Hot Lead, Cold Iron

  The gink was probably hoping to stick around and make sure his boys took care of me. Good decision—for me.

  I paused a minute, took a deep sniff. Winger had to have been sweating something fierce when he took the run-out; he’d be leaving a trail of stink better’n any roadmap. And yep, there it was. Hell, I didn’t even need the sweat; I could actually taste the lingering aura of his fear in the air.

  L&G held straight and ready, I crept along the open hall on the balls of my feet; atrium to the left of me, thick doors and dark windows to the right. And I guess he knew I was coming, ’cause he bolted from his hiding hole and made a mad dash for the stairs.

  He’d been skulking in the washroom. Of course. Where else would you find a Chicago politico, but with the rest of the shit?

  I maybe coulda caught up with him, but why do things the hard way? I aimed the L&G and shouted, “That’s far enough, Mr. Winger.”

  He froze, his hands high, and turned—at which point he saw just what it was I was pointing his way. If nothing else, at least I’d wiped the smug public-servant veneer off his mug. He gave me a sneer that woulda done any Mafioso proud. “You think you’re funny?” he demanded. “You think any of this is funny?!”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, I think there’s maybe something funny to it.”

  “Fine! I’ll send that stupid little stick to Baskin—along with a free copy of the headlines when the photos go public.” He was starting to step away again, ready to bolt. “I’m sure he’ll think the joke’s absolutely hysteri—”

  The hallway shook with the cough of a .45-caliber slug, and my “stupid little stick” spit fire. It wasn’t any of it real, of course—just another illusion, sound and fury and all that—but it sure as shooting seemed real to him.

  Uh, pun unintended.

  Winger cried out, and before he could realize that he hadn’t actually been shot, I was on him like a troll on a wounded kid.

  For a minute we rolled back and forth between the office walls and the half-wall that marked the balcony’s edge, fists flying, but I’m not being cocky when I say that he never had much of a chance. I got myself a nice, solid grip and started whaling on him.

  I also got into the inside pocket of his coat—twice—and he never noticed. I wish I could pretend it’s because I’m just that keen, just that sneaky. But in this case, to be completely on the square about it, I think he was mostly distracted by the fact that I was slamming his head into the floor by his hair, and jamming my knee into his groin hard enough to flatten a tire.

  I was about to stop anyway—no, really, I was!—when I learned that I’d badly underestimated at least one of the committeeman’s thugs.

  Mustache flew from the office, one ace of a shiner decorating the left side of his face and a nasty little switchblade in his right hand. I really thought he shoulda been blind for another couple minutes. Maybe his loyalty to Winger was more than money, and hearing his boss yell out gave him the willpower to break my hold on him. Hell, maybe I just got careless, or I only winged him back in the office. Didn’t know then, don’t suppose I ever will. Can’t see how it matters much, either way. Whatever the reason, he was up and about.

  I heard him coming, despite the muffling carpet and Winger’s groans; he musta still been disoriented from the magic I’d throw at him. Hell, I woulda been! He came at me and I stood, grabbed his arm, and spun him aside easy as duck soup.

  He tottered, looking for all the world as though he was lit on cheap hooch—and went over the balcony railing with a girlish squeal.

  Not my intention at all!

  Winger and I just stared at each other, jaws hanging stupidly. It woulda been funny if, you know, it’d been funny. Then, reluctantly—not sure why; I’d seen, and done, a lot worse—I took a few steps and leaned over the edge.

  You wouldn’t have believed it, but damn if Mustache wasn’t alive! He wouldn’t be jitterbugging any time soon, I could see that from the new and fascinating ways his drumsticks were bending, but one of those goofy potted ferns had broken the worst of his fall.

  Sometimes, I can’t believe my luck.

  I was still looking over the brass railing at the guy mangled and leaking right beneath me when the front door burst open like a belt at a banquet and a dozen coppers stormed the lobby. I actually felt more than twenty peepers focus on Mustache lying in the wreckage of the big terracotta pot, covered in blood and soil, and then rotate on up to focus on my gawping mug.

