Lady Crymsyn

Chapter 11

Great care had been taken in the hiding of it. A slight wrinkling on the edges indicated that the end papers had been steamed to loosen them. Perhaps she'd used a butter knife to pry them open enough to slip in the bills. Exactly twenty were in each book, front and back, a nice round number, but not so much as to distort the spines. If the glue hadn't failed on the one, I'd have missed them all.
So, apparently, had Rita. I couldn't imagine her leaving such a treasure trove lying unused for five years, especially if she'd been hocking stuff to make the rent after Lena's disappearance. Unless this was the hock money. And I was the king of Sweden. Nope, I'd found what had to be Lena's very private and not so little nest egg. Rita should have tried reading more in her free time. Quite a rewarding thing, reading.
As for what I would do with it...
That could wait until I had thoroughly studied the situation. Twice now I'd helped myself to mob money that had come my way, confident that no one would make much of a fuss over its disappearance. I wouldn't mind adding more to my side of Escott's cellar safe, but wasn't that greedy. This pile really should go to Lena's family.
If she had any. It was a good bet that she'd not been born Lena Ashley. Perhaps, like Malone, she'd served time and had tried to put it behind her. The reasons why anyone wants a name change are countless, and few are the result of anything pleasant.
When Escott got back he could start sniffing on her trail if I or the cops came up dry in the next few days. Compared to retrieving kidnapped pooches it was far more worthy of his talents.
Should there be no family... well, conscience dictated that I let Rita know about the cash, what with her being Lena's only friend.
Undisturbed for so long, it seemed safe enough to leave it here for the time being, but I decided against that. The cops would come around for a visit sooner or later, and they might take it into their heads to make a real job of searching. I got a flat knife from the kitchen, another shoe box from the bedroom closet, and went to work peeling back all the end papers. In a surprisingly short time I had all the money out and the books back in place on the shelf with the booze bottles in front as before. I set two books aside, arranging the rest to fill in the gap. There was a slim chance that Lieutenant Blair might be able to find some of Lena's fingerprints embedded in the dried glue, which could lead him to her real name. He would not know about the money, though.
Dusting off my knees, I went to look in on Rita. She hadn't moved a muscle since dropping off. I'd tucked her up snug and demure under the covers; many times I'd done the same for Bobbi when she was especially tired. Thinking about her under the present circumstances gave me no noticeable twinge of guilt. In fact, it was rather reassuring.
Rita was a hell of a gal, but Bobbi was the one I wanted to be with. Always.
I made sure the note about the memorial service was still in place. Since my suggestions would keep Rita from talking about tonight's adventure, I had no qualms about seeing her again even if Bobbi was around. I did debate on whether to add more to the note, like a little personal compliment telling her that she was a hell of a gal, which took all of a second to decide against. Never leave behind anything that could be misinterpreted.
Or interpreted for that matter.
To be thorough, I went through the flat one more time, checking all the out-of-the-way spots I'd skipped before, being too busy with the more obvious ones. Good that I did, too. When I tipped her floor model radio to see if anything might be under it something shifted inside. They protective backing was loose. I opened it more, peering into the dim interior. Shoved into the narrow space between the cabinet and the works, standing on edge a bare inch from the nearest glowing tube, was a slim gray accounts book.
It was about a third the usual size, making it easy to hide. Its ruled pages were divided up by neatly written-out dates, the earliest beginning in 1930. Next to the dates were numbers that could only be for dollar amounts. Some days had long lists of numbers, others only a few, and some were altogether skipped. Various shades of ink were used, but not in a way to indicate coding so much as different pens. All dealt with odd sums of cash and substantial amounts of it, sometimes thousands at a time. I identified the outgo column and the income, the latter being slightly less by an average of ten percent.
Off to the side, in a separate column, were what might have been small amounts of cash. No decimals or dollar signs confirmed this, though. The numbers were round, the most frequently occurring one being twenty. Sometimes fifty or one hundred would pop up, but only when there was an especially large chunk of cash involved. These appeared on each and every transaction. A few initials were listed, identifying either places or people. I picked out a set as belonging to one of the larger betting parlors. Only one name was set down: Booth Nevis, and that was at the front of the book.
