll fund a study once they see the video. I can’t wait to write the proposal!”

  She smiled at me as we ducked into the tunnel mouth. “This is the best anniversary present ever.”

  Given she was having bacon and eggs with the Archivist in person tomorrow, I bet she’d have her funding before the weekend was out.

  My life stretched out in front of me, a hiatus from insurance for a series of horny-toad wranglings, punctuated by weasel pee covered moments of terror deep in the sewers of Texas. I looked at her face, dimly lit by my headlamp but shining with nerdy excitement, and grinned.

  I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Chicago Iron

  by Chris Wolfgang

  The Model A had a false floor in the back. Three small crates of hooch just fit from one door across to the other. Jean slid into the driver’s seat while two of MacMurrough’s boys tossed cases of root beer on the bench, their official delivery to Club Sidhe. Usually she rode shotgun, but the last boy had clipped a limestone curb and blown a tire. The jalopy wasn’t exactly a Chrysler, but still. She’d be driving from now on.

  It was nine at night, and the neon fairy above Club Sidhe’s front doors batted her green wings at a clientele that sure as hell wasn’t lining up for root beer. Jean drove around back, parked at the kitchen entrance, and rapped on the door.

  She pulled her scarf up the back of her neck till it touched the brim of her fedora—she’d given herself razor burn again, and the cold really bit at it. She’d thought the wind on the prairie was bitter in winter, hurtling across the open miles, but here it seemed to take the ice off Lake Michigan and shove it pressurized through the brick canyons of the city.

  A bouncer poked his head out, then grunted when he saw her. “Bring ’em in,” he said, swinging the door wide.

  “You know how this works.” She jerked her thumb at the car. “You bring in your stuff while I talk to the money man.”

  Every delivery, this particular bouncer tried to get out of the heavy lifting and seemed to think he’d manage it each time. He pouted. Again.

  She patted him on the shoulder and stepped past into the dimness of the Sidhe. “Where’s Alan?”

  “In his office,” came the grumble, but he obediently shuffled out to the Model A, cussing under his breath. Every goddamn week.

  Jean threaded her way through the small kitchen toward the office. A jazzy trumpet was playing a solo in the club proper. Jean still didn’t know most of the popular tunes. Maybe she’d get a record player in a couple months.

  Wild to think about things like that. Broken Bow’s barren fields were still buried in dust, the banks were nest-egg graveyards, and here was Jean Fletcher with more money than she’d ever seen in her life.

  Jean pushed open the door without knocking. “New trumpeter out there?” she asked.

  Alan Quinelly looked up as she walked in. The thin strawberry-blond was perpetually surrounded by ledgers, slide rules, gnawed-on pencils, and legal pads. “Paid extra for a hotshot from New York,” he said, expressionless as ever behind his gold-wire glasses.

  She pulled out a chair across from him. “Oh? Trying to impress someone coming in tonight?”

  “Mmm.” He went back to his ledger. “Shipment come in all right?”

  “Three gallons at nine,” she said promptly. “Plus a dollar for the short notice.”

  “Nine?”

  “You wanted the triple-refined gin, right?” Jean smiled and crossed a knee over the other thigh. She brushed the hem of her slacks. “Who’s this bigshot you’re trying to sweet-talk tonight, anyway?”

  “Jean,” Alan warned.

  She laughed as he reached for his cashbox. “All right, let me guess. Ah... McErlane?”

  It was Alan’s turn to laugh. “You just fall off a truck? He never leaves his own place, you know that.”

  “That right?” Alan would let down his guard a little if he thought he was smarter than you. “Gosh, it’s gotta be someone just as huge for the trouble you’re going to, though. Fancy music, extra booze... Captain Winston?”

  It was meant to be another toss-up, something for Alan to scoff at. Jean figured two, maybe three more wild guesses, and the pencil-pusher would be vibrating to tell her what she couldn’t add up herself.

  Instead, his hand froze on the cashbox. “What have you heard.”

  Jean gawked at him. “Really? You’ve got a fucking cop coming in for a good time?”

  Alan went back to counting out her fee, his jaw tight.

  She raised an eyebrow. “Not just a good time?”

  Silence.

  “Quinelly. He’s not trying to tell you how to run your racket. Right?”

  “Knock it off, Jean.”

  “Look, if he’s getting bored with taking bribes, I goddamn wanna know about it—”

  Alan slid a thin stack of bills toward her. “Make sure the quarts get in all right, then you’ll want to leave quick.”

  Jean put a hand on the cash. “Hey,” she said. “What are you up against?”

  The gold-wire glasses stayed trained on the desk as Alan locked up the cashbox, set it in the safe underneath his desk, and returned to his ledgers.

  “Alan.”

  “Have a good night, Jean.”

  If the chief of police had the Sidhe by the balls, it was only a matter of time before MacMurrough’s liquor business felt the squeeze. Possibly from a rope around the neck. “Quinelly, buddy, pal, how long have we known each other?”

  Alan shot her an unamused glance. “Six months.”

  “Old friends tell each other things.”

