Chapter 19
Alistair woke up with a crick in his neck and Opal talking far too loudly.
The smell of bacon, eggs, and coffee filled the air, so he heaved himself up and went to the kitchen.
Sam was busy cooking breakfast, bags under his eyes from lack of sleep, while his sister said, “I don’t know, what if I need something? ”
“I’ll give you our phone number, don’t worry.” He looked up and saw Alistair. “Oh! You know the Loop better than I do—is there a hotel you’d recommend for Opal?”
Opal’s expression suggested she’d rather sleep on a bed of nails than anywhere a familiar recommended. Alistair briefly considered sending her to the worst dump he could think of…but that would only cause more trouble for Sam.
“Hotel Ochoa,” he said after thinking for a minute. “They have a good restaurant—I’ve eaten there a couple of times, when Wanda had some business down that way. Judging by the lobby and the food, it’s a classy place.”
Opal frowned suspiciously, then turned to Sam. “What if I don’t like it?”
Fur and feathers, couldn’t she do anything herself? “Then have the bellhop call you a taxi and go somewhere else.”
“What Alistair said.” Sam portioned out breakfast onto three plates. “I’ll give you extra cash for taxis, or a new dress, or whatever you want.”
She seemed slightly mollified. “I can’t get anything too fancy, it’ll raise questions back home.”
“I’m sure you know best,” Sam said placatingly.
There were few things Alistair wanted to do less than have breakfast with anyone from Sam’s terrible family. Unfortunately, one of those things awaited him as soon as they were done eating and got Opal bundled into a taxi on the way to her hotel.
Paladino showed up about ten minutes after the taxi left, driving a sleek new Packard with black paint. The thing looked like it could really move if it needed to—Alistair was pretty sure the model had eight cylinders under the hood—which was good if anyone tried to intercept them on the way.
Alistair hated that he even had to think about the possibility. He also hated that he was going to spend the day playing guard. But what else could he do?
Paladino and Sam chatted the whole drive to the hexworks, though Sam mainly asked a couple of questions about Paladino’s family and let him carry the bulk of the conversation.
When they climbed out at the hexworks, it was to find Doris already there, just inside the door along with a smattering of guards.
She didn’t seem happy, but gave Sam a curt nod.
“I have to make a phone call,” Sam said to Paladino. “I might need a ride in a little while.”
Alistair’s ears perked up at that. “Where are you going?”
“I need to talk about a hex,” Sam replied. “Just something I’ve been working on.”
“Can’t you just talk over the phone?”
Paladino cleared his throat. “Mr. Gatti, I’d like you on the loading dock, along with your other sister.”
In other words, stop asking questions. Alistair glared at Paladino, about to tell him he could talk to his boyfriend any damn time he wanted. But Sam was already hurrying away up the stairs.
Something was wrong. Well, a lot of things were wrong. He would have assumed the problem was the unexpected arrival of Sam’s sister, if he hadn’t asked to be driven somewhere later.
Paladino was still waiting for him to respond. Vowing to get to the bottom of things tonight after they went home, Alistair nodded. “Show me the way, Mr. Paladino, and I’ll get right to work.”
* * *
Sam hurried straight to his office, locked the door behind him, and picked up the telephone. “Sullivan residence,” answered a woman whose voice Sam didn’t recognize. One of the soldiers on security detail, he guessed.
“This is Sam Cunningham. I need to arrange a meeting with Mr. Sullivan as soon as possible. It’s important.”
“Hold on.”
He waited for what seemed like forever, but was probably less than three minutes. Then Turner came on the line. “Hey, Choirboy, what can I do for you?”
Of course they weren’t just going to hand him off to Sullivan, given everything that was happening now. But he’d expected that. “Hi, Lenny. I need to talk to Mr. Sullivan in private. Urgently.”
“He’s a busy man, as you know. Why don’t you tell me, and I’ll pass it on.”
Sam drew a deep breath. He needed to be firm for once in his life. “I appreciate the offer, and usually I’d do just that. But this…it’s about the Egyptian hex, and it’s the sort of thing he needs to hear first.” He paused, then added, “Even before you, and I’m not saying that lightly, I swear.”
There was a long moment of silence while Turner considered. “I know you don’t mean me any disrespect,” he said at last. “That’s not your style. And you’ve never made demands of Mr. Sullivan before. So I’m going to pass the request along and let you know what he says.”
“I’ll hold.”
“That important, huh?”
“Yeah.” Sam stared in the direction of the safe, though of course he couldn’t see it since it was still hexed. “It really is.”
“I don’t want to tie up the line, so I’ll call you back within the hour, all right?”
It was the best he was going to get. “Okay.”
He sat by the phone, drumming his fingers. He ought to open the door, go out and say good morning to Glenda. Work on copying the counter hex, so he could at least get some work done while he waited.
