Choked Up (16 page)

 

Stannis met me as I came back into the lounge. He was buzzing with a combination of vitality and aggression.

“Could we chat for a moment?” I asked.

Stannis gave a short shake of his head. “Forgive me, Maisie. Not at this time.” He took my arm and with only the barest pressure on my elbow, led me through a sea of gold velvet curtains into the 1940s. The Storkling was pure allure. Intimate high-backed booths broke up landing strips of tables where glitterati were meant to be seen. On stage at the far end, a flame-haired torcher in a red sequined gown warbled “Black Coffee” in front of a tuxedoed twelve-piece band.

The maître d' gave us a short bow and raised a palm toward a table at a large elevated platform in the back. Four men in dark suits surrounded a stout man with fading dark hair and olive skin. He was exquisitely packaged in a creamy white dinner jacket over a white shirt and black tie. They were all smoking cigars.

We walked up the stairs. While the men all rose, only the man in the white jacket came around the table. Eddie Veteratti. Vi's twin and head of the Chicago Syndicate. “Renko.”

“Eddie.”

They shook hands, Stannis finished with a shoulder grip. The Mobster's smile went waxy.

“So, who's this?” Eddie's quick eyes gave me a halfhearted once-over. “Your secretary?”

I gazed up at Stannis in a look of pure adoration and then genteelly extended my hand. “Maisie McGrane.” When Eddie took my hand, I leaned in, cupped my left hand to my cheek, and whispered in his ear, “Stannis prefers a prude in public and a bunny in the bedroom.”

Eddie's eyes widened.

I left my hand in his. “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Veteratti.”

“Is she for real?” he asked Stannis. Eddie leaned in, exhaling smoke in my face. “Where'd you learn to talk so sweet?”

“The Sisters at St. Ignatius, sir.”

“Oh my fuckin' God.
Sir,
she said.” He called over his shoulder to one of the guys at the table. “Benny. Order the kid a champagne cocktail.” He waved his cigar at Stannis. “Let's go.”

Stannis pulled out a chair for me, I spun, took him firmly by the lapels, and kissed him. His mouth went stiff with surprise. Then he kissed me back.

His fingers slid up the back of my neck and he bent me slightly backward.

He let go suddenly, leaving me gasping in shock. He raised his hands in apology to Eddie. “Like drug, she is.” He winked at me and they left.

The four men smoked and stared at me. Cheeks burning, I took a seat at the table. I turned my chair slightly and focused on the singer. A waiter placed a drink in front of me. “Your champagne cocktail.”

A tall Tom Collins glass held ice, lemon peel, and a dark tawny liquid filled to the brim. I raised a brow.

“Krug champagne and Martell Cordon Bleu Cognac.” The waiter smiled politely. “Exactly like the original Stork Club made them for Gloria Swanson.”

I took a taste. It was a champagne cocktail, all right. A damn good one.

After another couple of sips, I leaned back in my chair and tried to relax.

Bobby Blaze purred a throaty “Bye Bye Blackbird,” the band riding the edge of subdued swing. Ear candy. The likes of which I'd never heard live before.

I scanned the room, getting a feel for the clientele. A couple of television stars who'd never make it on the big screen cozying up to a couple of sports stars who had. Mobsters serenaded by a glut of city politicians ready to pick up the hammer and sickle.

The oozing froth of Chicagoland's who's who.

The only way I could have been happier was if Hank was sitting next to me.

The torcher finished on a long low note. Her spot went dark. Colored lights flared and the band ramped into Gillespie-style jazz.

Eddie returned to the table with Renko, arm slung around his shoulder.

The waiter flittered around the table like an anxious bee, as Eddie V. pulled out the chair next to me. He took the seat on my right, leaned forward, and pointed at my near empty glass. “You like?”

“Very much, thank you.” I smiled. “Heavenly.”

He turned to the waiter. “A Manhattan for me and another cocktail for the kid.”

“Mr. Renko?” the waiter asked.

“Rakija.”

“Hustle it up,” Eddie said. The waiter nodded and fled. Eddie turned to me. “So you and Renko. How'd that happen?”

“He's my white knight,” I said. “He stopped a guy from mugging me.”

“Yeah?” Eddie leaned back in his chair, bored and twitchy. “Sounds exciting.”

“It was awful.” I shuddered and let my voice go husky. “But, oh so wonderful when Stannis smashed his head into the windshield.”

Eddie blinked.

