1
Alistair stared down at the dead bootlegger and wished he’d stayed home.
The man—Charlie O’Keefe—sprawled on his back on the deck of his yacht, which was currently tied up at a little marina not too far from Towertown. A single gunshot marked the center of his forehead. Fortunately, the back of his head was against the deck, hiding at least some of the carnage of the much larger exit wound.
Not an unfamiliar sight, Alistair having served on the front lines in France. Though in the war, few casualties were shot at such close range, at least judging from the powder burns on O’Keefe’s skin.
“Must’ve got the jump on him,” Doris observed from where she stood a few feet behind him on the deck. Philip didn’t say anything; he’d taken on snow leopard form and leapt to the bridge’s roof to better survey the area. “There’s no sign of a struggle. He still had a drink in his hand when he went down.”
Indeed, a battered flask lay in O’Keefe’s fingers, liquor pooling beneath it. His assassin had walked right up and shot him in the face. Someone he knew, then.
Whoever had done it, it was bad news for them. O’Keefe was meant to be their new source for booze, since their last bootlegger died in a fiery airplane crash.
So much for that.
“Check below,” Alistair said. “See if the cargo is still intact.”
“Aye-aye, captain.” Doris saluted him; he returned it with his middle finger.
She went below in tiger shape, ready in case of an ambush. Alistair didn’t think she’d find any trouble, though; aside from the gentle slap of waves against the hull, the marina was utterly silent. Autumnal chill had set in, the wind over the lake promising winter, and the best days for pleasure sailing were behind.
He went into cheetah shape to take advantage of his nose. The world took on new dimensions around him, smelling of blood and brains, oil and fuel, salt and algae, snow leopard and tiger, and…
A human, probably a man. And…ink? Did the assassin have a leaky fountain pen?
Either way, it wasn’t going to help him figure out who had put O’Keefe on ice. A rival? A personal grudge? A gang boss who didn’t want the competition?
He hoped it wasn’t the latter, because the only gang in the area was headed by Mickey Sullivan. Who Alistair’s lover—and witch—worked for.
Sullivan wasn’t usually so aggressive when it came to small-time rumrunners. But between the death of his only child and an ongoing war with Isabella Fabiano and her gang, maybe his patience had run short.
“Booze is still here,” Doris called.
Alistair shifted form so he could talk. “Grab the hooch, then we get out of here before anyone else shows up.”
Philip sprang down to the deck and took on human shape. “Just steal it?”
“Not like he’s going to miss it.” Alistair turned his back on O’Keefe’s body, its eyes fixed lifelessly on the clouds above.
Philip shrugged. “We should check to see if it’s tainted.”
“We’ll do it back at The Pride. I don’t want to spend any more time than we have to here. The killer might have friends who are on their way to pick up the liquor right now.”
Philip swore, but it got him moving. The living space below had been converted to a cargo hold filled with crates of illicit liquor. They hauled the crates out, Doris lifting them easily by herself, Philip and Alistair panting and cursing to move them together. As soon as the truck was full, they shut the hatch behind them, leaving what remained.
As they crammed back into the truck, Philip said, “This load won’t get us through the end of the month, Alistair. With O’Keefe bumped off, we need to find a new supplier fast.”
Alistair ground his teeth in frustration. Running a speakeasy in Chicago was good business, but not exactly the most stable way to make a living. They were getting squeezed left and right, and pretty soon their only choice was going to be between serving whatever panther piss Sullivan sold them or packing it all in.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said as Doris steered the truck away from the dock, its lights off so as not to attract attention. “We’ll come up with something. We always do.”
Sam took off his hat and held it tightly in his hands as he walked through the front door of The Silvervine. He’d been in some equally fancy joints since he came to Chicago, but that fact didn’t seem to be helping his nerves tonight.
The cabaret was in full swing, a constant flow of men and women in fashionable clothes coming in, and a smaller stream departing. Just inside the door, two hosts guided diners to their tables. Sam cleared his throat when his turn came. “I’m here to meet Mr. Sullivan? Sam Cunningham.”
The man didn’t bat an eye at the mention of Sullivan—but then, according to Alistair, the gangster owned the place, even though his name wasn’t on the paperwork. “Of course, Mr. Cunningham. Right this way.”
Sam followed him, trying not to gawk. He’d been in Chicago for a little over six months now, but its nightlife still had the power to dazzle him. Back in Gatesville, where he’d spent most of his life, the town would have already rolled up the sidewalks for the night. Most folk would be in bed by now, or else listening to the radio if they couldn’t sleep.
