Chapter 9
9
I t took two days to ferret out Zywarski’s address, but eventually one of Wanda’s many contacts came through. Alistair and Doris took the train to Cicero first thing the next morning.
He’d never been to the town, but he’d heard about it plenty. The mayoral race back in April had been as much about the bloody struggle between rival syndicates as it was about the politicians, and Chicago’s newspapers were splashed with headlines about the “vote riots.”
Things had settled down after a decisive victory for Fabiano’s chosen candidate, and corruption continued apace, as it always did.
They got off the train at the stop closest to the street Zywarski’s apartment house stood on. “Nice neighborhood,” Doris remarked, nodding at the cars parked along the road.
“I guess Fabiano pays well.” Alistair longed to light a cigarette, but he wanted to keep his hands unoccupied. As they walked, both of them scanned their surroundings, like soldiers in enemy territory.
Which Fabiano might see them as, if she believed they worked for Sullivan. Their position as independent operators felt more precarious by the week, as the gangs swelled in power and size. How long would it be before they were squeezed out, one way or another?
Alistair flicked the thought away. No sense worrying about the future when they might all be dead or in jail long before it came.
It was a thought he’d grown used to in the years since the war, but now it brought him up short. He couldn’t include Sam in that cynicism; the thought of him dying or going to jail froze Alistair to his bones.
Sam didn’t belong in this world of violence and corruption. It was Eldon’s fault; he’d been the one to drag Sam into it, instead of setting him up with some sort of legitimate employment. But Alistair hadn’t helped, had he?
“We’re here,” Doris said, breaking him out of his thoughts.
They went into the three-story building, which was quiet at this hour. The inhabitants with legitimate jobs were at work, and those in the underworld were still sleeping off the excesses of the night before. Or so Alistair hoped; he didn’t want to wait around for Zywarski to come home if he was an early riser.
The apartment was on the second floor at the front, and probably had a commanding view of the street outside. Helpful only if the inhabitant was looking out, and knew what to look for.
Thankfully, they were the only people in the hallway. Doris stepped to one side and took tiger form. Alistair pounded on the door.
For a moment, there was only silence, broken by a groggy, “Hold your horses.” Footsteps sounded, faint but growing closer, before a brief pause, then resuming. Zywarski stopping to grab his gun before he answered the door, Alistair assumed.
The door cracked open, revealing pale skin and a blue eye. “What’d’ye want?”
“Did you poison Bobby Watts?” Alistair asked without preamble.
“The fuck?” Zywarski stepped back, probably so he could bring up his gun.
Doris didn’t give him the chance. Her bulk slammed into the door, knocking him back. Before he could lift his gun, she was on him, teeth bared and a growl thundering up her throat.
He held his hands up, including the one with the gun. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he exclaimed. “Let’s keep it friendly, all right?”
Considering Zywarski didn’t immediately lose his head over being confronted by a huge tiger, he must be used to dealing with familiars. “Drop the gun,” Alistair ordered, and Zywarski hurried to do so. “Let me repeat my question: Did you poison Bobby Watts?”
Zywarski looked offended. He was a wiry man wearing an undershirt and unbuttoned trousers, his hair mussed from sleep. “Of course not! If I was gonna snuff a guy out, I’d shoot him man-to-man, understand?”
“Even if it meant starting trouble for your boss when Sullivan found out?” Alistair countered.
“I liked the kid,” Zywarski said, hands still raised. “I wouldn’t’ve killed him without Miss Fabiano’s say-so—which she didn’t give, by the way. And she knows I ain’t a coward to use poison on a fellow.”
Alistair weighed the words and found he believed him. Zywarski would be offended if Fabiano ordered him to kill someone using a method he saw as less than manly. But that didn’t mean someone else in the gang hadn’t. “Anyone else from your gang meeting with Bobby lately?”
“No. Just me.”
It might be true; Fabiano would be a fool to have her people traipsing all over Sullivan’s territory. On the other hand, she might have used someone not so easily tied to her.
Damn it. Was this going to be a dead end?
“I think he’s telling us the truth,” Alistair said aloud for Doris’s benefit. She huffed softly in agreement.
“I ain’t a liar.” Zywarski started to lower his hands, then put them back up when Doris growled again. “Did Sullivan send you?”
“No.” Alistair left it at that; this palooka didn’t deserve an explanation. “We’ll let you get back to your nap, Mr. Zywarski.”
Alistair turned and left; a moment later, Doris joined him in the hall in human form and shut the door behind them. “That didn’t get us anywhere,” she said.
“I noticed.” He shoved his hands in his pockets as they went down the stairs. “Damn Johnston. I’ll tell him what we found when he shows up again, but unless Sam discovers something, that’s all he’s getting.”
“Do you think it will be enough to keep him from shutting us down?”
“Fuck if I know.” They stepped out onto the street.
A car pulled up directly in front of them, and several men holding shotguns climbed out.
Alistair’s heart froze. A dozen scenarios flashed through his mind: take cheetah form and run like hell, take cheetah form and maul the nearest man, stay human and hope he could talk his way out of whatever this was before they were gunned down on the sidewalk…
Fur and feathers, he wished he’d never met the prohee. Wished he were home, with Sam. That Sam’s warm brown eyes were going to be the last thing he’d ever see, instead of the cold black hole of a gun.