“You see why Maisie is like drug to me?” Renko's slim hand covered mine and squeezed. “She understands the violence of men.”

Eddie's lips bent in a thoughtful frown. He nodded and said over my head to Stannis, “Maybe you wanna let her”—his hands gestured vaguely in my direction—“look a little hotter, you know?”

“Maisie represents me.” He tapped his chest. “She will not dress like whore.”

“That may be, but she ain't gonna be happy coming along and not fitting in.” Eddie leaned close to me. “Ain't that right, sweetheart?”

I glanced up at Stannis from beneath my lashes. “Well, I wouldn't say no to a new dress, Mr. Veteratti.”

“Bastard,” Stannis said, eyes twinkling.

Eddie laughed, eyes roaming the dining room. The chuckle died in his throat as Zara Coles, version 2.0, walked into the room.

The mayor's wife had dropped twenty pounds, joined Team Botox, and traded up her pedantic version of Jackie O. for the
House of Cards
' Claire Underwood. Her caramel-colored hair was short and chic, and her sternly tailored sheath dress fit her like a second skin.

Eddie was on his feet the second he clapped eyes on her. We watched as she approached our table. Stannis stood. I didn't see the point in staying seated and got up.

“Sweetheart.” Eddie wrapped the mayor's wife in a warm embrace, kissing her on each cheek and finishing with one right on the mouth. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Oh, Eddie. I've had the most dreadful week.”

“Lay it on me, baby.” He held out his opened palms. “I'm all ears.”

“I haven't seen Talbott in ages. The children are convinced their father is a television character. I've attended a dozen events in the last five days, and to top it off, my brand-new Bentley looks like Br'er Rabbit drove it through the briar patch. Scratched to bits. I simply had to get out of the house.”

“Lemme take care of you, Zu.” Eddie snapped his fingers at the waiter and pointed at his Manhattan. “I'll have one of the boys come 'round for the car tomorrow. I got a body work guy'll have it better than new.”

“That would be wonderful.” Zara Coles gave him a sweet smile and a gentle head tip in our direction.

“Oh yeah,” Eddie said. “This is Stannislav Renko. Zara Coles.”

Stannis shook her proffered hand. “Is nice to meet you.”

The mayor's wife turned to me. “Zara Coles. But please, call me Zuzu.” She rolled her eyes and moued. “It's one of those awful East Coast-y kind of nicknames, I know, but I've grown impossibly accustomed.” She shrugged her shoulders. “And you are?”

“Maisie,” Eddie said.

She jerked as if she were on the end of a puppet string. A tiny crease appeared on her forehead. “Maisie . . . McGrane?”

Yeah. The one who booted your car and is at least partly to blame for the scratches.
I tried not to wince.

“Oh, thank you!” She gave a short almost-sob of breath and clutched my wrists. “I never got the chance to thank you. Thank you.” She smiled at Eddie. “This is the girl. The one who saved Talbott's life.”

“Oh yeah?” He glared at me. “Kid's a regular saint, ain't she.”

Zuzu pressed her lips tight together, blinking fast. “I've wanted to express our family's gratitude so very many times. What you did was everything to me . . . to my family.” She let go of my hands to wring her own. “Talbott was adamant you wouldn't welcome a gift or token of appreciation.”

“He was right, ma'am.” A grub worm of guilt twisted inside my stomach. Zuzu Coles was a nice lady. Her husband was a switch-hitting cheater. She didn't deserve that. Nobody did.

“But look at you,” Zuzu chided. “You're gorgeous. You could have tied your wagon to his star. Made a career out of it.”

“I'm kind of a private person.”

“I wish I could be.” She fingered the sapphire collar at her throat. “One of the perils of falling in love with a politician.” A tiny pucker appeared on Zuzu's brow. “Didn't Talbott offer to make you a police officer? Like the rest of your family?”

On his extra-dirty security detail. “Yes. I turned him down.”

“Why's that?” Eddie folded his arms across his chest.

“Half of my family are defense attorneys, Mr. Veteratti. The other half are cops.”

“Eddie,” Zuzu warned, laying a hand on his forearm.

I smiled. “Neither is a team I want to play for.”

Instead of placating Eddie, my answer pissed him off. “You bring a fuckin' cop's kid in my club, Renko?”

Stannis bared his bottom teeth in amusement. “Maisie, Mrs. Coles, you excuse us, yes?”

We nodded and stood uncomfortably for a moment as the two men left the table. Zuzu turned and started chattering with the other men at the table.

