Fire In The Blood

Chapter Eight

GOT MY arm out fast enough, but Pony dodged, and my fingers only brushed his collar. Without thinking, I went transparent and shot right through Elmer's intervening bulk. Maybe he'd attribute his rush of abrupt cold to the winter air. I only hoped that the Angel's other patrons would put the alarming vision of a ghost-man running through him down to morbid imagination and take care of it at the bar.
Pony was little and had some years against him, but he was on his home ground.
Though only seconds behind him, I almost missed it as he ducked between buildings.
Delayed as he was by having to go around, rather than through, Elmer, Escott was seconds more behind me. He'd just have to catch up when he could; I didn't dare wait.
Pony Jones's small form threaded out the other end of the alley and cut right. By the time I did the same he was out of view, but I heard the slap of his feet against concrete down another turning. When I'd made that one, he'd doubled back to another dank passage. A moment later his footsteps stopped.
I took note of that: they'd stopped, not faded into the distance. He was holding his breath somewhere, banking on the darkness to hide him. As far as I could judge the area was pitch dark-to human eyes.
I picked my way carefully down the alley, my footfalls as soft as I could make them. No doubt in his own ears Pony's heartbeat would drown out their minimal sound. At the far end was a disordered row of trash cans, the tumbled remains of a discarded armchair, and an unidentifiable bundle of odds and ends that might once have been clothes.
The bundle was breathing, very quietly, and its heart was racing. I reached into it, this time getting a good grip on the collar before hauling him up.
"Aww, Jack..." he whined, shedding rags and limp sheets of newspaper.
I got my bearings and found we'd all but circled back to the alley behind the Angel. Escott popped into sight less than fifty feet away. I called to him. He skidded to a halt, peering doubtfully in my general direction. It reminded me just how dark it was for him. I kept my grip on Pony's collar and marched him forward. Spill from a distant streetlight defined our figures as we emerged into view.
"Well, well," he said, straightening his hat. "Was there any reason behind your quick exit. Pony?"
Pony dropped into his first line of defense, which was to shuffle with a bowed head and mumble that he didn't know nothin'.
"I see. Then you aren't too terribly interested in increasing this evening's profits?"
Scenting more money, Pony raised his head.
Elmer trotted up, puffing. "Leggo a' Pony," he told me, expecting instant obedience.
Escott got in between us. "Hold off your rescue for just another moment, Elmer, we're conducting a business deal."
"Huh?"
"Deal?" said Pony at the same time.
"Money for information is the usual pattern, is it not?"
Elmer became surly as he cottoned onto the fact that Pony wouldn't allow him to beat up on a potential source of income. "Why'n'cha talk normal, so's a guy knows what you're sayin'?"
"I think we understand each other well enough, Elmer."
"Limey bastard," he muttered, echoing Pony's earlier comment. The last time Elmer had dealt with Escott, he'd spent a few days in jail. He wasn't the forgiving type.
Escott had a smile on his face-a rather serene one at that- when he abruptly hauled Elmer around by both shoulders and slammed him back first against a wall.
Elmer yelped in surprise, shock, and pain, cramming it all into the same sound. The impact inspired him to fight back, and he brought a sudden fist up and threw a gut punch with as much force as he could muster. He missed the bulletproof vest by an inch, digging in just below the belt.
Escott hissed once through his teeth but kept his grip. He was still smiling when he bounced Elmer against the wall again. And again, very hard. The third time he let go, and Elmer slithered to the ground and stopped moving.
He'd startled me, because though I'd seen him angry before, 1'd never seen Escott lose his temper.
He stared down at Elmer, immobile except for a slight tremor in his hands as the excess adrenaline wore off. His smile gradually disappeared, easing away by small degrees until nothing was left but an impassive mask. Considering the insult, his initial show of teeth was understandable, but the mask I saw now made me uneasy.
'Charles?"
He brought one hand up, fingers spread a little, the gesture a request for silence. I clamped my mouth shut and waited.
He turned slowly away from Elmer and faced Pony. The mask was still in place. If I was uneasy, Pony was definitely frightened. Escott plucked Pony away from me and pushed his back to the same wall, pinning his shoulders to it. Both glanced down at Elmer's semiconscious form and then at each other. They arrived at an obvious conclusion at the same time. Pony gulped unhappily.
"Why did you run?" Escott asked him, his tone dangerously reasonable.
Pony shook his head. "Just wanted to, that's all."
