Hot Lead, Cold Iron E-Book

Ari Marmell

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Mick Oberon Jobs
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 493

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

First in the fantasy noir series featuring Mick Oberon—a hard-boiled private eye who goes where the case leads him…no matter which world it is. Chicago, 1932. Crime and corruption rule. From the gutter to the Gold Coast, the city has more dirty dealings than a sticky-fingered card sharp. A man would have to be crazy to go up against that kind of muscle. But PI Mick Oberon is no man. He's a self-exiled fae prince who left the Otherworld for reasons he'd rather not go into. In the mortal realm, he's a tough-talking, hard-hitting gumshoe packing a quick wit and a large-caliber magic wand. And, boyo, is he ever gonna need them both. Because his newest client is the wife of a heavy-duty mob honcho. She wants Mick to find her daughter, who it turns out was pilfered and replaced with a changeling sixteen years ago. And she wants the investigation kept on the hush hush. Which is strange, because suddenly it seems like everyone and their uncle already has their eyes on Mick's prize. From rival gangsters to the lowest of lowlifes to their even more lethal counterparts in the Otherworld, a lot of people and non-people want Mick out of the picture before he solves the mystery. Unfortunately for all of them, Mick Oberon doesn't know the meaning of the word "quit." But with this case, he might want to break out the dictionary before he gets killed… Praise for Hot Lead, Cold Iron: "In this gripping fantastical investigation, Marmell creates an engaging world and an unlikely hero […] The potent mix of gangsters, magic, Fae politics, and a strega on the warpath makes for a ride that never touches the brakes. Marmell expertly maximizes the thrills, leaving the reader with a lingering desire for a magic wand and a glass of warm milk." — Publishers Weekly, Starred Review

Leseprobe

Hot Lead, Cold Iron

Copyright © 2014 by Ari MarmellAll rights reserved.

Published as an eBook in 2025 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

Originally published by Titan Books in 2014.

Cover design by Tara O’Shea

ISBN (ebook) 978-1-625677-26-6

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

49 W. 45th Street, Suite #5N

New York, NY 10036

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[email protected]

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Table of Contents

Dedication

A Brief Word on Language

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Fae Pronunciation Guide

Mobsters of Chicago

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Ari Marmell

To Jaym, for giving Mick his first chance in Broken Time Blues—but more importantly, for helping me to make the most of my second. You’re amazing, Little Dragon.

A BRIEF WORD ON LANGUAGE

Throughout Hot Lead, Cold Iron, I’ve done my best to ensure that most, if not all, of the 30s-era slang can be picked up from context, rather than trying to include what would become a massive (and, no matter how careful I was, likely incomplete) dictionary. So over the course of reading, it shouldn’t be difficult to pick up on the fact that “lamps” and “peepers” are eyes, “choppers” and “Chicago typewriters” are Tommy guns, and so forth.

But there are two terms that I do want to address, due primarily to how they appear to modern readers.

“Bird,” when used as slang in some areas today, almost always refers to a woman. In the 1930s, however, it was just another word for “man” or guy.”

“Gink” sounds like it should be a racial epithet to modern ears (and indeed, though rare, I’ve been told that it is used as such in a few regions). In the 30s, the term was, again, just a word for “man,” though it has a somewhat condescending connotation to it. (That is, you wouldn’t use it to refer to anyone you liked or respected.) It’s in this fashion that I’ve used it throughout the novel.

CHAPTER ONE

I really feel that fewer of modern society’s bits and pieces are sadder—more banal, I guess—than a big office. It’s kinda like, once mankind perfected the assembly line, there was nothing left to do but live on it. Desk after bulky desk, endless rows reaching into the distance like railroad tracks to nowhere; constant monotonous clacks and dings of typewriters and adding machines; tacky marble floors—and maybe columns, in the swankier joints—trying to echo the glories of ancient temples and libraries, and miserably failing at it. Honestly, I dunno if it’s more depressing or more boring.

Unless someone’s trying to rub you out in one of ’em. Then I’m pretty damn confident in telling you it’s a lot more depressing than it is boring.

Right that minute, I wasn’t looking at the desks, or the typewriters, or the pillars, because I was staring blearily at the growing puddle of red soaking into the piss-yellow carpet between my scuffed Oxfords. (Yeah, carpet. This was the second story, so no marble flooring here.) It wasn’t a whole lot of leakage, not yet, but the brick-fisted galoots flocking around me seemed right eager to help me add to it. We were having a friendly little get-together, me and the four of them, wherein I was helping them to relax by massaging their knuckles with my cheeks and my gut. Repeatedly; they musta been really tense. But hey, at least the coppery scent in my nose kept me from gagging on the mixed bouquet of old sweat, typewriter oil, and carpet shampoo.

How the hell, I wondered, can people work in this kinda hole?

And then a refrigerator all dolled up as a fist tried to offer me a backrub through my navel, and I remembered that I had more important things to worry about.

They were pretty much all of a type: big fellas in cheap suits, breath reeking of bootleg eel juice and cheap cigarettes. It wasn’t too warm in there, but they were sweating from the exertion of working me over, so their jackets were draped over the backs of chairs or hanging limp over one shoulder. I think the fact that I wasn’t sweating was making them even more steamed.

Wonder what they’d have thought if I told them straight up that I don’t do that? Ever?

I hadn’t caught any of their names—if they’d been spoken at all, I’d had other things to worry about at the time—so as far as I was concerned, they were Mustache, Muscles, Edgy, and Egghead. Muscles was the guy who was doing most of the actual pounding on me (big surprise there, right?), with Mustache watching over his shoulder—maybe to see if Muscles was doing it wrong. Edgy kept a few steps away, fist wrapped around the only heater in sight—a Colt semi, if it matters—though I knew the others were packing in their coat pockets. Egghead had also moved back a little, wiping the perspiration off his head with one hand; in the other, he was holding a length of polished whitewood, just a little curved, not quite twice the size of a fountain pen. He was noodling over it like it was the most confounding thing he’d ever seen.

Which maybe it was. He’d pulled it from the shoulder holster under my jacket, so I gotta imagine he was anticipating something else.

But ultimately, none of these fellas was my main problem. No, he was sitting way over at the front of the office, his keister planted on the manager’s desk. Tan slacks, navy sportcoat, and a pressed shirt with a collar big enough to serve as a parachute—spitting image of a rich man’s idea of “casual.”