There was a break in May of 1933. When the record resumed again in July of that year, a different handwriting had taken over the task. The separate column of round numbers was blank. I made a rough total of what had been listed up to that point.
Wow.
Things suddenly fit into place. I knew where Lena's fortune had come from, maybe who killed her, and why.
For all the money packed inside, the shoe box felt remarkably light. I held it and the one with Lena's effects close, slipped under the fiat's entry, then rode the elevator down. The one quick parlor trick didn't take that much out of me, but sieving through all those floors would. The hunger was creeping up to take hold as it always did. No escaping it, but easily remedied.
My watch showed just past midnight. I needed to drop this stuff at Lady Crymsyn before going on to the Flying Ace to see Booth Nevis. No telling how long that interview would take, but I wanted it all finished so I could stop at the Stockyards and still be in time to get Bobbi home. My excuse to see Nevis would be to tell him about the memorial service, and once started, I'd get more from him about his real relationship with Lena. Depending how cooperative he was, I'd be able to confirm what I thought she and Rita really did to earn their keep.
I'd returned the accounts book to the radio. The post-1933 numbers matched up with the jagged uneven writing in Rita's address book, indicating she'd taken over keeping the records for the last five years. The two-month gap told me about when she'd come across the book, figured out the system, and decided to continue with it. I had a whole fresh batch of questions ready, but there'd be no waking her until tomorrow. She didn't know it, but we had a date for right after the service for some more serious talking.
Unless I got everything from Nevis first.
If I was right about him, getting another migraine from me would be the least of his worries.
Lady Crymsyn was as I'd left her, with no lurking reporters and the lobby dark. But as I unlocked and walked through the front doors, the bar light snapped on right in front of me.
And, yes, I jumped. Anyone would have done the same. I damn near dropped the shoe box of cash. My dormant heart tried to leap up my throat, then got stuck there. Nasty feeling, that. No spit to swallow it down again, either.
"Son of a bitch-stop that!" The words just popped out of me, propelled by sudden anger. I didn't know who the hell I was yelling at. No one yelled back. No prankster popped out to laugh. Nothing.
The place was absolutely silent. Just me, a faint background whisper from the city outside, and that goddamned light coming on for no reason whatsoever.
So... I gave in to it. The idea of a ghost being in the place, that is.
None of us are that far from the cave, so I didn't feel particularly foolish over the lapse. It jittered around my gut for a very short tight moment, the time it took for the scare to wear off and my thinking brain to get back in the saddle again. This would turn out to be an electrical or hardware problem, nothing more. Leo would eventually find and fix it, then I could stop feeling like a fool.
I wasn't sure I even believed in ghosts; being a vampire didn't mean I automatically swallowed all supernatural stuff whole. If ghosts existed, then they weren't the sort of thing that happened to me; they were someone else's problem, like the psychic girl back at the party. If she could see me in a mirror while I was invisible, maybe she saw ghosts, too. She'd be just the type to do so.
If there were such things.
Right now I didn't want to believe in them at all, because if they were real, then I might have one in my club, and I didn't want anything to do with it. Not for one second. They couldn't be real. Not here, anyway.
Though that could explain the light going on and off.
And that shot glass of whiskey on the old coaster.
And a couple of things Leon had hinted about.
No. It was stupid. Completely stupid. That's what I thought as I stood frozen just inside the entry staring at the black marble bar with its bright chrome, the clean glass shelves behind, and their patterns of shadows rising toward the high ceiling.
No. Such. Things.
Really.
So I steeled myself, then strode purposefully across the lobby to the master switch. It was with grim resolve that I skeptically turned on every light in the joint.
No, none of us are that far from the cave at all.
I didn't bother investigating again. The toggle would just be up in the ordinary way. Grumbling, I shook off my heebie-jeebies as best I could and passed into the main room, cutting over its expanse to the bar on the far side. Under my instructions, Leon had installed a padlock to the door that gave access to the dead area under the tiered seating. I liked Escott's idea about turning a corner of it into a second sanctuary for myself, only when that time came I'd fix it to lock up from the inside.
