Dead to Rites
Authors: Ari Marmell
ALSO AVAILABLE FROM ARI MARMELL AND TITAN BOOKS
Hot Lead, Cold Iron: A Mick Oberon Job
Hallow Point: A Mick Oberon Job
Dead to Rites
Print edition ISBN: 9781785650970
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785650987
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: August 2016
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Ari Marmell asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Copyright © 2016 by Ari Marmell. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
Dedication:
For George, because everything is always in part for
George, but it’s still sometimes good to remind her.
Throughout the Mick Oberon novels, I’ve done my best to ensure that most of the 30s-era slang can be picked up from context, rather than trying to include what would become a massive (and, no matter how careful I was, likely incomplete) dictionary. So over the course of reading, it shouldn’t be difficult to pick up on the fact that “lamps” and “peepers” are eyes, “choppers” and “Chicago typewriters” are Tommy guns, and so forth.
But there are two terms I do want to address, due primarily to how they appear to modern readers.
“Bird,” when used as slang in some areas today, almost always refers to a woman. In the 1930s, however, it was just another word for “man” or “guy.”
“Gink” sounds like it should be a racial epithet to modern ears (and indeed, though rare, I’ve been told that it is used as such in a few regions). In the 30s, the term was, again, just a word for “man,” though it has a somewhat condescending connotation to it. (That is, you wouldn’t use it to refer to anyone you liked or respected.) It’s in this fashion that I’ve used it throughout the novels.
Every now’n again, I stop and really listen to the crickets.
It’s the pixies, see? Some of ’em sing along with the crickets, voices real high and squeaky ’cause their pipes are so tiny. Others got these real little fiddles and… Well, point is, if you bother to listen—which most of you don’t—and really know
how
to listen—which even more of you don’t—you can hear the pixies in among the crickets. Maybe you can actually make out a few words or tatters of meaning, maybe all you get is their general mood, but it can put you wise to how things are going in the tiny little bastards’ corners of Elphame.
Of course, that’s what, maybe one night in a thousand? Rest of the time, it’s just a whole swarm of bugs makin’ whoopee and irritating the spit outta everyone else around ’em. So kinda like all you lugs, then.
Yeah, sorry. I was more’n a little cranky that night. Where was I?
Right. Crickets. There were a lot of ’em, and they were loud.
It was one of those spring nights where you could forget the oven of summer was comin’ up before too long and the breath off Lake Michigan was nice and cool enough that you almost didn’t mind the stench of fish and the garbage that’d been dumped into the waters. A whole lotta acres of parkland stretch along and away from the lake shore, with winding sidewalks and copses of trees and statues to various folks you all like to think were special or important. Not so far you can’t still hear all the lovely sounds of the city, but far enough they ain’t too overpowering. Guess that’s why the damn crickets hadda pick up the slack.
This particular copse of trees was way on the south side of the greenery, part of a whole slice of park tucked away where nobody hadda lay peepers on it unless they wanted to. Y’know, where they could put the attractions and events meant for the poor saps who didn’t have the right income or skin tone. Right now, that slice was playin’ host to a traveling carnival, one of about half a million that’d come to the Windy City over the past few months. The Chicago World’s Fair was barrelin’ down on us like a freight train in heat, and while a handful of circuses and carnies figured they might make a few bucks settin’ up shop in town at the same time, most of ’em didn’t have much interest in competing. So they came’n went even faster than normal, popping up like weeds and fading again like… well, dead weeds, I guess.
This particular collection of cheap eats and rigged games and rickety rides that shook and shuddered worse’n a palsied Chihuahua didn’t strike me as much different than any other. Lights were still on, a few of the machines still ran, a cut-rate band organ still vied with the crickets and the rest of Chicago to see who could be the most obnoxious. I guess the place had a few customers, late as it was. Even from here I could smell the sweat and the grease and the burnt sugar and the drying kids’ vomit, and thank God for my
aes sidhe
senses ’cause I sure wouldn’t wanna have missed
that
delightful treat, would I?
Point is, I hadn’t the first or faintest notion as to what made this traveling carnival at all special. Can’t really say I cared much, either. But
something
musta been valuable or hinky about it, since the ginks I was lookin’ for wouldn’ta been here if it wasn’t.
Half a dozen of ’em, give or take, the usual gorillas in the usual glad rags with the usual bulges in their coats that didn’t come from anything friendly. Even if I hadn’t already known, I coulda figured what sorta hardware they were packin’ by the smell of the steel and gunpowder.