  Sometimes, I can’t believe my luck.

  At which point, Winger—clever weasel that he was—began screaming for help. And shouting his name. And claiming that I was holding a gun on him.

  I’m pretty sure there wasn’t a lawman in the joint who didn’t know just how much of a highbinder the dirty bastard was. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t trying to kill him; hell, far as they were concerned, it probably made it more likely! Plus, there was no telling just how many of ’em might be on Winger’s payroll.

  So it probably shouldn’t have come as any surprise to me that four of ’em drew heat and started shooting at me before I even had the chance to raise my hands.

  I threw myself back from the railing hard enough to crack the office window behind me—thankfully, it wasn’t actually a mirror, despite the reflection; I normally carry enough salt on me to counter even that kinda bad luck, but right now it was sitting in the office, in my overcoat pocket—and I’m not sure the first of the slugs actually missed me by more than a mouse’s pecker. I let myself hit the floor as I rebounded off the glass, and started crawling. I heard feet pounding on stairs across the atrium, and I knew that if the wrong bull found me, I’d be sporting some extra holes before I had the chance to explain.

  So I was going to have to do something—even if it meant making a bunch of policemen think I was attacking ’em. I couldn’t remember right at that point how many plans and contingencies I’d come up with, but the evening wasn’t going according to any of ’em.

  I slipped my wand from my holster again and grabbed it in my teeth, crawled a few more yards, and—wincing in anticipation of another fusillade—peeked up between the wall and the railing.

  Most of the bulls had spread out throughout the lobby, taking what cover they could around the desk or in various doorways; I assumed the ones I couldn’t see had already made it to the upper floor, and were somewhere close. I couldn’t help but notice that nobody was actually paying much attention to Mustache; they must have really believed someone was about to start sniping from up here.

  I saw, also, that three plainclothes cops had come in behind them, weapons drawn—and thanks be to whatever gods are left in this day and age, I recognized one of them!

  “Keenan!” I ducked as a shot careened off the railing inches from my nose. “Lieutenant Keenan!”

  The man I’d called, a hawk-faced, dark-haired fella in a brown fedora and matching trench coat, aimed his stubble my way. “Oberon? That you?”

  A second slug dug into the wall I was hiding behind, a third whined overhead and thunked into an office door. “Not for much longer!”

  “Hold fire! Everyone hold fire!”

  I didn’t actually know Keenan too well—mostly through a mutual friend on the force—but I coulda kissed him right about then.

  It took a lot more yelling, and a few minutes of coppers running pell-mell through every room, accompanied by repeated shouts of “Police!” and “Get your hands up!” and “Grab some air!” but eventually, everyone was gathered downstairs around that humongous desk. Winger was smoothing his wrinkled coat and wiping the blood and sweat from his face with a handkerchief; Muscles and Mustache were receiving medical attention; Edgy was slouched over, his hands cuffed, since he’d taken a swing at the first lawman to come through the door; and Egghead was still snoozing.

  For my part, I’d taken the opportunity for a quick, pinpoint illusion…

  “Now,” Keenan said, moving in my direction, pad, pencil, and unlit cigarette all dangling from his left hand. “Som
eone had damn well better start telling me what—”

  “I can tell you everything you require, lieutenant,” the committeeman said, stepping forward to intercept him. “This—this hooligan broke into the offices of my firm here and assaulted me and my employees! Why, there’s no telling what violence he might have inflicted on us if you hadn’t arrived when you did!”

  “I attacked five guys?” I asked. I felt my lips curling despite my best efforts not to laugh in his face. “Alone? Unarmed?”

  Keenan coughed and, transferring his cigarette to his right hand, used it to point at the obvious bulge in my coat. “Unarmed?” He stuck the butt in his mouth, looked around more or less aimlessly until one of the uniformed officers produced a lit match.

  Being very careful to make every move slow and obvious, I pulled open my lapel and showed him the holster—and the wand.

  “What the hell, Oberon?”

  I smiled at him. “It’s intimidating; makes it look like I’m packing. But I don’t carry, lieutenant. Get Pete on the horn, if you don’t believe me; he’ll vouch.”