Ducking through, I carried the box with all the cash to the most distant darkest corner, hunching down toward the last to keep from banging my head. None of the workers would be likely to intrude this far in; Leon had better things for them to do. I left the box on the dusty floor shoved behind some supporting framework and gladly vacated the area.
Just as I clicked the padlock home, all the lights went out.
Damnation.
I didn't jump quite so much, but felt a quick sympathy for all those times when I'd startled Escott by appearing out of nowhere. Not so funny now.
"Okay, you've made your point," I called, not sure why. "So cut it out."
I did not expect to hear a reply. A man's voice, grunting something that sounded like, "Huh? Whazzat?"
Hackles rippled high on the back of my neck for an instant. A small, sick laugh escaped me.
The lights came on again.
I'd taken a breath and didn't know it. Released it slowly.
Heard other voices. Relaxed slightly as belated recognition-not to mention relief-kicked in as I hurried toward the front. When I reached the curtained entry I could discern them well enough. No ghost, just six very solid, unpleasant men standing uninvited in my lobby.
The one by the front doors was Shivvey Coker. Two others I knew from last night. They were the same mugs I'd slammed around the alley for beating on Malone. Both looked colorfully the worse for wear after my tender ministrations, but still in shape to try for another bout. The remaining four men seemed to be out of the same tough mold. Between the seven of us this part of the club was getting full of suits and shoulders.
"Fleming," said Coker. His bland face was fixed for poker-playing, eyes blank, but his posture tense. His right hand was in his coat pocket, and the set of his arm and shoulder indicated he was probably holding a gun. I could feel a tickling just center of my gut where he'd have the muzzle pointed.
"Guilty as charged," I said. "What's this about? And what's with playing with the lights?"
"Lights?" said the larger of the battered mugs.
I decided I should ignore that. It was pretty obvious to me that this gang followed my car from Rita's flat; I'd not been watching for tails then. Why had he brought along so many friends? Better for me that I talk fast and not make any sudden moves. "C'mon, the club's not open yet. I was just on my way out. Let's go over to the Ace, where I can buy you a beer."
"Huh," said Coker, unmoved. "Think you're funny?"
I looked at him, then down at his pocket, and gave him a neutral smile. "Don't know what your beef is, Shivvey, but shooting me will only ruin two perfectly good coats."
"Then I'll save mine." He took the gun out, a flat little .22 semiauto, lethal with a steady hand and eye behind it, something to pay attention to, but otherwise not a serious weapon to the mob boys. Its advantages were easy concealment and not a lot of noise. Now that the gun was visible, two of his men-the ones I'd clobbered-casually took up posts on either side of me, not close, but close enough. The rest ranged themselves around us.
"What's the problem?" I asked, less worried by the gun or the bouncers than the damage they could do to my place.
"You've been busy," Coker stated.
"I have?" I didn't think he was talking about the transformation of the club since he'd last been in five years ago.
"Rita."
"What about her?"
"You left the party together."
No one should have noticed us especially, but maybe he'd seen her flying leap from the table onto me and come to a conclusion. "She had a little too much of the firewater. Thought I should get her home."
His eyes were blank no longer. Fascinated, I watched the change as his control slipped and fell away. The hot rage blazing in them would melt a battleship. "Yeah, you went there, then came here. What happened in between?"
"Nothing."
"You can't tell me that when her warpaint's all over your face."
Damn. Not being able to use a mirror when cleaning up was a decided disadvantage. "Nothing happened."
"Gris." Coker nodded to the larger of the two. They were both nearly my height, each packing a good forty more pounds of muscle. They acted like they thought they had the advantage. Gris moved in close on my left, but kept his hands to himself. His slightly shorter buddy came up on my right, grinning. He was enjoying this far too much to judge by the wheezing giggles he wasn't holding in. The other men shifted on their feet, indicating they were also ready for some fun and games, Chicago style.
I kept on facing their boss, thinking he must be out of his mind. He was well aware that I'd been given a hands-off from Gordy. Coker had mentioned it himself only the other night. All I could figure was that he liked Rita a hell of a lot more than he'd let on, or maybe he was one of those jealous types.
