Chapter 4
4
A listair sat at his desk in the back of The Pride, fuming as he went over the books. The new bourbon cost more than their old supply, which ate into their profit. Maybe they should add a sideline in gambling. Nothing fancy, just a bookie with a telephone line to report the outcome of horse races and baseball games.
Unless Sullivan saw that as overstepping their bounds and competing with one of his businesses.
Damn Sullivan. Alistair’s lips twisted into an instinctive snarl. He hated the idea of Sam walking into that flower shop, unprotected and innocent as a lamb. But it wasn’t like Alistair could tie him up and force him to see sense.
Maybe they should leave Chicago. Head out west, to San Francisco or somewhere like that. But it would mean abandoning his brother and sisters, something he’d never be able to do.
A knock at the office door interrupted his musings. To his surprise, Sam stuck his head inside.
“Sam?” Alistair rolled his chair back from his desk, nearly colliding with Wanda’s seat. “What are you doing here?”
One glance at Sam revealed the misery in his eyes, the unhappy set of his mouth. Even so, he said, “Is this a bad time? I can just go sit at the bar…”
“Come in,” Wanda said. “You look like you have bad news.”
“No, I…I don’t know.” Sam closed the door behind him but hovered near it. “A family friend visited just now. My parents are struggling, my sister too.”
Wanda’s expression immediately shifted to sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you going home for a while?”
“No,” Alistair said sharply. Sam’s family was a nightmare, and he didn’t give two fucks if any or all of them were on their deathbeds.
Thankfully, Sam said, “No. I just…”
A sharp rap interrupted him and a moment later Zola stuck her head in. “Doris says there’s a suspicious character at the door, asking for Wanda.”
Damn it. That could mean a thousand things, none of them good. Doris would have let one of Sullivan’s men on in, so that left a rival gang, the prohees, or some random lunatic.
“Tell him I’m not here, and don’t let him in,” Wanda replied. As she spoke, she rose to her feet. “Come on, Alistair, let’s get a look.”
“We’ll get back to this in a minute,” Alistair told Sam. “Just wait here.”
While Zola hurried back to inform Doris, Wanda and Alistair followed so far as the main room, before slipping through a hidden door. Crates of booze took up most of the space; Alistair pushed aside a nondescript one to reveal a trapdoor beneath.
A small sub-basement lay beneath The Pride. The shelves behind the bar were rigged to dump the booze into it in case of a raid; hopefully tonight wasn’t the night Philip had to hit that switch. They descended into the low, damp space and shut the trapdoor behind them. A lone door let out of the sub-basement to a boiler room. The door was rigged to open only from the inside, ensuring no one could sneak into The Pride from that direction.
Once in the boiler room, Alistair shifted into cheetah shape. His vision widened, though the room remained dimly lit, cheetahs not having the excellent night vision of more nocturnal hunters. He followed his sister up the stairs and through the second-hand furniture shop that operated above The Pride. It was shut down this time of night, but Wanda had keys, and let them both out onto the sidewalk.
A casual look around didn’t reveal anyone lying in wait. Which hopefully meant the sap was on his own.
Alistair’s ears pricked forward as they approached the stairs leading down to The Pride’s entrance. “Now listen here, I’m not going anywhere until I talk to Gatti, you hear me?”
He and Wanda didn’t exchange so much as a glance; they’d been together since they were kids, and both knew their roles perfectly. While she stayed a step or two behind, he crept to the edge of the sidewalk, looking down through the steel safety-rails surrounding the sudden drop into the stairwell. A man with a tan hat and coat stood on this side of the door, fully illuminated by the light above it. Doris had shut the judas hole on him, but he continued to hammer on the door angrily.
Time to put the fear of…well, not God…into him.
Alistair let out a loud growl.
The man spun around, eyes wide and face turning the color of cottage cheese. He reached inside his jacket, maybe going for a gun.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Wanda said coldly.
The door behind the man cracked open. He turned, no doubt looking for somewhere safe to hide, only to be confronted by Doris in tiger form on the other side. She didn’t growl—no need to upset the customers—but her jaws yawned wide, displaying her fearsome teeth.
The man held up his hands. “I just want to talk,” he said. “I’ve got some urgent business with Gatti.”
“We’re all Gattis,” Wanda said. “But I assume you mean me.”
“You’re the dame in charge?”
“That I am. What do you want, Mr…?”
“Irvin Johnston.” He tipped his head back slightly. “Agent Irvin Johnston, Bureau of Internal Revenue, Prohibition Unit.”
Sam waited in the office, twisting his hands together nervously. Guilt sat on his heart like a stone. When he left, he’d misjudged how much his family depended on him. Never imagined it would be hard for them. Or at least, not as hard as having him around was. He hadn’t meant to be selfish or cruel.
Money—that would help. Mr. Dodge had said so himself. If he could buy Eldon’s house from his aunt and uncle, that would help a bit. He could offer them a fair price, and they wouldn’t have to pay a commission to a real estate broker. And, on the plus side, he and Alistair wouldn’t have to hunt for somewhere else to live.
The door opened, and a grim-faced Wanda entered, followed by Alistair and a stranger. “Sam, wait for us in the main room,” Alistair said.
The stranger stopped. Cold blue eyes examined Sam from under the brim of his tan hat. He had a lean face that gave him a hungry look, and Sam suddenly felt as though he was being sized up for dinner.
“Sam, is it?” the man asked.
“Just our busboy, Agent Johnston,” Wanda said quickly.
