I stalled, using the moment to sniff the stale air for blood—nothing—and listen for a fourth heartbeat in the immediate area. The three that were present would mask its sound. “We’ll have to search.”
“This place is too big, and I’m in a hurry. Slap it out of Becker.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
I’d have thought she’d seen one too many Cagney movies but for the fact she was her father’s daughter. “Uh… well…”
“You’re not going sissy on me, are you?”
Cooley stepped in to rescue me. “He can’t, Dot.”
“Why not? I hired him.”
“He’s friends with Northside Gordy. Your pop works for him, but in a sideways kind of direction. If you have Fleming beating up one of your pop’s guys, that could make for trouble. Big Louie would have to retaliate on this guy, and then Gordy would have to retaliate on Louie.”
She steamed and stewed, but offered no counterargument, just a single contempt-laden comment. “Politics.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Sorry.”
“All right. Will it start a gang war if you two just tied Becker up for me?”
We consulted with a wordless exchange of looks. “We can do that,” I said.
“Yeah, we can do that,” Cooley echoed.
He was pretty gray in the gills. I was a little better recovered and did the honors after finding a coil of rope.
Dorothy was specific about how she wanted Becker immobilized. Being in no condition to object, he was soon wrapped tight in a hemp cocoon. While I was busy Dorothy found a stack of folded tarps and dragged them down, filling the air with dust. She and Cooley sneezed, but I was immune so long as I didn’t breathe.
Becker revived enough from my gentle tap to sneeze too.
Dorothy paused, throwing him a Medusa’s stare, and he did go still. “Where’s Jerome?”
“He’s not right for you, Dot.”
“And you are?”
“I’m a better man than him.”
“I can almost see why you’d think that. But brass tacks—I get the final say, and that’s what matters. I love him, not you. Now where is he?”
“Cooley, you tell her that I—”
“Leave me out of it!” Cooley snarled. “I told you to stay clear of her. You’re an idiot, ask anyone.” He sank to the floor, his back to some junk, and took a swig from his flask. He seemed content to watch but not interfere. That was a reasonable course to me. I remained standing, using my bat for a cane to keep me steady.
Dorothy leaned in close. “Becker. Look at me. Tell me where Jerome is, and we’ll keep this between ourselves. Even Daddy won’t know.”
“I don’t care if the boss finds out!”
If that was her trump card, she didn’t seem disappointed by his reaction. “You should.”
“He can do what he likes, I’m saving you from—”
She picked up his baseball bat and gave it an experimental swing.
Becker went white, but kept the stubborn face. “You wouldn’t.”
“If Daddy was here, probably not. He’d do it himself, and probably kill you before you talked. But this is your lucky night. I’m here instead.”
“Aw, Dot,” said Cooley, “you don’t wanna do that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“You could really hurt him.”
“Exactly.” Her gaze never left Becker.
“I mean you could kill him. Accidental-like.”
“If I kill him it will be entirely on purpose. But that won’t happen. He’ll wish he was dead, though.”
She dropped the bat and began throwing folded tarps across Becker’s tied-up body. He tried to roll around to get out from under, but their combined weight got to be too much. In a very short time he was nearly gone from view except for his head. Must have been hot, I thought, watching his face go red from either heat or rising fury.
“Dot…” he said. “You need to—”
“Where’s Jerome?” she asked, picking up the bat and tapping the fat end against the cement floor.
When he didn’t reply, she raised it high and brought it down hard across his tarp-insulated midsection.
Cooley yelled something, but it was drowned out by Becker’s much louder, outraged bellow. Despite the thick layers of canvas he’d obviously felt the force of it. Never underestimate the determination of a woman being deprived of her honeymoon.
Dorothy took a few more swings, full power, then paused to sneeze. Each time she connected, more dust got thrown up. I offered her my handkerchief. She gave me a sweet, heart-melting look of gratitude and noisily blew her nose. “You’re so polite,” she said.
I didn’t know what to say to that and stepped out of range as she wound up for another inning.
“Dorothy!”