"Listen, Shivvey, I'll admit I tried some, but she was too drunk. Passed out on me. I don't like 'em when they're passed out." I put disgust in my tone, hoping that would be enough to at least shield Rita from repercussions. Didn't look like I'd be so lucky.
"Maybe you don't like women at all, punk," put in Gris. "Seems to me you were pretty hot for that faggot last night."
"Seems to me you weren't in any condition to notice after I put your face into the bricks."
Gris decided I deserved a gut punch for that one. He didn't hold back. The force of it doubled me over, and that was about all the harm it did. After a three count, I deliberately straightened. No gasping for lost breath, no retching. I fixed him with what I hoped was a cool, hard stare.
Baffled anger from Gris in response.
"He thinks he's tough," said his grinning buddy, who hadn't caught on. "Give 'im another."
Coker stepped forward. "Not yet." He was sharp, but not sharp enough, being too focused in on what he expected to see rather than what was actually happening. Gordy certainly wouldn't have overlooked my lack of reaction to the abuse. That didn't make Coker any less dangerous, just more difficult.
I frowned at him. "You got a beef with me, Shivvey, then let's talk, but lose the hired help. They don't impress."
"We'll talk. They stay."
"Whatever makes you feel safe."
The boys almost made something of that, but Coker signed for them to back down again. They were big dogs on string-thin leashes. I'd have to watch my mouth, or this could go on all night. It could even get painful. He nodded at a table and some chairs off in a corner. "Sit."
Not much I could do to get rid of them without busting the place up. Coker and I walked over and sat at the same time, his crew following. He rested his gun on the tabletop, his hand loosely holding it, a visible dare. I spared it one unworried glimpse and concentrated on him. Rage still burned in his eyes. Too much for me to get through. I pulled back. Time enough for that later. I checked the faces of the other men, all bouncers from the Flying Ace. Why weren't they at their jobs?
"You're not here just about Rita," I said. Gris and his bruised friend were behind me, doing a good job of looming in a threatening manner. "So what is it?"
"Nevis."
"What about him?"
"Cops took him in about that dead broad. Raided the Ace. You're behind it."
Okay, that's why they were here. Out of work for the evening. Shook my head. "Not me."
"You been digging too much. I told you to lay off."
"Give the cops some credit for brains. They backtracked Lena to her old boss. Nothing surprising about that."
"Rita tell you?"
"She was too drunk, but there were plenty of people at the party who talked."
"Who?"
"Doesn't matter. Use your head, Shivvey, I got better things to do than get in bad with my landlord. Nothing's going to come of it, anyway. They'll sweat him a little, he'll make a payoff somewhere, and he's back running the Ace by tomorrow. Next they'll talk to Rita, and then they talk to you. Got a good story ready for them? Hope it's better than the one you fed me."
Coker showed some teeth; it wasn't a smile. "You son of a-you think I killed Lena."
"If not you, then who else? Maybe you had a bad case of unrequited love and decided to wall her up for it."
His face went a mottled red, and his eyes blazed hotter, but his voice was oddly quiet when he finally spoke. "Gris."
Gris stepped in, and he had plenty of help. Three others moved at the same time, their tombstone mitts coming down hard on my shoulders and arms to hold me in place.
In reflex, I started to struggle, but quelled it. Now wasn't the right time.
While the rest kept me still, Gris firmly caught up my right arm, grabbed my index and middle fingers and folded them hard the wrong way. I winced at the double crack they made, my hand bucking from his grasp as though stung. The men braced for me to try fighting; I stayed put. When it was clear I wasn't going to move, they pulled away. Gris eyed me, waiting and ready for an answering challenge.
I calmly checked my wrecked hand. My fingers were at an unnatural angle and hurt like hell. Ugly to see and feel, but nothing to get panicked about. Without a lot of hurry, I held my hand up so Coker and the rest had a good view of things, then popped the fingers back into place. They made a dull cracking sound. There was more pain, briefly, the kind that told me I was already healing.
I flexed my fingers, made a fist, and opened it. I looked across at Coker, and said, "Ow."
That jolted him. He seemed fairly flabbergasted. Mouth sagging, the heat gone from his glare. Almost funny.
Similar reaction from a few of the others. One of them in the back muttered, "I told you about this guy."