His name I knew. He was part of the reason I was here. The other part was the big brown envelope currently in his hand, and that used to be in my coat pocket.

Floyd Winger, committeeman of Chicago’s 34th Ward, went red as a honeymooning bride and started spitting words he’d never let his constituents hear as he tore open the flap and looked inside.

Muscles—who, I guess, assumed that the parade of profanity was born of his boss’s frustration—knocked on my ribs again, maybe to see if anyone was home. I think I probably grunted, and struggled to keep my focus on Edgy and Egghead.

Almost there…

“Who sent ya?” Muscles demanded. “What’d ya break in for? I swear, bo, you don’t start talking, we’re gonna—”

“It’s all right, Ronnie.” Committeeman Winger waved the envelope at me. “I know everything I need to know.”

Yeah, you keep right on thinking that, you dumb bastard…

Egghead, his curiosity piqued, turned to face his boss. Without even thinking about it, he slipped the length of wood into the pocket of his coat, which was hanging on the chair behind him.

Well, finally! The strings and strands of his thoughts had felt so greasy, I thought for a while there I was never gonna make him do that. I was disgustingly out of practice; no way that shoulda taken me more than a couple of minutes.

“So who is he, Mr. Winger?” Egghead asked, shoving a cigarette in his trap and digging in his pocket for matches. I struggled to pay attention to the conversation, all the while turning my focus back to Edgy’s Colt…

“Oh, I don’t know his name, Benny.” Of course he didn’t; I’d left my wallet back in my office. Didn’t want my name on me during a B-and-E job, did I? “But I know why he’s here.”

He aimed his narrow, lying peepers my way. “And we both know who sent you, don’t we?” Even here, with an audience of five—four on the payroll, and one that he was probably measuring for a pine overcoat—he couldn’t switch off the politician. His voice was sharp, clear, echoing in the massive room; he coulda been addressing a rally of hundreds.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I told him, grinning around a mouthful of blood. “I’m just a janitor. Had to break in, ’cause I forgot my key. And my uniform.” I shrugged, as much as the rope binding my hands behind the back of the chair would let me. “What can I say? I’m new at this.”

Either I wasn’t nearly as funny as I thought I was, or Muscles laughs with his fists, not his mouth. I’ll let you decide which. Either way, I quit talking for a spell.

“Now, Ronnie,” Winger said, “that shouldn’t be necessary any longer.” Something in the committeeman’s voice made me look his way, almost losing my concentration on Edgy in the process. His tone hadn’t changed much, but his words tasted wrong. Angry. The lines around his eyes and mouth were sharp enough to shave with.

“So this is how Baskin wants to play it?” he asked me. “Send some sap to come and burgle my place? Fine. We’ll play. This is on his head, and yours.” Winger brushed a few strands of thin hair from his face with the back of his hand, shoved the envelope into the inside pocket of his jacket, and reached for the office phone. He actually turned back toward me, as he lifted the receiver to his ear, so I could watch.

Louse. I hate politicians.

“Operator?” His lips were practically on the candlestick’s mouthpiece, making love to the thing. “Glenview 0898, please.”

I knew that exchange; he was calling Baskin at home. Nice guy.

“You’ll want…”

He and the gang of four barely glanced my way as I paused long enough to spit out the last of the blood. “What was that?” Winger asked. I could faintly hear the sound of ringing on the other end of the line.

“You’ll wanna put down the blower,” I said. “Before you embarrass yourself.”

Three chuckles and two pairs of rolled blinkers were all I got from that pronouncement. And why not? Even if I hadn’t been tightly roped to a heavy wooden chair, I’d already taken a beating that’d keep a strong man down for hours, and put a weak one in the hospital.

Two things they mighta wanted to know right then. First, I heal fast. Damn fast; it takes a lot more than a beating to lay me up longer than a few minutes, no matter how bad. And second, I coulda been free of the ropes half a minute after they tied me up. Not only are my joints a lot more flexible than most, but Mustache left a lot of slack in the loops.

Why? Because it’s an easy mistake to make if you don’t know your knots, and I’d been concentrating real hard on how much I wanted him to make it, that’s why. All I’d been waiting for was…

(I felt the aura of luck around Edgy’s roscoe, the chains of cause and effect that had to go just right for the mechanism to function, finally deflate beneath the pressure I’d been willing into it on and off for the past ten minutes.)

…That.

I stood up—rope dangling loosely from around my left wrist—spun the chair around me like it was my partner on the dance floor at the Savoy, and used it to return some of the loving attention that Muscles had been giving me over the course of the evening. He doubled up around the wood and hit the carpet, puking up bloody chunks of what might once have been cheap sausage.

It still didn’t smell as bad as the rest of the damn office.

For a heartbeat or two, everyone just gaped at me as though I’d sprouted a zeppelin. The receiver fell from Winger’s fingers, a nervous, twitching tail dangling at his side. The cigarette tumbled from Egghead’s kisser and bounced across the carpet in a mini-Fourth of July; the room was so quiet, we could actually hear the embers sizzling as they scattered. It was just luck that they didn’t ignite anything.

Or maybe it’s because I didn’t want them to. I’m not always entirely sure, when it comes to little quirks of fortune like that.

Edgy was, well, on edge, and acted before any of the others. He raised the Colt in a trembling hand—but not trembling enough to throw off his aim at this range—and squeezed the trigger.

Something inside—probably the firing pin, by the sound of it—snapped with a dull twang, and Edgy found his fist wrapped around a Browning Colt M1911 doorstop.

I was off and running before any of ’em had quite doped out what was happening. I put a haymaker across Egghead’s chin hard enough that he wouldn’t have to shave for a week, and he collapsed in a heap that I mighta called boneless if my throbbing knuckles didn’t prove there was a pretty solid jawbone in there. I yanked his coat from the chair where he’d draped it and spun, beating feet toward my favorite public servant, Committeeman Winger.

Who was, himself, making a pretty convincing sprint for the closest door.

Mustache moved to intercept me, yanking a .38 special from his jacket. No way I could deal with that one the way I had Edgy’s; even if I’d had the time to focus on it, it’s a lot harder for me to disable a revolver than a semi. Simpler mechanism, older technology. Maybe if I’d pulled my own piece from Egghead’s jacket, but I hadn’t had even a second to dig for it yet…

So I did what any normal Joe does when he’s got the pipe of a gun pointed his way: I ducked.