We all froze—except for Becker, of course—as Mrs. Huffman stepped into the improvised arena. With her was Mrs. Schubert. Both ladies were wide of eye.
“What are you doing?” demanded the mother of the bride.
Dorothy lifted her chin, resting the bat on her shoulder. “He knows where Jerome is. I’m persuading him to cooperate.” She gave a brief meant-to-be-reassuring nod at her shocked mother-in-law.
“Oh, Sylvia,” said Mrs. Schubert.
“You’re right, Gerty.” Mrs. Huffman stepped forward. “This isn’t the way to do it.” She pulled a four-inch-thick layer of tarp from Becker and glanced at her daughter. “Too much padding, dear. He won’t feel anything with that much in the way. Try it now.”
“Sylvia! We’re in church!” Mrs. Schubert pointed out.
“Just the basement. It doesn’t count. If this was the sanctuary it would be completely different.”
“Well, if you’re sure…”
She put an arm around other woman’s shoulder and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Your Jerome is family now. We look after our own.” Mrs. Huffman offered suggestions on where best to strike to get a faster result.
Dorothy slammed the bat down, clearly in a take-no-prisoners mood.
Cooley and I winced.
Becker howled. I didn’t think he could get louder at it, but he managed. At one point he tried to babble to Mrs. Huffman that he was in love with Dorothy, but it cut no ice with her.
“Sweetheart,” she addressed her daughter, who’d paused again. “Make him fall out of love with you.”
Dorothy made that ominous back-of-the-throat sound and obliged, having gained her second wind.
Mrs. Huffman glanced at Cooley. “You will see to it that this fellow leaves town?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he humbly replied.
“If there’s anything left of him,” I added.
I got a hard, haughty look from the lady. “Young man, he won’t even show a bruise.”
That set me wondering if she was the source of Big Louie Huffman’s reputation for swift persuasion. Maybe behind every successful man stands a woman—holding a baseball bat.
Wham, thump, wham. I winced again, sympathetic, but not about to get in the middle of the proceedings.
It seemed to take longer, but a couple minutes later Becker cracked. His color had gone from white fear to red anger and finally bilious green as he blurted out where he’d hidden Jerome. Now I stepped in quick, threw off the tarps, and rolled him on his side. The pounding had a predictable effect on his digestive tract, and I didn’t think it a good thing for him to choke to death in front of the ladies. They withdrew from the immediate area, hands over their noses, and went after Dorothy as she darted off to find her husband.
Moving more slowly, I followed the women back to the old table where I’d been dragged. There was a door in the shadows I’d not noticed earlier, distracted as I was by the skull-busting. Dorothy was trying to pry it open with a crowbar.
“Jack! I’m not strong enough—could you—?”
No problem. I didn’t need the crowbar, but used it anyway. No point in impressing them by ripping the doorknob from the thick panel; I might hav
e to pay for it. A minimum amount of elbow grease popped the door wide. Dorothy rushed in, crying Jerome’s name, kneeling and covering him with kisses.
He was tied, gagged, and groggy, with blood down the front of his once-pristine white shirt—from a punch in the nose, it turned out.
And dammit, he did look like Ralph Bellamy.
Once free and able to catch his breath Schubert filled in the blanks while the women fussed over him.
At the cake-cutting Becker had threatened to ventilate him unless he came along quietly at gunpoint. Schubert was too surprised even to think to fight until they were in the hall broom closet. Becker had been itching to punch him for weeks. One smack in the kisser did the trick. That satisfaction taken, he’d forced Schubert to write the good-bye note, which he’d done with one hand holding the pencil, the other pressing the blue cravat to his bloody nose. For all that, he’d tried to put in a few clues that would make the note read wrong. Smart guy.
Then Becker coshed him solid and dragged the unconscious groom down to the basement. With Schubert safely stowed, Becker was free to resume goon duties for his boss until such time as he could return and permanently remove his rival. The bride’s violent reaction and bringing in outside help must have been a shock.
