Chapter 10
“It was amazing,” Sam gushed as Wanda drove them to Sullivan’s mansion that evening. “Just holding something made by a person three thousand years ago, knowing they were as real as me, that they had their own life and hopes and dreams…”
“Sounds like a profound experience,” Wanda said. “And you say this all belonged to a woman pharaoh?”
“Neferneferuaten, yes. You should see the artwork on, well, everything. Doc says it’s done in a style particular to the Amarna Period, which…”
Alistair tuned the conversation out. He rode in the rumble seat in cheetah form, keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might be following them on the road or in the air.
It was nice to see Sam gain another enthusiasm, though. He was talking about this long-dead pharaoh and her life the way he talked about hexes: with an intense excitement and need to share his discoveries with his friends.
It was probably a good sign, too, given Alistair couldn’t imagine Sam’s awful family listening to him ramble about magic or history or anything else. Another way he was blooming, after the long winter they’d kept him in.
The gates to Sullivan’s mansion were closed, and large men in dark suits peered at their faces before waving them through.
Alistair hopped out of the rumble seat and took back human form, though he remained on the alert.
Sullivan probably had owls aloft, keeping watch in the trees and on the roof, but he wasn’t about to trust strangers with their lives.
He opened Sam’s door and helped him out, grinning at the light blush that touched his freckled skin.
Sam looked amazing in the bespoke suit Joel had tailored for him back in the spring, when they infiltrated the Black Rabbit.
Alistair wore his best suit as well. For once, Wanda had forgone her suits and chosen a yellow evening dress with a draped cape back.
It contrasted beautifully with her dark brown skin and brought out her golden eyes even more.
A maid met them at the entrance of the sumptuous mansion and whisked away their coats and hats.
Though he imagined Sullivan had a huge dining room for entertaining, the one they were led to was smaller and more intimate, befitting the size of their group.
Even so, the floor was marble, the walls covered in gold-leaf paper.
Another portrait of Sullivan’s dead son hung on one wall, draped in black crepe. It seemed none of the public rooms in the house were spared from mourning.
“Mr. Sullivan will join you in a moment,” said a man awaiting them in the room.
A butler, maybe? Alistair didn’t know anything about how rich people lived or what gradations of servants they employed.
“In the meantime, a glass of vermouth as an aperitif for Mr. and Miss Gatti, and a spritz for Mr. Cunningham.”
More servers appeared, pulling out their chairs, then pouring the drinks into little glasses. Wanda took a sip of hers. “Very nice,” she told the butler, or whoever he was.
“Excellent, madam. Is there anything else you require?”
As they were shaking their heads, the door opened and Sullivan strode in. A thin red line showed on his cheek where flying glass from the bomb had caught him, but to all appearances he was completely recovered from the experience.
Another figure followed, this one moving much more slowly and leaning on a cane: Turner, Sullivan’s right-hand man.
Sam’s eyes lit up. “Mr. Turner! You’re out of the hospital!”
Turner grinned at him. “I sure am, Choirboy.” He sat heavily in a chair between Wanda and Sam. “And it’s Lenny to you.”
Alistair kept his expression neutral only with effort. Fur and feathers, it was one thing to be a lowly worker in Sullivan’s criminal enterprise. But being on a first-name basis with the number two man in the organization?
Sam was in deep and getting deeper all the time. Which was bad news if things went south for Sullivan. Maybe bad news anyway, since working for a syndicate wasn’t exactly the most stable career path.
Then again, Sullivan had invited Wanda and him for a private dinner, and Fabiano had dropped by with an “offer.” They were all in deep, not just Sam.
The servants whisked back in, serving the first course of lobster cocktail, followed by baked sea trout, roast leg of lamb with carrots and potatoes, and finishing with chocolate cake, each course accompanied by a different wine or mock cocktail.
It was entirely too much. Sullivan was displaying his wealth, his generosity, his largesse. Which meant he wanted something from them. Just as Fabiano had.
But it seemed he wasn’t a man to talk business over dinner, and they took his lead.