More accurately, I hurled myself frantically to the side, plowing into one of the desks so we went tumbling in a splayed mess of limbs both flesh and wood. (Bad enough that the corners of the damn thing dug into my ribs something fierce, but they managed to catch three different spots that Muscles had already tenderized like a cheap steak. Of course.)

It did the trick, though. I heard the boom of flying lead, and the softer crack as the slugs chewed through the far wall or into the wooden shield I was hunkering behind, but other than an ugly splinter across the back of my left hand, it didn’t cause me any pain.

I may heal fast, and I may die a lot harder than you mugs, but that don’t make getting shot any fun.

So, I couldn’t hide here forever. The desk was already about ready to disintegrate, I couldn’t be sure how long the other guys were out of the fight, and Winger was getting farther away with every breath. I stood up from behind the broken heap, shoved the luck I’d pulled from Edgy’s Colt into the short length of rope still coiled around my wrist, and threw it.

Mustache tried to knock it aside so it didn’t hit him in the face, tried to shoot me at the same time—and the .38’s hammer came down and lodged in the hemp fibers.

You can do a lot with a little extra luck, if you know how.

But it was only a little. Mustache was frantically tugging at the loose strands, trying to clear the hammer, and it probably wouldn’t take him long to pull it off. Edgy was digging in Muscles’s coat over one of the other chairs, probably going for the larger man’s roscoe, and Muscles himself was groaning and starting to struggle upright.

On the other hand, I was packing now, too.

From Egghead’s jacket pocket, I slid the wand he’d found so damn peculiar: a Luchtaine & Goodfellow Model 1592. It sat in my hand like it was a part of me. No surprise there; considering how long I’ve had it, I’ve actually worn down the wood to fit my fist. The dverga who sold it to me so long ago swore up and down that it actually contains a sliver of the raft that carried King Arthur to Avalon; I don’t know if I buy any of that, but on the square or not, the wand’s never let me down yet.

I raked the L&G across Winger’s goons, reaching through the mystic conduit to fiddle with the images behind their eyes. I gathered strands of shadow from the blind spots at the corners of their vision, smeared it across the rest of their sight; not as elegant as just painting myself out of the room, or making them see me somewhere I wasn’t, but even with the wand, this was a lot faster. For just a few moments, their worlds went dark as the inside of a gas tank.

“What the fuck?”

“Hey, who killed the lights?”

“Ronnie, that you? Where are you?”

“I’m over here!”

“Who’s that?!”

At which point, genius that he was, Edgy started squirting metal at every sound he didn’t immediately recognize. Powdered plaster and chipped marble fell from the walls and the columns, steel crumpled and typewriter keys flew free, and Mustache and Muscles dove blindly for cover. I heard a loud thunk, a pained squawk, and another of the desks collapsed, putting Muscles completely out of action for the second time.

Figuring that oughta keep them all busy for a few minutes, I snuffled once—the smell of burnt gunpowder always makes me wanna sneeze—and went hunting for Floyd Winger.

* * *

I practically skidded across the rough carpet, doors banging behind me, and slid into the brass railing on the balcony beyond. A quick peek down into the first-floor atrium didn’t show me much of anything useful: big honking secretary’s desk, bunch of potted ferns, marble flooring with swirls the color of watered-down Pepto-Bismol. Of course, I couldn’t see anything beneath the balcony, but at least the front door was firmly shut and there was no sight or sound of Winger anywhere near ’em.

The gink was probably hoping to stick around and make sure his boys took care of me. Good decision—for me.

I paused a minute, took a deep sniff. Winger had to have been sweating something fierce when he took the run-out; he’d be leaving a trail of stink better’n any roadmap. And yep, there it was. Hell, I didn’t even need the sweat; I could actually taste the lingering aura of his fear in the air.

L&G held straight and ready, I crept along the open hall on the balls of my feet; atrium to the left of me, thick doors and dark windows to the right. And I guess he knew I was coming, ’cause he bolted from his hiding hole and made a mad dash for the stairs.

He’d been skulking in the washroom. Of course. Where else would you find a Chicago politico, but with the rest of the shit?

I maybe coulda caught up with him, but why do things the hard way? I aimed the L&G and shouted, “That’s far enough, Mr. Winger.”

He froze, his hands high, and turned—at which point he saw just what it was I was pointing his way. If nothing else, at least I’d wiped the smug public-servant veneer off his mug. He gave me a sneer that woulda done any Mafioso proud. “You think you’re funny?” he demanded. “You think any of this is funny?!”

I shrugged. “Yeah, I think there’s maybe something funny to it.”

“Fine! I’ll send that stupid little stick to Baskin—along with a free copy of the headlines when the photos go public.” He was starting to step away again, ready to bolt. “I’m sure he’ll think the joke’s absolutely hysteri—”

The hallway shook with the cough of a .45-caliber slug, and my “stupid little stick” spit fire. It wasn’t any of it real, of course—just another illusion, sound and fury and all that—but it sure as shooting seemed real to him.

Uh, pun unintended.

Winger cried out, and before he could realize that he hadn’t actually been shot, I was on him like a troll on a wounded kid.

For a minute we rolled back and forth between the office walls and the half-wall that marked the balcony’s edge, fists flying, but I’m not being cocky when I say that he never had much of a chance. I got myself a nice, solid grip and started whaling on him.

I also got into the inside pocket of his coat—twice—and he never noticed. I wish I could pretend it’s because I’m just that keen, just that sneaky. But in this case, to be completely on the square about it, I think he was mostly distracted by the fact that I was slamming his head into the floor by his hair, and jamming my knee into his groin hard enough to flatten a tire.

I was about to stop anyway—no, really, I was!—when I learned that I’d badly underestimated at least one of the committeeman’s thugs.

Mustache flew from the office, one ace of a shiner decorating the left side of his face and a nasty little switchblade in his right hand. I really thought he shoulda been blind for another couple minutes. Maybe his loyalty to Winger was more than money, and hearing his boss yell out gave him the willpower to break my hold on him. Hell, maybe I just got careless, or I only winged him back in the office. Didn’t know then, don’t suppose I ever will. Can’t see how it matters much, either way. Whatever the reason, he was up and about.