But he was too on edge, his nerves tight as harp strings. He could only gaze at the phone and wait for it to ring.
When it did, he scooped it up immediately. “Sam here.”
“You’ve got your meeting,” Turner said. “Have Paladino drive you over. You might have to wait a bit, but Mr. Sullivan will see you when he has a moment.”
Sam swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. “Thanks, Lenny.”
“Just don’t be wasting his time, kid.”
“I’m not.” He turned again toward the hidden safe. “This hex is going to change everything.”
* * *
Thank goodness Paladino had sent Alistair to stand guard around the back, because it meant Sam could slip out the front without having to answer any questions.
The last thing he wanted was an argument, or worse, Alistair insisting on coming with him.
He loved Alistair, more than anything, but he did have a tendency to say what was on his mind, and this was a situation that required a delicate touch.
Wanda would have been perfect for it. But Sam wasn’t about to drag any of the Gattis deeper into things than they already were.
He grew more and more nervous as they drove.
He needed to convince Sullivan—but also warn him the hex might not work, just like any other untested magic.
That was going to be a hard line to walk, without going too far over in either direction.
By the time they reached the gates to Sullivan’s mansion, his palms were sweaty and his stomach in knots.
The guards allowed them through, and Paladino parked in the drive, at the end of a long line of cars. With the flower shop gone and his wife away, it seemed the mansion had become the hub of Sullivan’s empire.
“I’m going to chat with some friends,” Paladino said as he opened the door for Sam. “You just say the word when you’re ready to leave, Mr. Cunningham.”
“Thanks,” Sam said.
He went to the front door alone, while Paladino headed over to a group of men and women clustered near the cars.
No servant greeted him this time, but rather a tough-looking woman with hair so pale it bordered on white and dark brown eyes.
A familiar of some sort, he guessed, probably something big and strong.
“Apologies, Mr. Cunningham,” she said, “but I need to take your coat, make sure you aren’t carrying any weapons or hexes. It’s standard protocol for everyone coming into the house right now, no exceptions.”
Considering Sullivan had been betrayed twice by his own hexmen, Sam couldn’t argue with the precaution. “Here’s my wallet with my tools and a few hexes,” he said, handing it over first. “And my coat, of course.”
She took both and put them on a side table that he thought used to have a flower vase on it. “Turn out your pockets, please.”
He did so, then held out his arms while she ran impersonal hands up and down his body to check for weapons. When she didn’t find anything, she stepped back. “Apologies again, Mr. Cunningham. Go on through to the billiards room, and someone will fetch you when Mr. Sullivan has a moment.”
“Thanks. Um, have a good day,” he added, and received a brief smile in return.
He’d walked past the billiards room the night they came for dinner, but never gone inside.
Today, the door stood wide, and several people crowded around the two tables, sleeves rolled up while they played.
A haze of cigarette smoke filled the room, and there was a half-empty decanter of what looked like whiskey on the sideboard.
One of the players looked up when he entered. “Mr. Cunningham,” Mrs. McIntyre said, her wolf eyes bright with mischief. “Have you come to watch me teach these saps how to play?”
“She cheats,” someone else said, but it didn’t sound like a serious accusation, more good-natured ribbing.
“If you call being better than you cheating, then sure.” She grinned back, exposing her white teeth.
“I’m here to see Mr. Sullivan, but I’ll watch,” Sam said. He didn’t know anything about billiards, but from all the grumbling, Mrs. McIntyre continued to win handily. It took his mind off the upcoming meeting, at least a little.
The nerves came rushing back when Turner appeared in the doorway. “Come on, Choirboy. The boss’ll see you now.”
Sam followed him to Sullivan’s study. “Go on in,” Turner said, stopping outside.
Sam swallowed hard and opened the door. Sullivan sat behind his desk, and though his suit was perfectly pressed and his hair neat, something about him looked frayed around the edges.
Maybe it was the dark circles beneath his eyes, or the lines bracketing his mouth, or the new strands of gray amidst the blond of his hair.
He was bent over a stack of papers, but looked up when Sam shut the door. “Mr. Cunningham.” No first name, that wasn’t the best sign. “I take it you have a matter of some urgency concerning the hex from the Egyptian tomb?”
His voice was neutral, but Sam knew he was on thin ice. If he was wasting Sullivan’s time…
He wasn’t sure what his punishment would be, honestly. Loss of trust, if nothing else, and that could mean life or death in these circumstances. Not that he thought Sullivan would have him killed for something so small, but it would tip the scales against him, and that might matter someday.
Sam took a seat, perching on the very edge. His palms were sweating again, so he wiped them on his corduroy pants. The photographic print of Sullivan’s dead son regarded him, his sweet smile captured for all eternity.
He forced himself to lower his gaze from the picture and meet Sullivan’s eyes. “What if I told you there was a possibility of bringing your son back to life?”