Chapter 14
14
A s soon as he got word about the hit on the old brewery, Alistair grabbed Wanda’s car and drove over, swerving recklessly around other cars and pedestrians alike. He arrived with a screech of tires, drawing looks from several men standing around outside carrying Tommy guns. Holding up his hands to show he was unarmed, he stumbled out of the car.
“Alistair Gatti, from The Pride,” he said. “I’m looking for Sam Cunningham? Is he okay? Where is he?”
Several of the windows had been shot out, their glass glittering like ice on the ground. The air smelled of blood and gunpowder, and several motionless figures lay beneath blankets in the back of a truck.
The men watched him suspiciously. “Stay here,” one ordered, and vanished inside.
Alistair longed to rush after him, find Sam himself, but he’d only end up shot. So he waited, trying not to be impatient, struggling to shove his fears down. Sam was smart; he’d have enough sense to hide, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t do anything reckless.
Unless he thought he needed to.
After what seemed like an hour, but was probably only five minutes, the door swung open again and several people emerged. Alistair had eyes only for one of them, though. With a glad cry, he ran to Sam and swept him up in his arms.
Sam smelled of drying fear-sweat, but not of blood, thank God. His chubby body pressed solid against Alistair: warm and alive and safe.
“Fur and feathers, Sam,” Alistair said, loosening his grasp enough to hold Sam at arm’s length. “Are you all right? I came the second I heard.”
“I’m fine,” Sam said, offering him a shaky smile. “Thanks to Vic.” He pulled away from Alistair and turned to the other people with him. “This is my boss, Victor Nagorski—he saved my life today.”
Alistair narrowed his eyes. The fellow wasn’t bad-looking, if one liked the burly, muscular types.
“It was my pleasure, Sam,” Nagorski said, giving Sam a warm smile with a bit more fondness in it than Alistair cared for. Then his dark eyes switched to Alistair, cooling noticeably. “Good to meet you, Mr. Gatti. Sam’s spoken of you often.”
Was that a good thing—Sam had been thinking about him—or a bad thing—Sam had been blabbing about The Pride to Sullivan’s men? Alistair settled for a stiff nod in Nagorski’s direction.
“And this is Glenda Walker and Luke Gallo,” Sam went on, gesturing to a man and woman who had followed them outside.
Before they could exchange greetings, a dark blue Cadillac V-63 pulled up. The driver remained inside while several armed men piled out, Bellinowski at the fore. He exchanged a few terse words with one of the brewery guards, then signaled the car.
Sullivan climbed out, dressed in a linen suit; possibly he’d been at some fancy luncheon when alerted as to the attack. His sharp eyes flicked over them, taking in all the details at a glance. “Mr. O’Brien, what happened here?”
A dark-haired man in shirtsleeves, presumably O’Brien, answered from where he leaned in the doorway cradling a shotgun. “Fabiano’s people hit us. They shot up the place, then tried to get inside. We killed a bunch of them, but they got three of ours, too. Four of the hexmen were wounded, and two of them are in the hospital.”
Sullivan’s mouth pressed into a tight line, betraying his anger. “Mr. Turner.”
Turner had climbed out of the car after him. “Sir?”
“Find the families, give them our condolences. Let them know everything’s being handled. I’ll visit the wounded in the hospital this evening, so set that up.”
“Yes, sir.”
Sullivan turned to Nagorski. “Vic? Everything all right?”
“One of them tried to get in the lab, but we stopped her,” Nagorski reported. “No one was hurt, just shaken up.”
Sullivan looked them over; Glenda stood with her arms wrapped around herself, shivering. “One of my boys will drive you home, Miss Walker,” he said. “The rest of you, take the next couple of days off, until we get this mess cleaned up.”
Part of that cleanup, Alistair guessed, would be a retaliatory hit on Fabiano. Fabiano, to whom he now owed a favor.
Fur and feathers.
“And what are you doing here, Mr. Gatti?” Sullivan asked, as if reading his mind.
Alistair stiffened. “Just checking up on Sam.”
One of Sullivan’s tough guys took Glenda’s elbow with surprising gentleness. She pointed at a car, presumably hers, and he supported her toward it. Luke followed them; there was a brief exchange Alistair didn’t catch, then he got in with them.
“Mr. Cunningham,” Sullivan said. “Vic here speaks highly of you. Very highly indeed.”
Sam looked surprised but pleased. “Oh! Uh, thank you. That’s—that’s great.”
Sullivan took out a cigar and lit it. “I’m throwing a party for my wife’s birthday this weekend. You should come. Bring Mr. Gatti with you, if you want. Vic’s already coming, aren’t you, Vic?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Nagorski said.
Sam looked uncertain, but Alistair knew the invitation wasn’t a request. “Thank you, Mr. Sullivan, that’s very generous of you. We’ll certainly be there.”
“Good, good. I’ll make sure you get invitations.” He took a deep drag on his cigar, then let the smoke out in a long stream. “All right, boys, let’s get this place cleaned up. I want us back in business by Monday.”
Sullivan retreated to his car, followed by his men. A moment later, the Cadillac rolled smoothly away.
“Let’s go back to The Pride,” Alistair said to Sam. “I’d feel better there than at the house right now.”
Sam nodded, then turned to Nagorski. “Will you be all right, Vic?”
