“Still waters run deep, I guess.” Turner clapped Sam on the shoulder.
The teasing wasn’t mean-spirited, which was a change from Sam’s former life back in Gatesville. There, it was meant to set him apart; here, it was a signal he belonged. “Deep as a puddle,” he replied, and got a chuckle out of Turner.
Sullivan checked his watch, then rose to his feet. Turner and Sam did the same, as did another of the gang, Eddie Bellinowski. “Bring around the car, would you?” Sullivan asked Bellinowski, who nodded and hurried away down the stairs.
Assuming Sullivan’s departure meant he was free to go as well, Sam trailed along after him and Turner. At the coat check, Sullivan retrieved a fur coat that looked too hot for the fallish weather but probably had a hex on it to keep its wearer comfortable. He made quite a sight as they strolled toward the glass doors at the front of the cabaret: fur coat, diamond tie pin, tailored suit, and shining shoes.
At the door, Sullivan paused and turned toward Sam. “Always a pleasure to?—”
The front of the building exploded inward in a shower of fire and glass.
2
While Doris and Philip unloaded the hooch in a nearby warehouse, Alistair stalked to The Pride. Wanda needed to know what had happened.
Teresa was on door duty while Doris was gone; she swung open the heavy steel entrance and frowned at Alistair. “I don’t like the look on your face.”
“You shouldn’t.” He brushed past her, barely seeing the crowded tables and bar. Robin Savine, Wanda’s girlfriend, sang the blues from the small stage, but even her enchanting voice couldn’t shift his mood.
He passed through the swinging doors into the kitchen, where Teresa’s witch, Reinhold, worked the stove. Reinhold glanced at him, the side of his mouth not twisted by scar tissue opening in a greeting, then shutting again at the sight of his expression.
On the other side of the kitchen was a door into the private rooms in the back, including the office Wanda and Alistair shared. Wanda sat in her chair, staring pensively at the telephone, while their new radio played jazz tunes softly in the background.
“O’Keefe is dead,” he said without preamble. “Shot on his boat, point blank in the face.”
“Fur and feathers.” Wanda’s golden lioness eyes followed him as he went straight to his desk and pulled a bottle of whiskey out of the drawer. “What about the booze?”
“It was still in the hold. I’m guessing whoever bumped him off meant to come back and grab it, but either something happened to interfere with their plan, or we got incredibly lucky on timing. We loaded up the truck and high-tailed it out of there.”
“At least there’s that,” she said, frowning. “Shit. We need to find a new supplier. Again.”
“And fast.” He took a pull from the bottle, welcoming the familiar burn. “We’re in trouble. I know I’m the one who said we should quit buying from Camille Falke, but if we come crawling back, maybe?—”
“Camille’s dead.”
Alistair froze with the bottle halfway to his mouth for a second slug. “What? Since when?”
“A few days ago. I thought you knew.”
“I didn’t.” Alistair put the bottle down on his desk and leaned forward, a queasy feeling settling into his stomach alongside the whiskey. “How?”
Wanda fitted a cigarette into her silver-tipped holder and lit it. “Shot in the head in her own apartment. No signs of a struggle.”
“And now O’Keefe has gone a similar way.” He didn’t like how this was adding up. “Someone is taking out the competition, even the smaller operators who’ve been left alone up until now. It’s got to be Sullivan.”
Sullivan, whom Sam now worked for.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Wanda cautioned. “He and Fabiano are at each other’s throats. It could be someone else taking advantage of the chaos to thin out the herd.”
Fur and feathers, why couldn’t anything ever be easy? “Whoever it is, they aren’t leaving us with many choices.”
Wanda blew out a long stream of smoke. “How tight is Sam with Sullivan?”
“Not very,” Alistair said quickly. “He’s at the hexworks all day. He knows to stay away from any of the really dangerous stuff.”
Wanda snorted. “His first job there almost got him killed.”
She had a point, but Alistair ignored it. “He got invited to some kind of dinner tonight—not one-on-one, though, don’t worry.”
