Chapter 13: Cyril Van Dine

Cyril Van Dine was in heaven. June Bug’s last clout to the side of his head had put him there.

Soft warm light filled his vision. He smiled and drifted toward it. It looked so inviting.

A blast of cold water to his face brought him back to cold dark hell.

For at least a day Cyril’s hell had been a small brick-walled room in the basement of a building he could not hope to identify. Through the tiny barred window near the ceiling in the far corner of the room he had seen the sun set and rise again since he had been there. Though he had been conscience when they’d brought him there, a bag had been over his head and he had made the trip in the trunk of car.

Throughout the entire ordeal, at least during the times he had been conscience, June Bug had been there. Though he never said a word it was clear his one job was to make Cyril miserable. It was a job at which June Bug excelled. In the twisted world where torture was an art form and Cyril was the canvass, June Bug would have been considered a Renaissance master.

Powerful but precise, and fiendishly creative, June Bug knew the exact amount that he could wrench Cyril fingers back without them breaking. He knew precisely when to release his chokehold so Cyril would not blackout. And nine times out of ten he could hit Cyril’s knee caps with a baseball thrown from across the room. When he missed it was usually worse.  

As far as Cyril was concerned June Bug could even read minds. He knew where Cyril was most ticklish. He seemed to know exactly when Cyril was thirsty so he could pour water on the floor. He knew when he was hungry so he could eat and lick his meaty fingers clean. And worst of all, he knew when Cyril most craved the burn and he would reach into his pocket, unscrew the flask and run it under Cyril’s nose. Though the physical pain had made him scream like a newborn baby, it was the aroma of rye so close to his lips that had finally brought him to tears.

Water dripped from Cyril’s nose as his head lolled forward again, his chin coming to rest on his chest. Most of his body felt numb. The parts that didn’t itched. Behind his back, tied to the chair on which he sat, he could feel his wedding ring digging painfully into his little finger. One of the three rubies inset into its outer face had turned just the wrong way sometime during the night and he was sure it had gnawed his pinky to the bone since.

Inside he cursed the day his brother had ever met Margery. Cursed him for ever having gone off to war and for having been dumb enough to have drowned that day when so many others had been saved. He should have been better than that.

The ruby-studded ring, like the wife, had been his brother’s before it had ever come to him, a gift from Jim Soong. An heirloom, he claimed. Soong apparently hadn’t let Crispin take it to war with him and had passed it on to Cyril that cold February day when he had come calling.   

Cyril had not seen Jim Soong since the bag had been placed over his head in his kitchen and he had heard his voice only once. After he had been brought to the room and tied to his chair, but before the bag had been removed, his voice had come from across the room, free of the silk that had laced it in his home.

“He is the husband of my only sister and a member of my family,” he had said, presumably to June Bug, and Cyril had momentarily felt comforted. “Keep him presentable.”

A door had closed and when the bag was taken off only June Bug remained. Cyril presumed Soong had been busy finding Carr, and Margery, ever since.

Wherever he was, he had not come back to follow up on June Bug’s progress and, since there was no mirror in the room, Cyril was unable to make his own assessment as to how well June Bug had held up his end of the bargain. If he looked as bad as he felt, there wasn’t a snowflake’s chance in hell.

Snow, he thought and closed his eyes and imagined it on his lips, that would be nice right now. With his bottom lip he half-consciously tried to catch a bead of water that clung to the tip of his nose. He was still trying when he felt a new sensation grip his scalp.

Hair pulling, one strand at a time, had been one of June Bug’s first games. Cyril stiffened and his eyes shot open. June Bug was at his side, one hand on the back of his chair near his bound hands. Cyril caught a glimpse of a black comb buried in the other hand. June Bug was running the comb roughly through his hair. An itch in his scalp that had been eating at him for ages was suddenly soothed and Cyril almost groaned aloud.

“What the heck are you doing?” Cyril asked cautiously.

Cyril had never expected an answer and, true to form, June Bug simply pocketed the comb and walked to the door at the far end of the room. The door was thick and heavy but silent on its hinges as June Bug swung it open and then shut again, ducking under the frame as he exited. The only sound Cyril heard was a thin squeak and a soft thud as the door was locked from the other side.

Within a minute Cyril was asleep.

**************

Cyril was jolted awake by what sounded like gunshots. He had no idea how long he had been asleep, but pain lanced through his neck as he pulled his chin off his chest and looked to the small window, seemingly the source of the sound. After a long moment, when no further shots were heard, Cyril began to wonder whether he had dreamt the sounds.