I heard him coming, despite the muffling carpet and Winger’s groans; he musta still been disoriented from the magic I’d throw at him. Hell, I woulda been! He came at me and I stood, grabbed his arm, and spun him aside easy as duck soup.

He tottered, looking for all the world as though he was lit on cheap hooch—and went over the balcony railing with a girlish squeal.

Not my intention at all!

Winger and I just stared at each other, jaws hanging stupidly. It woulda been funny if, you know, it’d been funny. Then, reluctantly—not sure why; I’d seen, and done, a lot worse—I took a few steps and leaned over the edge.

You wouldn’t have believed it, but damn if Mustache wasn’t alive! He wouldn’t be jitterbugging any time soon, I could see that from the new and fascinating ways his drumsticks were bending, but one of those goofy potted ferns had broken the worst of his fall.

Sometimes, I can’t believe my luck.

I was still looking over the brass railing at the guy mangled and leaking right beneath me when the front door burst open like a belt at a banquet and a dozen coppers stormed the lobby. I actually felt more than twenty peepers focus on Mustache lying in the wreckage of the big terracotta pot, covered in blood and soil, and then rotate on up to focus on my gawping mug.

Sometimes, I can’t believe my luck.

At which point, Winger—clever weasel that he was—began screaming for help. And shouting his name. And claiming that I was holding a gun on him.

I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a lawman in the joint who didn’t know just how much of a highbinder the dirty bastard was. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t trying to kill him; hell, far as they were concerned, it probably made it more likely! Plus, there was no telling just how many of ’em might be on Winger’s payroll.

So it probably shouldn’t have come as any surprise to me that four of ’em drew heat and started shooting at me before I even had the chance to raise my hands.

I threw myself back from the railing hard enough to crack the office window behind me—thankfully, it wasn’t actually a mirror, despite the reflection; I normally carry enough salt on me to counter even that kinda bad luck, but right now it was sitting in the office, in my overcoat pocket—and I’m not sure the first of the slugs actually missed me by more than a mouse’s pecker. I let myself hit the floor as I rebounded off the glass, and started crawling. I heard feet pounding on stairs across the atrium, and I knew that if the wrong bull found me, I’d be sporting some extra holes before I had the chance to explain.

So I was going to have to do something—even if it meant making a bunch of policemen think I was attacking ’em. I couldn’t remember right at that point how many plans and contingencies I’d come up with, but the evening wasn’t going according to any of ’em.

I slipped my wand from my holster again and grabbed it in my teeth, crawled a few more yards, and—wincing in anticipation of another fusillade—peeked up between the wall and the railing.

Most of the bulls had spread out throughout the lobby, taking what cover they could around the desk or in various doorways; I assumed the ones I couldn’t see had already made it to the upper floor, and were somewhere close. I couldn’t help but notice that nobody was actually paying much attention to Mustache; they must have really believed someone was about to start sniping from up here.

I saw, also, that three plainclothes cops had come in behind them, weapons drawn—and thanks be to whatever gods are left in this day and age, I recognized one of them!

“Keenan!” I ducked as a shot careened off the railing inches from my nose. “Lieutenant Keenan!”

The man I’d called, a hawk-faced, dark-haired fella in a brown fedora and matching trench coat, aimed his stubble my way. “Oberon? That you?”

A second slug dug into the wall I was hiding behind, a third whined overhead and thunked into an office door. “Not for much longer!”

“Hold fire! Everyone hold fire!”

I didn’t actually know Keenan too well—mostly through a mutual friend on the force—but I coulda kissed him right about then.

It took a lot more yelling, and a few minutes of coppers running pell-mell through every room, accompanied by repeated shouts of “Police!” and “Get your hands up!” and “Grab some air!” but eventually, everyone was gathered downstairs around that humongous desk. Winger was smoothing his wrinkled coat and wiping the blood and sweat from his face with a handkerchief; Muscles and Mustache were receiving medical attention; Edgy was slouched over, his hands cuffed, since he’d taken a swing at the first lawman to come through the door; and Egghead was still snoozing.

For my part, I’d taken the opportunity for a quick, pinpoint illusion…

“Now,” Keenan said, moving in my direction, pad, pencil, and unlit cigarette all dangling from his left hand. “Someone had damn well better start telling me what—”

“I can tell you everything you require, lieutenant,” the committeeman said, stepping forward to intercept him. “This—this hooligan broke into the offices of my firm here and assaulted me and my employees! Why, there’s no telling what violence he might have inflicted on us if you hadn’t arrived when you did!”

“I attacked five guys?” I asked. I felt my lips curling despite my best efforts not to laugh in his face. “Alone? Unarmed?”

Keenan coughed and, transferring his cigarette to his right hand, used it to point at the obvious bulge in my coat. “Unarmed?” He stuck the butt in his mouth, looked around more or less aimlessly until one of the uniformed officers produced a lit match.

Being very careful to make every move slow and obvious, I pulled open my lapel and showed him the holster—and the wand.

“What the hell, Oberon?”

I smiled at him. “It’s intimidating; makes it look like I’m packing. But I don’t carry, lieutenant. Get Pete on the horn, if you don’t believe me; he’ll vouch.”

“I see. And Committeeman Winger’s claims?”

“Bunk from soup to nuts. Even for a politico, it’s one heck of a pack of lies.”

I always thought someone “puffing up” was just an expression until right then, but I swear Winger’s face actually inflated. “Now, see here—!”

“In fact,” I continued, “I’m here on official business. On behalf of ASA Daniel Baskin.”

That bought me a few raised eyebrows. But it was Winger who reacted first. “I think, lieutenant,” he said, speaking to Keenan even as he did his level best to stab me through the eyeballs with a vicious glare, “that there’s something you ought to know about Assistant State’s Attorney Baskin before you consider giving this matter any further credence.” And just as I knew he would, he stepped toward Keenan, hand reaching for the inside pocket of his sportcoat, greasy smile already oozing from his pores to cover the front of his head.

The same pocket I’d gotten into twice while we were tussling upstairs.

I’d been all set to give him a quick mental nudge, but it wasn’t needed. He was so anxious, so eager to bring the man down, I don’t think he realized until he’d already pulled it free that the paper in his hand was not the envelope he’d shoved in there earlier.

Floyd Winger could only stand there, paralyzed and perspiring, as Lieutenant Keenan leaned, squinting, to peruse the subpoena, inked beneath the formal seal of the Cook County courts.