“Gatti?” asked a slender, rat-faced man in a fur coat. Rather than a gun, he held a cigar; this was the guy in charge.
Alistair tipped his head a fraction. “That’s us. Who are you?”
“That’s none of your business.” The man gestured to the car. “Get in. The boss wants to talk to you.”
The car stopped in front of what was clearly a cabaret and gambling hall, without offering even the smallest pretense at being anything else. Alistair and Doris were ushered out of the vehicle and inside. Within was a tavern that didn’t look to have changed one bit since before Prohibition. A stage took up one end, a sign near it advertising Cabaret and Dancing Every Night .
They went through a back door, past rooms full of men playing cards, shooting pool, or spinning roulette wheels, then up a set of stairs to the second floor. Men and women, some in animal form, watched as they were marched past. A black bear let out a warning growl at them; Doris hissed back, though being in human shape it wasn’t very impressive.
Fabiano’s office overlooked the street. She sat behind a desk, her Great Blue Heron familiar resting on one leg nearby. When they entered, he put down the other leg and coiled his neck, ready to strike. A brass sheath covered his upper beak, turning a bill that could kill a man into even more dangerous a weapon.
Fabiano leaned back and steepled her fingers as they were led in. She had sharp, dark eyes, thick black hair, and olive skin. Though she dressed in a sober suit, diamond rings glittered on her fingers.
“Mr. Gatti, Miss Gatti,” she said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“How did you know where to find us?” Alistair asked, taking one of the proffered seats. Doris took the other, and he could feel her tension radiating through the air.
“Your companion is a striking woman. Recognizable, even.” Fabiano let her eyes linger on Doris’s form. “I have three pigeon familiars who watch the trains and take note of anyone interesting coming or going. Their witches are here with me, so they can report back instantly.”
Alistair silently cursed himself. He’d gotten too soft over the last few years, forgotten to be alert for anything and everything. During the war, any bird in the sky might have been an enemy spy, or—if big enough—be carrying dynamite to drop on their heads. For the first six months back home, he’d flinched every time he glimpsed a wing.
The fear had faded, which on the one hand was a good thing, considering he could hardly avoid every wild bird for the rest of his life. But it had made him sloppy, and now he and Doris might pay for it with their lives.
“You paid a visit to one of my men,” Fabiano went on. “I want to know why.”
Johnston wouldn’t like it, but to hell with him. “Do you know a prohee named Irvin Johnston?”
Surprise flashed across her features before they smoothed out again. “I’ve heard the name.”
She’d certainly done more than that, considering she was clearly unworried about anyone raiding the joint, no matter how conspicuous it was. “A family member of his, Bobby Watts, died under strange circumstances. He…convinced us to look into the matter, as he felt he couldn’t do it himself, given his employment with the federal government.”
“I see.” Calculations ran behind her eyes, though he couldn’t guess exactly what they were. “And that brings you here because…?”
“I found out Bobby and Zywarski were drinking buddies.” Alistair shrugged. “I wanted to ask if Bobby was done in by bad hooch, or if Mr. Zywarski had helped him along for reasons of his own.”
“What a circumspect way to put it, Mr. Gatti.” She smiled coldly at him. “So I can indirectly thank Mr. Johnston for your presence. I do wish he’d come to me directly.”
“So do I,” Alistair said. “Johnston is convinced Bobby was killed, but if you want my opinion, it’s the grief talking. It feels better to have someone to blame, instead of just bad hooch and bad luck. But he made us an offer we weren’t in the position of refusing, as much as we would have preferred to stay out of the whole sorry mess.”
“I see.” Fabiano took out a gold cigarette case, accompanied by a diamond-studded cigarette holder. She lit the cigarette with a hex—a waste of power, but that was the point, wasn’t it? To demonstrate she had more magic than she knew what to do with. “What do you think, doll?”
Doris shrugged. “Don’t know. Wouldn’t care, if Agent Johnston wasn’t leaning on us.”
“I’ll have to have a little talk with him about that.” She switched her attention back to Alistair. “You’re an independent operator, isn’t that so, Mr. Gatti?”
His hackles stood up in warning, and he had to swallow a growl. “Yes.”
“As such, I’m inclined to let you two scurry back to your little bar.” She tapped out the ashes, then looked at him. “But in return, Mr. Gatti, you owe me a favor.”
Shit. He wanted to tell her to fuck herself, but bit back the words. Instead, he said, “Did your syndicate have anything to do with Bobby’s death?”
She laughed softly, as if he amused her. “You are a bold one, aren’t you? I’m feeling generous today, so I’ll overlook your impertinence. I gave no orders for anyone to harm a hair on the boy’s head. As a matter of fact, I had promised him a position in my organization, in return for his…services, shall we say.” She propped her sharp chin on the back of her hand and regarded him. “I had no reason to wish him ill. So assuming he was actually killed…well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to look in your own backyard for the culprit.”
Sullivan, she meant. Alistair nodded without saying anything one way or the other.
Fabiano sat back, gesturing at the door. “Off you go, then. I’ll be in touch about that favor.”