by Julie Beard
“Where’s Rick?” I inquired after Carl deposited his drinks. Whenever I was here, I always called Bogie by the name of his character in Casablanca. It lessened the chance of confusing the supporting cast and shorting out their programs.
“Rick?” he sniffed as he headed back to the bar, with me following. “Madam, he’s probably in the back, having a private party.”
“Tell him I want to have a drink with him.”
“Rick never drinks with customers.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’d heard it all before. It was one of the great moments in the movie, when Rick suddenly agrees to drink with Ingrid—I mean, Ilsa, and her husband, Victor Laszlo. Rick was the classic cynic with the heart of gold.
Across the room he came out of the private room, where guests entered only at his invitation, and went to the bar. He struck a match, lighting a cigarette, and found me through the veil of smoke. Talk about smoldering looks. I was definitely going to have that drink. Unfortunately, it was going to be seltzer. I never imbibed before a job.
I meandered my way toward the bar, with one eye over my shoulder looking for Mike. The place was filling up fast. I stopped briefly to chat with a retributionist I’d met on the south side. But Bogie was waiting, and I moved on.
“Hello, Angel,” he said when I reached the bar. He never cracked a smile, but I could tell by the glint in his eyes he was glad to see me. He was the master of understatement. “What brings you here?”
“I’m going out on a surveillance op and may not come back.”
He took a drink from his bourbon glass. “You always come back, Angel.”
“That’s nice of you to say, Rick, but you never know when—” I glanced at the door and stopped cold. There was Mike standing out like a sore thumb in his martial arts garb, and beside him stood Detective Marco, looking dashing, as always, in his well-tailored suit with its knee-length coat. I made a mental note to kill Mike the next time we were alone for bringing Marco here.
The good detective was being obnoxiously persistent in his pursuit of me. I was almost flattered, but I didn’t want him to know I’d resorted to robot and instead felt embarrassed, then indignant. What I did in my private life was none of his business. It was because of arrogant men like him that I’d turned to Bogie in the first place. I glared defiantly at Marco from the distance until he spotted me through the smoky room. When he saw me standing next to Bogie, his strong jaw turned to stone and he frowned. He was pissed. Good. I’d give him even more to stew over.
I turned back to Bogie and ran my hands up his flawless, sharply tailored white tuxedo. “Kiss me, Rick. Kiss me like it’s the last time.”
It was as if Pavlov had just rung his bell. Bogie heard that line from the movie and lunged for my lips. I half expected music to swell in the background. Instead, Sam and his orchestra finished a number and the place fell silent.
“Look!” a lady in red polka dots shouted to her husband, pointing at us. “Is that Rick and Ilsa? No, who is that woman? Was she in the movie?”
I reddened as it seemed the whole room was focused on our corner.
“Come on, Ms. Baker,” Bogie said, “Let’s go in the back.”
I didn’t argue when he took my arm and firmly led me to his private party room. I felt Ilsa’s mental daggers in my back and gave her an immature grin of triumph as I departed. She strolled to Sam’s piano, and I knew what song she would request.
No sooner had we reached the relative privacy of Rick’s gaming room than Marco marched in. He shut the door behind him and slowly walked toward me, hands in his pockets, an ironic smile on his face. He stopped too close.
I put my hands on my hips and turned to him. “What do you want?”
“What the hell is this all about?”
“What is what all about?”
“This!” He motioned to Bogie, ignoring him completely. He obviously hadn’t seen any of the “Compubots are people, too” ad campaign commercials. AutoMates had feelings, albeit preprogrammed feelings, and I felt indignant on Bogie’s behalf.
“Don’t be rude, Marco. This is Rick Blaine. He owns this place.”
“Yeah, right.”
Bogie stepped between us. “That’s enough, Mr…?”
“Marco,” I said, filling in the blank. “Detective Marco. He’s a big shot, Rick. Educated out the wazoo, bent on revenge with a Superman complex. He’ll use you up and spit you out and take no prisoners and make you feel the whole time like he really understands your feelings.”