Awake and with the room still devoid of June Bug Cyril finally to a moment to inspect his prison. Apart from brick walls and the tiny window, its only features were the door out of which June Bug had departed, a second door in the wall to his right, and a dark window on the same wall, beside the door and to his immediate right. The room beyond that window seemed dark and he could make out nothing from within.

He flexed his wrists testing his restraints. Rubbed raw over the past day his skin felt as if it were on fire as he pressed against the rope. Cyril winced and was about to cry out when he felt something loosen. The pain momentarily forgotten, he pulled again. Cyril could hardly believe his luck when the rope seemed to unfurl like a snake releasing its suffocated prey.  

June Bug, he thought as he pulled his stiff arms free of the chair and stood up. Cyril could not fathom why the giant would have let him go.

The black window to his right suddenly lit up and Cyril dove to the floor to be out of sight.

“Cuff’em to the chairs,” he heard followed by some commotion. When he glanced up a man he had not seen before stood looking in the window. From where he lay Cyril was in full view of him but the man seemed to look straight over him. As Cyril watched he adjusted his neck tie and then used a gloved hand to massage one end of a thin mustache.

Cyril had read about one-way glass in funny books as a kid, but he had never seen one in real life. Not completely believing it, as the man turned around, Cyril crawled to the wall and peaked through. Three men were leaving the room while two more sat cuffed to chairs. The one on the right seemed unconscious while the other looked drearily from side to side and into the naked light bulb swinging gently from the ceiling above him. His eyes finally settled on the other man.

“Ron,” he said in a harsh whisper following by something Cyril couldn’t make out. The other man roused and looked around himself. They began to talk in hushed tones.

“…my mess,” he heard one say. The other one mumbled something and then returned, “Where are we?”

At that Jim Soong entered the room followed by two men, one of them the man that had been grooming himself in the mirror only a moment before.

“You’re in a private office reserved for my use at the Second Third Bank,” Soong replied and Cyril could see the building in his mind. He knew the area well. One of his least favorite but cheapest drinking establishments was in an alley across the street. He used to enjoy going there until he and his big mouth had learned the hard way that many of Soong’s men did too. Wallack’s Theater was only a few short blocks away.

“I know because I put you there,” Soong continued as the two suits blocked Cyril’s view of his fellow captives.

At the far end of his own room Cyril heard the deadbolt sliding open. He glanced back to his chair but knew he would never make it before the door opened. His heart beat faster as a yelp from the other room told him the inevitable beatings had begun. Cyril stood up but otherwise remained frozen as the door swung open. June Bug ducked into the room, looming so large that it took Cyril a moment to realize that his wife had walked in behind him.

“Don’t say a god-damned word,” she said before Cyril had a chance to reattach his brain to his tongue. “That glass ain’t that thick and we don’t have the time besides.”

In the other room Cyril heard the words “triad bastard” and knew screams would not be far behind.

“What the hell is going on?” Cyril hurriedly whispered as the predicted screams erupted from behind the window.

“There isn’t much you’re deserving of,” Margery replied, “but you don’t deserve what you’ll get here. This was never part of the plan.”

“Plan?” Cyril repeated, but Margery cut him off.

“The door is open,” she gestured. “From here on out, you’re on your own.”

Something in the way she said it let Cyril know Margery was not just referring to today. They stared at each other. In the other room someone screamed, “I was following your cunt sister!” and it broke Margery’s gaze.

“What have you…” Cyril managed but the voice from the other side of the window continued, cutting him off.

“That’s right,” it said dripping with contempt. “Your sister just got off the phone with Flo Silvestri and then jumped in a car with you.”

Margery’s eyes found his again and she took a deep breath.

Cyril ran for the door.  

“Ain’t that the cat’s pajamas?” he heard the speaker say just before he passed through the door and into the hall. To his right he found a staircase and a hallway. An unholy scream erupted from the door behind him and from down the hallway simultaneously. He made for the stairs but, his legs still stiff from confinement, he missed the first one and crashed heavily onto the metal steps. Picking himself up he scrambled on all fours until he reached the point where the stairs doubled back on themselves. He was making the turn when he heard the bark of gunfire and pieces of brick tickled the right side of his face. He didn’t stop.

Looking ahead a door stood at the stop of the stairs, solid and closed. He could only hope it was unlocked. Time seemed to pass slowly as he stumbled his way over the top of the last stair and reached for the handle. It turned and he burst out into the warm evening air. The sky was purple above the alley and red at its end, where it met the street and where Cyril saw people ambling by. He started running toward them as shouting erupted from the stairwell as the door slammed shut behind him.