And there he was, right in the middle. The boss, the
capo
, Nolan Shea. Tall, kinda lanky but round-faced. One of those guys whose mug was always flushed, like he was real hot, real lit, or real steamed at someone.
His goons had been jawing for a while now without spouting one useful word, grousing about what they’d rather be doin’ or worrying that the Outfit might stumble across ’em. (As if any of the local trouble boys woulda had any reason for being here in the park this time of night. Then again, I still didn’t know why Shea’s people were here, either.) Now that Shea’d rejoined ’em—they’d all been prowlin’ around, trying to get a better slant on the carnival, and he’d been the last to get back—I was hopeful I might actually hear somethin’ worth hearing.
At which point I took
one goddamn step
and somehow managed to sidle right on into a protruding tree branch. Gnarled and spindly as a grindylow’s finger, it snapped right off, and if it wasn’t as loud as a gat, it was sure noisy enough.
Plain, random bad luck. I’d had more’n my fair share of that lately, and if I was the paranoid sort, it might not’ve been feeling too random anymore.
Well, yeah, I
am
the paranoid sort. So it should be pretty easy to figure on how I felt right about then.
“Evening, fellas.”
I didn’t exactly have my mitts up as I stepped from the shadows under the trees, but I made a pretty clear show of keeping ’em away from my body. I wasn’t lookin’ to mix it up with these mugs, let alone get into a shoot-out with ’em.
Judging by the half-dozen roscoes pointed my way, they didn’t necessarily share my preferences in that regard.
“Say,” I continued, “how about you ask your boys to take it easy, Mr. Shea? I just wanna jaw a little.”
“I know you, pal?” the red-faced thug demanded. He had the kinda almost-Irish lilt you sometimes hear from guys who don’t have an Irish lilt anymore. “You’re ringin’ a bell.”
“Vacuum salesman, boss,” one of the others whispered to him with that same not-accent. “He broke into your place once.”
Shea’s lamps widened a bit at that, even as mine narrowed. What were the odds any of ’em woulda recollected me at all from that one night, let alone details like my cover story? More bad luck.
“I remember,” Shea growled. “You’re one of the Shark’s guys!” A few hammers clicked at that.
“You got some sharp people working for you, Mr. Shea. But I’m not your enemy. I ain’t a salesman, and I don’t work for Mr. Ottati. Well, only the one time.”
“You ain’t helpin’ your case here, boyo.”
Boyo?
“I’m a PI, Mr. Shea. I was helpin’ Ottati out on a personal matter, that’s all. And I’m only here now to put a question or two to you. After that, I’ll be outta your hair and you can get back to whatever the hell you’re doing.”
I kinda wanted to ask what the hell they
were
doing. I’da just figured they were maybe runnin’ a protection racket on the carnival—every one of ’em that came to Chicago wound up lining
somebody
’s pockets—’cept Shea’s crew was the Uptown Boys, and
they
answered to Moran’s Northside Gang. No way they’d risk the kinda heat it could draw, comin’ this far south, this deep into Outfit territory, for something as penny-ante as extorting a cheap traveling show.
Hell, maybe they just had a beef with someone who worked there, or had used the carnival to smuggle something into town. That stuff happens all the time. Didn’t make a difference to me—wasn’t what I was here for—and I was pretty sure that running my yap about it wasn’t gonna make Shea any
less
inclined to fill me so full of holes you could use me to strain soup.
Of course, he’n his torpedoes looked like they were right on the verge of squirting metal anyway.
I decided I didn’t feel like getting shot tonight.
“This is how it is, Mr. Shea. I got no intention of ratting you out, either to the bulls or to the Shark. We can have our conversation and go on our merry way. You start with the shooting, though, you think that circus music down there is gonna drown out that much noise? Even assuming you rub me out and make tracks before anyone shows, you’re gonna have a
lot
of people askin’ questions. You
want
the coppers and the Outfit knowing someone’s got an interest in that sideshow down there? Fine, start throwing lead. You wanna keep everything quiet? Let’s talk.”
I’da climbed into his head if I had to, juggled his thoughts a tad to make sure he did what I wanted, but I was a little nervous about the idea. I was already havin’ a run of misfortune, and usin’ any kinda mojo under those circumstances is chancy. Fortunately, it didn’t come to that. Shea didn’t look none too happy about it, but he lowered his piece and waved for the others to do likewise.
Which didn’t mean he might not try to have his boys whack me some other, quieter way, but people and creatures a lot nastier’n him had tried, and I remained thoroughly unwhacked.
It also didn’t mean he was ready to answer my questions without a few of his own, first.
“How the fuck did you even know to find me here, Mr…?”