Chapter 22 #3
Sumner raised one eyebrow. “Wouldn’t they?”
Laurie scowled. “H, stop being dramatic. He’s not going to try open murder, not when every other death had plausibly natural circumstances. He wants August, doesn’t he? So, he’s going to have his men follow us out, that’s all. What else can he do, bring the whole place down around our ears?”
“Every other death?” Sumner said curiously—which had fascinating implications; Laurie hadn’t shared the gaffer deaths with his fellow reporter? “And yes, that is in fact what I’m afraid he’ll do. With or without August, actually. He won’t wait to know he isn’t here.”
“Which is why we’re bait,” Laurie growled. “I don’t owe you a damn thing after this, H. Got it?”
“Let’s revisit after I’ve gotten you out of here.” He added, reluctant, “Not even Sidney thought Raberding would go this far. If he could take back leading you here, he would. We didn’t realize ourselves until we saw the undercovers being a little too observant.”
There was a whistle signal from the hallway, short and sharp. Sumner glanced sideways. “Ah. Leave at once, meaning right now.”
“Damn,” Laurie said. “Damn, damn. That bastard. He really does only care for himself.” He closed his eyes briefly, blew out a breath. “All right. Let’s go.” He took Chary’s hand and pulled him into the warm, steamy hallway.
“I don’t understand,” Chary whispered.
“Police raid,” Laurie whispered back. He took in Chary’s widening eyes and tightened his grip. “It’ll be fine.”
“But—don’t they need witnesses? Testimonies? ‘Erected members’ and some such?”
Laurie nodded. “Supposedly. But don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Sumner led the way to the end of hall, where the steam thinned and separated enough to show Brasher leaning arms-crossed at the corner, near some frescoes. He wore very tiny masseur’s shorts in black and nothing else.
“‘Raid coming; get the fuck out now,’ would’ve worked great,” Brasher muttered, and then grudgingly added, “Sir.”
Chary—who had certainly told Brasher on numerous occasions not to call him Sir, for goodness’ sakes; he hadn’t been knighted—opened his mouth.
“He’s not talking to you,” Laurie murmured. Chary shut his mouth. “Which ones are they, copper?” Laurie said, only slightly louder, to Brasher.
Brasher gave him a mild look as he handed Sumner a towel. “Back left of the pool, deep end, on the ropes. Two. Look like they can’t swim, but they’ll corral us fast when it comes to it.”
Corral. Chary felt mildly ill. Perhaps Brasher had been a cowboy in truth, like Laurie insisted, and it was natural language for him. The comparison was sickening nonetheless.
“And?” Laurie prompted.
“Dressing room, closest to the entrance. Two. There were three, but one is still enjoying himself,” he said, disgusted.
“How do you know when things are truly imminent?” Chary asked.
“They’ll slip away to block the exits at the last. One’s left to give word to the squadrons just now.”
“All right!” Laurie said. “That’s good enough for me. Let’s get our belongings and go.” He tugged on Chary’s hand.
“Wait,” Chary whispered. “W-wait.”
Three men looked at him, confounded.
“I wouldn’t advise waiting,” Sumner said. Perhaps he was secretly a solicitor.
“This is my fault,” Chary said.
Laurie said, “No—”
“These men here haven’t done anything to deserve this,” Chary went on. “Without a doubt, some of them have already been witnessed. They’ll be trapped. Ought we not warn them all? We haven’t done anything witnessed. Even if we’re arrested—”
“Maybe you haven’t,” Sumner said, brows wry. Brasher turned pink from the neck up.
Laurie wanted to argue it, he could see, but instead of angry, he merely looked concerned. “Chary, your reputation... An arrest would—”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t care.”
“Twenty years’ maximum penalty—”
“You’re the one with a tattoo,” Chary said, gesturing. “As well as a life that depends on your name. You go on; I don’t mind. But I must try to warn as many as I may.”
Brasher grunted, seemingly neutral. Sumner looked gleamingly anticipatory, with the dangerous approval of a predator. Laurie looked… conflicted. Not angry but… contemplative.
Chary said quickly, “In no way do I call you a coward—”
“Shh.” Laurie pulled Chary to him, slow but inexorable; Chary went. “Stop being so damned unexpected; I can’t take it,” Laurie whispered. “Let ’em witness this.” He kissed him.
After, as Chary reeled back, Laurie said, “I’m not going anywhere.” He grinned.
“But—”
“Not the first time I’ve been arrested; you know it isn’t.”
Chary nodded. He shouldn’t have been surprised. “All right. How do we do this? How do we warn as many as possible?”
“Going to be chaos,” Brasher summed up, “however it’s done.” He looked up to the ceiling skylight. “Two floors…”
“Second floor’s sleeping rooms,” Sumner said.
