Subject: Ice, 3-4/revised |
Author:
bonniebo
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Date Posted: 22:43:21 12/16/01 Sun
In reply to:
BonnieBoX
's message, "Ice on Fire" on 07:06:59 12/15/01 Sat
##
When I returned to the kitchen, it smelled warm and fragrant, kind of homey and pleasant despite the linoleum peeling up at one corner of the floor, the fading flowers on the wallpaper. Lani pushed a handless cup across the kitchen table towards me. "Drink."
Obediently I sipped, tasted the flowers, the tea hitting my stomach, warming me inside. "Just curious. Leaves say anything this time?" I asked off-hand.
"Thought you didn't believe in that kind of thing."
"I don't."
"They say you'll meet a mysterious stranger ..."
I laughed, waving her off. "Come on, come on. I'm always meeting strangers. Some stranger than most ..."
"Who will change your life forever," continued Lani, unperturbed as always.
"Don't know why I bother to ask. You always say the same thing."
Lani's slender finger tapped the side of the teapot. "But this time, it's real."
"Hmmm. If you say so," I said as politely as I could manage. I tried to hide my smirk behind my tea cup. My hands soaked in the warmth through its thick dun porcelain. I took another sip, then swiped a hand across my mouth. "So where's Walter?"
"Still sawing up logs. I could wake him up, but he'd be worse than useless to you right now. He'd hold you up. I'm sorry, Nikita."
"No problem. Thanks for the tea." I set my cup down on the table. Flipped open my Lady Colt, checked for ammo, closed it shut again with a quick snap of my wrist. Then I reached inside my trench coat, and returned it to the special holster Uncle Walter had customized for my eighteenth birthday two years ago.
A single vertical line formed between Lani's eyebrows. It was faint but still there. "Will you really need that heat?"
"Why?" I gave my trench coat a tug so that no bulges could be seen. "You're the one who said a lady should never leave the house unprepared. You're the one who taught me how to shoot."
Lani smiled sadly, her eyes still fixed to the place where my gun was concealed under my coat. "It's true. I'm a hypocrite. I promised I wouldn't fuss. But here you are, and ... Well, it's different seeing you weapon up. I could call one of the boys. Extra muscle could be handy."
"No, I can do this. I've been doing this for awhile. I never knew when I could count on Jack, and Uncle Walter ... sometimes, it's the same when the hooch hits him hard." I flushed, remembering Lani's line of business, not wanting to offend her. "Some men can hold their liquor ..."
"...And other men are held by it," finished Lani quietly. "I try to help him. I've tried very hard."
"I know you have. I'm not blaming you. I'd never do that. It's just that ..." I shrugged. What else was there to say? "I wish things were different. But they're not. It falls on me. It always has. So I'm used to running solo. I'll be okay."
"Yes, that's what you know. But that's not how it has to be. You don't have to be alone. Not any more. Let me help out. Is it the bills? I'm flush. Think of it as a loan. No interest. We're family, yeah? Family helps each other."
I shook my head. "This isn't about money."
"Pride then."
"No, I'm too practical for that. Only the rich can afford pride. It's about Hillinger, see? It doesn't matter if I hated his guts. He was our partner. I'm obligated." I squeezed her fine-boned hand. "You already help more than you know. You're the closest thing I have to a mom. A mom couldn't do more."
"A mom wouldn't let you do this. Shouldn't."
We walked out of the kitchen into the hallway, then stopped near the front door. Lani took my hat from the coat-rack and handed to me. I tugged it on, sweeping the hairnet underneath it, adjusting the brim. She pointed her finger down, drew a circle. I turned around slowly. "Well?"
Head slightly tilted to one side, Lani gave me the once-over but good. She examined me for awhile, and then finally nodded. She straightened my tie. Then she brushed her palm against my cheek before kissing it. "You'll do," she said at last, opening the front door for me. "You'll do just fine. Now take care. And when you see Mack, remind him about Sunday. I expect to see that boy."
"All right, I'll try." The door closed behind me. I left the apartment, carrying her kiss like a talisman.
##
Death was never pretty, seldom dignified. Hillinger was no exception. He lay sprawled on the dark, dirty street, his limbs flung wide like some potbellied starfish. I gently tipped his head to one side, then closed the lids over his sightless eyes. When I was done examining him, I grunted. "No marks on his head. Wasn't conked first. Overcoat's still buttoned up. Burns on the front. And powder. Whoever did this was up close." Bricks poked through the cracked cement, and dug into my knees. Rolling back on my heels, I straightened up, shook out my trouser legs, brushed the dirt from my knees.
"Close all right. Practically close enough to kiss," commented Mack. Maybe he was one of my oldest pals, but tonight he was one-hundred percent cop, which meant that he was also a one-hundred percent pain in the keister. But even pains had their purposes. He'd been here on the scene first. Maybe he knew something, something I could use.
"Anyone see anything?"
