Devil With a Gun (19 page)

Forty

Standing on the sidewalk
in front of
NOW
, I wish I had one of Frank's cigars. The thoughts running around in my brain are chaotic and unfocused, like bees that have broken formation and lost their way. A smoky distraction is needed to settle everything down, but I may need something a little stronger than tobacco.

I sense the car approaching and look up, expecting it to be the taxi I ordered.

It isn't.

The vintage Cadillac is all nose and sharp angles with tinted windows and a custom-lacquered matte blackness that seems to repel light. A voice in my head tells me to run, but my stubborn feet refuse to obey.

The Cadillac crawls closer and the rear window rolls down to expose one of the two men that I saw standing beside Lebed outside the Dog House last night. His face is a slab of chiseled stone, flat and gray, and his dark eyes repel the light as effectively as the car.

Prickly sweat breaks out along my hairline and my feet grow roots, but another part of my brain, the storyteller, wonders what kind of pain is needed to so effectively extinguish the light in someone's eyes.

The killer lifts a black-gloved hand, cocks his thumb, and points the barrel of his index finger at me. As a kid, I loved this game; as an adult, it nearly makes me piss myself.

I lock eyes in defiance and decide the only thing I can do is exactly what I would have done when I was six. I lift both hands and cock my own thumbs. Double trouble.

A gunshot cracks, splintering the air and stopping my heart.

But I'm not the victim.

The killer in the car howls as his severed finger spurts blood like a broken hose. Before he retreats from the window, I see a flicker of light return to his eyes—it's dark blue and pulsing with ice-cold hatred.

The Cadillac accelerates and vanishes.

I uncock my thumbs and look around. On a nearby rooftop, a dark shadow rises from a prone position. It's not a tall shadow, and he nods at me before swinging a rifle over his shoulder and retreating from sight.

If you're going to have a guardian angel,
I tell myself,
it helps if he's a damn good shot.

When my feet decide to start moving again, I cross to the middle of the road and nudge my toe at a small, black tube laying in a fresh splash of blood. The tube's outer casing is stitched calf hide, while its interior is oozing human flesh and bone—the killer's pretend barrel, his trigger finger.

So much for the Red Swan sending a message; Pinch's reply is easier to read:
Fuck you!

The blare of a car horn brings me back to the present. It's my taxi.

I kick the gloved finger into the gutter and climb into the cab. I don't begin to shake until after we turn the corner.

King William of Orange winks at me from his usual perch on Mrs. Pennell's window ledge as I climb out of the cab. His furry face makes me long to curl up on the couch and cuddle my Prince, to shut off my brain for a while and give my body time to recover from the shock.

But if I wanted that life, I should have gone for a boob job and found myself a shallow millionaire—there are certainly plenty of them around, or so Mary Jane tells me.

In the lobby, Mr. French's door is the first to open. This time, he's not holding Champagne.

“Miss Flynn,” he says. “I have been watching the news. Did we … did we—”

“That wasn't you,” I assure him. “We were there to rescue Bailey. That's all.”

“But the fire, the shooting—”

“Coincidence,” I say, repeating the lie and starting to believe it. “The building belongs to a nasty man with a lot of enemies. We were lucky to get Bailey out in time.”

“So we did good?” he asks.

I smile, cross the short distance between us, and envelop him in a surprise hug. I'm not a very physical person, and the embrace is awkward for both of us, since my need for comfort makes it more something I'm taking rather than giving.

Plus there's the vast height difference.

“We did great,” I say, assuring myself as much as him.

When I release the poor man, Mr. French's effervescent smile is back where it belongs.

“I never doubted it for a moment,” he says. “I was just telling Baccarat that there had to be an explanation. We are so pleased that Miss Brown is safe.”

“I'll let her know.”

“Yes, yes, please do.”

When I arrive at the top of the stairs, Kristy and Sam are waiting on the landing.

“We've been watching the news,” says Sam. Her arms are wrapped tight across her chest, a shield of muscle, flesh, and bone.

“Are you okay?” asks Kristy. Her chest is unguarded, open and exposed.