Bogie processed this smoothly. “I see. I’m sure Captain Renault can answer whatever questions you have, Detective Marco. He’s the local authority here in Casablanca.”
“Captain Renault?” Marco looked at me with labored patience, still ignoring Bogie.
“You know,” I whispered, “the little French guy who’s always running interference with the Nazis. He and Rick go off together at the end of the movie. It’s one of the classic lines of all time. Rick says to Renault, ‘Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’ Don’t tell me you haven’t even seen Casablanca. Men like you kill me, Marco, you really do. Get some culture, for God’s sake.”
Marco finally turned his look of disbelief from me to Bogie. “I can’t believe you’d resort to this…this thing. What are you doing with your life, Baker? Are you absolutely determined to throw it away?”
“Will you shut up?” My face positively burned. “You have no right to come in here and mock him, or anyone else. This is none of your business.”
“It’s time for you to go, Detective Marco,” Bogie said, stepping forward.
When Bogie grabbed Marco’s arm, he jerked it away. “Get your hands off me, you damned compubot.”
“Marco, stop!” I hissed.
Suddenly the sounds of Sam playing “As Time Goes By” drifted in from the other room.
“I knew it!” I muttered. Ilsa was jealous. She had Sam play that song knowing Rick couldn’t resist.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Bogie headed out of the room like a man walking to his destiny. My knight in shining armor had hung up his lance to trot after his beloved damsel, and Ingrid Bergman didn’t even have to whistle.
I growled under my breath. “Boy, that was really mature, Marco. You almost got in a fight with a compubot, you know that?”
“You should talk. You almost got laid by one.”
I bit my tongue. He didn’t know the half of it.
“Look,” he said, running his hand over his frown, “Mike told me you think you know where Lola is.”
“Did he tell you where?”
“No. But I don’t think now is the time to go off on a wild-goose chase. I just found out that the R.M.O. and the Mongolians are about to go to war over those missing Chinese orphans that have been in the news. The R.M.O. apparently stole the girls before the Mongolians could sell them on the black market.”
“Maybe that’s why the R.M.O. lost interest in us. They had bigger fish to fry.” And maybe, I thought, that’s where Lin came from. Janet Drummond said her husband had done work for Corleone Capone. “This sounds serious.”
“It is,” Marco said. “So promise me you won’t go to Little Beijing and mess with Capone.”
“I promise.”
“And promise me you won’t go to West Devon and get involved with Gorky’s gang.”
“No problem.”
He looked at me so thoroughly goose bumps rose on my arms. Suddenly it dawned on me—duh—he was jealous of Bogie. The air between us thickened and I swallowed.
“You’re not going to tell me where you’re going, are you?” he said in husky voice, now looking at my lips.
His gaze was like a laser beam, burning me up. “No.”
He nodded. “I didn’t think so.”
He stepped even closer. I felt chilled, then flushed, then chilled again. God, what was he doing to me?
“So,” he murmured, “use your talents, okay? Stay one step ahead of trouble.”
�
�Okay.” My voice was breathy. I couldn’t get enough air. “I’m good at that.”
“And wear this.” He pulled a minuscule tracking device out of his jacket pocket and held it out between his thumb and forefinger. “This will tell headquarters where you are. If you get into trouble, turn it on. I’ve got a buddy at HQ who is going to keep an eye on the monitor for me. I’ll be able to reach you at a moment’s notice. Just pinch the little button in the middle and a silent alarm will go off.”
“Sure, Marco. Thanks,” I said, though I had no intention of turning it on. I held out my hand, and he dropped the silver button into my palm. I dropped the tracker into my pocket and gave him a dubious look. “So why are you giving up so easily? You’re ridiculously tenacious. I thought you might pull my fingernails out one at a time until I told you what’s up.”
He shifted weight to one foot and slipped his hands into his pockets as he grinned. “Now why would I do that? If I try to play the hero, you’ll just end up having to rescue me again. I have no doubt you’ll succeed at whatever it is you’re planning. Just be careful, Baker.”