“Looks like you’ve been served, Committeeman Winger,” Keenan told him. Was it my imagination, or was the flatfoot maybe gloating just a little bit? “I’m sure the court appreciates your willingness to testify.” He looked again. “March 28th? Okay. I appreciate you trusting us with this, committeeman. I’ll be sure to have officers ready to escort you. For your protection and comfort, of course.”

“I… I…”

I think I’d have taken this job from Baskin for free, just for the chance to hear a Chicago committeeman stammering.

“We’ll have to take you in, too, Oberon,” Keenan said then. “I don’t buy that you attacked these men, but until we determine exactly what did happen—especially to that fellow there,” he added, jutting his chin so the smoldering butt pointed vaguely at Mustache, “—we’ve got to treat you as a suspect.”

Yeah, I’d expected as much. “Come on, lieutenant.” I made a show of rubbing my aching ribs, carefully slid my hand up in case I needed the L&G for a little extra wow. “I’ve got an appointment with my client.” I tilted my head toward the subpoena, as if he was somehow going to forget who I meant. “You know you can get everything from him during office hours tomorrow.”

No way he should have gone for it—but then, I wasn’t just asking. I’d been sending him waves of willpower the entire time we talked, softening him up; now I pushed at the membrane of will behind his eyes, blew on the embers of his thoughts, igniting what little trust he had for me—and, more importantly, his respect for Dan Baskin—into a raging fire.

Wound up that I didn’t need the wand. “All right,” he said finally, drawing a strangled gasp from Winger and a few puzzled looks from the other (thankfully lower-ranked) detectives. “But I’m still going to need you to come in some time soon and give your own statement about what happened. Just to keep things formal.”

“Understand completely, lieutenant. Much obliged.”

He nodded, then glanced down at the small bloodstains all over my shirt and suit. “You need to see a doc before you go?”

“Nah.” I pulled my collar aside, showed him just a few minor bruises and abrasions. “Just a good tailor. Guys aren’t as tough as they make out.”

Keenan smirked and wandered away.

I ambled up to the second floor, collected my overcoat, and was back downstairs and out the door before I let the illusion fade and the ugly contusions and lacerations reappear. I knew I’d be seeing Keenan again before too long—maybe when I next went to call on Pete, and if not, when I went to give my statement—and by then, the wounds actually would be gone. I didn’t want him noticing and asking questions.

Hmm. I guess, at this point, I really should put a few cards on the table. I’m a private investigator, licensed and accredited. My name is Mick Oberon, or at least it is now.

And like some of you have probably already figured, I’m not human.

CHAPTER TWO

I’ve had a lot of names before this one, and you ain’t hearing any of ’em. I’m… I don’t know exactly know how old. Time doesn’t flow entirely right for us even in this world, and all bets are off once you step Sideways. Decades can drift by, like a soothing song, and you’d never know until you shake it off and look around; we forget so much of what we knew, and who we were.

I can tell you this. I’ve seen woad-painted Celts and war-painted Indians; Vikings on longships and knights on horseback; French revolutionaries and Italian inquisitors and Spanish conquistadors. I’ve slept on jagged rocks and woven moss, mite-infested straw mattresses and perfume-scented silks.

Today I sleep on a dilapidated Murphy bed in a cheap office, with wrinkled sheets and springs poking into my back, and believe you me, it ranks nearer the bottom of that list than the top.

I was among the last of the Tuatha Dé Danann, lords of the Emerald Isle, conquerors of the Firbolgs. We ruled as princes, in our world and yours, until you grew too many, your devices too intricate. We became the aes sidhe, the People of the Mounds, through which we retreated in our return to the Otherworld. And we lost so much of what we’d been.

You call us Fae, and our world Faerie, or Elphame, or a dozen other names. And for longer than I can remember—literally—I remained a prince, an aristocrat of the Seelie Court.

Now I’m a PI in a filthy, crime-ridden city, where I gotta talk like I’ve got a beef with grammar if I wanna halfway blend in, in a world that actually hurts me. Any of you saps honestly believe there’s any justice in the universe, c’mon over and see me. I’ve got a bridge to sell you. It’s all kinda sparkly colors, and it takes you right to fucking Asgard.

And that’s all you need. Or all you get, anyway.

Well, no, I’ll give you one piece more: I had my own damn good reasons for walking away from the Courts and everything I was, and I’ve got my own damn good reasons for never wanting to go back.

That’ll be important for you to know, later. You can probably imagine why.

* * *

The wind was faint and only a little chilly. It whispered in my ears and kicked the hem of my overcoat around my ankles, making it dance a quick waltz with bits of old newspaper, sandwich wrappers, and a few stray leaves that had survived the winter only to fall with spring just beyond reach. (I knew how they felt.) Dark cars grumbled past me on the street, beaming their ugly yellow light at me through big froggy eyes and leering through grills of metal teeth. I’d taught myself a long time ago not to shudder every time I got near one of the damn things, but the urge remained, waiting to conk me on the back of the head.

Even this late, I wasn’t hardly the only bird strolling down Michigan Avenue, and by the time I got where I was going, I thought my head would fall off my neck, I’d nodded so many polite greetings. If I wore a hat, I’d have worn through the brim from tipping it over and over again.

The sound of people laughing and dishes clattering, the smell of greasy meats and something slick burning off the stove, all hit me before I even opened the door. I have to admit, I was a little perplexed that we were meeting at a Thompson’s—or “mpson’s,” at the moment, since someone had covered half the name with a poster supporting Smith over Roosevelt at the upcoming convention. Sure, it was my sorta joint, since it kept the same hours I did, and it doesn’t much matter to me how lousy the food might be; but I didn’t figure it for his.

But then, maybe that was the point. Not as though anyone would think to look for him here, right?

The crowd inside was just big enough to make me wait in line at the counter: businessmen and shopkeeps grabbing a bite after a long day, a few young couples riding the high of a great date, a handful of professional skirts fortifying themselves for another hard night.

And probably a few trouble boys planning something illegal for later in the week, but that’d be none of my business, would it?

I waited in the line, tapping my foot—because it’s expected, not because I actually do that—and slowly slid my way completely past the food, ignoring the whole smelly mess of it. Finally, I got to the drink counter and the harried slob behind it.

“You got any of those warm?” I asked, pointing to a row of glasses made visible as one of the other workers opened the refrigerator behind him.