Before Coker's shock could wear off I did a fast move of my own and, quick as a snake, took away his gun. Left-handed. His yelp galvanized his men, but I jabbed the muzzle right between Coker's eyes. He froze, arms out from his body, palms down, caught halfway between lunge and placation. Everyone else froze as well.
"Shivvey," I said, giving him a steady stare, "this is the night you learn not to annoy me."
"Boss..." began Gris.
"Shuddup," Coker snapped. His face was dead white. God knows what he saw in mine as I glared down the length of my arm at him.
All the anger he had that would have blocked me was gone, but there was no need to hypnotize him. I had his full attention. "First, lemme tell you what annoys me, Shivvey. You and your goons coming in here is at the top of the list. Trying to push me around is right next to it, along with not believing me when I give you a straight story. Those are the only ones you need to remember because you're not going to repeat 'em again. You got any of that?"
Some sweat forming on his brows. "You goddamn punk. Think I'll let you-"
I poked the muzzle hard enough against his forehead to make him blink. "I asked if you got that."
He gave out with one nearly imperceptible nod, hating me.
"Good. Now, I'm gonna tell you again, and this time believe it, I did not sleep with Rita. I did not turn Nevis in to the cops. Clear?"
Another small nod. Lots more hate.
Time to ease off. I did so, but kept the gun centered.
Disgust from him now as he lowered his arms, probably because I'd not shot him. He certainly would have shot me. The idea of it made him brave. "You think you got the world by the tail, don't you?"
"A piece of it," I admitted.
"Lemme tell you something, punk. I seen your kind come and go. You may think you've got it all with Gordy looking after you, but that ain't gonna last forever."
I canted my head. "You see Gordy around here? You think I run crying to him every time some bozo pokes his head in the door and makes scary faces? Look around, Shivvey. Look at me." Made another fist with my right hand. The pain was mostly gone. Opened it, then snapped my fingers a few times just to show I could and rapped a tattoo on the table. "I may be a punk kid to you, but you know I can take care of myself. Don't give me a reason to start breaking your fingers."
He wasn't in a mood to take in what his eyes were telling him. "I oughta-"
"Yeah, I know how it goes. I break your fingers, then you'll come back and break my leg. But I'd just get up and use it to kick your ass. There's no need for any of this. The fact is that we just had a pissing contest, and you lost. Accept it gracefully while I'm still in a good mood. We both gotta live in this town, and neither of us should have to be looking over his shoulder for the other."
A moment of him breathing hard, hating me some more, then a small change in his eyes. It was enough. Not that it would last. He'd had to back down from me in front of his men; he would not let that go unanswered for long, but I'd worry about it later.
"As long as you're here, we might as well settle some other things."
"What things?" he asked, after a moment.
I eased off with the gun. Gris and the rest looked to him for orders. Coker shook his head. We were all back to being nearly civilized again. Nearly. I still kept the gun in hand on the table and wondered how many of them were also heeled. "Give us some room, boys. We gotta talk."
No one moved until Coker showed them the nod. They reluctantly pulled away a few paces, but Gris stayed behind. Hard to tell if it was out of loyalty to his boss or because he hated me, too. I'd have to stay out of the Flying Ace in the future.
"This is private stuff Shiv. You sure you wanna share?"
He barely glanced at Gris. "He can stay. You got the gun, I got him."
And what a sweet couple they made. "All right."
"What private stuff? Punk."
I kept my voice low, the tone casual. "For instance, how many other laundry girls besides Rita has Nevis got on the payroll?"
No reaction from him right away. That alone told me a lot. "Laundry girls?"
"For his club. Nevis has to wash all that gambling cash coming into the Ace. There's too much to lay off as legit income from selling booze. What better than for girls like Rita and Lena and others to take it to the track for him? Bet often, on sure things they've been told about, and use only cash. The bookies are in on the game, fix the numbers right, take their percentage. The girls come back with what looks like winnings, collect their pay for the service, and Nevis stays in jake with the tax man."
"He knows way too much, Shiv," said Gris.
"Don't give me that," I drawled. "Everyone in town is onto this, including the cops Nevis pays off so he can keep operating." Somewhat of an exaggeration, but believable to insiders like Coker, who only dealt with others of his kind.