Turner regaled them with stories of the foibles of his fellow hospital patients, Sullivan reminisced about his childhood on the streets of New York, and Wanda contributed to the conversation with stories of amusing drunks she’d dealt with at The Pride.
Sam jumped in here and there with an anecdote of his own, but Alistair kept his mouth shut except to chuckle or grunt at the appropriate points.
The dinner felt like an action in enemy territory, one where they weren’t sure exactly where the Germans were hiding.
Was an ambush coming up? A hidden concrete bunker that would open on them with machine gun fire before they ever saw it?
Or just an impersonal shell, launched from over a mile away by men they’d never meet?
By the time the chocolate cake was cleared away, his nerves were taut as steel wires.
Sullivan sat back with the same easy smile he’d worn the whole time. “Shall we retreat to my study for brandy and cigars? I have a few things I’d like to talk to you about, Miss Gatti.”
Wanda matched his smile. “Of course. We have some news for you, as well.”
Alistair had seen the library where Sullivan held court to greet the guests at his wife’s birthday party.
That had felt like the backdrop of a photography studio, set up to give an impression but not actually used.
Sullivan’s study was the opposite of that: the comfortable chairs were well-worn, the desk stained from innumerable cups of coffee, the wall covered in what looked like personal photographs.
Yet another portrait of his dead son hung on the wall, overlooking the proceedings.
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Sullivan said, gesturing to the chairs. “Is brandy all right? What about you, Sam—I have some mineral water imported special from Europe.”
“Thank you,” Sam said.
Turner made as if to pour their drinks, but Sullivan waved him off. “Sit down, Lenny, your wife’ll kill me if I send you home in worse shape than you left.”
Tuner sat down with a groan. “I’m just glad she was never at the hospital at the same time as this one nurse I had. Could’ve given Rudolph Valentino a run for his money. I told him that he was wasted in Chicago, ought to take his face out to Hollywood.”
Sam started slightly, though Alistair couldn’t figure out why.
“You cad, flirting with the nurses,” Sullivan laughed, passing Turner a generous snifter of brandy. “Be glad Betty didn’t catch you!”
“She would’ve shot me, then run off with him,” Turner agreed. “Ah, well, such is the life of a married man.”
Sullivan broke out the cigars; he, Turner, and Wanda all lit one, while Alistair contented himself with his cigarettes and Sam sipped his mineral water. As smoke swirled in the air, Sullivan settled himself behind his desk, and some of his easy air slipped away.
Time for business, then.
“As delightful as your company is, Miss Gatti, I had ulterior motives for inviting you here tonight.” Sullivan flicked ash into a Lalique ashtray. “But first, you said you had some news?”
“Isabella Fabiano paid a visit to The Pride last night. In person.”
Silence followed her pronouncement. Turner didn’t move, but something about him seemed to shift from interested listening to watchful tension.
“I see.” Sullivan didn’t sound happy, but no reason he should if his chief enemy felt comfortable coming that deep into his territory, disguised or not. “And what did she have to say?”
“She wanted us to join her against you.” Wanda spoke matter-of-factly, but her expression was hard.
“I don’t know if she was hoping to recruit Sam as part of the deal—his name didn’t come up, but she’d be a fool if she didn’t try.
Obviously, we declined. She left without incident, but I suspect she won’t just let the matter go. ”
Sullivan lifted his glass to his lips, presumably contemplating what Wanda told him. “Thank you,” he said at last. “I appreciate you bringing this to me. In return, let me do something for you.”
The back of Alistair’s neck pricked. There was no offer Sullivan could make that would ultimately be good for them.
Wanda merely looked curious. “What’s that?”
“I understand you’re having some supply trouble.”
This was probably why they’d been invited here in the first place, only now Sullivan could pretend he was returning a favor instead of making a move.
“I’m happy to say that’s in the past, Mr. Sullivan,” she replied, even though they hadn’t yet made an agreement with Ross Brown.
“Is it? That’s good to hear.” Sullivan sounded sincere, but Alistair didn’t buy it for a minute. “But I can’t help but notice the market has been a bit, shall we say, unstable recently.”