“Huh? Warm? Why would we do that, mister?” His face looked about as expressive as the grease stains on his apron.

I sighed. You wouldn’t think it’d be that hard an order, would you? “Okay, fine. Just a glass of milk, please.”

He gave me a funny look—proving that he could, at least, manage an expression—and delivered. I dropped a few cents in his sweaty palm and turned to get a slant on the room.

Took me a minute, since he was wearing a much cheaper suit than when I last saw him—anonymity again, I supposed—but I finally spotted him. No amount of shabby dressing was going to hide that five-dollar haircut, or the immaculately shined shoes. I found him off to the side, in a row of chairs lined up against a wall. Cheap, cramped little dinguses, with trays nailed to the left arm instead of any sorta legit table—but it put us out of earshot of anyone else in the joint, and it kept either of us from having to sit with our back to the room.

Thoughtful gesture on his part, but honestly, with my hearing, I don’t much mind putting my back to a room.

Much.

He nodded as I approached but didn’t bother to stand, finished chewing a mouthful of pastrami on rye, washed it down with a big gulp of a Coke that was just about the same color as his hair. I sat, giving him a pretty solid up-and-down—I’d only met him the couple of times, and trusted him roughly not at all—and he returned the examination in kind.

I wondered exactly how I looked to him.

You see, that’s one of the things about me—about most of the aes sidhe, actually. None of you mortal-types see us exactly the same way. Sure, I knew basically what he saw: little taller than average, kinda skinny, narrow nose and chin, sorta sandy hair and ocean-colored blinkers. (Between the sand and the water, I used to tell people I was a son of a beach, until I realized, way too late, that it wasn’t even a little bit funny.) But the details, the angles, the exact shades, the wrinkles and freckles and whatnot; those coulda been anything. It’s never dramatic—show any handful of people who know me a photo, and they’ll all recognize me; they’ll just think it’s a bad picture—but I’m always curious. I was wearing the same overcoat I usually wear, kinda dirt-colored and well loved. (Which I’m sure most of you mugs’ll take as a euphemism for “worn and threadbare.” Okay, fine, it is worn and threadbare, but damn it, it’s comfortable.)

I knew he’d finished his studying when he blinked and sniffed once. “New suit?”

Yeah, it did have that clothing shop smell to it. I’d decided buying a new suit was probably less expensive, and certainly less hassle, than finding a tailor and a drycleaner to fix what Winger’s thugs had done to my old one. Of course, even new, the blue pinstripe would have to be pressed twice to look good enough to be called “cheap.”

“Wanted to dress my best for our meeting, Mr. Baskin,” I said, making no effort at all to sound like I meant it.

He chuckled politely, then lifted a napkin, wiped a tiny bit of soda from the corner of his mouth. “It’s done, then?”

I nodded, reached into my overcoat and produced the envelope. “It’s done.” I slapped it down on the table beside his sandwich wrapper.

His shoulders visibly sagged, his expression softened. For a man accustomed to standing in front of judges, juries, and crumbs who’d happily whack him for a shot of whisky, he was showing an awful lot of emotion.

Then again, I’d seen the pictures. If I’d been an Assistant State’s Attorney, I’d have been relieved to get ’em back, too.

“The negatives?” he asked.

“Inside, with the prints.”

He swept the envelope off the table and into a waiting leather briefcase. “And the subpoena?”

“Served.” I grinned. “And he actually flashed it to Lieutenant Keenan, in a room full of bulls. No way he can make like he never got it.”

Baskin laughed aloud. “Well done, Mr. Oberon, very well done.”

“Yeah.” My smile fell a little. “Maybe not that well done. There were, uh, complications.” Briefly, and leaving out pretty much every mention of magic (as well as any reference to how bad I got pummeled), I gave him the skinny on what had occurred.

He was shaking his head long before I’d finished. “Not very subtle, were you?”

“It wasn’t the clean sneak I was hoping for, no. I’d cased the joint for three straight nights; just my bad luck he decided to come in late today.” I shrugged. “But it worked out, minus a few bruises I could do without.”

“And the police report?” he asked. I watched him rotating his glass around and around, his fingers leaving streaks in the condensation, and I knew what he was asking.

“Won’t mention the photos. I’ll cop to the B-and-E, say I was just trying to make sure to deliver your summons and I didn’t think Winger’s boys would let me get near him.” I paused, then, “You can arrange to have the breaking-and-entering charge dismissed, right?”

“I can. You’ll get a slap on the wrist, I’ll cover the fine, we’ll make some noise about pulling your PI ticket if it happens again. No big deal.”

“Swell.” We sat for a moment, letting the ambient voices wash over us. I took a swallow of milk, and tried not to pull a face; still cold, damn it.

“Look, Mr. Baskin,” I asked finally, “put me wise about something.”

“Yes?”

“I understand why everything had to happen all at once. You snatch the photos before you serve him, and Winger might take a powder somewhere you can’t reach him. You deliver the subpoena first, and he leaks the pictures. I get all that.

“But why subpoena him? Why not have the cops pinch him? You obviously had them in the area in case of trouble—no other way they’d have gotten there so quick once the shooting started—and I know you’ve got enough on him to send him over for years. So why isn’t he in jail right now?”

Baskin leaned toward me, and damn if his eyes weren’t almost glowing like will-o’-the-wisps. “Because I don’t just want Winger. I want Surrey!”

Made sense. Alderman Joel Surrey was the man who’d appointed Winger as his committeeman for the ward. Had to figure that, corrupt as everyone knew Winger was, Surrey must be in on it.

“I’ve been trying,” Baskin was saying, “to get Surrey since before we nailed Capone! If I can get Winger to testify against him…”

I nodded slowly. “And in the meanwhile, Winger gets to think about how long you can lock him up if he doesn’t cooperate—and to think about what Surrey’s going to do when he hears about the subpoena.”

“Exactly.”

There was more to it than that. Baskin’s words tasted like lies—or some of them did, anyway. Maybe he had other plans for Winger, or for Surrey; maybe he had something else going, investigative or political, that he didn’t want to tell me about.

Or hell, maybe I was wrong. I can’t always tell, especially with accomplished liars, and I’ve been way off before. Frankly, it didn’t matter. Everyone in this town plays their little games, and everyone’s corrupt or dirty somehow. If Baskin wasn’t on the up-and-up, well, that was none of mine.