He was not thirty feet from the street when he heard the door crash open behind him and he tripped and fell. Skin tore from his palms as the cobble stones, rougher in the alley than on the well worn street, rudely massaged his battered body from head to toe. Getting back to his feet he stumbled closer to the street, ducking to avoid the gunshots that he knew would inevitably be coming. He had just reached the corner of the building when the first one jolted him and he tumbled onto the street.   

 

New York 1923 - Chapters 11-12

11. Harlan Stout

Harlan Stout woke up on his old couch at sundown.  He had intended to take only a light nap, but he was exhausted and slept right through the afternoon and on into the evening.  Harlan hacked and coughed,as he always did after waking up and braced himself over his dirty sink.  After a particularly violent shuddering cough, he produced a brown phlegmy loogie that he promptly spat and watched it slink viscously into the drain.  As he watched his loogie's travels, he thought about switching cigarette brands to one of those doctor recommended ones.  His eyes darted from his murky reflection to the pack of cigarettes on his coffee table and back again.  Maybe when I'm done this pack, he thought for the twentieth time.   

With no time or desire to shave, Harlan gargled some cheap whiskey and swallowed.  He threw on a shirt, trench and hat and walked out the door, wishing he could just be at Margery's door already.  He had told her to stay put.  It was time to see if this broad could follow orders.  

Detective Stout arrived in the hotel lobby, nodded to the bell boy and made his way unopposed to Margery Van Dine's room on the third floor.  By force of habit from years as a private detective, Stout took off his shoes and made his approach, gliding down the carpeted hallway silently and coming to a stop just outside her door.  He was beyond feeling bad for evesdropping on anybody. He didn't even expect to hear anything at all.  He stealthily put his ear to to the door and heard Margery talking.  As he bent down to place his shoes neatly beside the door, he could clearly tell she was on the phone, as he only heard her side of the conversation.

"Oh, poor baby. Is he okay?"

"I meant Arnold," Margery said happily.

Harlan smiled empathetically.  He didn't want to interrupt what sounded like nice conversation, especially if it provided her some measure of relief from the insanity of the last 24 hours.

“Good." Harlan could hear the smile in her voice.  "I’ll see you both tomorrow night then, warts and all.”

Harlan wrinkled his nose.  Warts?  She better be kidding.

“See you then, Mister Silveri.”

Harlan's jaw dropped and he let out a silent scream.  He nearly lost his balance and fell over.  He needed to put some distance between her door and his person.  NOW. 

Harlan's mind raced as he reeled from the implications of what he just heard.  Adrenaline coursed though his veins, causing his legs to shake.  As he made his way down the stairs to the small bar in the lobby he nearly tripped at least a half a dozen times.  He sat at the bar fumbling through his pockets.  His hand groped the cold steel of his sidearm before finding his pack of smokes.  His hand trembling, he pulled a cig out and fumbled with the matches.

"Need a light, friend?"

Harlan's gaze shot straight out, expecting to come face to face with a pistol.  Instead, it was the barkeep with a pack of matches ready to light.

"Please." Harlan mumbled, still unable to calm himself down.  "And get me a stiff one, would ya?"  Before he had finished his first drag, the bartender carefully placed the drink was in front of him.  Stout gulped it down focusing on the slow burn in his chest, stifled a belch and tapped the glass for another.

"You alright, chum?  You look like you've seen a ghost."  The bartender asked cheerily.

"I'm good.  Just got some bad news from a family friend is all."

The bartender, genuinely concerned, opened his mouth to sympathize.  Before he could get a word out Harlan quickly followed up curtly: "It's private."  The bartender understood well when a man needed time to think, placing the drink gently in front of the detective and moved to the other side of the bar.

Harlan lit up another cigarette only to find that he still had half a smoke in his mouth.  Goddammit Harlan, get a grip, he thought.  He rapidly puffed away his first cigarette and butted it in the ash tray as he took a slower drag from the one he just lit.  

This was big.  If Margery was connected to Silveri, then what the hell was she hiring him for?  Was he merely a pawn in some sick game?  He resolved to go back up and see Margery so she wouldn't suspect anything and only after enough time had passed so as to not raise any suspicions that he may have heard anything.  He looked down at the floor in concentration.  Harlan broke out instantly in a cold sweat.

His shoes.

