“But that ain’t what Mr. Sullivan wants you to see,” he went on, “unless you’re secretly an Egyptologist.”
“Er, no.” Sam stepped back from the chair. “Definitely not.”
“That’s what I figured.” McIntyre beckoned him over to one of the other crates. “This loot belonged to Fabiano. Gold chairs are nice, but not something you can sell without raising too many questions. Maybe she wanted it for her house, who knows. But this…Mr. Sullivan figures this is the real prize.”
Inside the crate, surrounded by packing straw, was a second, smaller box that had already been opened. This one was also stuffed with straw, then layers of silk, which someone had pulled away. Nestled at the heart of the cushioning materials was what looked like a disc of solid gold, with what were clearly hex signs cast in a spiral arrangement. They’d been filled with various enamels—or maybe paste made from semi-precious stones?—in bright blues, red, greens, and blacks.
Sam’s interest sharpened, as it always did when it came to hexes, and he started to reach for it before catching himself. “May I?”
“That’s why the boss wanted you here.”
He carefully lifted the heavy disc out of its box. The electric lights in the warehouse gleamed off ancient gold that had lain in darkness for untold centuries. Thousands of years ago, a hexmaker like Sam had created this pattern, perhaps overseen its casting, then inlaid the symbols with practiced hands.
Most of the symbols were familiar, and others looked to be variations on the modern ones he knew. A few, though, were nothing like he’d ever seen before. He could probably figure them out with some trial and error: hexes were ultimately nothing more than containers for magic, which shaped the form it took.
He turned it over and discovered the other side was also covered in a spiral of hexes. “I’ve never seen hexes written down like this,” he admitted. “But I don’t know anything about Ancient Egypt. Or modern Egypt, to be fair.”
“So you can’t guess what it does?”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“I see.” McIntyre watched as he replaced the disc with the same care as he’d removed it. “I’ll let the boss know. I’d suggest you plan on coming in to work early tomorrow. I have a feeling he’s going to want answers about what Fabiano meant to do with this stuff, and sooner rather than later.”
Sam’s bandaged hands itched to start copying the hex symbols and figuring out how they fit together. This was exactly the sort of challenge that had drawn him to hexwork in the first place. “I can’t wait.”
BOOTLEGGER FOUND DEAD IN NEAR NORTHSIDE
Police say new phase in beer war begun.
Chicago - Daniel Queen, 42, was shot dead in the midst of a crowd on Wabash Ave. According to witnesses, he suddenly collapsed at the same moment a gunshot was heard. Though no one witnessed the gunman, police say the killing bullet was delivered at close range. How the assassin then slipped away unseen seems to have law enforcement puzzled.
Queen had been arrested twice on violation of the Volstead Act, but released both times before going to trial. According to a waiter at a nearby restaurant, who refused to give his name, Queen was known to supply several speakeasies in the area.
“Did you see this?” Alistair asked Wanda as they sat in the back office of The Pride.
It was still too early for the joint to be open. Alistair had tried to work earlier during the day, so he could spend more time in the evenings with Sam. After years of staying up all night and sleeping half the day, it was proving to be an adjustment. Fortunately, Wanda kept the kitchen well stocked with coffee.
“Yes, I know the Senators beat the Giants in twelve innings,” she replied absently. “I could hardly miss the headline.”
“Not that.”
“I thought the baseball scores were the only reason you read the paper.”
“It’s not the only one,” he shot back, though she wasn’t far wrong. The war taught him you couldn’t believe everything you read. Half of it was propaganda, as far as he was concerned, and the rest written at such a slant it might as well be. “Another bootlegger is dead. Gunned down in the middle of a crowd, only no one saw who did it.”
Wanda frowned and swiveled her chair to face him. “Sniper?”
“Close range, or that’s what the cops say.”
“The police lie all the time,” she said dismissively. “Or just get things wrong. Or report what whoever is holding the purse strings tells them to. Still, I don’t like another bootlegger dying so soon after O’Keefe and Camille.”
“Neither do I.” He pulled a bottle out of his desk drawer and took a healthy swig. Wanda extended the tumbler that was usually on her desk, and he poured her a measure. “Do you think someone is taking out the competition?”
“Fur and feathers, I hope not.” She downed her drink and held the glass out again. “Because if so, it’s got to be Sullivan. Which means he’s tired of independent operators in his territory.”
Independent operators like them. They’d scared off Sullivan’s thugs shortly after they’d opened—it was useful to be able to turn into big cats sometimes—and settled into an amiable truce.
Sullivan had been up-and-coming in 1920, just one more ambitious gangster in a city full of them. Now, though…