 

My heels tripped lightly down the stairs. The valet approached me. I waved him off and put some yardage between me and his station.

All that and now I'm fingered as a narc. Supes terrif.
I pinched the bridge of my nose and rocked back and forth on my heels.

Now what? Aside from the fact I was terrified Stannis actually wanted to date me, the idea that I'd compromised him with my family connections after all the evening's efforts, frankly, sucked.

A blurry clear film came down over my face. I gasped and plastic filled my nose and mouth. Choking me.

A plastic bag.

A heavy arm grabbed me across the chest, dragging me backward into the alley. Forcing the last bubble of oxygen from my throat.

I tried to rip at the thick plastic. My lungs were on fire, body heaving. Fingers slipping as I tried to rip a hole at my mouth.

The edges of my vision went black. Lungs tearing, chest bucking for air.

My hands fell away.

The bag was jerked from my face. Colors and lights burst in my eyes. I was pinned up against a brick wall, choking and coughing, trying to stop the world from spinning.

“Miss me?” Jeff Mant pulled out a gravity knife and popped the lever, letting the blade fall and lock slowly into the hilt. Savoring the moment.

I was dizzy, shuddering, sucking in air. Oxygen burning as much coming in as it had going without.

He jabbed the knife just below my breasts. The tip cut into me with each involuntary, heaving gasp.

Mant leaned back and with a quick flip of the wrist, slit my bra and dress up to the base of my throat. I barely felt the hot slice of the blade over the fire in my lungs.

His nostrils flared. “I specifically told you not to wear black.”

Another set of stars went off in my head. I saw a dark shape across the street.

A man. Moving toward me.

“
Dalji ruke!
” Stannis's gruff Serbian rang in my ears as he shot out of the darkness and punched Jeff Mant in the soft cartilage of his throat.

Mant stumbled backward, clutching at his neck, dropping the knife.

Stannis was on the blade in a flash. He weighed it in his hand, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Come.” He gestured at Mant with the knife. “You bleed now.”

Wheezing, I slid slowly down the side of the wall, the back of my dress riding up, snagging on the rough brick.

Mant's eyes slid from the man on the other side of the street to Stannis. They went flat. “Later,” he rasped and turned and ran off down the alley, disappearing into the night.

I vaguely remember Stannis throwing his jacket around me, rescuing a shoe I didn't remember losing, and bundling me into his waiting car. Tucked into the backseat, I shivered with cold and tried to focus on what was happening in front of The Storkling.

The valet was a twentysomething kid who didn't deserve the sound and the fury Stannis was raining down on him. Eddie Veteratti and a couple of his men started down the stairs to see about the ruckus.

But my eyelids had turned to lead. I gave up and let them close.

Stannis gently shook me awake. My head was in his lap. “Maisie? We are here.”

I sat up, blinking and woozy, trying to find my feet. The driver had parked in front of a midrise industrial rehabbed building in the trendy West Loop.

“Stannis, I need to go home.”

“No.”

The driver opened the door, Stannis leapt out ahead and helped me into the building.

He swiped a key card in front of the electronic eye in the elevator. The top button labeled PH lit up.

Penthouse.

Huddled inside his suit coat, I tried to pull the front of my dress together. I took a tiny peek. I hissed as the fabric, sticky with blood, scraped and rubbed against the open cut that ran from right beneath my breasts to the base of my throat.

My stomach roiled and I started mouth-breathing. The elevator doors opened and we stepped into an empty black granite foyer. “Stannis, I need to go home.”

“No.” He led me into a Spartan living room. Ebony hardwood floors, stone gray walls, and everything else, a pristine and brilliant white. He sat me down on a white linen sofa. “Three minutes.”

You're the boss.
A round of the chills passed through me. I laid my head down on the sofa arm.

And there he was, waking me up again. I opened an eye, a pouty frown on my face. He took me by the hand into the bathroom.

A white two-person soaking tub was steaming, filled with masses of bubbles. Fluffy white towels and a thick terry-cloth robe waited at one end.

He left without a word. I slipped out of my clothes, twisted my hair into a topknot, and got in. At first the shaking was so bad, small splashes of water erupted around me. When it slowed, I eased lower, the soapy water making the cut on my chest sting like hell. After a bit, I sat up and steeled myself to take a good look.

A fine, slowly oozing line about eight inches long ran from my breastbone to the base of my throat.

