It was Her Lady’s sentinel.
I silently swore in a manner that would’ve made the bootleggers inside blush. The dragon chuckled.
Eye can deal with both vermin . . . let me out and I’ll burn them . . .
And the neighborhood along with them, I pointed out. I pushed on, concerned about two shadow folk from opposing sides confronting each other among mortals.
Her Lady’s pet vanished behind another nearby building. I caught another glimpse of Oberon’s watcher and knew that it was just a matter of moments before the pair came face to face—assuming that, being part of Feirie, they even had faces.
As I was considering what to do when that unwanted confrontation happened, the back door of the hidden barrelhouse opened, and the same huge bootlegger who’d discovered me last time stepped out to take a smoke.
Unfortunately, he did it right in front of Oberon’s observer. The light from his match illuminated the front of the creature.
It had a face, but one that made the hood’s mug as handsome as Douglas Fairbanks’s in The Thief of Bagdad or his newest sword epic Don Q, Son of Zorro. In fact, what the Wyld had was a face for which Lon Chaney probably would’ve given his entire makeup collection to be able to reproduce. I’d seen the posters for next week’s release of The Phantom of the Opera and suspected that what Chaney came up with this time still wouldn’t be half as frightening and grotesque.
There was no chance I could’ve saved the man. From within what I now saw was some kind of cloak, both long, sinewy hands of the Wyld thrust out.
The long nails at the ends of each four-fingered hand thrust through coat, shirt, flesh, and bone and into the lungs of the bootlegger. They withdrew before the thug even had time to understand that he was already dead.
I don’t know if I made some sound, or if the creature just decided to look my way as the body fell, but suddenly Oberon’s pet saw me. And even though I couldn’t make out its ugly mug any more, I could imagine its glee at having the chance to kill another innocent.
I grabbed for Her Lady’s gift—and my hand went numb.
The Wyld lunged at me. Even though I could see him closing on me at a fantastic rate, my hand refused to move.
And I realized it was the dragon doing it.
Before I could understand why or how, something came between us. The shadow passed across Oberon’s watcher.
I heard it squeal in fright, then in pain. The squeal didn’t carry far, which was probably a good thing for the sanity of anyone who would’ve heard the bloodcurdling noise.
Just like that, it ended. The shadow moved away. Right there, I wished I could’ve dismissed the dragon’s gaze, because it gave me a good view of the putrid mess that briefly pooled on the ground before sinking out of sight.
I started to back away. My hand still wouldn’t budge. In my head, I screamed at the dragon, but he kept oddly quiet.
And then . . . Her Lady’s sentinel swooped down before me.
CHAPTER 13
It started as a blot of utter black in my emerald world, a blot that stretched and stretched until it stood at least two feet taller than me. The outline reminded me of nothing less than the proverbial Grim Reaper, though even thinner and with no discernible arms or legs visible in the shrouded shape.
My hand suddenly became movable again, but I knew better than to draw Her Lady’s gift. It’d probably work against her servant, but then again, it might not.
Gatekeepers . . .
The word came to me like the low groan of an ancient sarcophagus being shoved open. I knew that sound well, having been forced to free myself from my own after discovering I was alive again—not still—and buried.
I also noticed that the shadow creature’d used the plural. Of course it knew about the dragon. Anything closely serving Her Lady would be well-informed.
“She knows . . .” I finally said.
She knows . . .
“That still doesn’t give her cause to breach the Gate!” I growled, as quietly as I could. “She’s only making the situation worse!”
The shadow creature rippled, something I would’ve missed without the dragon’s eyes. I wondered about the movement.
When it didn’t reply, I pushed on. “What do you know about Oberon’s presence here?”
Again came the rippling. This time, I thought I understood. However fearsome this sentinel was, it still feared two things—Her Lady and His Lord. It might’ve been sent to observe or even hunt Oberon, but that didn’t mean it didn’t fear Oberon. Any sensible creature would’ve.
