Dead to Rites (27 page)

“Look, bo, just move along, wouldja?” It was closer to a plea than an order this time.

I didn’t. I wasn’t done.

“Option one ends the same as if you’d just let me go on by—for me, anyway. Not so comfortably for you. You figure out what the other two options got in common?” I didn’t wait for ’em to answer. “Attention. A
lot
of it. Attention that ain’t gonna do you two, and
sure
as shootin’ ain’t gonna do Baskin, any good at all.

“So, how about this? One of you stays out here with me, to make sure I’m bein’ a good boy, and the other can go on up to the house and explain to Miss Webb or Baskin—like I just explained to you—why they really oughta offer me a few minutes of their time.”

I won’t go into the runnin’ back and forth or the exchange of messages that followed, but the end result was the two goons retreatin’ to the front room, where they could keep a slant on us from between the curtains, while me’n Ramona gabbed for a bit on the front lawn.

“You have a real knack for making a nuisance of yourself,” she accused me.

“I should hope so. I been practicing.”

To that she just grunted and fidgeted a bit, fingering the fabric of her skirt. Definitely right on the edge; she musta been seriously tired. I mean
all
in.

“No luck finding the mummy, huh?” I asked her.

She
hissed
at me.

“Nope. You don’t get to be steamed at me for diggin’ him up first. Not after the horse shit you pulled with the wrapping.”

“We had to make sure you didn’t find—”

“Save it sister. It don’t matter now, anyway. Guess you’ve heard about the ‘showing’ comin’ up?”

She sighed, nodded. “Yeah. We’ve heard. Daniel’s in a panic trying to figure out what to
do
about it.”

That’s what I’d spent the last couple of days on, see? Well, not
all
of the last couple days. First there’d been an hour or two spent makin’ sure Tsura was okay. I mean, girl had plenty of tough, more’n most people I knew, but she’d never been shot at before, let alone by a trio of choppers from across the damn room. Ain’t
any
amount of tough makes you ready for your first Chicago lightning-storm.

Except… She was more or less fine. Shaken up, some, but nothin’ more.

I couldn’t explain it.
She
couldn’t explain it. Somethin’ about her gift, telling her she’d be okay? Hadn’t stopped her bein’ scared when the lead was flying. Somethin’ else?

I didn’t understand that girl.

But she’d gone back to the carnival to recuperate for a bit, surrounded by familiar sights’n sounds’n people—and maybe to keep her job, since I
still
didn’t know what excuses she’d been givin’, or how patient Rounser actually was. Me, I’d set out to learn what was goin’ down, and where.

And
why
. Fleischer couldn’t make a damn bit of use outta Nessumontu’s spells, so why…?

I’d been stompin’ along the sidewalk, dodging other pedestrians and kickin’ old, greasy napkins off my Oxfords while I pondered. The day was warm, the breeze was gentle, and I didn’t give a fig for any of it due to the gray skies and thunder in my thoughts. I nearly bumped headlong into a passel of schlubs headin’ out to lunch, lurched to a stop ready to shout somethin’ more or less obscene at ’em, and it was right then I noticed the building they were leavin’.

A bank. They worked at a bank.

That’s when it all hit me like a fallin’ piano. Made of anvils. And I
did
spend a good couple minutes muttering some vile curses, imprecations, and profanities—in about half a dozen languages—but all directed at me, not the folks I’d just about run into.

Because I’d done it again, without even realizin’ it. Even after gettin’ fixated on the idea of Goswythe, and warnin’ Tsura not to get locked into any one angle when studying the situation, I’d gone and done it myself.

All this time—from the moment I’d first suspected Fleischer’s involvement, let alone confirmed it—I’d been huntin’ for a motive rooted in the mystical. The motive of an occultist. But Saul Fleischer
wasn’t
just an occultist: first and foremost the mug was a
gangster
. Alla his skills in magic, his occult knowledge, were tools in his criminal cupboard, not an end unto themselves.

Which meant I shoulda been lookin’ for the usual gangster motive: money.

Fleischer never intended to keep the damn mummy, but to
sell
him!