“Just fine.” Nagorski gave Sam that warm look again, raising Alistair’s hackles. “I don’t live too far from The Pride, so I’ll drop by with the details of the party tomorrow night.”
“Thanks.” Sam looked up at him, gratitude shining on his face. “And thanks again for saving my life.”
“I’d do it all over again.” Nagorski looked as though he might touch Sam, then thought better of it. He glanced briefly at Alistair. “Nice meeting you, Mr. Gatti.”
That was certainly a lie. “Likewise,” Alistair lied back. “Come on, Sam, let’s get you home.”
Worn out from fear and excitement, Sam slept away the afternoon in Alistair’s bed at The Pride. When he awoke, the evening was getting underway: early drinkers lining up at the bar, jazz musicians smoking cannabis as they set up for the night, and Reinhold finishing the last preparations before opening the kitchen.
Wanda, Alistair, and Wanda’s girlfriend Holly sat at one of the tables, heads together and drinks in front of them. As Sam approached, Holly said, “Maybe you ought to tell Sullivan, Alistair.”
“And double-cross Fabiano?” he shot back.
Holly shrugged. “You can’t owe her a favor if she’s dead.”
“No,” Wanda said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Don’t get in between them, whatever you do. We’re keeping our heads down and staying out of the way.”
“Sam might have been killed,” Alistair started, then broke off when he saw Sam approach.
“But I wasn’t,” Sam said.
Wanda gestured him to the last empty seat, and he took it. “Have you found anything?”
Guilt slithered through Sam again. Vic was his friend, had trusted him enough to ask him to work on something even Glenda and Luke didn’t know about. Abusing that trust felt wrong.
Before he could answer, a hand signal from Doris caught his eye. Alistair saw it as well, and sat forward staring as Doris swung open the door and Johnston walked in.
The prohee had a swagger to his step as he crossed the room, as though secretly relishing the fact he could have them all arrested and The Pride shut down. Spotting them, he sauntered across the room. Holly quickly excused herself, hastening to talk to the jazz musicians.
“Miss Gatti,” Johnston said when he reached their table. “Mr. Gatti, Mr. Cunningham. How are you all this lovely evening?”
Teresa hurried up to their table. “What can I get you, sir?” she asked Johnston.
He eyed her, perhaps taking in her yellow eyes. Or maybe just looking at the sling around one arm, since he asked, “What happened to you, sweetheart?”
Teresa’s nostrils flared, but she kept her face neutral otherwise. Wanda leaned forward and said, “Ignatz Ursino tried to make a move on us. He’s dead now.”
Agent Johnston aimed a hard look at her. “Is that a threat?”
“Just answering your question,” Wanda replied with a smile that didn’t fool anyone. “What’ll you have to drink?”
“Whisky and soda,” he told Teresa, without looking away from Wanda. She faded away toward the bar; Sam wished he could go with her.
“Fabiano hit Sullivan today,” Alistair said with no preamble. “One of his hexmaking operations, actually. The one Bobby was sniffing around.” His eyes narrowed. “The one Sam works in, doing the job you were so eager for him to take.”
Johnston sat back, taking in all three of them. Sam fought the urge to squirm.
“I’m not in charge of what Fabiano does,” Johnston said, taking out a cigar case. As he lit up, Teresa delivered his drink, plus fresh drinks for Alistair and Wanda, before slipping away again.
“So it was just a coincidence?” Wanda challenged.
Johnston downed a good portion of his drink in one go. “Your boy Alistair here blabbed my business to Fabiano. She wasn’t too happy with me. I had to offer her a little something to keep her off my back.”
Alistair’s eyes burned with silent fury. “How dare you,” he snarled.
Wanda shot him a warning look. “Enough. Agent Johnston, we have information for you. Whoever took Bobby’s body didn’t do it for a prank. After talking to Panek and viewing the mortuary room, it seems they were looking for him specifically. And the only people who knew he was dead, and where he’d been sent, were us and Sullivan’s men.”
Johnston’s demeanor changed, from unaffected to alert, like a dog catching an unexpected scent. “I see. And you, Mr. Cunningham? Have you found anything in the lab?”
The image of the snake familiar standing in the doorway came back to Sam with such clarity he almost gasped. At the time, he hadn’t wondered why she’d been inside, why she’d chosen to come to the private lab instead of attacking more convenient draftsmen.
Had she been ordered to come to the private lab? To kill anyone inside, then search it for whatever forbidden thing Bobby might have seen?
Anger suffused his veins, like dye dropped into water. Johnston was playing them off Fabiano, not caring who got the answers he wanted first. Spying took time, whereas violence was quick.
He hated this man, this so-called agent. Johnston believed Bobby’s death had something to do with secret hexes or the like, but Sam had actually met Vic. They were making illegal hexes at the brewery, but nothing they made was any worse than the illegal booze found on every corner. Better, even.
It made Vic a criminal, but him one too. Both of them—and Luke, and Glenda, and Alistair, and everyone else—were just trying to make their way in a world where everyone enforcing the law, from the policeman on the corner to an agent like Johnston, were more than happy to look the other way for the right amount of money.
Vic had saved his life today. He was Sam’s friend. Johnston, on the other hand, was a condescending prick.
“No,” he said, meeting Johnston’s gaze without flinching. “I haven’t seen a thing.”