Agent.
All the blood in Sam’s body froze. The man was a prohibition agent. Forget buying the house; was he going to end up in jail?
“No,” the agent said, as Sam started to rise. “Stay, Mr. Cunningham.”
Alistair’s lips curled in a silent growl. Sam wanted to ask how a federal agent knew his name, but the words wouldn’t come out past the constriction in his throat.
Wanda shrugged easily, as though it didn’t matter. “Would you like a drink, Agent Johnston?”
“Whiskey and soda.”
Once Wanda had poured drinks for herself, Alistair and Johnston, she said, “Tell me what we can do for you.”
Johnston leaned back in Wanda’s chair, a smug expression playing across his narrow face. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But it’s not that.”
Wanda arched a manicured brow, fixing him with her golden eyes. She was the impeccable image of a businesswoman in her lavender suit, its yellow tie matching her eyes, her hair straightened and cut into a smart bob. “And what is it that I’m thinking?”
“The usual.” Johnston took a sip of his whiskey and nodded approvingly. “I’m no greenhorn—I’m assigned to Cicero.”
Even Sam had heard of the little town outside of Chicago. “The wettest city in America,” the newspapers called it. If Johnston was the prohibition agent assigned there, he wasn’t doing much to enforce the Volstead Act.
“Then let’s cut to the chase, shall we?” Wanda asked. “You’re obviously a busy man, so what is it we can help you with?”
A shadow passed over the agent’s demeanor. He tossed back his drink and silently held out his glass for more. Wanda obliged.
“Bobby Watts died in this establishment, right?”
Sam’s pulse picked up fast. The image of Bobby collapsing into his arms, the feel of his dying weight, the accusation of poison, played over again in his mind.
Wanda’s face betrayed nothing of what she might be thinking. “Unfortunately, but let me be clear—we didn’t serve him anything. Everything we pour here is the Real McCoy, and I’ve no idea where he got hold of something bad.”
“So I’ve heard.” Johnston leaned forward. “But he got it somewhere. I want you to find out where.”
Alistair’s eyes flashed with anger. “You’re the investigator,” he snapped. “Why should we do your job for you?”
Sam winced, and Wanda shot Alistair a silencing glare.
“Because believe it or not, people aren’t eager to talk to a prohee,” Johnston replied evenly. “Plus, you’re independent operators. Someone might talk to you when they wouldn’t talk to one of Sullivan’s men.”
Wanda took a measured sip of her drink. “Speaking of, Mr. Sullivan won’t sit on the sidelines, especially now that poor Bobby’s body has gone missing. Unless the situation has changed…?”
Johnston’s jaw clenched. “It hasn’t. That’s the other thing—I want you to find him.”
Alistair’s nostrils flared. “Sullivan has more resources than we do,” he said. “Why the hell do you think we have a better chance?”
“Because Sullivan just swooped in and carried Bobby off to a funeral home that he controls,” Johnston snapped. “And, oops, they conveniently lost the body before any of us—any of the family, I mean, could get there.”
Oh no—Johnston was related to Bobby? “I’m sorry for your loss,” Sam blurted without thinking.
Alistair shot him a glare, but Johnston said, “Thank you. That’s kind of you.”
“You think Sullivan is behind Bobby’s death?” Alistair asked. “Poison’s not his style.”
“Are you so sure?” Johnston turned his gaze on Alistair. “He’s not the type to use gunfire as his first option. Makes people nervous, attracts too much attention. He’s got plenty of other opportunities, other methods, to distance himself.”
“But why would he want to kill Bobby?” Wanda asked. “I was under the impression he just worked in the flower shop. He wasn’t an enforcer, or a bagman, or anything like that.”
“I know.” Johnston’s mouth tightened. “But he was in the perfect position to overhear things he wouldn’t otherwise.” He paused and looked at Sam. “Which brings us to Mr. Cunningham here.”
Sam’s stomach sank. “I don’t—I mean?—”
“Sam doesn’t have anything to do with this,” Alistair said loudly.
Johnston didn’t look away, even as he answered Alistair. “Oh really? Because a little birdie told me Sullivan is looking to hire him for the hexworks over on North Water Street.”
Sam’s mouth went dry. “Wh-what does that have to do with anything?”
“Bobby had started hanging around the place lately,” Johnston said. “Don’t ask me why; it’s none of your business.”
Wanda’s yellow eyes were steady on the agent. “And you think that got him killed?”
“I think it’s a good possibility.” Agent Johnston sat back. “Take the offer, Cunningham. See if you can find out what Bobby might have seen that got him killed.” He glanced at the other two. “Talk to people who won’t talk to me. Find who he was drinking with that night.”
Bands tightened over Sam’s chest. Was this man actually asking him to, what, spy on Sullivan’s hexworks under the guise of taking a job there?
Alistair’s teeth showed, and he started to rise from his chair. “Listen?—”
“Sit down,” Wanda said, words like a lash.
Johnston’s own teeth showed in a cold smile. “Feel free to refuse my offer. I’ll be back tomorrow with a whole squad of agents. You’re independent operators; Sullivan won’t lift a finger to help you. He’ll swoop in a week after the joint is shut down and you’re rotting in jail, open it up as one of his operations, and not lose a second’s worth of sleep over it.”
Sam’s palms went clammy and his heart tried to break through the tightness in his chest. The Pride would shut down; Wanda and maybe Alistair would go to jail.
“I’ll do it,” he said.