He stared at his bare socks as he realized with a creeping horror that he might be dead man.  Slamming a dollar bill down on the table, Harlan made his way back up to the third floor with as much dignity as a rattled shoeless man could.  Bounding up the stairs and looking down the hallway, Harlan saw his shoes, laying where he had left them beside the door.  Again he stealthily made his way to Margery's room and slipped on his shoes.  He took a breath, relaxed, exhaled and brought his hand up to knock gently.

His knuckles should have rapped on wood, but instead they hit air as the door opened.  

"Oh!  Detective Stout!"  Margery squeaked, surprised. 

"Mrs. Van Dine!  I, uh, I..."

"Did you just get here?  I had almost given up on seeing you again today."  Something about the way she asked the question immediately bothered Harlan.  Was he just being paranoid?

"Why yes!  What a coincidence, heh, I was just about to knock and there you go opening the door.  Do you read Tarot cards as well?"  Harlan joked awkwardly.

"Tarot cards?" Margery smiled, not quite getting it.  

"Nevermind."  Then, regaining his compsure.  "May I come in?"

"Certainly detective.  I was just going for some fresh air, but I'm glad you're here."  Van Dine said cheerily.

I bet you were, you lying whore, Harlan thought.  Lets play.

Harlan made his way back to his apartment, his mind running a hundred miles an hour.  He was so deep in thought he didn't even think of pulling out a cigarette.

He had spent a good hour and a half talking with Margery Van Dine.  Talking about her relationship with her brother, Jim Soong, trying to find an angle.  At the same time, he baited her with subtle questions that clearly revealed she was being elusive.  Something was going on, that much he was sure about.  

Harlan had left her that night saying that he thought she should stay in the hotel for at least another two days.  She needed to lay low until the heat was off.  Harlan told her that he needed a few days to work and that in 48 hours he would be back with his findings.  He pre-paid for room service for the next two days.

Of course he knew Margery wouldn't stay put, despite her assurances.  He saw her in a new light now.  She wasn't naive, far from it.  This dame was a sharp as a tack and dangerous as a king cobra.

Harlan spent the rest of the night preparing.

Harlan set three alarms for 4 pm the next day.  He woke up, shaved, put on his best clothing usually reserved for weddings, and strapped on his two revolvers in matching hip holsters.  In his sock he concealed a Derringer 2,0, otherwise known as a ladypistol and strapped his combat knife from the Great War to his leg.  As an afterthought, he carefully placed his straight razor flat in his breast pocket.  Stout grabbed the day's paper and began his stakeout of Margery Van Dine. 

Sitting almost a block away on a park bench with a clear view to the entrance of the hotel, Harlan waited.  Years of honing his patience paid off as he observed a brand new black Cadillac pull up to the front of the hotel.  An elephant of a man stepped out of the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door.  Margery Van Dine gingerly emerged from the front of the building and hopped in.  

Harlan frantically waved down a cabbie and showed him a crisp 5 dollar bill.  "Follow that black Caddie and this is yours."

"Yes sir!" the cabbie responded, and sent the taxi lurching forward in hot pursuit.

After 20 minutes of pursuit, the Cadillac squeezed through an alley and finally came to rest at the rear entrance of the classically designed 2nd 3rd Bank of New York.  Once again, the giant man opened the door of the car and Margery Van Dine stepped out and quickly ducked into the building.

"Thanks pal, now beat it."  Harlan dismissed the cabbie, eyes fixed on the rear entrance.  Figures they'd use the back door.  Harlan spat.  Scumbags.

Finding another park bench with a clear view to the alley and a partial view of the back door, Harlan waited.  This time of evening was busy in New York City.  Harlan figured he blended right in as he staked out the Bank, waiting for anybody to come in or out, hungry for clues.  This was even bigger than Mindy Jimmerson.  This was the head of the giant, the king of the underworld, the right hand of...

*click*

Harlan froze as he felt the muzzle of a very large handgun dig into the base of his skull.

*click* The second click told him the gun was cocked and ready to fire on a hair trigger.

"Don't turn around, don't say anything.  You so much as pass gas and it'll be a closed casket at your funeral.  Let's go for a walk."

Harlan kept his cool and heard the rustle of a newspaper neatly folded over the magnum resting against the back of his head.  As he stood up, the concealed gun kept contact with his lower back.  

Looking straight ahead, he was escorted toward the alley linking the street with the back of the bank.  Harlan thought about his options.  He could take his chances on the gun jamming or the gunman hesitating.  He could run or try to fast draw his own weapon.  His hopes faded further as he noticed a handful of men emerge from the shadows of the alley.  If he could just position one of the other men in front of him, he could possibly get his captor to shoot one of his own men. 