Once
that
little piece finally fell into place, at least I had a handle on what needed doing next. It took time and a lotta burnt shoe leather, but it was just a matter of tracking down how and where the sale was gonna take place. Sure, Fleischer’d wanna be careful who got wind of it, but the word hadda get out through Chicago’s magical community. Don’t do anybody any good to sell somethin’, no matter how valuable, if none of the potential buyers know about it, you dig?

So yeah, I’d tracked down Four-Leaf Franky, who knew a guy, who knew another guy, who’d heard of a girl, who knew of a non-human thing, who knew a guy… Took the better part of a day and a half, but I’d finally tumbled to the time and place.

And then I’d come here, lookin’ for Ramona, which brings you pretty well up to date.

“Well,
Daniel’s
gonna hafta be disappointed,” I told her. “See, you’re gonna be there to help
me
recover Nessumontu. Or, well, I guess ‘rescue’ might be a better word. Important part, though, is helping
me
. Not Baskin.”

She laughed softly. “Mick, you know I still care for you, and if I could help you both, I would. But—”

I looked around, edged a couple steps to my right as though I was fidgeting. I mean, she knows I don’t fidget, but the show wasn’t
for
her.

“No ‘but,’ doll. If you’re there, you’ll be backin’ me up.”

Dunno if it was just my tone or if she caught the “if” buried in there, but her expression cooled by thirty degrees or more.

“And why will I be doing that, exactl—?”

I had my wand in my hand before the “y,” and because I’d made a point of “accidentally” puttin’ her partly between me’n the window, I was pretty sure nobody inside the house had seen me draw.

“Because I am completely fucking through playing games with you, Ramona.” The porch light dimmed, then—just a little, since we were a ways away, but neither of us missed it. I felt the lawn pressin’ against the soles of my shoes, tryin’ to writhe, and the grass around me turned a late-spring green even as it flattened, caught in some unseen storm. I wasn’t
quite
as near losin’ control as I was lettin’ on, but Ramona hadda know I was serious.

And maybe I wasn’t
as
far from losin’ control as I’da preferred.

“This is only happenin’ because bastards like Fleischer and Baskin can’t keep their mitts offa what ain’t theirs, and Baskin’s only a player because of
you
. I mighta gotten to Nessumontu in time, warned him off or found him before Fleischer did, if you hadn’t sicced that damn mob on me! Pete’s in danger because McCall knew about my connection to
you
—and I had no clue what I hadda protect myself against because you could never be bothered to tell me what the fuck you
are
.”

“Mick—”

“So you are going to help me put this right, Ramona—you are going to do everything I need you to do, to make sure
nobody
walks away with Nessumontu, your boss absolutely included—or so help me, I swear by my ancestors and every last one of the Tuatha Dé Danann that I will deliver you
giftwrapped
to Carmen McCall or die trying!”

Everything the two of us had been through together, I’d never seen her make anything even
close
to an expression like this one. I read a dozen conflicting emotions on her map, tasted ’em in her aura—but more even than that, I saw her own control startin’ to slip. Her features were shiftin’ beneath her skin—subtle, slow, unnoticeable to anyone without my senses—and I saw the shoulders of her dress bunch and fold as she struggled to keep webbed, barb-tipped wings from sprouting across her back.

“You’d really do this?” I swear I heard two or three different voices in her words.

“I don’t make an oath like that one for funsies, sister.”

“And are you so damn sure I can’t put you down, Mick?”

She clenched her fists, opened up wide—and her fingers were tipped not with nails, now, but black and pitted talons.

I tightened my grip on the L&G.

“Maybe you can. But not without takin’ a whole
mess
of hurt in the process. Even if you do beat me, even if you
croak
me, you’re gonna be suffering for a good long while afterward. And when I go missing? McCall’s gonna come for you herself, and you ain’t gonna be in any state to fight
her
off, not after tusslin’ with me. I may lose, Ramona, but you
can’t
win. Not by fightin’ me, you can’t.”

I wondered at first if she wasn’t gonna test me on that score. One more surge of leather and bone movin’ under her clothes, one sharp screech as talon scraped against talon… Then both were just gone, and it was Ramona—just Ramona, as she’d looked the day we met—standing in fronta me.

“Goddamn you, Mick. This isn’t you. I can’t believe—”

“Don’t. Just don’t. You started this, and my best friend’s payin’ the price. You get zilch for sympathy from me now. I don’t
want
this, but don’t think for a second I ain’t serious.”