  He clapped his ledger closed and made a shooing motion toward the door. “Now that we’ve established the longevity of your average friendship...”

  “Alan, I’m serious—”

  He leaned forward over the desk. “You think I’m not?” he hissed. “This is way over your head, Jean. Leave. Now.”

  She studied him for half a moment, then finally stood, tucking MacMurrough’s fee into the inside pocket of her suit jacket.

  “Thanks for dropping by on short notice, Fletcher,” Alan said rather more normally. “We’ll take our regular order all the same on Wednesday.”

  Jean took her time rewrapping her scarf, adjusted her hat. “MacMurrough didn’t hire me for show,” she said, low enough only Alan should be able to hear. “When I feel in over my head, I’ll say uncle, how’s that?”

  Alan snorted without humor. “You have no idea what you’re offering to help with.” He glanced at her above the rim of his glasses. They caught the light of h
is desk lamp oddly. “But if you really have no sense of self-preservation...”

  “You let me worry about that.”

  His mouth thinned. “The Sidhe gets going after midnight. Come back if you’re a fool.”

  She grinned. “Been called worse.”

  * * *

  Jean pulled the Model A into the alley behind MacMurrough’s diner. Cut the engine and sat there. Laughed at herself a little. She’d just run a delivery by herself, no one to watch her back, and this was when the nerves kicked in?

  She thought about a cigarette. But that would only delay the inevitable.

  Jean entered the diner through the kitchen, as per usual, and as per usual, Clara Townsend was sitting at one of the three tables. She looked like a female Alan, in her sweater and long plaid skirt, paperwork spread all around her. A low-watt bulb cast light on loose black curls and glinted off the cheap gold bracelet on her right hand. Graceful brown fingers slid over figures on a legal pad.

  She didn’t actually look anything like Alan.

  There was an empty rocks glass on the table, precariously near a corner, shoved there by the stacks of bookwork.

  Jean crossed the floor and picked up the glass. “What are you drinking?”

  Clara’s head snapped up, a pair of thin wire frames slipping down her nose. “Goddamn, you’re silent as a cat.” She blew out a breath and slapped her pencil on top of her paperwork. “Do you eat owl feathers for breakfast?”

  “Mmm, I wear a dandelion-fluff crown to bed, too. Keeps my shoe leather from creaking.” Jean waggled the empty tumbler. “What do you want to drink?”

  “Don’t make fun of things you don’t understand.” Clara glared up at her, then adjusted her glasses primly on her foxy face.

  “I understand you’re as superstitious as my dear granny, may she rest in peace. It’s more charming on you, though.”

  Clara clicked her tongue. “I know you keep a fifth of rye somewhere in here. That’ll do.”

  Jean smirked as she went to the distillery closet, a false door in the diner’s little storeroom. The bottle was on a high shelf, far back enough no one would see it if they weren’t looking. Jean, all of six feet since she was sixteen, grabbed it easily. “What were you drinking before I got here, Townsend?” she called out. She heard an exasperated sigh, and her grin got wider.

  “I wasn’t drinking your rye!” Clara protested.

  “Know you weren’t.” Jean tossed her hat on the diner counter, gave her hair a quick smooth—the Brylcreem toned down the ginger color at least—and grabbed an extra glass. She poured a couple fingers, one for Clara and one for herself, and came back to the table. “You couldn’t reach the bottle with a ladder.”

  Clara took her glass. “Who’s saying I’d use a ladder?”

  “What, you climb up the shelves when no one’s looking?”

  “Maybe I fly.”

  Jean paused, drink in hand. “I knew it.”

  Clara went still. “Knew what?”

  Jean grinned. “You’re an angel.”

  Clara stared, then blew out a huff. “And you can’t see what’s right in front of your own face. I was just drinking water, relax.”

  Jean pretended to choke on her whiskey. “What? Why? You work for a bootlegger.”

  “Oh, that reminds me.” Clara held out her hand, palm up. “Alan’s fee?”

  Jean took a swallow of her drink, reached into her coat, and pulled out the bills, holding Clara’s gaze. Clara dropped her eyes immediately and flicked through the stack. Busied herself making a notation in her ledger.

  It had taken Jean months to be able to hold that steady brown gaze, but she could do it now. Mostly because she’d discovered that if she didn’t look away, Clara inevitably did. It felt like winning.

  Jean sat and idly drank, watching.

  “Don’t you have a home?” Clara asked at last.

  “Kicking me out, Townsend?” There wasn’t much appeal in killing time in Jean’s postage-stamp apartment before going back to the Sidhe. She’d had enough solitude in Broken Bow.

  Clara took a sip of rye and didn’t respond. Didn’t even look up. Jean grinned. That meant no.

  “By the way,” Jean said suddenly, “I found out who the bigshot is that Alan’s wooing with MacMurrough’s fancy gin tonight.”

  The No. 2 pencil scratched to a halt. Clara’s full red lips swept into a sly smile. She folded her arms on top of her books. “Do tell,” she murmured.

  Jean forgot to swallow until the rye burned the back of her throat. She tried to lessen the inevitable cough. “He’s keeping a cop happy.”