“Do you know what he’s up to?”
She commands . . . this obeys . . .
“Not much for conversation, are you?” I was beginning to miss Fetch, for more reasons than one. Without the ability to draw the blade, I was in very precarious circumstances.
Remove him . . . or she will send the Court . . .
I had just enough idea what that meant to be very ill at ease. “Nothing else comes through! If I find it has, you know what will happen.”
I reached up as if to pull the coat open in advance of drawing Her Lady’s gift.
And once more, I saw the sentinel ripple. However, before our confrontation could go any farther, excited voices rose from inside the illegal distillery. Without even looking back, the sentinel stretched higher and higher as if a piece of taffy pulled upward by some giant hand. At the same time, it grew thinner . . . until finally it became so thin that the shadow creature simply vanished.
Its unsettling departure had taken all of a single breath to complete. I didn’t have such luck. Aware what it’d look like if they found their pal with two huge holes in his chest and me standing just a short distance away, I retreated into the darkness as fast as possible.
My eyes once more normal, I returned to the safe house and found Claryce waiting for me in the shop. She was still dressed and looked as if she hadn’t been sleeping. In her hand she held an Eveready flashlight I’d left upstairs just in case. With one palm she’d smothered most of the light, so as not to take any chance of it showing beyond where she stood.
“What happened?” she demanded. “Where did you go?”
“I was just checking on our bootlegger friends—”
Before I could say more, we heard an uproar. I rushed to the window, Claryce right behind me. She had the presence of mind to keep the light covered.
Through the crack, I saw two autos go screeching around the corner and past our building. From their speed, I wasn’t worried that they planned on searching the neighborhood. They already had something definitive in mind.
“What’s going on out there, Nick? Is it a turf war?”
“That’s what they think.” Even as I said that, I knew it was the wrong thing.
She turned me to face her. “Are you involved in that? What did happen?”
“One of their men got killed. I didn’t do it. They think it was the North Siders.”
“And what do you think?” Claryce asked pointedly.
“I think the North Side’s involved.” It was a truthful statement. Oberon’s spy had been keeping an eye on Big Al’s boys in part for Moran and Weiss.
Claryce didn’t look entirely convinced, but she finally gave in. The racket outside faded, probably because most of the hoods had taken off after the rival thugs they thought had made the monstrous hit. I realized that both autos had headed in the quickest direction leading to the North Side stronghold. It was doubtful that they’d dare go all the way there. Once they figured that the killers had successfully taken it on the lam, they’d circle back, with someone making sure to let Capone know what’d happened.
“Who was that on the telephone?”
I hadn’t thought that she’d heard. “No one. Wrong number.”
“A wrong number? To you?” She leaned against one of the counters. Her expression was one I’d seen before, and not just on the face of Claryce Simone. I’d been confronted by it more than once by her earlier incarnations. “Was it Oberon?”
“No . . . but you’re right. I’m sorry. I should’ve told you the truth. It was another client—”
“Someone worried about the supernatural? Calling this late?”
“Do you remember the ad?” When she’d nodded, I continued, “It says to call any time, especially at night. He did.”
“He—are you sure it’s real?”
I nodded. “He couldn’t have reached me if he wasn’t the real thing. It doesn’t work like that.”
Claryce slumped. “I’m sorry, Nick. I don’t think I really know how anything works anymore.”
Against my better judgment, I walked over and put a comforting arm over her shoulder. She leaned against my chest. After the last time she’d done that, I’d sworn to myself it wouldn’t happen again. Too late, I felt the rush of emotions.
Kiss her . . . my malevolent partner mocked. Or would you prefer Eye did?
I jolted, then pulled my arm away.
“Nick?” Claryce looked up. I knew what those eyes were saying.
“We’d better get you back upstairs,” I said in as casual a manner as I could.
To both my relief and my regret, she sighed, then went to the back door without another word. Claryce took one last look at me. “Good night, Nick . . .”
