Scumstache swung his gun to Amelia creeping toward the basement door.
“Stop! Stay there!” he screamed over the demands of the other street soldiers to drop his weapon.
Chaos unfolded in the basement too with a scuffle ensuing down below and Emory shouting his own demands. Amongst the mayhem, Gio rushed up behind Scumstache. He jabbed his gun to the back of the boy’s neck. His old hands trembled but his instincts were as ageless as the fury in his pale eyes.
“Put it down!” Gio demanded.
The boy lifted his hands but didn’t drop his gun. Like before, he held his breath and made himself tall, summoning all the bravery he could manage. Pressure pounded in Mirabelle’s ears as Scumstache whipped around. She opened her mouth to scream, but gunfire choked the sound.
At point-blank range, Scumstache buried a bullet in Gio’s belly and bolted for the back hall.
TWENTY
EMORY
In the windowless basement, six Moriarty men crammed into a card room where the stagnant air stifled. Gio never ventured down there, so dust gathered along the baseboards, and cobwebs cropped up in the corners. Upstairs, he sang along to his cherished records and sent Amelia and Mirabelle into fits of giggles.
Emory, Jack, and two captains, Pete and Disco, sipped strong tea at the felted table. Two trusted street soldiers perched against a gold-vein mirrored wall while the rest stood watch outside the door.
“It’s too fucking hot for this shit, man,” Jack whispered to Emory and motioned to the gaudy samovar—a Russian tea urn—at the table’s center.
The caretaker, Viktor, had trotted it out to forestall the inevitable. It worked for a little while, and Emory let him dig his own grave with stories of wild excess and lost inhibition.
“More?” Viktor asked and reached for the samovar.
The man’s eyes were beadier than Emory remembered and his teeth a darker shade of decay. He was fatter too. His belly hung over his pants, and a wrinkled shirt struggled to cover it, the buttons liable to pop.
Emory shook his head. “It’s time to talk.”
Viktor pretended not to hear and stood so abruptly that hebashed his head on the red-shaded lamp hanging over the table. It emitted a jaundiced glow and rained dust motes as it swung on a brass chain.
“Enough!” Emory snapped. “Sit down.”
Bent over at the table, Viktor surveyed the room for a friendly face. Finding none, he sat again but gripped the chair’s armrests so tightly his knuckles flushed white.
“You know why I’m here,” Emory said. “Be straight with me and we won’t have any problems.”
“Is there an issue with the cash flow?” Viktor asked. “I get regulars. You get your money. I don’t bother you for a bigger cut.”
Emory pointed at him. “That right there. You never ask me for a bigger cut. Why?”
Viktor chewed a flake of dry skin on his bottom lip and inhaled a breath that wheezed deep in his lungs.
“I deal honest with you. I take my share and no more.”
“I’m not talking about padding your cut. I’m talking about the Rolls Royce outside and that shit.” Emory flung his hand to the gold chain around Viktor’s neck and the jeweled baubles squeezed around his fingers. “I compensate you well, but not that well.”
“What’s your point?” Viktor tugged a handkerchief from his back pocket and roughly dabbed at the sweat beading his forehead.
What a waste, all the years bleeding money on the joint. It was more than just a bad investment, though. Viktor’s duplicity was a dangerous liability. Emory held his composure and kept the room in deliberate suspense until even the captains stirred in their seats.
“This isn’t the lifestyle of a racketeer,” he finally said. “Cocaine is a lucrative business, though. So is heroin.”
Viktor folded his arms over his chest, but his attention drifted to the door. Emory turned in his seat to follow his gaze.
“Am I keeping you from something?” he asked with mock courtesy. It marked the third time Viktor had eyed the door.
The man stalled again. With grubby fingers, he rifled in his shirtpocket for a lone cigarette. He made an equally fine production of fetching his lighter and savoring the first drag.