  “I see. And Committeeman Winger’s claims?”

  “Bunk from soup to nuts. Even for a politico, it’s one heck of a pack of lies.”

  I always thought someone “puffing up” was just an expression until right then, but I swear Winger’s face actually inflated. “Now, see here—!”

  “In fact,” I continued, “I’m here on official business. On behalf of ASA Daniel Baskin.”

  That bought me a few raised eyebrows. But it was Winger who reacted first. “I think, lieutenant,” he said, speaking to Keenan even as he did his level best to stab me through the eyeballs with a vicious glare, “that there’s something you ought to know about Assistant State’s Attorney Baskin before you consider giving this matter any further credence.” And just as I knew he would, he stepped toward Keenan, hand reaching for the inside pocket of his sportcoat, greasy smile already oozing from his pores to cover the front of his head.

  The same pocket I’d gotten into twice while we were tussling upstairs.

  I’d been all set to give him a quick mental nudge, but it wasn’t needed. He was so anxious, so eager to bring the man down, I don’t think he realized until he’d already pulled it free that the paper in his hand was not the envelope he’d shoved in there earlier.

  Floyd Winger could only stand there, paralyzed and perspiring, as Lieutenant Keenan leaned, squinting, to peruse the subpoena, inked beneath the formal seal of the Cook County courts.

  “Looks like you’ve been served, Committeeman Winger,” Keenan told him. Was it my imagination, or was the flatfoot maybe gloating just a little bit? “I’m sure the court appreciates your willingness to testify.” He looked again. “March 28th? Okay. I appreciate you trusting us with this, committeeman. I’ll be sure to have officers ready to escort you. For your protection and comfort, of course.”

  “I… I…”

  I think I’d have taken this job from Baskin for free, just for the chance to hear a Chicago committeeman stammering.

  “We’ll have to take you in, too, Oberon,” Keenan said then. “I don’t buy that you attacked these men, but until we determine exactly what did happen—especially to that fellow there,” he added, jutting his chin so the smoldering butt pointed vaguely at Mustache, “—we’ve got to treat you as a suspect.”

  Yeah, I’d expected as much. “Come on, lieutenant.” I made a show of rubbing my aching ribs, carefully slid my hand up in case I needed the L&G for a little extra wow. “I’ve got an appointment with my client.” I tilted my head toward the subpoena, as if he was somehow going to forget who I meant. “You know you can get everything from him during office hours tomorrow.”

  No way he should have gone for it—but then, I wasn’t just asking. I’d been sending him waves of willpower the entire time we talked, softening him up; now I pushed at the membrane of will behind his eyes, blew on the embers of his thoughts, igniting what little trust he had for me—and, more importantly, his respect for Dan Baskin—into a raging fire.

  Wound up that I didn’t need the wand. “All right,” he said finally, drawing a strangled gasp from Winger and a few puzzled looks from the other (thankfully lower-ranked) detectives. “But I’m still going to need you to come in some time soon and give your own statement about what happened. Just to keep things formal.”

  “Understand completely, lieutenant. Much obliged.”

  He nodded, then glanced down at the small bloodstains all over my shirt and suit. “You need to see a doc before you go?”

  “Nah.” I pulled my collar aside, showed him just a few minor bruises and abrasions. “Just a good tailor. Guys aren’t as tough as they make out.”

  Keenan smirked and wandered away.

  I ambled up to the second floor, collected my overcoat, and was back downstairs and out the door before I let the illusion fade and the ugly contusions and lacerations reappear. I knew I’d be seeing Keenan again before too long—maybe when I next went to call on Pete, and if not, when I went to give my statement—and by then, the wounds actually would be gone. I didn’t want him noticing and asking questions.

  Hmm. I guess, at this point, I really should put a few cards on the table. I’m a private investigator, licensed and accredited. My name is Mick Oberon, or at least it is now.