Delicate strains of Chopin's mournful “Prelude #4 in E Minor” filtered into the bathroom. I closed my eyes and sank back down to my chin.

After a bit, there was a soft knock at the door. It swung open and Stannis entered with a tea tray. White bone china cups and pot and several gaudily wrapped candy bars. He set the tray on a raw steel bench next to the tub, poured the tea, and handed me a cup.

It was warm and sweet. A London Fog—Earl Grey, steamed milk, and vanilla syrup.

Stannis sat down on the bench and poured his own cup. “We have much to discuss.”

“Oh?”

“We will speak of what happened at the club.”

“I'd rather not.”

He shook his head. “Who is he?”

I took another sip and looked longingly at a bright red Clark Bar. Stannis took the cup from my hands, opened the candy bar, and handed it to me.

I took a small bite, savoring the chocolate and honeycomb flake, and told him the truth. “His name is Jeff Mant. He's a sociopath and contract killer.”

“How much?”

I squinted at him.

Stannis rubbed his fingers together.

“Oh, it's not about money.” I took another bite of candy, stalling. “I don't know, really. He's somehow fixated on me.”

“This, I understand.” Stannis put his hand over mine. “I am not drawn to women. But I am drawn to you.”

Uh-oh.
“I like you, too.”

He leaned back and ran a hand through his hair. “Can you do again what you did this night?”

Get choked out by Jeff Mant?
I blinked.

“Kiss me,” he said. “Be my woman.”

My brain lagged like
Call of Duty
on dial-up. “Uh—”

His face creased with amusement. “Oh. No!” He laughed in delight. “Not always. Certain times.” He put his hands on his knees. “A make-believe woman.”

“Girlfriend,” I said automatically, mind reeling.

He nodded. “I prefer only men.”

“Yes?” He smiled. “You work as girlfriend. We have fun. I pay you.”

I held out my hand to shake on it. “Yes.”

As before, he raised it to his mouth, turned it gently, and kissed the underside of my wrist. “Now, I fix you.”

He left the bathroom with the tea tray. I got out of the tub and slipped into the robe.

He returned with a gray T-shirt and thin cotton pajama pants. And a small brown bottle that read
Merthiolate
.

He took a Q-tip from a drawer. “Sit.” He opened my robe. “Is not bad at all.” He dunked the Q-tip in the bottle. It came out bright red. He pinched his fingers together. “Little sting, yes?”

I swallowed and nodded. He stroked the Q-tip down in a light swipe over the first three inches of my cut.

Holy mother of—
“Gah!” A small shriek split my lips.

He leaned forward and blew on my chest. “You are baby.” He flipped the Q-tip, dunked again, and, ignoring my whimpers, swabbed the remaining five inches. Then blew.

He handed the T-shirt to me. “If makes stain, is okey. You come.” He picked up my torn dress and broken bra and left me in the bathroom.

I scrambled into my underpants and the pajamas.

 

Stannis was waiting for me as I came into the living room. His finely chiseled features gave him the look of a warring Adonis. He nodded for me to sit on the sofa, then picked up a real fox fur throw, lined with cream satin, and laid it over my lap.

He tipped his head toward the replenished tea tray on the coffee table. “You would like more?”

“No, thank you.”

Stannis's eyes went to a closed door across the hall. “To sleep, then?”

“Stannis, you've been absolutely lovely and I can't wait until our next adventure, but I have to go home.”

“No. You stay night here.”

“Not an option. I live with four police officers.” I held up four fingers. “Four. Not a good idea.”

Stannis scowled. “But your clothes. I buy you new dress tomorrow. Repair this one.”

“No.” I shook my head. “Please don't. It was an ugly dress, anyway.”

“Yes.” His eyes danced. “Very ugly. Okey, I call driver to take you home.”

I couldn't bear the thought of Raw Chicken the chauffeur escorting me home alone. A nervous giggle sprang from my lips. “Please, can you come, too?”

He looked at me like I'd lost my mind.

God, could I be any more juvenile?
I pressed my hands to my cheeks.

“You are frightened?” His eyes went flat, face grave.

“Too tired, I think.”
But I still don't want to be in the car alone with that guy.
“Why does your driver dislike me so?”

“He was discourteous?”

“Yes. Er . . . no. Not horribly, but—”

Stannis spun sharply on his heel and went to the house phone. He tapped in a number and said something sharp and unpleasant in Serbian. He hung up the phone, came back, and knelt in front of me. “There is much you do not know about me,
mali anđeo.
My angel.” He took my hands in his. “But we are the
simpatico,
yes?”