I took another sip—a bit warmer now, thankfully—and held out my hand. “You’ve got something for me?”

He frowned. “Yeah.” He reached back into his briefcase, brought out something wrapped in crumpled brown paper and tied with twine. “A few bucks to cover expenses, and the, um, item. This wasn’t easy to get, Oberon, not even for me. If it’s some kind of joke…”

“No joke. You asked what my services would cost, this is what they cost. This time.”

Shaking his head in such clear bewilderment I wanted to burst out laughing, he handed it over. It sat in my hands, feeling right. I got a charge just holding it.

You’ll chuckle at that, later.

I squeezed from my chair, leaving most of the glass of milk behind, and opened my kisser to offer “g’night” when I caught just the faintest narrowing of Baskin’s lids.

Damn, I’d really hoped to avoid this…

“Tell me, Mr. Oberon: Did you look at the photos?”

“Course I did,” I told him flatly. “I had to be sure what I had, didn’t I?”

“I see.”

I leaned in, putting my hands on his tray. I didn’t push into his thoughts yet, but I was gathering myself up to do it if I needed to. “Way I see it,” I said, “we’re just two Joes who worked together on something—not friends, maybe, but friendly-like. We can go about our business, maybe work together again in the future, and both be happy, confident that I’m hardly about to risk my professional reputation by squealing your secrets.

“Or you can decide to come after me ’cause of what I know. Hell, you’ve probably got enough on me to prefer some real charges. But right now, all you gotta worry about is Winger talking about those pictures; nobody’s gonna believe him on his own. But you make me an enemy, I’m gonna have to testify to what I saw, and then he’s got corroboration from a guy with no good call to want to help him. Ain’t as bad as the photos themselves, but you can be damn sure it’ll make the Tribune.

“So you tell me, Mr. Baskin. How do you want it?”

A few years passed in the next couple of heartbeats. Then he leaned back, reached for what was left of his Coke, and gave me the shallowest of nods. “Have a nice night, Mr. Oberon.”

* * *

I couldn’t tell you if I had a nice night, but apparently I had a long one. The sun was already poking at me through the blinds in my office window by the time I stirred the next morning. Actually, it had to be afternoon if I was getting sunlight up my nose, since my office is a basement room, and the only windows are narrow little things way up by the ceiling; but if I’m just waking up it’s morning, goddamn it.

I admit, I was a little dizzy and disoriented for a few. I’m not actually used to sleeping all that much; just a few hours every couple of days, more so my brain can dream and take the run-out from this world of yours for a little while than because my body actually needs the rest. But after the last evening, with all the magic and me healing up from being beat like a drum, I suppose I needed it.

So it took me a minute to get my head together and peel my thoughts up off the pillow enough to dope out what woke me. It wasn’t the sunlight. It wasn’t the faint ringing from out in the corridor. (I don’t keep a phone in my office—it drives me up the wall just being near the damn things—but Mr. Soucek was kind enough to let me use the payphone in the hall for incoming calls. It was the first thing he told all his tenants: “If pay-telephone in basement rings, is for Mr. Oberon. You tell him, okay?”) It wasn’t the scent of the fresh bottles of milk that appeared outside my door every morning, though now that I was awake they were awful enticing.

No, it hadn’t been any of that, so what…?

Oh. Yeah, the ham-fisted pounding on my door just mighta done the trick. As I said, I was a little slow for a spell, there.

“Hold your shirt and keep your horses on, buster! I’m comin’!”

Probably not the most gracious way to introduce myself to someone who mighta been a client, but there it was.

I stood up, made sure I was more or less decent—shirt and slacks were wrinkled as an elephant’s grandma from sleeping in, but they’d do—then shoved all the sheets up onto the mattress and folded the Murphy bed back up into its alcove. (A few scraps of fabric were sticking out around the edges where the doors shut, but again, it’d hafta do.)

Looking around, everything else was clean enough; not neat, since the place was cluttered with enough papers to rebuild a tree, but clean. It’s not much of a home—or much of an office, for that matter—but it’s what I had. Small desk with a matching swivel chair and a big honkin’ typewriter. (That typewriter actually killed a man, once, but I don’t ever tell that story.) Smaller chair in front of the desk; file cabinet; tiny, decrepit icebox, not kept as cold as most, where I keep my milk and a few dollops of cream for celebrations. There’s a spindly rack, with a dusty hat I never wear—hats don’t feel right on me; just because you Joes can’t see the pointed ears don’t mean they ain’t there—and that usually holds my overcoat, ’cept that was currently draped over the back of my chair. Fireplace along one wall. The tools are brass; no iron in here, no way.

Oh, and over in the corner, an old radio the size of a doghouse. Yeah, I have a radio—it’s about the only thing in here more advanced than a light bulb—though I gotta keep it unplugged most of the time or I go stark raving. I don’t much care for what you people call “music” nowadays; give me a lute-and-flute jig or Bach’s third Brandenburg Concerto over a jazz trumpet or a crooning canary any time, no matter how smooth. But Waters and Ellington and Armstrong are what you mugs listen to, so those of us who wanna fit in to your world, that’s what we gotta listen to. Thanks for nothing.

Anything else I had to do last minute? Nah; the package Baskin gave me was sitting on the edge of the desk, but it was wrapped. Bathroom door was shut, so the client—or whoever—wouldn’t see the blood and dirt clinging to the brass tub. The nook over in the far wall, where the refrigerator used to be before I moved in, was a little mildewed in the corners, but not enough for your average Joe to notice. Besides, I kept it that way on purpose.

So I was about as ready to entertain a caller as I was gonna be without a shower and a few more hours of shuteye.

With what I already knew was a futile attempt to straighten my shirt, I scooted to the door, slid the deadbolts aside, and pulled it open. The face on the other side was clean-shaven and just a little swarthy. He mighta been Italian, or Mexican, or just tan; features weren’t ethnical enough one way or the other to be sure.

I noticed, in passing, that the payphone had stopped ringing.

He ran a hand over his hair, which was already slicked back with enough oil to lube a Ford, and said, “You keep everyone waiting this long, mister?”

“Just the people I like,” I told him, stepping aside so he could enter.

“Just the people you like.” He snorted, and managed, without actually touching me, to give the impression that he’d rather have shouldered me aside.

This one was gonna be fun, I could tell that already.