  And like some of you have probably already figured, I’m not human.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’ve had a lot of names before this one, and you ain’t hearing any of ’em. I’m… I don’t know exactly know how old. Time doesn’t flow entirely right for us even in this world, and all bets are off once you step Sideways. Decades can drift by, like a soothing song, and you’d never know until you shake it off and look around; we forget so much of what we knew, and who we were.

  I can tell you this. I’ve seen woad-painted Celts and war-painted Indians; Vikings on longships and knights on horseback; French revolutionaries and Italian inquisitors and Spanish conquistadors. I’ve slept on jagged rocks and woven moss, mite-infested straw mattresses and perfume-scented silks.

  Today I sleep on a dilapidated Murphy bed in a cheap office, with wrinkled sheets and springs poking into my back, and believe you me, it ranks nearer the bottom of that list than the top.

  I was among the last of the Tuatha Dé Danann, lords of the Emerald Isle, conquerors of the Firbolgs. We ruled as princes, in our world and yours, until you grew too many, your devices too intricate. We became the aes sidhe, the People of the Mounds, through which we retreated in our return to the Otherworld. And we lost so much of what we’d been.

  You call us Fae, and our world Faerie, or Elphame, or a dozen other names. And for longer than I can remember—literally—I remained a prince, an aristocrat of the Seelie Court.

  Now I’m a PI in a filthy, crime-ridden city, where I gotta talk like I’ve got a beef with grammar if I wanna halfway blend in, in a world that actually hurts me. Any of you saps honestly believe there’s any justice in the universe, c’mon over and see me. I’ve got a bridge to sell you. It’s all kinda sparkly colors, and it takes you right to fucking Asgard.

  And that’s all you need. Or all you get, anyway.

  Well, no, I’ll give you one piece more: I had my own damn good reasons for walking away from the Courts and everything I was, and I’ve got my own damn good reasons for never wanting to go back.

  That’ll be important for you to know, later. You can probably imagine why.

  * * *

  The wind was faint and only a little chilly. It whispered in my ears and kicked the hem of my overcoat around my ankles, making it dance a quick waltz with bits of old newspaper, sandwich wrappers, and a few stray leaves that had survived the winter only to fall with spring just beyond reach. (I knew how they felt.) Dark cars grumbled past me on the street, beaming their ugly yellow light at me through big froggy eyes and leering through grills of metal teeth. I’d taught myself a long time ago not to shudder every time I got near one of the damn things, bu
t the urge remained, waiting to conk me on the back of the head.

  Even this late, I wasn’t hardly the only bird strolling down Michigan Avenue, and by the time I got where I was going, I thought my head would fall off my neck, I’d nodded so many polite greetings. If I wore a hat, I’d have worn through the brim from tipping it over and over again.

  The sound of people laughing and dishes clattering, the smell of greasy meats and something slick burning off the stove, all hit me before I even opened the door. I have to admit, I was a little perplexed that we were meeting at a Thompson’s—or “mpson’s,” at the moment, since someone had covered half the name with a poster supporting Smith over Roosevelt at the upcoming convention. Sure, it was my sorta joint, since it kept the same hours I did, and it doesn’t much matter to me how lousy the food might be; but I didn’t figure it for his.

  But then, maybe that was the point. Not as though anyone would think to look for him here, right?

  The crowd inside was just big enough to make me wait in line at the counter: businessmen and shopkeeps grabbing a bite after a long day, a few young couples riding the high of a great date, a handful of professional skirts fortifying themselves for another hard night.

  And probably a few trouble boys planning something illegal for later in the week, but that’d be none of my business, would it?

  I waited in the line, tapping my foot—because it’s expected, not because I actually do that—and slowly slid my way completely past the food, ignoring the whole smelly mess of it. Finally, I got to the drink counter and the harried slob behind it.

  “You got any of those warm?” I asked, pointing to a row of glasses made visible as one of the other workers opened the refrigerator behind him.

  “Huh? Warm? Why would we do that, mister?” His face looked about as expressive as the grease stains on his apron.

  I sighed. You wouldn’t think it’d be that hard an order, would you? “Okay, fine. Just a glass of milk, please.”