Naked City: Tales of Urban Fantasy

“Alicia?”

She glanced back.

“I’m Frank. Well, Francis Lee Lemons, but—”

“I don’t care who you are yet, shug.” She leaned against one of the large wooden casks in the corner. “Talk.”

So Frank told her: “I took the revolver off a man in a game of darts. Too stupid to realize he could even be hustled at darts and … I’m mostly honest, but it seemed a wise plan to be armed around here, you know?”

Alicia nodded.

“Found out who supplied it, started asking about you, and ended up at a weird bar with Boyd.”

“What bar?” she prompted.

“Mr. D’s.” He paused, but she didn’t say anything, so he kept going. “Boyd was explaining that you were particular about who you took on. Lots of dead folks want a position on your team, and not just anyone could meet up to make his case.” Nervously, Frank looked at Alicia, but her expression was unreadable, so he added the damning part: “But we were talking, and then Boyd suddenly says, ‘Shoot me.’ I didn’t think I heard right. He repeated it again. ‘Shoot me right here.’ He pointed right at his forehead. ‘Now, then go find Alicia.’ He told me to tell you what I did when I walked in.”

Quietly, Alicia asked, “What did you do?”

Frank had a fleeting wish that he’d kept his gun then, but he answered her in a steady voice, “Exactly what he said.”

“Why?”

“Instinct?” Frank shrugged. “I don’t know, really. He seemed sober, sane as anyone else here, and … I know he’s your right-hand man, and I want this job, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I did what he said I should.”

“Good enough.” Alicia reached behind a tin on one of the shelves next to her and grabbed a revolver. She tossed it at him. “Let’s go.”

He caught it and checked the chamber. “You in the habit of throwing loaded guns?”

“You expected to do me any good with an unloaded piece?” Alicia cocked her head.

Frank glanced at his leg before answering. “If I had to, but not right this minute.”

“Call it part of the interview.” Alicia held up a hand and started ticking things off on her fingers. “Assuming you’re telling the truth, I know you listened to Boyd, and you reacted well to stress. That’s two. Since you got here, you’re not bitching over that scrape.” She gestured at his bloody thigh. “Now, you caught and flipped the gun in your hand like you’re comfortable.”

She held her hand out to him and helped him to his feet. “Tells me you have potential.”

Frank swallowed against the sting of putting weight on his leg. He knew he was dead now, but he wasn’t sure what happened when the dead were shot. Can I die more? He looked at his blood on their clasped hands. Obviously, the dead bled. He asked, “Did I kill Boyd?”

“Boyd’s been dead almost a century.” She pulled her hand free of his and wiped it on another rag she grabbed out of the basket. “Not real sure on that whole reincarnation thing.”

She tossed the rag to Frank.

Frank stared at her for several moments before saying, “Here. Did I kill him here?”

Alicia reached up and patted his cheek. “Sweetie, only one man around here can kill the dead.”

“Who’s that?”

“The man who we’re going to see—the old bastard, Mr. D.” She tucked his revolver in her own holster, slung her shotgun over her shoulder, and walked to the door.

* * *

As they walked through the city, Alicia slowed her pace a little for him. Getting shot wasn’t fatal here, but it still hurt like a bitch. Frankie Lee. She hadn’t heard that anyone was asking about her, but he’d found Boyd, knew she was the one that ran the black market, and managed to get a meeting with Boyd. That meant that Frankie Lee was stealthy. She glanced at him. His lips were pursed, and he was limping a bit, but all things considered, he was holding up fairly well for having a hole in his thigh.

“How long you been dead?”

Frankie Lee frowned. “I don’t know. Week or two, I guess.”

“Well, here’s your newcomer welcome information, Frankie Lee.”

“Frank,” he interjected.

Alicia ignored him. “The grand pain in everyone’s ass around here is Charles. The old bastard and I have a regular conflict.” She reached into one of her trouser pockets and pulled out a couple pills. “Take these.”

Frankie Lee obediently swallowed them. He didn’t ask what they were, and she didn’t tell him. He’d figure it out soon enough when his leg stopped hurting.

As they walked through the ever-shifting city, a few people glanced their way. They were in one of the sections that remained steadfastly not modern. It was a bit cleaner than the way her experience of live-world equivalent was, but it was comforting all the same. Alicia had adjusted to the appearance of new sections in the city, blocks that belonged to eras that happened after she was already dead, but she felt ill at ease around flappers or—worse still—those cookie-baking, always-smiling women.

Not as sweet as they act, either, else they’d have moved past here.

Mr. Waverly tipped his hat to her. One of the Tadlock sisters tilted her ridiculous parasol so she couldn’t see them.

“Millicent!” Alicia called out to her, and predictably, the woman had a sudden urge to dart into a milliner’s shop. She was from Alicia’s own era and clung to the notion that ladies shouldn’t acknowledge ruffians. It didn’t stop her from buying the Derringer she no doubt had in her handbag.

Alicia and Frankie Lee crossed a street separating the 1800s and early 1900s shops, and one of the young newshounds came scurrying into their path. “Who shot you, mister? Are you going to go settle up with them, Alicia?”

“Nope.”

“Is he?” the boy pestered.

“Don’t know. Are you, Frankie Lee?” She glanced at him.

He frowned at her. “No, and no one calls me that.”

“It’s that or Francis.” She smiled. “Your choice.”

After a pause, he nodded. “Not Francis.”

“Frankie Lee isn’t going to settle up with the one that shot him. That’s all you get for now.” She shooed the newshound out of the street. Once the boy was gone, she resumed her version of a newcomer’s talk: “Charles thinks my organization is crude. He’s a despot. Dictator, really. No free trade, no modernizing the city. If he had his way, women would all be relegated to arm candy or other foolishness. He builds what he wants when he wants, makes the laws he wants, and we’re just to be content with whatever he creates.”

“And you?”

“I’m not content.” She scowled at one of the more-modern dead men soliciting a couple of the silly flapper girls who liked to linger near the century line. One of Charles’s people stepped in, so she kept going. Grudgingly she told Frankie Lee, “Charles maintains some parts of the city well, but he’s stuck on the idea of empires. I don’t agree.”

“So it’s political differences?” Frankie Lee’s tone did little to hide his surprise.

Alicia laughed. “Not entirely. I’m here. I’m staying here, and I’m not his subject.… I didn’t fare well when I was under his authority.”

Memories of her life, of a time when she trusted Charles, flooded her. A long time ago, she lived for Charles. Here, well, she might still exist because of him—except now it was to thwart him, not to help him.

“I have a financial interest in my politics.” She walked a little faster, and thanks to her medicinal aid, Frankie