He whispered this last word in a tone so intimate I felt liked I’d been slammed up against a wall.
“Yeah,” I brayed, “don’t want to lose your free psychic, huh? Ha, ha.”
He didn’t even hear me. He was moving in for the kill—I mean, the kiss. His lips touched mine and my head literally swooned. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Get a grip, Baker.
I pulled back, feigning boredom, but not fast enough. Bogie slipped back in the room and caught the tail end of our lip lock.
Marco grinned. “Uh-oh. Here comes your leading man.” He looked down and winked at me, then gently chucked my chin with a fist. “Here’s looking at you, kid.”
I smiled, then shook my head as I watched him spin around and leave. So he had seen the movie. Damn, that man was playing me like a fiddle.
Marco nodded to Bogie on his way out. The dapper AutoMate sauntered my way. “So who was that?”
“That was trouble,” I said. “Big trouble. With a capital T.”
Chapter 14
Cosmo the Magnificent
By the time Mike and I left the bar, it was dark outside. As we walked toward the Southport station, I gave him a good tongue-lashing for taking Marco into his confidence. Mike took it with his usual serene expression. I had absolutely no idea what he was thinking, but I didn’t think he was listening.
He clearly trusted Marco. Part of me felt betrayed and part of me was relieved. His confidence in Marco made me feel like I wasn’t being a total idiot. As for swooning in Marco’s arms, what was that all about? I couldn’t think about that now.
Just before we reached the station, my lapel phone buzzed. I popped it in my ear.
“Baker here. You’ve got thirty seconds and it better be good.”
“Angel, it’s Hank. Whatever you’re doing, stop and listen.”
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and pressed the button more firmly in my ear. “Shoot.”
“Jon called. He was able to make contact with his family. They’ll be looking out for you just north of the Addison station.”
Jon gave us directions to a secret entrance that fed into the underground. That meant we wouldn’t have to start all the way downtown and work our way north. It beat the heck out of meandering through miles of abandoned subway tunnels hoping we wouldn’t run into a band of Shadowmen trotting by in their jack boots. Best of all, the entrance was within walking distance of my apartment.
I thanked Hank profusely and turned to Mike as I pulled the button out of my ear and hung up. “Things are looking up, Mikey. Who would have thunk it? The moles’ secret north side entrance is in the old Cubs stadium. Right under our noses.”
The original home of the Cubs was built in 1914. It was a cozy, natural grass park with low seating close to the diamond and had retained its old-world charm to the end. Now it was a deteriorating relic etching the skyline, a fond memento like the Coliseum in Rome, minus the cats.
The Chicago Cubs baseball team abandoned the site in 2095, moving to TerraForma stadium that floated on Lake Michigan. The team owners said, in essence, build a new stadium and we will come—or we move to Bali. Mayor Richard J. Daley VI cried uncle and the city financed the project.
Personally, I don’t think the city should have subsidized billionaire players, especially since the team hasn’t won a pennant since 1908. You can only hold your breath so long. But no one asked me. Naturally, the new stadium cost a fortune. The only people who can afford tickets are rich, which is convenient since most of them have yachts they can ride out to the stadium.
So the old bleacher bums who used to get drunk in the outfield and Wrigleyville locals who used to catch a game in the afternoon now come here to reminisce. For the cost of a beer, you can sit in what remains of the stadium and listen to a play-by-play of the division playoffs when the Cubbies had a real shot at victory.
We entered what remained of the oval concrete perimeter on the west side. Baseball fans filed in and out as if a real night game was going on. My heart tripped with excitement when I saw the floodlights filling the great, green oval space that contained the diamond.
I couldn’t resist going up the ramp to get a good look at the action. There was a big crowd, except along the east side, where the seating had crumbled beyond repair. Hundreds of fans ate hot dogs and pretzels, drank beer and soda. They all stared at the empty, brightly lit field as if a game were going on. In their minds’ eyes it was. When the announcer—a Harry Caray hologram—exuberantly shouted “And it’s out of the park!” the crowd jumped to its feet, whooping and hollering in victory.
