“And the Mafia has yet to exact vengeance on you for killing their benefactor?” he finally asked.
Too far, Allen. “They already did,” I said.
Don’t. Don’t tell it. Just move on, I thought. “Toby, shut up and finish what you’re doing,” I said pre-emptively.
There was silence in the aircraft once again, this one tenser than the last. I was not in the mood for any more questions from Allen. That didn’t stop it, however.
“How many partners have you had before me, Detective?”
Allen had just had to pipe up again. He couldn’t keep his fucking mouth shut for ten goddamn seconds.
It. Not he.
Damn, now I was slipping. Probably because of that slip, I didn’t immediately chew Allen apart. I supposed it gave me a moment to compose myself. Allen had probably seen the look of rage on my face and had second thoughts.
“Several,” I said
“Is there an approximate number?”
“Are you asking how many I’ve had, or how many were around enough for me to consider them a partner?”
It hesitated before responding. “Both, I suppose.”
“Ten, give or take, have tried accompanying me. Two were actual partners.”
“When was the last time you had a legitimate accompaniment whom you considered your partner?”
“Back in ’28, a little before Morello.” I had to give something like an actual answer, or else it would keep asking. “There’s a few things that … well, we don’t speak of much. We being the people I’m close to or who know me well. I suppose you don’t know any better, but some subjects are touchy. I don’t blame you — you’ll learn. I just want to give you a heads-up.”
“Detective, are you quite all right?”
Change the subject — don’t let it get under your skin.
“Paddy! ETA?”
“Five minutes before we’re in position to wreak some havoc. Get ready, everyone!”
“Your friend Toby is taking an unusual amount of time preparing his weapon,” Allen commented.
Toby looked up and gave us both a cold stare. “It’s called being thorough, and people who’ve worked with me know what that means.”
“In what way?” Allen asked.
“He’s been doing this for as long as I have.” It. Damn it. “Now lay off and get your head in the game. This won’t be a walk in the park.”
CHAPTER 16
THE ROTORBIRD BANKED to the right once more, our heading now the western docks as we skimmed over the bay. We had a picturesque view of Lower Manhattan’s skyline and the underside of the Upper City. The small staircases and catwalks of the Plate were more noticeable from here, with tiny people moving about on them, inspecting the area before the nighttime cycle began and the fluorescent bulbs were shut down. I checked my watch and saw that it was almost four.
“Shit,” I said to myself. “We gotta hurry, not much time until the bulbs go out.”
“What’s the hurry, Detective?” Allen asked.
Toby butted in to answer the question. “Chelsea is Maranzano’s neighbourhood … old bastard. Of all the places we gotta go to find this Black Hat, we had to wind up in the Mob’s territory.”
“Maranzano?”
“Salvatore Maranzano, last big-name Italian mobster in the city,” I responded. “He’s old school, which means there ain’t much leeway for negotiating if we get found on his turf when night hits. But, at the same time, he respects the rules enough to wait until six before blowing our brains out.”
Two hours wasn’t much time to clear a warehouse of illegal assets and crooked cops.
Looking around the cabin, I wondered if we needed a more capable group than two men and two Automatics wielding a modified German pistol, an M1911, a standard .38 police pistol, and an outdated Tommy gun. Just as that thought passed through my head, I noticed a strange contraption hooked onto the wall of the cabin. Attached to a small pivoting arm was a triple-barrelled Suppression Rifle — or, as we called it, the Suppressor. To be honest, that name was one of the greatest euphemisms in the Force. It was really a vehicle-mounted rail gun and did little to “suppress” perps. Most Suppression Rifles had been built during the last years of the Great War, after scientists realized that Tesla Batteries could power more than just Manuals and Automatics.
The weapon was hooked up to the fuel cells in the Rotorbird via several thick hoses connecting the bottom of the gun’s base to the wall of the Rotorbird. This posed a minor issue in using the weapon: any power bump it caused when firing could force the entire aircraft to plummet downward, jerk forward into a building, or any number of terrible manoeuvres that could kill us all if we weren’t in a stable position.
“Paddy, you know there’s a Suppression Rifle in the back here?”
“No shit, eh? Well, I have a feelin’ Allen would be sternly advisin’ you against using it, if it wasn’t shitting itself. So, when you use it, try and … miss.”
“I wasn’t even thinking of aiming this at anyone. At least not intentionally.” I unhooked myself from the seat, grabbed the bulkhead, and reached for the rifle. The Rotorbird wasn’t the most stable platform for me to be standing up on. Upon inspection, I noticed foot hooks in the floor, which helped me keep my balance after I jammed my shoes into them. The aircraft banked once again, heading downward. We were closing on Chelsea Docks, and the tension was tangible.
Grabbing a small rope on the top of the bulkhead, I lifted one foot from the floor and kicked a small pedal in the corner between the wall of the pilot’s cabin and the sliding door. The device released the lugs holding the door in place, the springs pulling the metal back quickly. With the door open and my feet anchored, I yanked the Suppression Rifle from its mounting. The swivelling arm bore the weapon’s weight as I pushed the barrel outside the aircraft. I grasped the two handles at the Rifle’s base, feeling the size of its triggers.
“This fucker is big. You think you
