Dead to Rites (15 page)

It meant time in one of those motorized hell-boxes, which was enough to make me sick as a dog on a good day, but I’d live.

“All right,” I told him. “You think we can pick up my dry cleaning while we’re out?”

“Get in the damn car, Oberon.”

I moved toward the flivver, slow and sauntering. I’m sure Shea took that as me bein’ a wise-ass, tryin’ to make like I wasn’t scared of him. Fine; let him think that. What I was
actually
doin’ was suckin’ up some of the ambient luck, not too much from any one thing or any one guy—’cept Shea himself, who cursed somethin’ fierce when he tried to light up another butt and burned the hell outta his thumb in the process—and feedin’ it into my own aura. Wouldn’t provide
much
of a buffer against the chafing of the motor on the raw edges of my soul, but some was better’n nothin’, right?

The interior of the Caddy was customized, stretched some—not quite to the point of bein’ what you’d call a genuine limousine, but near enough—with a bench seat installed back-to-back with the driver. Perfect setup for a private little gab session. Since that backward-facin’ seat was the only one available, what with the two mugs already planted in the others, I took it.

Reminded me some of my trip inside Eudeagh’s horse-drawn carriage, ’cept the leather seats here were more comfortable. Also, silky smooth as it was, presumably not made outta tanned baby skin. I may have a serious hate-on for the Mob, but it ain’t anything compared to how much I despise the Unseelie Court.

Right. Two guys in the back with me. I focused on ’em, piecin’ together what I could, partly since it was the only wise thing to do, and partly so I could concentrate on somethin’ other than the fingernails dragging across my brain as the driver put the damn contraption in gear and took us rumbling off down the street.

Gink on the right—well, my right—was your typical suited gorilla. Big square jaw, soulless blinkers, reeking of cheap aftershave, shoulders wider’n a
buggane
’s appetite, and carryin’ a heater under his coat so damn big and heavy I wasn’t sure
it
wasn’t wearin’
him
. I could safely ignore him until and unless things went south.

Well, souther. Gotta figure my whole situation had already gone far enough south I was straddlin’ the Mason–Dixon.

The other guy, though…

He looked like a grammar-school teacher. Couldn’t say for sure with him sittin’ down, but I figured him for average height, certainly not tall. Sorta roundish face, and even with his hat on, his hair was obviously goin’. He clasped his hands in his lap, stubby fingers interlaced, and watched me through wide-rimmed glasses. The sorta Joe you’d never pick outta a crowd for anything, and about as menacing as a soggy dinner roll.

Unless, like me, you’re somebody who can see the intensity in a person’s aura, taste the emotion behind their words and their expressions.

And what I got from this guy was nothing. Like takin’ a whiff or a gulp from a snifter of brandy and tasting water. He was either so controlled, or so
cold
, he damn near wasn’t there.

In centuries upon centuries of walkin’ this world, I can count the number of times that’s happened without runnin’ outta fingers. And okay, maybe there was something to him I was just missing, lost in the internal screaming of the car, the lingering pain of my injuries, and the smothering blanket of bad luck—but even if that were the case, it still made the man more of a cypher’n most.

“Mr. Oberon, is it?” Voice was as unremarkable as the rest of him. And hey, he got the name right. “I’m Saul Fleischer.”

Yeah, I’d guessed as much. Flivver wasn’t taking me to the sitdown, it
was
the sitdown.

“Pleased to meetcha. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, yes? Nothing too unpleasant, I hope.”

I grunted, real noncommittal, since there was no good way to actually answer that.

He nodded as if I’d told him something important, then turned to gaze absently out the window.

“Miserable night, isn’t it?”

“Just a little rain.”

“This by you is rain? Feh. Rain comes in drops, and it’s at least cleansing. This? This is just… damp. And it gets into everything. I’m sure it’ll take nights for Nolan and his boys to dry their suits.”

“So why have ’em standing around outside waitin’ for me?”

“What, so
I
should get soaked instead? That’s what I have people
for
, Mr. Oberon.”

Were we really havin’ this conversation?
Why
were we havin’ this conversation?

“I’d have had you picked up at the train station,” he continued, “so you didn’t have to walk home in this. But, of course, we had no idea when you’d be coming back.”