He didn't want to give me any points, though. "Rita shot her mouth off too much."
"She didn't tell me squat. Anybody with half a brain can figure out what's going on." So I'd nailed it right. That book I'd found had indeed been a record of all of Lena's gambling transactions for Booth Nevis. It was similar to one I kept myself, only mine fit on a single sheet of paper and was better hidden. "Rita's a pretty useful gal to have around. I bet she runs a lot more errands for Nevis than that pip-squeak Upshaw does for the both of you."
"I'm gonna kill that big-mouth broad-"
"She never said a word, she likes her cushy spot with Nevis and kept shut to hold on to it. But the guest list for Muldan's party was something else again. I talked to plenty of people, and they talked back. The difference between them and Rita was they actually had something to tell me. And more than just about this scam."
"Like what?"
"Like Lena Ashley and Nevis being so tight. He was off the deep end for her-and she didn't run around with everyone borrowing dough like you claimed. What was your angle feeding me that line? Were you trying to protect your job? If you thought it'd take Nevis off the suspect list, think again."
"What list? Who the hell are you to be doing cop work, anyway?"
"I'm the guy whose club she turned up dead in. Don't know about you, but I don't like that sort of thing, especially when it's a woman. If I can serve the killer up to the cops with gravy on the side, I will. If it turns out to be Nevis, then you might have a good shot at taking over his spot. You ever think that over?"
I'd hit a nerve to judge by how fast he shut down his face. He was back to playing poker again, but just a little too late. Since he made no immediate reply, it meant he was not only thinking hard, but unworried about Gris passing this kind of dynamite on to Nevis. My guess was that Coker had hired on this bunch himself, and they were loyal to him, not Nevis.
"What makes you think the boss did her in?" Coker finally asked.
"Just an idea of mine. I've got no proof. He was crazy for her, though. What if she was running around on him after all? He'd have a reason to be sore enough to kill her and to kill her just that way. Now, I know you wanted her, but it don't figure that she threw him over for you... or Nevis would have killed you, as well."
Another hit; his eyelids flickered. "How do you figure that?"
"Because of the way Lena died. A couple of minutes walled up in that hole, and she'd confess her life story with all the names. She'd have talked her head off for the hope of Nevis digging her out again. If that's what happened, and you weren't on her dance card, then he had no reason to kill you. You remember anyone else disappearing about that time? No? Well, no matter."
"You're full of it."
"Maybe. I could be wrong. Lemme try another story. You had the hots for her, she doesn't give you the time of day, then you're the one sore enough to kill. But Nevis doesn't find out, of course, or he'd have never hired you on after Welsh Lennet got croaked."
"Now, wait a minute..."
I spread my hands. "I'm just throwing out the same stuff the cops'll be thinking when they start sniffing around your leg. You gotta be ready for it. For my money I think they'll try to hang it on Nevis, whether he did it or not. They always favor the boyfriend first. Once they start closing on him they won't miss out on the rest of the works. They can bring in the Treasury boys, track down all the laundry ladies, and within a week the Flying Ace is shot down for good."
He threw a look to his men that told me a lot.
"But... there's way out of that."
He didn't want to ask, but I had him hooked too well. "Yeah?"
I leaned back. "You turn Nevis in as Lena's killer."
Coker's reactions were more subtle than before, but he was interested.
"It's like this," I said. "The cops got no proof, but if you happen to repeat something Nevis mumbled to you one night when he got drunk and maudlin about Lena... doesn't matter whether it ever happened, you just repeat it. I'm sure you can find a few people who were around back then to say how crazy he was for her and let the cops do the rest."
He thought it through, then shook his head. "You got some nerve, but it'd never work. No DA is gonna take a chance on that one or on me. I'm not framing the boss, there's no percentage. If I tried, they'd still shut his place down. And if you go to the cops with that load of bullshit, then I'll make sure you won't live to see the morning."
I chuckled, but he didn't know why. "It's good to see a man with so much loyalty, but if they can't get Nevis, they'll be eyeballing you, the spurned would-be lover. Think Nevis will stick his neck out to cover you if he even begins to think you're the one who killed her?"