  Clara frowned. “That’s not so unusual.”

  Jean hummed in agreement. “But I’m getting a whiff it might be something a little bigger. More than just a bribe and some free booze here and there.”

  A brow went up, black as a crow’s wing. “Someone wants in on Alan’s business?”

  Jean shrugged and sipped her drink. “Quinelly wouldn’t say much about it.”

  Clara tapped her pencil on her arm. “Well, who is it?”

  “Would you believe Captain Thaddeus Winston?”

  Clara went perfectly still. Jean wasn’t confident she was breathing, couldn’t even see a pulse in her smooth throat. After a long moment, Clara’s fingers curled on top of her notepad, red nails scratching against the paper.

  Jean raised an eyebrow. “That name mean something to you?”

  Clara’s throat worked before she spoke. “Doesn’t every bootlegger in Chicago know the chief of police?” Too light, too flippant.

  “Which does not explain that reaction.”

  Clara leaned back in her chair, her slouch creating new curves in her rust-colored sweater. “Winston’s proud of his reputation as a hardass when it comes to Prohibition. He cracks down on business that’s rather relevant to me being able to eat. Should I wish him well?”

  Jean was good at knowing when someone was lying. Or not telling the whole truth, which often amounted to the same thing. “Maybe he thinks you should have other business?”

  Something sharp darted across Clara’s face, gone before Jean could be sure what she saw. “I’m more aware than you of what business the good captain would have me take up.”

  Jean leaned forward. “You have personal experience with Winston?”

  A closemouthed smile, and Clara took a long sip of her rye. She stood with Alan’s fee and walked over to the safe hidden in the floor behind the diner counter. She disappeared from view as she knelt to deposit the cash.

  Usually, Jean could tell if an idea was bad. Usually she avoided them. However... “Feel like going out tonight, Townsend?”

  The safe door clanged shut. A beat of silence, then Clara came back into view. She rested both elbows on the counter and held Jean’s gaze. “What was that?”

  Jean tossed her a grin that was more confident than she felt. “Alan told me to come back to Club Sidhe at 1:00 a.m. I’m thinking of taking him up on the invitation. You should come, let me take you out. Show you what a gentleman I am.”

  Clara tilted her head but didn’t look away. “Alan wouldn’t tell you to come back tonight. Not if Winston’s involved.”

  “He pretty much told me.”

  “So he didn’t.”

  “Wanna find out with me if I’m wrong?”

  Clara pressed her lips together, and Jean grinned. She knew when Clara was trying not to laugh.

  A roll of the eyes. “What’s your plan, Fletcher?”

  “Me?” Jean adjusted her necktie. “I’m going to Club Sidhe to have a quiet drink, listen to some good jazz, and watch you verbally eviscerate every man who tries to talk to you.”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “Right. That’s why MacMurrough’s boys always tip their hats to you. That or stare in silent awe. None of ’em have ever seen you castrate someone with your vocabulary.”

  “Why does Alan want you back at the Sidhe tonight?”

  Clara was too damn smart. MacMurro
ugh had pulled a lucky card when he lured her away from New York City to be his accountant.

  “Because he knows I’m a gifted problem solver?” Jean tried for a charming tilt of the head.

  “Not this kind of problem.”

  “You sound awfully sure.” When Clara didn’t say anything, Jean added, “Look, I know it’s dope, right? Greedy police chief wants to run heroin through a speakeasy, and he thinks Quinelly can’t tell him no.” That was the only thing she could think of that matched Alan’s warning about Jean being in over her head. True enough, she’d never gotten close to that game. But if MacMurrough’s crew could help nip it in the bud, they could keep Irish territory from devolving into a bigger bloodbath than it was already.

  Clara’s jaw clenched. She glanced at her paperwork strewn over the table. “Clean up for me. I’ll meet you back here at half past midnight.”

  Jean’s chest went hot. “You got it.” Too fast? “You need me to walk you home?” Yes, too fast. Slow down, Fletcher.

  Clara’s red lips curved sweetly. “See you at 12:30, baby.”

  Jean nodded and stayed in her seat as Clara shrugged into her coat and stepped out the back door into the night. Only then did she lean forward, elbows on knees, and wipe a hand over her face.

  Baby.

  * * *

  Clara didn’t have her glasses on at 12:30.

  She walked into the diner wearing a shin-length wool coat Jean had never seen before. A sparkly black headband wrapped around her forehead and got lost in a wonderland of short, loose black curls, highlighting big round eyes and thick black lashes. Shiny blue heels clacked across the filthy floorboards until they came to a stop at Jean’s table.

  Jean slowly put down the novel she’d gone home and grabbed to pass the time. She made a show of scanning Clara up and down.

  Clara tilted her chin up, the sparkles in her headband winking, and didn’t look away once.

  “Well.” Jean had to say something. Something cool, something teasing, something cocky to hide behind. “Not what we’re used to around here, Townsend.”

  Clara cocked one hip. “Just because I don’t go out all the time doesn’t mean I can’t play the part.”