Mike came up beside me, tucking his entwined hands neatly in the folds of his monk’s robe. He regarded the imaginary game and shook his head, muttering, “Only in America.”
I grinned at him. “You love it and you know it. Come on, let’s go get some cotton candy.”
We wandered back down to the area where there used to be row after row of permanent vendors selling overpriced beer and pretzels and the usual stadium fare. Decades of dust and grime coated the empty stalls and counters, giving it the feel of a ghost town. The action was now in the middle of the wide walkway, where the same kinds of food and souvenirs were sold relatively cheaply at kiosks and rickety tables.
“Step right up, get your all-beef frank, Chicago-style,” called a balding guy dressed in retro bebop. As we walked past, he stepped in front of Mike and practically shoved a hot dog in his face. “Hey, Kung Fu, you hungry?”
“Don’t eat meat, fool,” Mike said. He lifted his arm in a defensive martial arts move and the dog went flying out of the bun. Luckily, it landed back in the vendor’s portable stand. Not so luckily, it splashed his 1950s guitar shirt with greasy water.
“Hey! Easy, man, I’m just trying to make a living.”
“Sorry,” I mouthed to him from behind Mike’s back. “Let’s keep going.”
We wandered past a clown who sold glow-in-the-dark bracelets, an earth mother in tie-dye selling baseball caps and a macrobiotic vendor who sold brown rice shaped like wieners and hamburgers.
The array was endless. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Jon told Hank the secret passageway was here, but he didn’t exactly give me an address and key. I suppose he trusted I’d figure it out.
From the corner of my eye I noticed a magician in dark sunglasses. He wore a classic silk cape and top hat. He had a big black box, about the size of an upright coffin, apparently used for disappearing acts. He also had a pretty assistant in a tight, sequined outfit. I nudged Mike out of the flow of foot traffic and tugged him toward the magician, who worked under a banner that read Cosmo’s Magic Emporium. “We gotta check this out.”
When I got a closer look at the operation, I realized why business was slow. A sign written in bright red print announced that Cosmo the Magnificent charged a hundred dollars to make people disappear. Small print further explained it would take another grand to r
eappear. So a ten-minute magic trick would cost eleven hundred smackers, unless you were a masochist who enjoyed being trapped inside the false back of the rigged box. Used to grifters as I was, I had to admire the guy for his chutzpah.
“I want to do it,” I whispered to Mike. “I want to see how he makes me disappear.”
He frowned at me. “You nuts? We keep looking for secret door.”
“I always begged Lola to take me to a magic act, but she never would. She thought magicians were beneath her.”
Just then I got lucky. A family of four, munching caramel corn, strolled up to Cosmo’s Magic Emporium. The father looked like a corporate executive. He had gray hair at his temples, tasseled loafers, a crisp sport coat and a striped open-necked shirt and polished fingernails. And this was obviously his slacker wear. He forked over his cash chip to Cosmo’s assistant and his two giggling daughters went into the box.
“I’m scared, Daddy,” one of the girls giggled.
“It’s okay, honey. You’ll be fine.”
I was as fascinated by the impeccably dressed guy and his perfectly coiffed wife as I was by the magic act. These people obviously came from the suburbs. This was probably their night out to mingle with the common folk.
“You are about to witness, ladies and gentleman, an act so amazing that you will remember it for the rest of your life!” Cosmo began with a patter that he’d obviously given a thousand times before.
As he promised miracles and amazement, his assistant went around to the back of the box, proving my theory that she would help the girls step into a back exit space in time to amaze their parents. It was all a hoax.
“Come, Baker,” Mike whispered. “We must find the entrance. Forget stupid magic trick.”
“Shh-hh. Just a minute.” I smiled as the girls tried to hold back their laughter. Cosmo pulled off the act quickly and flawlessly. When he opened the box to reveal its emptiness, the parents pretended to be surprised and worried about their missing children. Cosmo reversed the routine before the children became impatient and—voilà!—there they were again. The girls rushed out of the tight box, hugged their parents and off they went, excitedly describing their adventure.
