Chicago Typewriter

12.

I went home. Even in hindsight, I wouldn't have done anything different. I was just going home, maybe to read some Strange Worlds before bed. I unlocked the door to my place and stepped in.

Rough hands clamped on me and pulled me deeper in like I was a puppet. Before I could do more than squawk, something heavy re-concussed my concussion. Industrious shadows stuffed rags in my mouth and lashed my hands and feet together. They dragged me out and dumped me in the back of a car, only to haul me out ten minutes later. They lugged me indoors and down some stairs. I entered a cellar with cinder block walls and a single, sturdy oak chair. They lashed my ankles to the front chair legs. They tied my hands behind me, also to the chair.

Fighting double vision, I looked around in the light of a single bare bulb dangling from the ceiling. The place looked like it was built for this. For people to be kidnapped to. Four thugs in a ring looked at me in satisfaction, their eyes in deep shadow.

Deacon Largo loomed up behind them. They parted like hair for a comb.

He nodded. "Good. Any problems getting him?"

The thug in the checkered hat said, "No problem, boss! Real quiet."

"Get his gag out. Then leave. All the way out of the house. Guard the doors and don't come back in, no matter what noises. Got it?"

The men hustled. They yanked the rag out of my mouth. It caught painfully on my gums and my head was pulled forward. I grunted in pain. When I raised my head, I was treated to a slow-motion vision of Deacon Largo wriggling his meaty fingers into a chain of welded metal circles.

"These are called brass knuckles, Lucy." Like I didn't know.

"Whaddya want, Largo?" I wish I could say that my voice was all steely and defiant, but it wasn't. I could barely hear myself. I just felt sick and weak. My skull pounded so hard it felt like hammers tenderizing my brain.

"We'll get to that. But, first." I saw him draw his arm back. He punched. My mouth and cheek seemed to split open. The chair and I rocked back and to the right. I hit the concrete floor. My vision blacked out entirely.

Deacon's fat voice rose over the ringing in my ears. "That was for Hack. I bet you thought you were so clever. Well, you're not."

Powerful hands seized me and the chair and set us upright. I blinked a few times, and the blur of the room resolved somewhat. I could see Deacon's broad face, teeth bared. He breathed heavily. "You ready to start talking, Lucy? Or do I have to get rough?"

"Whaddya want to know?" I whimpered. Deep down, I felt the chill of the grave. I knew I would soon be dead, one way or the other. And helpless in the meantime. Maybe I could live a few more minutes if I kept him talking.

On the other hand, my quality of life at the moment was the pits. Why prolong it?

"Buster. How'd you figure he was in on things?" Deacon Largo's jowly face shone with sweat.

I closed my eyes for a second. Who could remember things like that at a time like this? As I inhaled to reply, I caught a new scent. Nightfire No.2. I didn't know what that meant, exactly, but I liked the smell. I opened my eyes and a little steel came back to my voice. "Buster smokes a lot, Largo."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Largo tapped me on the chest with his brass knuckles.

"Ow. I mean, he left piles of ash wherever he went. And the ashes had a distinct smell. Kind of exotic. Kind of fruity. I just noticed, is all."

Largo sneered at me in contempt. "That's all? And you expect that to stand up in court? That's laughable."

"Maybe. But I tracked it to him and his Egyptian cigarettes all the same." I defended my pride. As if my pride mattered, now.