There was more behind it, but Escott let it pass. "Tell me what you said to Kitty Donovan."
"Who?"
"Stan McAlister's lady friend." 'But I don't know..."
Escott shook him once so that his teeth clicked, then leaned in close. "Jones, we got off on the wrong foot, though that situation may be easily corrected. What you must keep in mind is that it can get worse." He let that sink in. "Do you wish that?"
Pony shook his head a lot. He'd never seen Escott like this before. His last bit of resistance faded.
Even in the dim light, Escott read it in his face and posture.
"Good man. Now tell me what you did and said last night concerning Stan McAlister."
"It wasn't much," he said, licking his lips. "I saw his little twist walk in and park.
Thought I'd go over and tell her that that clown Leadfoot had a head of steam up about Stan's owing him."
"Out of the goodness of your heart?"
"Don't be a-ahh, no, I thought I could get something outta her for it, but the kid's green as grass. She din' know what I was get tin' at or that it was supposed to be for sale. By the time I dropped enough hints on her, she'd put things together herself and ran out on me." He raised his eyes, looking for approval. He was disappointed.
"Was there a hit out on McAlister?"
"I dunno."
"How did you find out about McAlister's troubles with Lead-foot?"
"I keep my ears open, as usual."
"Exact information. Pony."
"But there ain't any. You know how it is. The news just goes around. I maybe heard it at the Imperial."
"Which is... ?"
"A pool hall. Leadfoot's muscle hangs around there. Sometimes they talk."
"And who else was there?"
"I dunno what you-"
"Who else was looking for McAlister?"
Pony shut his mouth.
"Was it Vaughn Kyler? Was it one of his men?"
"No! I dunno."
Escott's smile threatened to return. "Will I be able to find Kyler there?"
Pony was breathing fast, then he brought it under sudden control. His little eyes lit up with new confidence. "Yeah, you'll find him there-or at the Satchel. He keeps on the move, but you ask around and you'll find him... or maybe he'll find you." That thought cheered him-a lot.
"Then I'll be sure to tell him you said hello."
Pony dropped his grin and went six different kinds of pale. He struggled and pushed away. Escott let him go. Pony vanished around the next corner, content to escape himself and leave Elmer to our tender mercies. Maybe he'd return later to pick him up, but I wouldn't want to bet on it. Not that it mattered much; Elmer was showing signs of waking and might be long gone before Pony got up enough courage to check on him.
"You fight dirty, you know that?" I said as we walked back to the car.
"Pah, the man was hardly worth the effort, but at least we got some names from him."
"Yeah. Which place do we start with?"
"The Satchel, unless you want to risk running into Leadfoot Sam again."
"Uh-uh. I've had enough of him for one lifetime."
"I daresay he might share the same opinion about you."
He drove to an unpretentious neighborhood with modest and respectable storefronts and stuffily closed businesses. The only lights showing at this hour came from an undistinguished two-story brick building in the middle of the block. Cars lined both sides of the street. One of them pulled away as we came up, and Escott pounced on the empty spot.
"You sure this is it?" I asked. "I don't see any sign out."
He set the brake. "An establishment like the Satchel hardly needs or wishes to call undue attention to itself."
That's when the dawn came and I sat up a little straighter. "How'd it get a name like that?"
"I believe it's related in some way to the satchel the collection man carries on his rounds. This particular place is used as a sort of bank; the various funds are added, divided, and dispatched from here."
"Where do they go?"
"My dear fellow, though this city is not very old when compared with others, it does have a quite lively and consistent history of corruption to make up for its relative youth... Use your imagination."
I didn't have to use much, since I'd seen the same thing in other places. Vice flourishes best when it makes regular contributions in the right pockets. We went up the steps together and opened the double doors. Music was playing somewhere inside.
"Wait a sec," I said.
He paused and turned to look where I was looking. A new Cadillac with smoke-dark windows was parked not twenty feet from the entrance.
"I think we've come to the right place, Charles."
"His car?"
"Or one of his stooges. Keep your eyes open."
"With pleasure."
The foyer was conservative: simple white curtains, a plant in a big brass pot, and a square of carpet, but then this part of the house was visible from the street each time the door opened. Furniture was limited to a table holding up a lamp and a chair next to it holding up the bouncer. He had the kind of scar tissue you get from boxing, maybe a couple pounds' worth, and all the rest of him was hard muscle. He gave us a close and practiced look, nodded, and pressed a button on the little table. A buzzer buzzed and Escott opened the next door in.