“I'm fine. Thanks.”

“You don't look it,” says Kristy.

“When do I ever?”

“Guns again?” Sam snaps. The lines around her mouth are so tight they look like broken stitches.

“Coincidence,” I say. “I went to rescue Bailey, nothing more. I didn't start the fire.”

Sam's eyes blaze white-hot. “Trouble has a nasty way of following you around, Dix.”

“Maybe,” I say, “but so does hope.” I point at my apartment door and flash a glimmer of gnashed teeth. “Those women in there lost their father twenty years ago. Roxanne was stolen away and made into an addict and whore, and Bailey is so full of unanswered questions she's practically bursting out of her own skin. So, yeah, I caused some trouble. I pulled them both from the clutches of a monster and that has repercussions, but tonight I'm also bringing them together with a man neither of them knew was still alive. Tonight, Roxanne will meet her father for the first time, and maybe—just maybe—that will bring some healing. You know me better than this, Sam. I may be a bitch at times, but I don't do it selfishly.”

“Sam wasn't—”

“Yeah, she was, Kristy,” I interrupt. “And I can't blame her for being frustrated, but I also can't change who I am. If I could do my job without bringing it home with me, I would. I'm not egotistical enough to think I'm changing the world, but if I can make a difference in someone's life every now and again, then that's what I'll do. Yes, I love you both; no, I don't want to see any harm come to either of you, and I'm sorry if I cause you worry and stress and sleepless nights, but, well, that's part of the price for having me as a friend.”

There's an awkward pause where the air feels thick and hot before Sam says, “Feel better?”

“Not really,” I admit.

Sam moves forward to wrap me in my second awkward hug of the day.

She whispers in my ear, “We love you, too, Dix, but work harder to keep the trouble off our doorstep.”

“I'll try,” I say quietly.

Kristy joins in for a three-way cuddle before we break apart and head into our respective apartments.

Closing the door behind me, I see Bailey and Roxanne look over from the couch where they've been drinking coffee and playing with the cat. Showered, dressed, and alert, they look more like sisters than ever before.

“Hey, Dix,” says Bailey. “You OK? It sounded like an argument out there.”

“I'm fine. Kristy and Sam saw the news and were worried that's all.”

“I couldn't find your TV,” says Roxanne.

“I use the laptop if there's something I'm interested in.”

“That's weird. Everyone has a TV.”

I smile. “I prefer to read.”

Roxanne looks at me as though I've just declared that I would rather practice satanic witchcraft than peer into the lives of our new breed of reality stars: pregnant teenagers, child beauty queens, foul-mouthed illiterates, and gossipy sex fiends with IQs slightly smaller than their bust size.

“I wanted to watch the news,” she says.

“There's a radio in the bedroom.”

Roxanne glares at me again as if I've just made the stupidest suggestion that she's ever heard.

Instead of explaining myself, I say, “But I have news for you. Your father is alive.”

“What!” Bailey gasps. “How do you know?”

“I met with someone today who claims to be a friend of his. He's been watching out for you two.”

“Well, he's not very good at it,” gripes Roxanne.

“Where is he?” asks Bailey, ignoring her sister.

“He's living on some kind of communal farm outside the city. Seems he never went far.”

Roxanne fixes me in a hard stare. “Told you I saw him.”

I nod. “You did.”

“But he never—” Roxanne stops talking and wipes a sudden pool of tears from her eyes. She's also chewing the inside of her mouth, and I can see her teeth turning pink from the blood. “He never once … Never spoke. Never called out. Never tried to grab my hand and pull me away.” Tears stream down her cheeks now; a hurt and broken child. “He could have
done
something. Anything. At least let me know he wanted me.” Her voice breaks. “Nobody ever wanted me, except for what they could take.” Her eyes lock onto mine again, but they're so misted that I'm not sure she even sees me. “Didn't he see that? Didn't he want to take me away?”

“You can ask him,” I say.

Bailey gasps again. “When?”

“Tonight. He's coming into the city. His friend is going to call me with the details of when and where.”