“So, what, you been sittin’ around outside my place for three days?”

“Of course not. I’ve had someone watching the nearest train station. He phoned when he spotted you arriving. I was frankly a bit surprised we reached your office before you did, but I suppose you took your time in the walk.”

I had, at that, since I still wasn’t feelin’ my best. Didn’t seem the best thing to say, though. Instead, I asked, “So that was one of your people shadowing me?”

“Pardon?”

“On the walk.”

Fleischer frowned, though I got the impression it was mostly for my sake.

“No. He reported your arrival, but that was all. If someone followed you, it wasn’t one of mine. Neither are the two
gonifs
lurking in your office, waiting—I assume—for you to show up.”

Huh. Interesting.

“I appreciate you mentioning that.”

He waved a dismissive, “it was nothing” hand at me.

And again, why were we havin’ this conversation? I wondered if Fleischer was sizin’ me up somehow. I couldn’t taste any magic in the air, but the same factors that coulda been impeding my read on him could even more easily keep me from noticing any sorta mystical examination, especially if it was subtle or came from an occult tradition I wasn’t too familiar with. And I already knew Fleischer had
some
knowledge of the supernatural, since he’d sent Shea to Hruotlundt for one reason or another.

Yeah, the more I chewed it over, the more I became convinced that hadda be part of what was happening. If I could just get them to turn off the damn engine for a few minutes, gimme a chance to pull myself together…

“So tell me, Mr. Oberon, why the sudden interest in my business?”

So much for pulling myself together.

“Um, excuse me?”

Fleischer
tsk
ed at me. “It’s a simple enough question. First, my people follow you from Fino Ottati’s house, and when they try to ask you a few questions, there’s a bit of a scuffle. Then you show up at Nolan’s home claiming to be… What was it? A vacuum-cleaner salesman? Which, I should say, does not sound to me like a particularly well-planned cover story.”

“It wasn’t really meant for Nolan in the first place. But I was just following up some leads on a case. Shea didn’t turn out to be part of it, so I moved on.”

“And you see, if that’d been the end of it, I would believe this. You showed up while he was working a few nights ago, asking questions, and then again when he was running an errand for me. I’m sure you can see how I might start to wonder.”

“Sure, I can see. Ain’t anything to wonder about, though. I really don’t have any interest in your operation, Fleischer. Frankly, the less I have to do with any of you trouble boys, the happier I am.”

“This from a man who visits the Ottatis as often as you do?”

Oh, but that car was startin’ to feel
real
cramped all of a sudden.

“You gonna make me ask how you know that?”

“I keep an eye on my rivals. That includes anyone of import in the Outfit—and anyone who appears to be of import to
them
.”

“Uh-huh. You been wastin’ your time spyin’ on me, then. Me’n Fino and Bianca are friends, not business partners. I worked a case for ’em once—a personal thing, not work-related. That’s the extent of my ‘involvement’ with him, business-wise.”

“Is that so? But you’ve also been in contact with Vince Scola and
his
people. That’s two different Outfit
capos
; rather a high count for a man who doesn’t share in their business interests, yes?”

“Oh, for the love of… That was also case-related! I’m a PI, in goddamn Chicago!”

“Please don’t use that expression around me.”

“Fine. Whatever. Point is, my job’s
gonna
put me in contact with gangsters. Pretty much by definition. I try to keep it down, but it happens. Now, are we done?”

“You don’t have a lot of respect for anyone, do you, Mr. Oberon?”

“I got respect out the wazoo. I just don’t have much
patience
left.”

“I see. Yes, we’re done. Murray! Take us back to our guest’s office.”

The response came from over my shoulder.

“Right away, Mr. Fleischer.”

I felt the flivver slow, begin to turn. On the square, I’d much have preferred to get out and walk, but tryin’ to explain that woulda taken as long as the drive back, and probably caused offense I didn’t really need to.

Unless he already knew what I was, of course. But if he
hadn’t
been magically pokin’ at me that whole way, I wasn’t about to
tell
him.

“Mr. Oberon?” The Caddy pulled up to the curb, and I was all but lunging for the door before it stopped, but I made myself pause long enough to hear whatever threatening or cryptic farewell he meant to leave me with.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s avoid anymore ‘coincidental’ meetings between you and any of my people, shall we? It would be unfortunate if I were to get the idea that you’d lied to me at all tonight.”