The parlor was fancier. A big Christmas tree stood in front of the curtained window, buried under sheets of tinsel and glass ornament. A wire was strung across the wall on that side, loaded with dozens of Christmas cards. At first it seemed odd, but then I thought. Why not? There was no reason why working girls shouldn't celebrate the holidays like everyone else.
In one corner was a phonograph, in the other a radio. Both were on and trying to cancel each other out with competing tunes. A short girl with thin legs was busy sorting through the records and hardly troubled to glance up. Two more were bent over the radio trying to listen, and four others were draped or sprawled over the lush furniture, flipping through magazines or talking. I took a brief-in this case, an extremely brief-inventory of what they were almost wearing and wondered why they even bothered.
Escott removed his hat and assumed a bland smile. I tried to do the same. It didn't impress the girls. None of them took notice when an older woman walked in through a curtained-off archway. She was in her forties, plump, and motherly except for the heavy powder and lip color. She smiled and welcomed us, asking if we'd like a drink.
"No, thank you," said Escott. "We're here to see Mr. Vaughn Kyler."
She shook her head, a study in polite confusion. "There's no Mr. Kyler here, or if he is, then he gave a different name."
One of the girls snickered.
"A pity, since it is most important that I see him. To be more correct, it is most important that he should see us."
Two blonds lolling on the sofa stopped pretending with their magazines and listened in. They'd caught Escott's accent and it was having its usual effect. The closer one put a leg on the coffee table in front of her and made a business of straightening her stocking. I watched the show with interest.
"I'd like to help you, but it's been a slow night," said the madam. "No one's been in here but a few regulars."
"It's early yet. Perhaps if you made inquiries with the gentlemen after they've concluded their appointments..." He produced a ten-dollar bill folded to the size of a business card. If my estimate was correct, he'd just bought each of us a pretty good time, or one of us a very good time.
She smiled, still polite, but with more sincerity now that he was speaking her language. "I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, make yourselves to home." She slipped through the curtains, leaving us in the company of a wide range of grinning possibilities.
"How appropriate," he said, quirking one eyebrow and apparently referring to the past of his own home.
"What's your name, honey?" The blond had finished one stocking and was busy with the other.
"Charles," he replied.
"Well, Charles, how 'bout you sit next to me and make yourself to home, like the lady said? You must be gettin' awful hot in that coat."
Her friend giggled.
"How kind of you to be concerned," he responded. "And your name is... ?
"Trudy."
"How do you do, Trudy?" He shook hands with her, which charmed her and the others to no end. He acted as though he were having high tea at the Vanderbilts, not in the middle of a brothel surrounded by half-naked women. The others closed in and insisted on introducing themselves as well. I suspected that they wanted to keep him talking. An English accent must have been quite a novelty to them.
I found myself outside the circle, though it didn't matter to me, I was enjoying the show too much to want to be a part of it. Escott went into high gear on the polish and manners. His eyes twinkled and the smile he displayed now was positively lupine in cast. The girls couldn't get enough of him and were visibly disappointed when the madam returned.
Her own smile had faded and her eyes were hard and humorless. "Up there," she said, jerking her head at the curtains. "Last door on the left."
Escott excused himself to the girls. The madam stepped out of the way at the last second and stayed in the parlor. Her eyes slid past me completely as I went by her into the next room.
It was a landing empty of people and short on decor. A table held a load of drinks and ice and a tray of sandwiches. It had one comfortable chair and a table with a phone and nothing else. Escott took it in with one glance and stalked up the stairs as directed.
The second-floor hall was lined with doors, some open, others closed. The varied activities going on behind the closed ones were quite audible, at least to me, and left nothing to my fertile imagination. It was very distracting.
Escott stopped at the last door as directed, raised a hand to knock, then thought better of it. He gave me an inquiring look and I nodded, taking his place. He may have been wearing the vest, but overall, I was far more bulletproof. I knocked twice and a man on the other side said to come in.
The room was bright and Spartan compared to the parlor. There was no bed, but a long table with a double row of plain chairs took up the middle of the floor. It was covered with some pencils, a ledger book, a phone, and several thousand dollars in small bills. Standing over it, with a gun out and covering us, was Kyler's man Hodge.
One side of his face was swollen and bruised up where I'd hit him last night.
From the expression that came over him when he saw me, it was clear that he remembered the incident as well.
