The mobster downed his drink. 'Not Nor. Nwarr. You'd think you'd spent enough time in France to not butcher everything. But they ain't French as far as I can tell. That's just what they call themselves. I don't know who they are, real secret bunch, but they seem to know everybody, and their money is green and there's lots of it. I think they're some sort of crew, but they're connected, big time.'
'What did they want with Delilah?'
'Beats me. The one I talked to said they were on the same side and wanted to protect her. Delilah was hiding out up north. The law's been hunting her since she killed those lugs that went after her.'
The Chicago agents had been told the five mutilated corpses had belonged to innocent victims of her rampage. That had never sounded like Delilah's style. 'Who were they?'
Torrio looked at Sullivan like he was thick. He licked his teeth. 'You got no idea what you're getting into, do you?'
'You know us Heavies are dumb, Lenny. Humor me.'
'They were men you don't want to cross, Sullivan. When they missed her, they stuck the law on her. Nobody messes with them. Not the feds, not the mob, not the army. They're bad news. That's all I'm saying.' He thumped his glass back down and stood. 'You need to get out of here, and stay out of this if you know what's good for you.'
Sullivan stayed seated. The couch was comfy. 'So… you told this Grimnoir bunch which blimp Delilah would be on. Was that before or after you told the Bureau of Investigation?' Lenny's face slipped for a second as he said that, and that second told Sullivan he had called it right.
Torrio composed himself, playing offended. 'You calling me a snitch?'
'The BI prefers the term informant,' Sullivan smiled. 'How much was the reward on that? Here you are, giving me lip about working for the Man… At least I'm honest about it. I like to pick one side and stick to it. But you… you were always good at playing all the sides.'
'Get out of my club.' Torrio's robe whipped dramatically as he pointed at the stairs.
Sullivan stood. 'See you 'round, Lenny.'
Lenny Torrio waited until Sullivan had picked up his piece and was escorted out before summoning his imp. The spindly little creature crawled out of the shadows under the couch and clambered onto the table. Half monkey, half reptile, its bat face opened in a hideous grin of jagged black teeth as it waited for the evening's orders.
'Follow him,' Lenny ordered. 'I want to know where he sleeps.'
The imp shrieked, leapt from the table and scurried up the bricks and out the nearest barely-open window. Spreading leathery wings, it disappeared into the night. Lenny poured himself another shot as his guest inevitably joined him. The Oriental had been waiting patiently in the darkened recesses of the balcony. The man made Lenny uncomfortable because he just stood there, like he was at attention or something. 'What?'
'Will this man be an issue?' His English was perfect.
Jake Sullivan was probably the stubbornest, most single-minded, unwavering, bravest, and therefore dumbest son of a bitch Lenny had ever met. 'Probably. He was asking about your outfit, about those men the Brute girl killed.'
'What does he know?'
'Not much. He hadn't even heard of the Grimnoir.'
The man nodded. 'So… You told him then?' There was a thinly veiled threat in the words.
'Not about you people, of course,' Lenny sputtered. 'I'm not stupid. Look, if I had known you wanted Delilah, I would have turned her over to you, and not them. That wasn't my fault. I've got my sources looking for these Grimnoir people and the other two men you want, and as soon as I hear anything, you'll be the first to know. Your boss can take that to the bank.'
The Japanese man raised a single eyebrow. 'The Chairman will be pleased to hear that, and you will be exceedingly well paid for your services. By the way…' He reached into his suit and removed a heavy pouch. It clinked as it hit the table and a few octagonal gold coins spilled out. 'Your source in California was correct. We found Traveling Joe, but we still desire something that was in his possession. Part of a device. It was missing.'
Lenny nodded as he took the piece of paper, examining it briefly. It was part of a mechanical drawing way beyond his understanding. He stuck it in his robe with one trembling hand. 'I'll see what I can do.' Lenny Torrio could find anyone or anything, because that's what he did, that's what had made him a powerful man. He was the best Finder in the business.
'Is there any chance that this man would be willing to be in the Chairman's service?'
'Hardly.' Torrio laughed, then stifled it quickly. 'No offense intended of course. But old Jake has always been set in his ways. He sees things real simple in black and white, and once he sets his course, you can't sway him.'
'An admirable quality. Alert me when your demon returns. Your friend is too curious and will need to be dealt with. I will require the services of your staff.' He bowed slightly before returning to his table.
Lenny tried to pour himself another drink, but his hands were shaking too bad, and he spilled a bunch of the expensive hooch on the table. His old pal, Sullivan, had been right. He had a knack for playing more than one side. Unfortunately he'd just been drafted by the worst side of all, and there wouldn't be any turning back now. 'Sorry, Sarge.' He finally gave up and took a long drink from the bottle. 'This is just business.'
Chapter 5
Gentlemen, we have now reached the last point. If anyone of you doesn't mean business let him say so now. An hour from now will be too late to back out. Once in, you've got to see it through. You've got to perform without flinching whatever duty is assigned you, regardless of the difficulty or the danger attending it. If it is steering the clouds and calling down lightning, if it is hurling fire or steel, if it is breaking the Germans' will, or dragging their Battle Zeppelins from the sky, if it is the closest kind of fighting-be anxious for it. You must know your Power, how to shoot, and how to stay alive. No matter what comes, you mustn't squeal. Think it over-all of you. If any man wishes to withdraw, he will be gladly excused, for others are ready to take his place.
– General Theodore Roosevelt, from speech given to First Volunteer Brigade
(Active) before second battle of the, 1918 Chicago, Illinois Sullivan tossed and turned, fevered dreams eating at his peace.
Finally he gave up, and lay there, shirtless and sweating, miserable and sick, partially awake, his mind still running through the remnants of a muddled dream. Fields of mud and broken trees sticking out of the ground like splintered bones and so many Zeppelins in the air that they seemed to blot out the sky the Germans they just kept killing over and over and over while the Kaiser's sorcerers would just wake them up and send them back into the fray until their bodies had been so pulverized that they could no longer hold a rifle his brother getting half his face torn off by artillery and General Roosevelt dying in a spray of blood and fire under the claws of a Summoned and…
Then he was awake. Sullivan sighed, staring at the dark ceiling. His internal clock told him that it wasn't even close to morning, but he wouldn't be falling back asleep any time soon. He decided that the dream must have been from talking to Lenny. It had reminded him of the bad old days.
He heard flapping at the window, and at first he dismissed it as just a pigeon. But it sounded too… leathery. Sullivan just kept breathing deep. Listening.
Amish McCleary didn't like being called a retard, but he was too scared of Mr. Torrio to complain about it. He would prove to the boss that he could pull his weight around here, and that he wasn't just good for eavesdropping on meetings with bootleggers and hustlers.
He was going to pop the Heavy himself. The big lug had a reputation. He was supposed to be a real tough guy, a hard case, but Amish knew nobody was that tough when they were asleep in bed and you kicked in the door and sprayed them down with a Tommy gun. Who cared if he was asleep? The word on the street would still be that Amish McCleary had been the man who'd had the balls to take down Heavy Jake Sullivan.
That would show Mr. Torrio. Even Al Capone would have to respect him after that, and maybe then nobody would make fun of his cross-eyes anymore.