“Don’t wanna let ’em go on the roof,” Brasher considered.
“Fire escape?” Laurie asked.
Brasher nodded. “That’s good. Two exits and four of us. We can lead ’em out both ways. One to lead them—tell them each where to go—and one to keep the door.”
He and Sumner shared a look, and then Sumner said, “Sidney and I will take the front.”
Where the chaos would be most central.
“Warn those closest to the exit first, workin’ in; keep it as quiet as you can. Draw ’em out toward the exit. It shouldn’t take longer than ten minutes.” Brasher grimaced. “If it’s needed, claim fire. Wait as long as you can for that. Try not to get trampled.”
They went to the second-floor gallery, wedged open the fire door, and tried. One by one, pair by pair, door by door, Chary warned people to go, to take the exit.
“Geez, another?” was the bitter, muttered sentiment for a while, though nobody quite seemed to panic.
Then, as all things did amongst humans, it spread.
Fervor. An urgency, tasted in the air. Chary was joined by other volunteer danger-proselytizers, who skittered out like a web to knock on doors, whispering, waving, urging.
By then, the undercover police in the pool had taken jolting notice of insurrection; they had surged into action.
Realizing the exits were unbarred and bleeding their prey, they instead nakedly tried to arrest whomever seemed to be in reach, knees in backs, cheek to the floor; handcuffs were handed over by a sprinting, come-from-nowhere colleague.
That lasted less than a minute, as a couple of braver men fought back, roaring, shoving, strength in numbers—for now.
Then it was more of a traditional chaos.
Though the upper balcony “sleeping rooms” had been all but totally ousted and half-clad men were streaming down the iron stairs and disappearing into the gaslit dark of New York—like a bizarre theatre outflux—men downstairs were yet making their way out of the pool and running up the wide marble stairs.
The noise increased steadily, buzzy warning alarm like approaching a beehive or an El train.
From the balcony overlook Chary watched Brasher himself stride over to intercede in the scuffle of policemen. He swung a right hook, popped one undercover man cold to the floor, then engaged with the other, the one who’d brought the handcuffs.
“Holy hell.” Laurie, herding men out the fire door, touching shoulders, had craned around to see.
“Do you still think he’s police?” Chary murmured.
Laurie shook his head. “No idea. He’s something.”
Now totally unrestricted, men streamed out of the pool and to the front exit, led by Brasher, who dragged one unconscious policeman by his own handcuffs: an outlaw leading mob rule. The pool emptied and ripples settled, and Chary looked back around. “Is that the last of them?”
“That’s all I got. If it ain’t, they’d have to be drugged asleep.” Laurie propped open the fire-escape door with a spittoon, then held out his hand. “One last check? I don’t want them to get a one of ’em.”
Chary nodded. “Let’s.”
They split again and ran to the back, drawing from inside out this time.
Chary took the east wing. The sleeping rooms there had been left ajar to a one—almost. One door at the end of the hall remained shut—the corner closest the fire escape, a door he hadn’t personally checked—or had been shut again; it was unlocked.
He didn’t bother knocking before he burst through, because Laurie was, as usual, correct: if someone had slept through all of that, they’d’ve had to have been drugged.
It was empty, untouched. Whoever rented there apparently didn’t at one in the morning on a Wednesday. Chary slumped, one hand against the bedframe. Was it truly only Wednesday?
“Boo.”
Chary startled, but it was Laurie in the doorway. “All clear?” he asked. He was panting slightly from his run, sweating and gorgeous. “We got ’em?”
“I think so. I saw Brasher head for the entrance, and there’s nobody left in the main plunge. I think we warned them all, Laurie.”
He expected Laurie to grin, or whoop, and then pull him out to the fire escape, into the cool summer night. Maybe to kiss him again, hard and hasty.
Laurie didn’t do any of that. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, spun halfway on a heel, spun back, and then shut the door behind him and pressed against it, palms flat. It wasn’t guard or threat; it seemed more like surrender.
“Laurie?”
“I’m a terrible hypocrite,” Laurie seemed to mutter, “but to hell with it. I don’t hear any bells or whistles. Ask me what’s next, Chary.”
Chary’s breath caught. He understood what he meant, of course he did, but— “What, now? Are you mad?”
He was the hypocrite there: he should not have been reacting the way he was. Physically.
“Pro’ly,” Laurie breathed. “I think so. You just saved all those men, Chary Wright. I would’ve just white-tailed it outta there and saved you first, damn everybody else.
You’re rich, and I’m a newsman—” He swallowed.
“Ask me what’s next, ’cause if you don’t, I’m just gonna tell you: if you let me again, I’m going down to my knees right here. ”
Good Lord.