“Yes.”

“In the village where I grow up, there is much terror. Much death.”

I nodded.

“One learns one must burn a candle for the devil now and again.”

He pulled me to my feet. “Come, I show you.”

Oookay.
We walked down a hallway. Stannis swung open a pair of white enameled French doors. Inside was a large office with a charcoal area rug so plush it was almost obscene. The walls were wood and stained a misty pewter. A black leather seating area surrounded a granite fireplace. At one end, a desk fashioned from raw steel held a large clear glass jar half full of ivory pieces.

At the opposite corner of the room, a large dark glass aquarium sat atop a granite pillar. I moved toward it, but Stannis caught my wrist and walked me over to his desk and pulled out his chair for me. “You sit.”

I sat.

There was a knock at the door. I looked up to see the chauffeur in the doorway, shifting slightly to and fro.

Stannis stood behind me, hands on either side of my shoulders. “Approach.”

The driver came to the desk. “Sir.”

“Show her,” Stannis said pleasantly.

The driver's fingers began to tremble as he removed his leather driving glove. He set his left hand on the desk. A pulpy raw scar where the little finger had been suggested it had only recently gone missing.

Stannis put his cheek next to mine. “I think he forgets. He represents me.”

Raw Chicken's eye twitched. “No. Sir.”

“Let us see, shall we come?”

I followed Stannis and we crossed en masse to the opposite end of the office to the darkened aquarium. Stannis pressed a switch on the pillar and the smoke-tinted glass lit up to reveal . . .
beetles on a piece of dried fruit?

“Staphylinidae. Rove beetles. Difficult to keep alive,” Stannis said to me. He turned to the driver. “Look closely,” he urged. “They haven't finished with your offering.”

Eyes squeezed shut, the driver lowered his face to the glass, opened them, and shuddered.

I looked again. The beetles weren't on a piece of old banana.

They were on a human finger.

I fought the urge to back away. “You understand, yes?” Stannis reached over and tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear. “Is okey.”

We went back to the desk, Stannis pulled out the chair for me. He opened the lower desk drawer and removed a battered wooden box scarred with deep cuts.

He set it on the desk with a
thud,
took an old iron key from his pocket, and set it in front of me. The dark grooves cut into the wood box ran perpendicular to the edges. Too workmanlike and uneven for intentional design.

A small whistle of panic escaped Raw Chicken.

“This wo—girlfriend of mine,” Stannis said softly, “she thinks you do not like her.”

The chauffeur's fingers plucked at the hem of his suit coat.

Stannis laid his hand atop the box. “It is said Pandora loosed all evils upon the world but trapped hope in the box for the benefit of men.” He nodded at me.

I picked up the key, fit it in the well-oiled lock, and twisted.

“But you, Maisie, I think, know this to be wrong.” Stannis lifted the lid and took out a strange-shaped iron blade with a battered walnut handle. Vicious and hoary, a sort of cleaver with two cutting edges. “For no evil is as cruel as hope.”

Stannis closed the box and slid it in front of his driver. “Choose.”

The driver raised his left hand and laid his ring finger on top of the box.

The driver tapped the gold band on his finger. “Cannot take off.”

Stannis cocked his head cavalierly and raised the blade. “Will hurt more.”

“Wait!” My voice went croaky. “Stannis, please. Don't do this.”

He frowned at me. “Why not?”

“He will respect me for my forgiveness.”

Stannis turned to the driver. “Is this so?”

The driver nodded and bowed, scraping toward me.

“As you wish.” Stannis raised his left palm. “I will pay the blood debt.” Without a second thought he sliced his hand with the cleaver and winked at me.

He wiped the blade off on the driver's sports coat and replaced the cleaver. A rivulet of red trickled down his wrist.

I glanced wildly around me for a cloth and almost stood up. Almost. Instead, I barked, “Get him a towel.”

The driver fled the room.

“You are right.” Stannis nodded in approval. “Much respect now.”

I slumped in the chair and swiped the thin layer of chilled perspiration from my forehead, wanting a drink but not wanting to stay a second longer. My eyes fell on the heavy glass jar half-filled with ivory pieces at the corner of his desk.

I leaned in.

He put his uninjured hand on the jar and gently, reverently, moved it in front of me.

The ivory pieces were finger bones.

“My legacy,” Stannis said.