"So Hot Shit's come back for more?" All those bruises gave him an unpleasant grin. Hell, it'd been just as bad before I'd marked him up. His eye dropped to the slash on my overcoat. "Rimik said he'd cut you good. He's making plans to finish the job he started."
"We're here to see Kyler," I said.
"Yeah, that's what I heard. You got some news on that broad?"
"Maybe, but it's for Kyler."
"He don't have time to waste talking to punks. You give me your news and get out while you still got legs."
"Oh, stop it, you're scaring me to death."
His grin broadened. "Now, that's an idea."
"Lay off the crap, Hodge. We want to talk to your boss and he'll want to talk to us."
"He's busy."
"We can wait. The company downstairs is nice enough."
The muzzle of the gun twitched back and forth. "You and your pal get your butts in here."
"First tell your friend with the asthma to come out from behind the door."
He did no such thing, but his friend cautiously emerged. She had a pinched face, thick glasses, and wore galoshes. Between (hem and her baggy woolen clothes I could figure that she wasn't part of the house's regular entertainment staff. She scuttled over to Hodge to stare at us. She didn't look lethal, so we walked in. Escott's eyes were all over the place, cataloging it before finally settling on Hodge.
"You... shut the door."
Escott obliged.
"Stand over there and keep your hands out. Opal, call the boss."
The girl grabbed the phone and dialed. It took a long time before anyone answered and she sounded relieved when they did. In a breathy, little-kid voice she asked for Kyler and mentioned Hodge's name. I thought he might put the gun away to talk, but he and the girl worked around that one. He held the earpiece in his free hand while she held the mouthpiece up so he could speak into it.
His report to the other end was a brief statement of his situation, then he listened for a time. The longer he listened the more he smiled.
"Okay, honey, put it away." She hung up for him.
"Good news?" I asked.
"You just wait here and see. Opal, finish what you started."
Opal plainly wanted to know what was going on, but was too timid to come out and ask. She sat at the table and with a nudge from Hodge began counting money.
She quickly went through the stacks, put them in order, and stretched rubber bands around the bundles she made. Each bundle was recorded into the ledger.
Escott was looking at that book in much the same way a starving man would view a steak dinner.
Opal finished counting and loaded all the money and the ledger into her huge purse. And I'd been expecting to see a satchel.
Hodge nodded approval. "Okay, now get downstairs and watch for him. Lemme know when he comes."
"By myself?" Her face hardened with indignation.
"How else?"
"But those women make fun of me."
"So sit in the kitchen. G'wan."
She wrinkled her lip and nose in distaste and left. Hodge covered his annoyance with a laugh.
"I swear, she's gotta be the only broad left in this town past the age of consent that ain't consented yet. One of these days I'll have to screw her just so she can start understanding all the jokes."
"Mr. Kyler's accountant, is she?" asked Escott with mild curiosity.
"No, his gardener. Who the hell are you?"
"An interested party."
"Gimme a name."
"Escott."
Hodge's eye flashed to me and back again. "So you're the one who belongs to the Nash. How'd you know to come here?"
"I knew where to ask the right questions."
"Then somebody's been talking too much."
"On the contrary, not nearly enough. Mr. Kyler's made quite an impression on the community hereabouts."
Hodge didn't know whether to take that as a compliment or not. Opal saved him the trouble by coming in.
"He just pulled up."
"Get the bag and stay behind me. You two go out first."
We paraded downstairs, but turned right instead of left and exited the building through the kitchen. It faced an alley and we waited there while Opal went ahead with the money. When she came back, her purse looked a lot lighter and thinner.
Hodge told her to wait in his car, and she all but galloped away.
A Caddy rolled across the alley entrance. It looked identical to the one I'd spotted earlier, right down to the smoked-over windows. The front door opened. Chaven got out of the driver's side and came around to check that everything was clear. He joined Hodge and gave us each a quick slap-down search. He found Escott's gun right away and relieved him of it. He nodded to Hodge and we were urged forward.
The front passenger window facing us rolled down. Kyler was on the other side.
"What is it?" His hard brown eyes froze onto mine. My back hairs starting climbing.
"About Doreen Grey. Someone shot her."
If anything, his expression got even more remote. "I know. What about it?"
"Did you do it?"
Now he had no expression at all. I tried to focus down on him, to pin him fast with my own influence.
Nothing happened.
There was enough light for it to work, maybe I needed to concentrate more. I tried again. "Did you shoot her?"