I only nodded. I listened to her footsteps, especially once she was above me. Claryce spent little time moving about, which I prayed meant that she’d finally gone to bed.
Returning to my own makeshift quarters, I tried not to think of what would’ve happened if I’d let things proceed as they’d been about to. If it hadn’t been for the dragon’s snide remark . . .
You are welcome . . . The words oozed mockery.
I shut my eyes, for once welcoming the coming nightmare over my more and more troubled personal thoughts.
I’d arranged for a radio in the quarters above and so, once Claryce let me know it was safe to enter, I tuned in WGN and listened for any news out of the ordinary. I didn’t have to wait long. Eddie Zion, a former bodyguard for Genna Brothers associate Samuzzo Amatuna—himself gunned down just days ago outside a West Side barber shop—had been drilled shortly after Amatuna’s funeral. There was no doubt in my mind that it had the fingerprints of Moran on it, even if he hadn’t actually been one of the triggermen. I also knew that he’d done it with the okay of “William Delke.” Gunning for the Genna Brothers was a step toward facing Capone head on again, even though the Gennas and the Outfit weren’t exactly on the best of terms themselves.
There was no mention of any incident near the safe house and, to my further interest, not a word about the torching of my original sanctum. I’d been combing the papers and radio for some word of the fire but found nothing. I wondered why that was. Without a building to shield, the shunning would’ve faded away almost immediately.
Claryce’d been listening with me while we ate. She picked up on my slight reactions right away. “Are these tied into everything else?”
“If Moran and his friends are involved, then Oberon’s involved.”
“But why the senseless killing?”
“A turf war keeps the cops occupied and, even though they’re only human in his eyes, Oberon leaves nothing to chance.” That made me think of Detective Cortez and the call concerning Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. Rather than wait until tonight to see what my client wanted to talk about, I decided to take matters in my own hands. “I need to make a call to the good detective.”
“Cortez? Nick, he seems like a decent man, but I can’t shake the thought that he knows more than he lets on.”
“Maybe . . . or maybe he’s just good at his work. Either way, I’d like to see if he can clarify anything for me.”
She followed me downstairs to the telephone. I plucked up the receiver and dialed the operator. She would see the line as being from one of several locations around Chicago, none of them near where we actually were. I asked for Cortez’s home precinct.
The sergeant who answered had an Irish brogue that momentarily put me on greater guard. For every crook with roots from the Emerald Isle, there were also more brave souls with similar blood working to keep the streets safe. Unfortunately, some of the former wore the same uniforms as the latter.
“Detective Cortez,” I said, assuming that there’d be little chance the sergeant wouldn’t know the one Cortez in the entire precinct. “He knows me. Nick Medea.”
“Cortez?” The sergeant didn’t work hard to hide his lack of respect. “The squirt’s out. Seein’ to the latest mess.”
I took a guess. “Eddie Zion?”
“Yeah. If you want Cortez, you’ll have to wait awhile.”
I thanked the sergeant and hung up. Cortez was methodical and therefore took much more time at the crime scenes than some of his comrades, especially the ones on the take. Unlike some, Cortez wasn’t likely to write off the murder as just one more unsolvable case.
“Cortez is on the murder case.” I doubted that he was the chief detective, just the one given the dirty tasks. Even knowing how his bosses used him, Cortez would see about getting as much pertinent information as he could, even if the odds were against anyone being brought to trial.
“Are we going to go see him?”
“Claryce—”
“If you start off about leaving me behind again, you’re just wasting your time. I’ll find a taxi and follow you if I have to.”
I knew there was no room for an argument and tried to convince myself that, with so many police around the area, nothing would endanger her. Tried . . . and again failed.
We slipped out the back and made our way a few blocks to a brighter, busier street. When our whiskered cabbie heard the address I wanted, he beamed. “You’re in fer an excitin’ time there, you two are! They just had a dago gunned down there. Probably one o’ the Micks did it. Looks like we’re gettin’ ready for another break out for turf!”