“He's been around all this time,” says Roxanne, her voice distant but edged in broken glass. “And he waits until some reporter brings us together for a fucking story before showing his face.”

“I'm sure it's not—” Bailey starts.

“What the fuck do you know?” Roxanne hisses. “You abandoned me, too. You both left me in that dive to be fucked and used by strangers until I became this.” She tears at her skin, her nails scratching lines on her arms. “There is no little girl left inside for a father to find. There is no baby sister to play dolls or dress up in mom's clothes. There's only this … ” She rips at her dress and her hair. “A whore and a monster and a waste of fucking skin.”

Bailey wraps her arms around her sister, trapping her arms and squeezing her tight. She makes cooing noises and motherly clucks, rocking back and forth to bring calm to the chaos.

Feeling like a third wheel, I leave the apartment and head downstairs.

I knock on Mr. French's door, and when he opens it, I ask, “You don't happen to have any cigars, do you?”

Forty-One

Although he prefers his
pipes and exotic hand-rubbed blends of richly flavored tobacco, Mr. French keeps an exquisite cherry wood humidor packed with an assortment of cigars for guests.

He beams at my request as though I've paid him the highest of compliments, which makes me feel a little less like a mooch. He leads me excitedly through his apartment to show me his collection. When I tell him I want to sit on the front stoop and just let my mind melt for a while, he hums and haws before producing a thick Cuaba Pir
á
mides.

“This one is from 2008.” He smiles with delight when I frown, as this allows him to figuratively slip into his retired professor's robes and impart some wisdom. “Like fine wine, cigars are a natural product that benefit from aging in the right environment. The years have been kind to this one, bringing out notes of chocolate, cinnamon, and a pinch of nutmeg that weren't evident when it was first rolled.”

“Aren't Cuban cigars illegal?” I ask.

“Most of the best things are.”

He snips the tapered end for me before handing it over with a thin stick of cedar and a heavy silver lighter that resembles the jowled face of a British Bulldog.

“You light the cedar first,” he explains. “And use its flame to light the cigar. Makes those first puffs much smoother, plus the ritual is all part of the fun.”

“Will you join me?” I ask.

“I would be delighted, Miss Flynn, but I am afraid I must decline. I have a Skype call lined up with a fellow philatelist who has unearthed an unusual find that I am anxious to see.”

“Stamps wait for no man. Perfectly understandable,” I say.

Mr. French beams again. “Enjoy the cigar.”

Sitting on the front steps, I follow Mr. French's cedar-stick ritual until the cigar is lit. The draw is smooth and fills my mouth with velvet smoke.

“You shouldn't expose yourself like this,” says Pinch, appearing on the sidewalk below me. “You're making yourself a target.”

I release the smoke from between my lips with a heavy sigh. “I think you may have scared them off for a bit,” I say. “That was a hell of a shot.”

“I was aiming for the window.”

“Bullshit.”

Pinch grins and moves to sit beside me on the steps. “I didn't know you smoked,” he says.

“I don't,” I reply. “Except for when I do.”

“Ah. Spoken like a woman.”

“That's me.”

“You don't have another do you?”

“We can share.”

I pat the space beside me, take another deep pull, and hand him the cigar. He doesn't hesitate to place it between his lips.

Exhaling, he hands it back and says, “Nice.”

“Mmmm,” I agree.

We sit and smoke for a while, sharing the cigar in silence like a pocketful of secret kisses doled out one by one.

“The Red Swan has a fierce temper,” Pinch says.

“Shhh. I'm trying to relax.”

“We need a plan to get him off your back.”

“Already have one.”

“Oh?”

“Joe Brown has information that Lebed doesn't want made public,” I explain. “Swannie's been searching for him for twenty years.”

“How does that help you?”

“I found him. We're meeting tonight.” Smoke rises from my mouth to dance upon a salty breeze. I can taste wood, spice, leather, and earth. “If Joe shares that information, I can use it to protect all of us.”

“Do you think he will?”

“I rescued both his daughters. The guy owes me.”

Pinch plucks the cigar from between my lips and raises it to his own. “Not just a pretty face,” he says.