Dorothy enthusiastically gave credit where it was due, and Schubert shook my hand. I don’t think one word in ten was getting through to him, but he was willing to agree with his wife. If he continued doing that I figured they’d have a long and happy partnership.
As it seemed only right, I asked and was allowed to kiss the bride. My chaste peck on the cheek made her blush. Then the mothers stepped in and insisted everyone go back upstairs. They’d already decided to tell their guests the whole thing was an elaborate wedding prank that had gotten out of hand.
Soon as they were far enough away, I vanished, cutting myself off from the head and shin pain. That was almost as good as kissing Dorothy. As I floated in the gray nothingness I wished them a happy celebration in their Niagara-bound Pullman.
Then I wondered what my girlfriend was up to; plenty of time to call on her, see if she might be in the mood for some amiable canoodling. How many other couples who had attended the wedding would have similar thoughts in line with the bride and groom’s wedding night?
When I went solid again the headache was gone along with the bruises. I was tired from the healing, but straight-from-the-vein refreshment at the Stockyards or even a pint of red from a butcher shop would take care of that.
I still had some cleanup work to do, though, not unlike those ladies in the kitchen, but with more heavy lifting involved.
Cooley was where I’d left him, taking it easy on the floor while scowling at the miserable rope-swathed bundle before him. When I returned, he tiredly levered himself upright, pulled out a knife, and cut Becker free. “We need to get him outta here before Big Louie steps in.”
He took it for granted that I’d help him. Well, why not?
“The kid’s okay,” Cooley went on, “but an idiot for skirts.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Yeah, but use a little judgment on which skirt you fall for.”
“Like Mrs. Huffman?”
That shot got me a sharp look, and for an instant before covering it up he looked like a raw and vulnerable kid himself. Maybe some twenty years ago Mrs. Huffman had used similar means to make him fall out of love with her.
“Oh, yeah,” he said slowly. “I hear stories about you. You don’t go spreadin’ that one, punk.”
I raised both hands in a “not me” gesture. “It stays right here, pal. Like the lady said, we’re in a church.”
He grunted and, with more care than I’d have given him credit for, helped get the luckless Becker to his unsteady feet.
P. N. Elrod has sold more than twenty novels, at least as many short stories, and edited several collections, including My Big, Fat Supernatural Wedding. She’s best known for her Vampire Files series, featuring Jack Fleming, and would write books more quickly but for being hampered by an incurable chocolate addiction.
Information on her toothy titles may be found at www.vampwriter.com.
NEWLYDEADS
A Tale of Black London
Caitlin Kittredge
This story takes place in the world of the Black, place of fae, demons, and magic-users that hides in the nooks and crannies of the real. As far as human denizens go, Pete Caldecott and her friend Jack Winter are by far the most notorious…
BLACKPOOL APPEARED OUT OF THE FOG, A THOUSAND neon eyes winking from a hunched and gleaming body.
Pete Caldecott stood in the swirling salt-scented mist and glowered at the edifice of the Paradise Palace Casino & Resort. The pink neon letters blinked lethargically, a beacon to middle-aged couples, poor young families, and gamblers on their last shilling. Not so common were detective inspectors, like herself, and sneaky gits like her companion.
Pete turned her head to glare at Jack Winter, the titular companion. “This is not my idea of a bloody holiday.”
Jack shrugged, producing a Parliament from the thin air between his fingers. “You said you needed a change. This is a change. Chin up, lip stiff or some rot. Besides, you love the seaside.” He clicked his fingernails together and an ember flared on the Parliament’s tip.
Pete ignored him. Jack used magic on her only when he was trying to weasel out of an apology. “Get the bags, then,” she said. “Can’t wait to relax in the confines of a double-twin between the lift and the ice machine.”
Jack grabbed up their suitcases from the back of Pete’s Mini and jogged after her. “Oi! Come back here!”
Pete quickened her pace in retaliatory spite. The carpark was silent and empty except for the Mini’s red beede-backed shape, pavement slick and slimy in the descending twilight. The mist gathered behind her, obscuring Jack’s bowed platinum head for a moment, and a wind brought the scent of rotting sea things. No bird cries carried from the Irish Sea and no drunken holiday chatter, which there should surely be in Blackpool of all places, reached her ears.