Out of the cabbie’s view, Claryce jabbed a finger at the license, which marked our driver by name as another “Mick.” He’d spoken about both sides with the same contempt for their background. It wasn’t too surprising. The Irish mob had only one Irishman among the three bosses, while the Outfit had its share of thugs who probably spoke much better Gaelic than the man in the front seat likely did.
I had us dropped off a block from the scene of the gunning. We’d hardly gone a few yards before I noticed something long and gray moving just at the edge of my right eye.
“Wait,” I told Claryce. I bent to tie a shoe and glanced in the nearest alley.
His tail wagging, Fetch stared back at me.
Straightening, I casually turned Claryce around and toward the alley. Once out of sight, I eyed Fetch.
“What’re you doing down here? This isn’t your usual haunts.”
“Heard about the hit through the grapevine, Master Nicholas! Wanted to see it—”
“You wanted to see the blood and the body.”
His ears flattened, and he looked sheepishly at Claryce before answering, “Just checking in case it was important to ye, Master Nicholas! I swear!”
“Hmmph.” I let it pass. I was actually glad to have Fetch nearby. His keen nose and eyes might be of help while I talked with Cortez.
There was no doubt in my mind I’d get a chance to speak with Cortez. He had enough interest in my doings to wonder why I’d come here. I didn’t see myself risking anything; the detective wouldn’t think I’d actually been involved in the shooting.
I finally had Fetch follow behind us. With his ability to slip unnoticed through crowds, he’d be far less conspicuous on his own rather than pretending to be our pet. That would only draw attention to his unique looks, something I didn’t want right now.
There were fewer cops than I’d thought would be here. The body’d already been removed. The two uniformed figures I saw looked bored and ready to leave as soon as they could. They weren’t interested in the splotch of red nearby nor paying much attention to their duties guarding the vicinity. Both seemed more intere
sted in what was going on in a nearby building.
I knew that I’d find Cortez there.
“Claryce, will you at least stay here?”
She’d come this far, but to my relief grudgingly agreed. “Fetch, stay with her.”
He wasn’t so willing. “But Master Nicholas—”
“Fetch . . .”
“Yes, Master Nicholas.”
Acting as if I belonged there, I crossed into the scene and headed toward where I assumed Cortez was. I was mildly surprised that neither cop looked my way, but I finally gathered that the only reason they were still here was because Cortez had ordered them to be. I was sure that would go far to adding to his popularity with his fellow policemen.
Before I could reach the building, the good detective stepped out. He didn’t bat an eye when he saw me. I watched as he put a small notebook in his jacket and then signaled the two officers. Taking a look, I saw the pair hurrying off.
“They love me, you know?” Cortez mocked. “Didn’t want to leave me here alone, but I had to finally insist . . .”
“Yeah, it looked like that’s what it was.”
He shrugged, his expression growing more honest. “Hey, me, I’m used to the icy mitt.” He smiled grimly. “And why do I find you here, Nick Medea? Not your beat.”
“I’d say it wasn’t yours, either, but you seem to be everywhere doing everything.”
He gestured at the blood stain in mock surprise. “What this? Oh, this fits into my investigation. A lot of things and people fit into my investigation, you know?”
And I’m one of them. I made use of that. “I was nearby with a client. Something came up, and I needed to ask you a question. I called the precinct, and they said you’d be here of all places.”
Cortez made a tsking sound. “They ain’t supposed to do that. You must have a way with you . . . or it might be they didn’t care who was looking for me.” He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Gasper?”
“No thanks.”
He lit one. “My Maria, she doesn’t like me to smoke by the kids, and I don’t ever do that, you know? She don’t like the smell and she says it makes her cough.” Suddenly, Cortez lost interest in the cigarette. He dropped it by his feet, then crushed it under one shoe. “I should quit for her. What do you want, Nick Medea?”
Black City Saint Page 16