"No." His eyes raked me, indifferent to the pressure I was putting on.
My muscles contracted all over. His response was completely wrong. He should have been slack jawed or dreamy or anything hut in control of himself. On the edge of sight, I noticed Escott glance quickly at me. He'd sensed that something was seriously off.
In the alley behind us, Hodge and Chaven shifted on their feet.
"This one's Escott, boss," said Hodge, pointing.
Kyler's eyes narrowed. "I know."
Escott nodded. "We appreciate your personal attention in this matter."
"I'm off your suspect list for the woman," Kyler told him.
"To be sure, she was under your protection, but we had to be certain. Were you at any point ever able to make contact with her?"
"No. Someone got to her first."
"Do you know who that person is?"
No answer.
"Have you any idea at all?"
He turned his head to look at something in the backseat. When he turned back, his face was a little more animated with something that was a very distant cousin to amusement.
"You figure it out yourself, Mr. Private Agent."
Escott's chin lifted.
"Yes, I do know who you are. You crossed Frankie Paco once and managed to survive the hit he had out on you. You even bumped Fred Sanderson and shifted the blame to his partner."
The inaccuracy of fact was heartening to me. I felt marginally better knowing that Kyler was fallible on some level. On the other hand, it put Escott on the spot.
"That stuff's over now. After tonight, you stay out of my way."
One corner of Escott's mouth twitched. I knew him well enough to interpret it and felt my insides shrink. "Thank you for the warning," he said evenly.
"It's the only one you'll get. I want you to understand that I'm a lot better at this than Paco ever was."
Escott's eyes glittered. "Of that I have no doubt."
Kyler could tell he wasn't getting the reaction he wanted and it annoyed him.
"Chaven."
Chaven took one step forward and buried his fist into Escott in a spot not covered by his vest-in this case, his right kidney. Escott bit back a sharp grunt of pain, but couldn't stop himself form dropping down on one knee. I moved toward Chaven, but Hodge still had his gun out.
"You just try it. Hot Shit," he said. "Give me an excuse."
It was enough to make me think twice about starting something that we'd all regret. I kept my movements easy and knelt by Escott.
I hissed in his ear, "You're an actor, goddammit, pretend you're scared."
He gasped a few times. Fortunately his head was down so it wasn't obvious that he was stifling laughter. "It's a bit late for that; he'd never believe such a show now."
"Maybe he'll believe it from me-I don't have to pretend."
"What could you be..."
But I lost the rest of it when Hodge loomed close and rammed a knee into my side. The breath washed out of my lungs. My back hit the cold, damp pavement and my head almost followed. I tucked my chin down just in time.
"That's for last night," he said.
I looked up, disoriented by my sudden roll from vertical to horizontal. Hodge was grinning, enjoying his chance to pay me back. His ability to really do damage was limited; my internal changes had toughened me up inside and out, but that didn't mean I was happy just to lie there and take it. In fact, I was pissed as hell and wanted to kill him. What held me back was Escott; I didn't want him getting caught in the middle, but he was already struggling to stand.
"No," I told him urgently. "Stay there and lemme-"
Hodge interrupted again. My teeth clacked together, barely missing my tongue.
White light flashed behind my eyes. My body jerked and lay flat.
Vulnerable.
"That's for tonight..."
He'd used his foot this time, and my head had been the football. I had to fight to stay conscious. If I blacked out for even a second or two, I'd vanish into nothingness for who knows how long. Hodge watched my efforts with hot interest. He was waiting until I'd recovered enough to fully appreciate his next trick.
"... and this is for tomorrow."
He raised his foot, this time to bash it straight down into my groin.
I was tough, but not that tough. Terror and reflex took over. I didn't think about whether the place was dark enough for me to get away with it, or about the problems that might emerge; this was pure instinct. I disappeared a bare instant before contact. His foot plowed through empty air and slammed the pavement. He made a short cry, either from surprise or sudden fear; I couldn't tell.
Now I fought to regain solidity and won, by a narrow margin. My anger helped.
I'd vanished for one long second, but reappeared in the same spot with my hips shifted well out of harm's way. Hodge's foot was still down, his arms waving as he tried to get his balance back. With such an opportunity presenting itself, I didn't have to think twice about taking it-the only rule in a gutter fight is to survive.
Because of the awkward angle, I couldn't put much force into the punch, but it was enough to do the job. My fist swung up and smashed solidly against his groin.