"But I didn't-" He bit off the rest, staring at me with a kind of surprise that made him very vulnerable. That's when I focused on him full force, holding his gaze, hoping he'd not had anything much to drink that would interfere.
Not a cakewalk. He winced, fighting something he didn't understand, had no preparation for, and the silence stretched between us. His heartbeat shot up, and his breath came shallow. Then he abruptly stopped struggling and that dead look came into his eyes.
"Tell me about Nevis and Lena. Did he find out what she was doing with his winnings?"
"What?"
"The winnings-did Nevis find out she was skimming off the top?"
"Skim... ?"
Gris shifted closer. "Shivvey?"
"Answer me." A sharp pinching between my eyes made it hard to keep control. "You have to answer."
Coker made a small noise in the back of his throat.
I felt the same way. This hurt. "Answer me."
Something heavy smacked into the side of my skull, making lights flash behind my eyes. When the lights faded, Coker had come back to himself, looking surprised to see me on the floor. I was surprised myself. Didn't know I was that lost in the concentration. The men quickly moved in; someone slammed a foot down to hold my arm while another took the gun away.
"You take chances," Coker said to Gris, who'd apparently been responsible.
"He was doing something to you."
"Doing what?"
He faltered. "Just... something. Don't you know?"
"Know what?"
"You gotta re-" Gris cut it, stared down at me, spooked. "What'd you do to him?"
"Do what?" Coker demanded.
Out of his element, Gris shook his head, and backed off a pace. "You saw," he said to the others.
"Saw what?" Coker. Voice rising.
I had to work hard to not grin and didn't quite manage. That was enough for Gris, who instantly stooped, grabbed handfuls of my second-best suit, and hauled me up.
"What ya want us to do with him, boss?"
I motioned toward the still-open front doors. "Gentlemen, it's been great having you over, but it's late and I have to be-"
"Shuddup, punk," said Coker, realizing he was back in charge again. Gris, teach him about not annoying me."
It was just exactly what Gris and the rest were waiting for.
The next few fast dirty seconds were a confusion of fists, gouging fingers, kicks, and curses, with me getting most of it because I really didn't want to kill anyone. Too hard explaining the bodies to the cops. I could take what the mugs were dishing, pick my opening when it came, and use it. There was no reason to make it easy, though. Whenever I threw a fist or foot I connected; they were packed close and in each other's way. When I connected, it made a satisfying thump and cleared things, but only for an instant. Another body would move in. Five at once and all after the same target was a bit much even for me.
Then a general surge took place as three of them organized enough to lift and carry me backwards. I was strong, but they had momentum on their side as they slammed me hard into the marble-topped bar.
My spine cracked against it, and it hurt. Hurt bad. Right up through my skull kind of hurt. I grunted, my legs going to water. Slithered down, but the goons grabbed me up again, lifting bodily. Managed to wrest one arm free and make a swing that was little more than a wave. No strength in it for some reason.
They put some fancy spin in it and flipped me clean over, a high, forceful somersault with a very messy upside-down landing. I slammed back-first into the thick glass shelving behind the bar.
The stuff broke away from the walls as I dropped in a graceless sprawl on the hard tiles. The shelves landed heavily around and on top of me, shattering with a tremendous noise. Something banged against my neck with unexpected force. Too late I tried to cover my head; I was moving half a step behind everything.
A warm flood from my throat, almost familiar. Too much, too fast. This was wrong.
A ferocious burning along my skin there. All wrong, but what... ?
Abrupt haze before my eyes. Light-headed. Sick.
Bloodsmell.
Then I understood. Tried to do something to stop it and to hell with who saw.
The haze became more pronounced... but too slowly. It should have been faster. I should have vanished.
Weakness washed over me instead. My hand came up, clamping over the wound to stop the flow. The haze never quite turned to soothing, healing gray. I lay utterly still, not daring to move for fear of making it worse.
Heard them above me. Talking.
"Jeez, lookit the mess."
"Boss, I think you better see."
Pause, then Coker's voice. "Right, leave him."
"You sure?"
"We're cuttin' outta here. Now."
Deep within me, a thin dark voice wailed at the unfairness of it.