“I don’t.”

She hung her head, scarlet locks fallin’ in front of her face, though whether any of it was genuine or if it was more of her “woe is me” human act, I wouldn’t begin to guess.

“All right. What do you want me to do?”

“First off, don’t breathe a word of this to Baskin. Not just for my sake, either. You do, he’s gonna order you to do somethin’ dippy that we’re both of us gonna regret, see?”

“Yeah. I see.”

On that, at least, I could probably trust her. If she decided to move against me or put her own spin on what I told her to do—and I’m not dumb enough to assume she wouldn’t—she’d wanna be able to choose her own time, her own tactics. Baskin? He still didn’t really comprehend the waters he swam in. She didn’t want him callin’ her play any more than I did.

As to the rest? Well, I just hadda hope I could either keep her on board with the plan, or anticipate what she’d do when she veered off-script.

“So,” I told her, “here’s what we’re gonna do…”

* * *

“Wow. Looking pretty sharp there, Mick,” Tsura said as I stepped outta the bathroom. I’d known she was there; I heard her come into the office while I was adjustin’ my tie in the mirror.

What, did you think I
only
had cheap, wrinkly glad rags? Most of ’em, sure, but I own a nice suit or two for special occasions.

“Thanks, doll. You, too.”

She really did.

The deep blue number, with broad sleeves and a slim skirt, wasn’t exactly formal, but it was close; damn sight fancier’n anythin’ I’d seen her in before. She cleaned up nice, a lot nicer’n you’d expect if you only ever saw her in her gypsy fortune-teller getup. Tsura was never gonna stop the conversation when she sauntered into a room the way Ramona did, but she was definitely the kinda gal you’d remember afterward, that’d make you wonder if you’d been focused on the wrong dame.

Tsura’s answerin’ smile was almost bashful, as was the way she ran her palms down the sides of her skirt. I dunno how much of that was in response to the compliment, small and casual as it was, or to what she said next.

“Mick, I’m… The other night…”

“We been through this,” I said, slidin’ my wand into the holster and makin’ sure it didn’t throw off the lines of this swankier coat too bad. “There’s nothin’ to apologize for.”

“I should’ve seen them coming sooner. And I wasn’t much good once the shooting started.”

“You warned me before they showed, gave me time to
not
get my spine blown to pieces. That’s good enough for my book. After that, hell, anybody woulda been scared. I ain’t that easy to bump off, and I been shot at more times than I can count, and
I
was scared.” Well, a little.

“Still, I’m sorry I was so—”

I pointed a finger at her.

“Quit it! Trust me, kid, you’re doin’ fine. Better’n most people would be, under the circumstances.”

“You swear?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Okay.” She abruptly looked up, and her grin wasn’t shy anymore. “Long as you remember that before you try giving me the ‘This is gonna be dangerous, maybe you shouldn’t come along’ speech.”

Wasn’t just her looks that were sharp, that one. I probably wouldn’t have given her that spiel tonight; she really
had
saved my bacon at the hotel. But I
had
thought about it, a little.

And no, I didn’t think she’d engineered the whole conversation to get there—her nerves were genuine—but she sure wasn’t slow on her feet.

All I said, though, was, “Noted. Gimme one minute.”

I wandered out into the hall, over to my favorite device in the whole damn world. I snarled at the blower, it snarled back, and I made the call I hadda make—as quickly as I could possibly get it done.

“Right,” I said, pokin’ my head back into the office. “Shall we?”

She handed me my hat—I scowled at it, but the getup woulda looked incomplete, and conspicuous, without it—and we were off. Just another Chicago couple, out for a night on the town.

After a while, as we got near the L, she said, “So, um, you might’ve already explained this that night. I don’t… entirely remember the specifics of the conversation we had after we fled the hotel.”

“‘Fled’?” I protested. “I don’t flee.”

“We dusted out in a rush before the police could respond to all the shooting. What would you call it?”

“A daring escape.”

She snorted. “Fine. After our daring escape from the hotel, then.”

We stopped long enough for me to slide a handful of coins over the counter to a bored young cat in a starched uniform, and then wandered up to the platform to wait for the next train.

“All right, what am I explaining to you?”