Just for a moment, she could be anywhere, trapped in fog ancient as the marshes around the city, lost to the Black like the women of fireside stories.
A doorman in a crumpled pink coat slumbered at the lobby doors when Pete reached them. Moisture dripped from the brim of his cap. The doors were frosted glass, etched with the image of kissing swans.
Jack caught up to her, wheezing equal parts wet air and smoke, his jackboots raising a clatter. The doorman did not stir.
“You going to be in a mood for the entire weekend?” Jack demanded, dragging deeply on the end of his Parliament before flicking it into a puddle. It hissed and sparked out with a little question mark of smoke.
“Very probably,” said Pete. Jack got his smile, the curled ends pushing at the early lines in his face and the little spark of imp-light in his eyes. Pete always thought of it as the devil-smile.
“I promise you—no, I wager you, Pete Caldecott, that before this holiday is over you’ll admit that you’ve had a bit of fun.”
Pete opened the lobby door. “Never happen. Ten quid?”
Jack hefted the suitcases. “I’m a confident bloke. Make it twenty.”
The swans whooshed shut behind them, kissing once more. The Paradise Palace’s lobby was done in bloodred carpet and pink satin chairs, walls the color of a poisoned tide washing sand.
Pete said, “I’m surprised you have that much to bet, after the horrendous expense of dragging me to a family casino resort done entirely in swans.” The motif repeated through the lobby, the only relief a gilt-edged oil painting over a fake fireplace that depicted a marsh scene, a deep swirl of blacks and fleshy greens.
“They’re having a special,” said Jack smugly, shoving Pete’s suitcase back into her arms. “St. Gummarus’s Feast rates for all of the week. Get ready to pay out on Monday, Miss I’m-So-Sure.”
Jack Winter had many vices, not the least of which was usually being right. Pete po
inted at the black marble reception rather than admit she was out of retorts. “Go check us in. I’m tired and I’d like to go claim my glorified broom closet so I can lie down.”
“You wait, Caldecott,” Jack assured her, strutting over to the reception. The clerk eyed his black denim, jackboots, and nicotine-tinged Dead Kennedys shirt with something approaching stark horror. “You wait. You’ll have the time of your life. Mark my words.”
JACK GRINNED SILENTLY THE ENTIRE TIME THEY WAITED for the lift, and practically cackled when he reached across Pete and punched the button for the top floor of the hotel.
“All right, what?” she finally demanded. Jack burst out into laughter, which quickly turned to a cough.
“Bollocks, is it sodding damp enough in this place? My insides are growing mold.”
“You chose it, you don’t get to complain,” Pete said, punctuating her speech with her best I’m-going-to-fetch-you-a-bloody-smack glare. “What’s so bloody amusing?”
Jack rummaged about the inside pocket of his tatty black longcoat and pulled out two plastic cards emblazoned with—what else—the kissing swans. The cards were gilt-edged, like some sort of psychotically romanticized Golden Ticket. “Here, you look at this,” Jack said, still barely containing his mirth, “and you try telling me that this won’t be the best bloody holiday in the history of Britain.”
The plastic card read Honeymoon Getaway—Suite Access Key in flamboyant red script.
Pete felt as if the lift had abruptly reversed direction. “Jack, what did you do?”
“I told that sad bloke at the counter we were married,” said Jack, eyes alight. “And it being our honeymoon, and us having so little money with the baby on the way, it might be nice if he offered us a sort of upgrade…”
Pete dropped her suitcase and moved for Jack’s throat. Height advantage he may have, but she was a trained inspector with the Metropolitan Police. She’d faced down demons and rampaging ghosts, and more important, she was angry.
“Oi!” Jack shouted, her blow glancing off his shoulder as he ducked. “Settle down! The honeymooner’s suite gets free room service! And a whirlpool bath. You bloody women love that sort of thing.”
My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon Page 15