"Of course not. If they did, their mouths are sealed shut." His broad forehead creased with puzzlement. He tipped back his hat, scratched his black curls, then reached down and rubbed his long jaw. "Hundred smackeroo's still in Hillinger's wallet. Not a robbery. Was he doing a job?"
"Not bad for a copper. You're cute when you think hard." I stepped back, avoiding the pool of dark liquid which seeped under Hillinger. The laundry hanging on the fire escapes flapped like uneasy ghosts over the alley as if they waited to escort Greg to his obvious destination. Faces peered through the windows. Carefully I breathed through my mouth so I wouldn't gag on the bitter smell of old beer and urine; or thick coppery blood as it congealed.
Mack straightened up and stood next to me. Even though I was tall, he topped me by a good six inches. Slate gray eyes glinted with a stubbornness I knew and dreaded. "Come on, darlin'. Was he tailing someone?"
"Yeah."
"Who?"
"A guy."
Mack only blinked at me. He lifted one hand, palm up, and wiggled his fingers like he was gesturing for me to come forward. "Name, please."
"Forget it."
"You can tell me here or down at the precinct. Your choice."
"All right. Okay. Don't get so hot under the collar. It's Samuelle. Some guy named Michael Samuelle."
"And?"
"Listen, Mack, don't push me. I don't gab about my clients. You know that." Turning my back on him, I continued to scout the scene. Mack huffed right behind me like a caboose, switching between threats and reminders. Neither worked. They hadn't for years. He was always jawing about something, and I ignored him as usual, concentrating on my work instead.
This wasn't any good. No footprints. No weapons. The scene was clean. Not a damn clue. I needed a phone. Fast. I started walking to the mouth of the alley, where a crowd was held off by a couple of beat cops.
"Give me a break," Mack demanded.
"Client confidentiality."
"Screw that. Hey. Stop. In the name of the law."
He was joking, wasn't he? He was always joking. But before I even took another step, Mack grabbed my arm and turned me around. His fingers tightened, betraying his irritation.
That flatfoot! I didn't care if I'd known him since we were both in diapers. I didn't owe him a thing. Not a single thing. Why, he could just take his irritation, stuff it into a pipe, and smoke it. I tried to shake him off, but he held on tight. "Christopher Luke MacConnell, get your paws off me. Now. Or I'll use those moves your mother taught me. I could flip you when you were a shrimp. I could do it now. In front of your men, lieutenant detective. You hear me?"
His mouth twisted into the willful mischievous smile that hadn't changed since childhood. "I hear you all right, darlin'." His baritone deepened, turned silky. "Are you daring me? I love dares."
"Mack." I shifted my weight, preparing for my next move, but he let go suddenly. Much to my relief. The last time we'd gone around the ring, I'd been twelve and still taller than him. Now that big galoot topped me. 'Course, I thought his size was mostly due to inflation on account of all that air he had. Hot air, that is.
Mack held up his hands, palms out. "Okay, okay. I'm a peace officer. I'm supposed to keep the peace. Not disturb it."
"Since when?" I snorted, folding my arms. He looked innocently at me. The big phony. "Oh. All right. Samuelle's staying at the Saint Francis. But that's all I'm telling you."
"For now," Mack called out as I walked away.
I reached the end of the alley, nodded an acknowledgement to the uniform. Wheeled around at the last moment. "Hey, Mack!"
"Yeah?" he said hopefully.
"You better call your mom. Dinner Sunday. Don't forget this time."
He scowled, shooed me away. "Ah, go on. Beat it. Get outta here."
I hunched my shoulders as I sidestepped a gawker. Recognized a few of the newshawks. Damn press had already sniffed us out. Suddenly a bulb flashed, highlighting the curious faces of the bystanders so that they stood starkly in relief against the night. A reversed negative of the crowd for half a second. But just long enough.
Long enough to see our mark. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed a tall man with brown hair, green eyes. But when I scanned the block, I couldn't find him again. Maybe I'd been wrong. Darkness changed colors, dimensions. Shadows lengthened people, made them seem taller than they really were.
Maybe I just wanted to see this Michael Samuelle. Wanted to dream up an easy suspect. Collar him for Mack. For myself. Bury my dead tonight. Tie up the case in a bow, and be done with it.
But wishing never made it so. It was never that simple. Worse, it was a waste of time. Time I didn't have. Shrugging, I walked fast, head down, turned the block. Wadded newspaper tumbled past me and down the quiet street, which was far away from the illicit gambling joints and the Oriental night clubs.
Everything seemed still. It was the peaceful quiet of late night melting into pre-dawn. A pause. On the cusp of a new day. My favorite time. Nothing certain, everything possible. Then I heard it - the quick soft scrape of a leather shoe against pavement. Not my cheap gum sole. I stopped, listened. Glanced around. Nothing. Not a damn thing. The fine hairs stirred on the back of my neck. Jeez. Getting the jitters. Now I was imagining things. Things going bump in the night.
##
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