Right. Threatening it was, then.

Noncommittal grunts are useful, so I gave him another one, and stepped outta the car. Nolan and the Uptown Boys disappeared from the stoop soon as I appeared—figure they had their own flivvers parked nearby—and then it was just me.

Pretty much as soon as I had the car outta my head, I started wondering about the whole conversation. Those were some softball questions he’d pitched at me; as far as bein’ grilled went, I’d gotten the third degree worse from curious vendors at newsstands. So unless it was a distraction from something—and I had a hard time coming up with any idea
what
—I figured it
hadda
be about me bein’ poked and prodded by subtle magics.

Which meant I hadda figure, for future reference, that Fleischer had a good sense of what I was. Swell. I needed that like I needed a hole in my head.

Ha. I kill me.

Shakin’ my head, almost-healed hole and all, I unlocked the door and tromped tiredly down the stairs.

I suppose I hadda thank Fleischer for the warning, at least. The two goons in my office wouldn’ta been too much trouble without it—even in my current state—but the advance notice sure made things smoother.

Between the lock on the front door and the echoes in the stairwell, I figured they heard me comin’, which was just fine. I pressed my ear to the wall, to get a sense of where they were in the office, and heard one of ’em breathin’ heavy just inches away. No imagination, these saps.

So, another quick sweep of my wand to pad my luck some, and then I didn’t just open the door to my office; I slammed into it, hard, shoulder first. It swung wide, and woulda bounced off the wall if the dumb bunny hadn’t been lurking behind it. So it bounced offa him, instead.

Goon number two was crouched behind my desk, aimin’ the gleaming black barrel of a Colt my way. He hadn’t quite been prepared for an entrance like I’d just made, though, so he froze up for a second.

Good. I been shot sufficiently for one week, thanks.

I got plenty of swift, but crossin’ the office and clampin’ mitts on the guy before he could squirt lead wasn’t too likely even for me. Time for some, whaddaya call it? Creative problem-solving.

I spun away from the door, reachin’ out to snag the hatstand. Grabbing it near the top, I took a few quick running steps and lunged, dropping almost to one knee and flippin’ it over so I led with the base.

Even in a perfect lunge, the thing wasn’t quite long enough to reach all the way over the desk. That was okay, though. I wasn’t aiming at the bastard.

I
was
aiming at the heavy steel typewriter, which went neatly hurtling off the edge of the desk so
it
cracked hard into the guy’s button.

Can’t say I’m a hundred percent positive of a lot of things, but I’m pretty sure that typewriter’s tasted more blood in its life than most of ’em do.

First guy was comin’ out from behind the door, nose bloodied but otherwise not too much the worse for wear. I’m sure he had a heater in his coat, same as his buddy, but right now he had his fists wrapped around a baseball bat.

Another one. I’d had so many bats comin’ at me lately I wondered if I had “Spalding” stitched across my forehead.

I tossed my end of the hatstand at his feet, plucked the bat out of his hands as he stumbled over it, and whacked him across the conk with it. Since I’d grabbed it by the fat end—and since I wasn’t tryin’ to kill the guy—I hit him with the handle, and not all that hard.

Then, because I
did
want him to
stay
hit, I picked him up by the collar and drove him headfirst into the side of the desk a couple times for good measure.

Took a few more minutes to drag ’em together, strip ’em of any weapons, then tie ’em back to back with belts and shoelaces. One of ’em was Irish as old whiskey, the other Italian as marinara. Not a combination you saw in Chicago’s Mob. Plus, they were both decked out in cheap coats and slouch hats, and judging by the way they both smelled, if they’d been to a cleaner’s in years it was to knock the place over, not to do laundry. Low-rent crooks, then. Street thugs or muscle-for-hire, probably, not Outfit or Northside.

Since I was stuck waiting for one or the other to wake up before I could take this any further, I wandered out to the payphone in the hall and, after a staring contest with the fucking monstrosity—it won, ’cause I ran out of patience, but I swear it was
this
close to lookin’ away!—I dialed up the precinct. Pete was out on the beat, as I’d figured he would be, but I left a message with the desk sergeant.