I picked up the two bottles of milk and then shut the door, taking a moment to get a good slant on him. The stripes on his jacket were wide and colorful, but the suit itself was pretty good quality; so he had money, but not a lotta taste. His shoes cost more than my wardrobe, but they were scuffed; and it didn’t take either the keen observation of a PI or the vision of the Fae to see the bulge in that coat, or to know what was under it.

I waited until he’d seated himself, ignored the disparaging look he gave to my place of business, and then took the other chair across the desk.

“So, you’re O’Brien?”

My tongue almost bled, I bit it so hard. I get three or four of those a month. Yeah, this is Chicago, and yeah, I go by “Mick,” and “Oberon” ain’t exactly normal, but c’mon. The name’s right there on the damn door!

“Oberon,” I corrected, polite as I could muster.

“Oberon?”

“Oberon. And you are…?”

“Archie.”

I waited. He waited for me to finish waiting. Apparently, that’s all he was giving me.

“Okay, Archie. What can I do for you?”

“Well…” He hedged, and I could hear his feet fidgeting on the carpet. “You got anything to drink around here, Mr. Oberon?”

“I can offer you milk.” I thumped the two bottles down on the desk, next to Baskin’s parcel.

He looked at me, expecting a punchline. I shrugged.

“Milk. Yeah.” He shook his head. I drummed my fingers on the side of the typewriter, waiting for him to get to the point.

He glanced up, chewing his cheek a little, and scowled. “You gotta problem with me? You’re staring. I don’t enjoy being stared at.”

Oops. Guess I was still out of it; I taught myself to blink and fidget and all that a long time ago, but now and again I slip up. I made a show of blinking and leaned back in the seat.

“Just wondering when you’re gonna quit bumping gums and tell me something that means anything.”

He glowered, but I’ve gotten the Look from scarier guys than him.

“Fine,” he said at last. “We need you to find someone.”

“We?”

“My boss and me. We—”

I raised a hand. “You can stop there, Archie. I can’t take the job.”

“You can’t take the job?! You ain’t even heard the job!”

“Maybe not,” I said, “but I’ve heard enough.”

“You’ve heard enough?”

“You know, that’s a genuinely irritating habit you got there.” Then, before he could object any further, I said, “It’s plain and simple, Archie. I don’t work for the Outfit. Or any of their people.”

He froze, and in that moment even the dizzying jacket didn’t keep him from looking dangerous. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice was flat as a bad note.

“C’mon, Archie, you might as well be wearing a sign. The heater, the way you dress, the way you walk. You’re here on behalf of your boss. Even the look you tried to shake me with. You’re with the Outfit. You could belong to one of the other gangs, maybe, but if I had to guess, I’d put you with Al’s old crew.”

“Be careful, Oberon…”

“And,” I continued, ignoring what he probably thought passed for a pretty clear threat, “I don’t work for you kinda people. Ever.”

You gotta understand, it wasn’t just that I don’t care for mobs like the Outfit and their rivals, though I sure as hell ain’t fond of them. But most of you mortals, you got no idea what they represent, what sort of effect they’ve had on the Otherworld…

“You don’t work for my kinda people.” Archie’s cheeks were trembling, and I could hear his teeth grinding together. His hand twitched, just a little, toward his left breast.

I rocked forward in my chair so I was standing, leaning over the desk, fists planted on either side of the typewriter. I didn’t even bother throwing any magic at him, just stared.

Sometimes it helps not actually needing to blink.

“Go ahead,” I said softly. “Skin it. You’ll look real nice in pine; goes with your complexion.”

For a minute, I thought he might actually go for it and that I would have to put him down. But then his face went even redder, he growled something—probably about me “regretting it,” ’cause that’s always what they say—and he stood and stomped from the office, leaving the door hanging open.

And that mighta been the end of the whole thing, or at least my part in it, if it hadn’t been for my next visitor. They musta passed each other in the hall, because I’d barely had time to pop the cap off a bottle, take a quick gulp, and move around the desk toward the door when someone else appeared in it. The amount of bushy white fuzz on his head was unbelievable; on top, on his cheeks and chin, over his blinkers, even coming out of his ears. He was basically a walking dandelion—or a magician who’d gotten his trick wrong, and tried to hide the rabbit in his head.

“Hey, Mr. Soucek!”

“Hello, Mr. Oberon. I tell you before, you call me ‘Jozka,’ please.”

“Soon as you call me ‘Mick,’ Mr. Soucek.”

It was sort of a running joke between us, but today, Jozka didn’t look to be that into it. Of about a zillion Czech immigrants in the Pilsen neighborhood, my landlord was one of the few who’d made good. He’d actually bordered on being rich for a while there—until Black Tuesday. He’d seemed harried all the time, ever since, but I’d rarely seen him looking this blue. Not since our very first meeting…

“Everything okay?” I asked him.

“I can come in, maybe, Mr. Oberon?”

“Sure, sure. Take a seat.” I shut the door behind him. “Get you some milk?”

“I thank you, no,” he said. His hands were actually clenched together in his lap, and I felt a faint tingle run up my spine. Lead in my guts, I sat across from him.

“Um, Mr. Oberon…” His voice cracked. I said nothing more, just waited. “I try calling you before,” he said, “on the pay-telephone.”

Ah. “I heard. I was with a client.”

“This client, he makes you good offer, I hope?”

That’s never a good question. “I’m afraid we couldn’t come to terms.”

“Oh.” His whole face fell; he looked like a sagging cloud. “This is unfortunate. Mr. Oberon, you need to start to look for new place.”

I swallowed once, and felt my jaw and fists clench. “Mr. Soucek…”

Seems he heard something nasty in my voice. “Oh, no, Mr. Oberon! I owe you so much, ever since you find out what happen to my darling Kalene, God rest her soul. I say you can stay always for free in my building, and I keep my promise. But… is not up to me anymore. Not enough tenants to pay, so—I am losing building.”

It wasn’t as if I could doubt him on that. I knew how much of the joint was sitting empty, and how long it’d been that way. If I’d ever bothered to think about it, I shoulda been surprised this hadn’t happened a long time ago.

The timing, on the other hand, was more’n a little hinky.

“They did this, didn’t they?” I demanded. I think I might actually have growled a little.

“They?”

“The fellas you owe, Jozka. They’re pressuring you to pressure me, right?”