Ursino was dead, along with Torrio, Capone, and their ilk. Smaller syndicates had either given up altogether or merged with the big fish like Sullivan and Fabiano. Oh, there were still some down in the South Side, all of them keeping a wary eye on Sullivan and Fabiano, like a herd of gazelle watching two lions fight. Whoever won, they were going to lose, unless the two predators managed to take each other out in the process.
So Sullivan’s position was a lot stronger than it had been four years ago, even with the ongoing war with Fabiano. If he’d decided it was time to consolidate his territory, they were in trouble.
And complicating matters, Sam was now high up in Sullivan’s damned syndicate. Higher than Sam had let on—though to be fair, he probably didn’t think of himself as that important.
Maybe they could use that. Ask Sam to put in a good word with Sullivan. Or as a favor, in return for saving the gang leader’s life.
“This is bad.” Alistair took another swig of whiskey.
“You don’t have to tell me.” Wanda sighed and reluctantly put her empty tumbler away. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it through this somehow. We always do.”
“Everyone does,” he replied. “Right up until they don’t.”
6
The hexworks building was quiet today—they usually took Saturdays and Sundays off, to give the scribes a chance to rest their hands. They churned out a wide variety of hexes, a few semi-legal, most not: birth control, abortifacients, mood enhancers, and other things people enjoyed or needed but the law said they couldn’t have.
Sam wasn’t entirely comfortable with some of the mood enhancers, but at least they weren’t as bad as the tainted liquor most of the country seemed to be gulping down. No one had ever died from a Sweet Dreams hex. Not directly, anyway, though there had been the woman who wandered in front of a train in her daze, and you always heard about people falling in the lake…
Though the rank and file hexmen weren’t in, Sam had called Luke Gallo and Glenda Walker to join him this morning. He’d worked with them in the first lab, under Vic—until Vic turned out to be a homicidal maniac who burned everything to the ground.
Sam turned his thoughts firmly away from Vic, and from the terrible night in the abandoned hotel, when he’d seen the rotting corpse of Bobby Watts returned to life. And taken the bullet wound that left a knot of scar tissue behind as a reminder of things he would have preferred to forget.
The armed guards saw him approaching and opened the door for him. “Mr. Cunningham,” one said in a heavy Italian accent—Paladino was his name. “Good to see you. Mr. Sullivan doubled security here, just to let you know. Mr. McIntyre said to tell you the thing you’re looking for is in the safe in your office, and to be sure to lock it up when you aren’t using it.”
He must be referring to the golden disc with the hex symbols on it. “Thanks.” He tried to remember something about Paladino. “Your son—how is he?”
Paladino grinned with obvious pride. “Passing all his classes with flying colors! Gets his smarts from his mom, he does. Maybe he’ll even go to college in a few years. Wouldn’t that be something—a kid of mine, in college!”
A pang of envy stung Sam—there’d been no question of any schooling after high school for him. His family had needed him at home, or in the pharmacy.
Or so they’d said. They’d wanted him there, but then acted like his presence was a burden. It was why he’d thought it would be okay to let them believe he’d died. Except they said his mother had been distraught, so…?
Just another way he’d failed them. Sam pushed the thoughts away and affixed a smile to his face. “That’s great,” he said, and meant it.
“I’m just glad Mr. Sullivan gave me a job that pays well enough to afford it someday.” Paladino tipped his cap. “I won’t hold you up no more, Mr. Cunningham. I’m sure you’ve got important work to do.”
Sam climbed the two flights of stairs up to the old editor’s office, which he’d taken for himself. Someone like Paladino, an uneducated immigrant, would never be able to pay for his kid to go to college on the salary of a dock worker, or a miner, or any of the other legitimate jobs that would hire him.
Of course, he might be gunned down today, if Fabiano made a move to get her disc back. Hopefully she didn’t know where the hexworks was located, but there had been traitors in Sullivan’s ranks before.
Then again, men died all the time while unloading cargo, shoveling coal, or building skyscrapers. At least Sullivan looked after the widows and children of the people who perished in his employ.
The old newsroom had been converted into the lab, filled with tables, desks, chairs, writing instruments, and paper ranging from thin scrap to heavy cotton. Cabinets stored the jars of ground gemstones and other items used to create the hexes. Glenda and Luke already sat at their desks, both with cups of coffee.
“Morning, Sam,” Glenda said upon spotting him. “Do you know what’s going on?”
“This is supposed to be our day off,” Luke pointed out. He sat back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “I had plans, you know.”
Sam winced. This was what he hated about being in charge of the hexworks—everyone assumed he was the one making all the decisions. “I know, I’m sorry. But Mr. Sullivan wants us to look closely at something.” He paused, then added, “It’s pretty secret, I think?”
“We know not to talk about work,” Glenda said.
Luke glowered. “Yeah, we’ve been here longer than you. We know to keep our yaps shut.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Sam resisted the urge to wring his cap in his hands. Luke hadn’t been happy when Sam, a relative newcomer a decade younger, was promoted over him.
And Sam didn’t blame him—Luke must have assumed he was next in line if something happened to Vic. Even though Sullivan had been the one to make the decision, it was Sam sitting in the chair Luke thought would belong to him.