His scream tore down both ends of the street and made flat echoes up the walls of the alley. He fell and rolled away, legs pulled in, hands cupping and cradling, his face twisted.
I got to my feet. Fast. Chaven had backed off a few steps and drawn his gun. It wavered equally between me and Escott.
A car door snicked open behind me. Kyler was out and holding a fistful of automatic. The expression on his face was a beaut: a cross between fear and anger.
He'd obviously noticed my vanishing act and was trying to make sense of the impossibility of what he'd seen. He sure as hell hated the uncertainty.
The only defense I had now was to bluff it out and act normal-or as normal as possible given the circumstances. I hugged my side with an elbow, doubled over a little, and tenderly checked out my jaw, remembering to breathe heavily.
Chaven and Kyler didn't move, each waiting to see what happened next.
Escott understood what I was trying to do and made his own contribution to the illusion. "Are you hurt?"
"Yeah, I'm hurt," I snapped. "That son of a bitch went too far. I hope he's crippled."
Their attention shifted to Hodge, as I'd hoped. "Check on him," said Kyler.
Chaven crab-walked over, keeping us covered. Hodge's replies to his questions were pretty incoherent. Even with my hearing, I was only able to pick up "shit."
"goddamn," and "kill 'em," spaced between pain-choked groans. I wasn't about to feel sorry for him, though. He was only going through what he'd had planned for me.
Escott was on his feet by now and cautiously joined me.
"Did Chaven see anything?" I whispered.
"I don't think so, I was in his way."
That was something.
Kyler moved abruptly and with an air of finality. For him, even a bad decision was better than no decision at all. His gun arm went straight and steadied, the muzzle sight aimed squarely at me. I stopped hugging bruises I no longer felt and shoved Escott away toward the possible cover of some trash cans. He was still too close to the line of fire, but if he ducked fast enough...
The kitchen door of the Satchel opened and the bouncer stuck his head out, investigating the noise. Curtains in the side window twitched and faces full of speculation peered at us. Opal appeared in the alley entrance and stared, one gloved hand to her mouth.
Kyler saw them and hesitated. They were part of his organization to one degree or another, but witnesses all the same.
There was a subtle shift in his posture and I knew hell was not going to break loose-at least for the time being.
"Chaven... get him out of here."
With Opal's nervous and clucking help, Chaven helped Hodge limp to his Caddy out front. Kyler kept us pinned the whole time with his gun and his eyes. I don't think he blinked even once.
Escott's expression had since assumed more serious lines, which was what Kyler must have wanted in the first place. Once Hodge was out of the way he walked over to get one more good look at us. No one was smiling.
"No changes," he said. "Escott, you stay out of my way. Fleming, I don't ever want to see you again. You can leave town or you can die, it doesn't matter to me. You have until tomorrow."
I focused onto his eyes, memorizing them, trying once more to break through their stone-hard surface to get at the mind beneath.
Nothing.
Chaven circled around to the other side of the car and opened the rear driver's door. He bent over some task for a moment. I hoard a soft thud and thump against the road surface.
Kyler heard it, too, and started backing away until he reached the car. He opened the passenger door and slipped inside. Chaven was already in the driver's seat and had the motor running. The big Caddy glided off in near silence. Its twin, driven by Opal, followed a moment later. Hodge was in the rear seat and struggled up to the window for one last glare at me.
Good riddance.
Escott had nerves after all, and released the pent-up sigh he'd been saving. "You know," he said irritably, "that rat-faced fellow still has my Webley."
I had to swallow down a laugh that was trying to bubble up. If it got away from me now, I might not be able to stop. As a distraction, I checked to see what all our lifeguards at the Satchel were doing. Even as I turned, the bouncer withdrew and locked the door. The faces in the window disappeared. The lights still glowed, but the shades and curtains were in place again. With men like Kyler, curiosity was a shortcut to bad luck.
"You wanna go home?" I asked.
"That's an excellent idea."
Escott's stride was a little stiff. He absently rubbed his sore kidney as we quit the alley.
In the road before us lay a large, immobile bundle. I couldn't make it out at first; not until we walked closer, and saw that it had arms and legs.
A man's body.
Kyler had left behind his rubbish for us to clean up.
Escott cautiously turned him over. I caught the bloodsmell, sharp in the cold, damp air. The man had been put through the grinder. Twice.
His face was covered with blood, puffed, badly marked... and recognizable.
"Jesus," I said. "It's Harry Summers."