That was certainly one way to describe a series of cold-blooded murders.
“Small time operators come and go, but a businesswoman like yourself understands the need for a steady supply. Something you can count on to be there when you need it.” Sullivan sat back in his chair and blew out a long stream of smoke. “I can help you with that.”
Of course he could—and poison their customers with his panther piss while he was at it. Alistair wanted to protest, but for once he held his tongue.
“I’m sure you could,” Wanda replied politely. “But as I said, we have other arrangements for now, and I’m not a lady to back out of deal once it’s made.”
Sullivan held up his hands, as if to protest his innocence. “I never meant to suggest otherwise, Miss Gatti. In fact, it’s a quality I admire in my own business partners.” He glanced at Sam, as if inviting him to agree. Sam smiled weakly.
“But the situation is volatile,” Turner said. So they were a pack, one moving in for the kill, then backing off and letting the other attack from another angle. “You’d be wise to have a backup plan, should your current arrangement fall through.”
The hairs on the back of Alistair’s neck stood up, and he fought back a growl.
“Now, Lenny, I think Miss Gatti has the right to be cautious,” Sullivan said. “We got off on the wrong foot, back in the day. That was my fault, I take all the blame for it.”
As well he should, considering he’d sent his men to rough them up when The Pride first opened. None of them had expected to face a bunch of big cats, though, and they’d left with their tails tucked between their legs.
“I was young and brash,” Sullivan went on with a rueful expression. “Too big for my britches, as my dear mam used to say, God rest her soul. I’ve matured since then, and I’ve always been a man of my word, as you know. Nowadays, I’m not a bad fellow to work with, am I, Sam?”
Sam looked surprised to be asked. “No? I mean, no, Mr. Sullivan. I’ve enjoyed my time at the hexworks.”
“And done a great job there.” Sullivan turned back to Wanda. “Listen, we’re all reasonable businesspeople here.”
The same thing Fabiano had said. She and Sullivan might be enemies, but they worked from the same damn script.
“Should your current arrangement fall through—and hopefully it won’t—then you come to me next. I can supply as much as you need at a discount. And I don’t mean the stuff cut with iodine or whatever. I’m talking about quality liquor.”
Wanda’s golden eyes didn’t give away anything. “And how much is that going to cost us?”
Sullivan waved the hand holding his cigar, smoke trailing behind. “Don’t worry, I offer my friends a discount. You’ve done me a favor, coming to me with this news about Fabiano. I want to do one for you in return.”
This was a trap. If they became Sullivan’s “friends,” he’d expect more favors over time. The sort of favors five big cats could do in a fight against Fabiano, or the smaller syndicates still standing, or anyone else Sullivan thought needed to be taken out.
If they said no, though…
Sullivan wouldn’t kill them here, not in his own house. He might not kill them at all—he only needed to set his paid-off police after them. Shut down The Pride for good, or at least until they learned their lesson.
Fur and feathers, what a mess. Things had seemed so easy back in 1920, when they’d started.
Everyone and their grandmother was opening speakeasies or making gin in their bathtubs, so why not join in?
A lot of places still didn’t want to hire so-called “dangerous” familiars—why break their backs with whatever low-paying jobs they could scrape, when there was easy money to be made in the illegal liquor trade?
And sure it was against the law, but the damned Congress who’d passed it had a fucking speakeasy inside the Capitol for their personal use.
The cop on his beat wasn’t about to give up having a drink at the end of his shift, either, so right from the beginning it was corruption from top to bottom.
If the ones who made or enforced the laws weren’t going to obey them, why should anyone else?
Now, though, things were complicated and only getting more so. The easy money turned out to have a lot of strings attached.
“We’d never turn away a favor from you, Mr. Sullivan,” Wanda said. “Sam tells us you’re a fair man, and a generous one.”
Sullivan looked pleased at that. “There you have it, then. If—and only if!—your current arrangement doesn’t work out, you’ll come to me. Do we have a deal?”
They had no choice. Wanda leaned over the desk and put out her hand for Sullivan to shake. “We have a deal.”