He counted 5 men in cheap suits when he felt a blunt force blow connect with the side of his head.

The world went black.

12. Ronald Crispin

Crispin held up a trembling hand to request a break. He removed the bit of wood between his teeth and took another swig of mint julep. The side of his face had been painfully cleaned and bandaged, but that was the easy part. The bullet lodged in his lower back was the real problem. The little whiskey Rex had given him wasn’t nearly enough to deal with the pain of semi-amateur surgery. Ronald had asked for more when they had reached the hidden clinic, but with an embarrassed apology, the doctor explained that mint julep was the only alcohol he had been able to get his hands on.

Taking a deep breath, Ronald bit down on the stick again, he did his best to brace himself and signaled the doctor to continue. The back alley surgeon plunged his tweezers into the bullet wound again, provoking a moan of pain that Ronald couldn’t have suppressed if he had wanted to. The pain only worsened from there, tearing through the thin veil of comfort provided by the unpalatable hooch.

“Boy, it’s really stuck in there,” grunted the doctor.

“How long is this going to take?” Rex’s voice, laced with boredom, drifted through Ronald’s mental haze.

The pain grew exponentially and in another moment, the world went dark.

Crispin came to slowly. He felt drunk, but his pain remained intense. He opened his eyes slowly, discovering a set of blurry rafters slowly rotating above him. Or were the rafters holding still and he was the one spinning?

“Welcome back,” came an unfamiliar voice. “Take it easy, you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“wheerr,” Ronald slurred, “wheeerrrr emmmmmmm…”

“You’re at my clinic. Johnson’s clinic.”

Ronald struggled slowly to an upright sitting position, swaying dangerously in every direction.

“Easy now,” the doctor repeated.

“emmm coaths…” Ronald continued, then worked his tongue around his mouth trying to clean away the accumulated paste. He felt his cheek sting and touched it gingerly with his hand, feeling bandages from his ear all the way down to his mouth.

“Your what?” asked the doctor politely.

“Cooooooaths!” Ronald demanded, attempting to fix the doctor with a stern look, but only succeeding in swinging his head in a wide arc that left him feeling nauseated and dizzy.

“Your clothes, of course. Let me help you.”

With the doctor’s help and seemingly infinite patience, Ronald eventually found himself dressed. The dizziness was gradually fading away and he was finally able to focus his vision, more or less, in one direction at a time.

Surly, his body aching in pain, and barely able to walk, Ronald soon found himself navigating with enormous difficulty through an alley, heading toward what he assumed was a street. Finally emerging from the alley, he ambled along, not really sure where he was going or how to get there.

With no understanding of how long it took him, Ronald finally came upon a phone booth. He fought with the sliding door for a minute or so and finally made it inside. He grabbed the ear piece and after a few failed attempts, succeeded in forcing a nickel into the slot.

"Hello, how may I direct your call?"

“carr,” Ronald muttered into the mouth piece.

“Car? Are you calling for a taxi, sir?”

“No, CARR,” he replied angrily, then clutched his cheek again. “Rex Carr.”

“Are you referring to Rex Dickson Carr or Rex Stuart Carr?”

“REX DICKS CARR” he yelled into the phone, suffering a faint tearing feeling under the bandages.

“There’s no need to yell, sir,” scolded the operator. “I’ll connect you now.”

“Rex,” came a familiar voice after a few rings.

“Rex,” said Ronald with relief.

“Ronald? Is that you?

“Yeah.”

“You sound terrible, where are you?”

“new york,” he muttered.

“No kidding,” Rex sighed. “Look, I’m glad you survived the operation. Now get home and get some rest. You’re no good to me half-dead.”

“Hmm, rest…” Ronald mumbled back.

He hung up the phone and stepped back on to the street. He stood still for a moment, contemplating his bed. Resting sounded good. He put a hand to his lower back, feeling the deeper wound. As addled as his brain felt, it was still registering a lot of pain. He didn’t like the idea of agonizing in bed. He hesitated, unable to decide.

A yellow cab driving past brought him back to reality and he registered it just in time to raise a hand to wave it down. The cab pulled over and stopped abruptly. Automatically, Crispin climbed in.

“Where to, mister?” asked the cabbie casually.

Ronald thought for a moment. He decided he didn’t want to go home. He wanted something to dull the pain. Perfect time to head to his favourite speakeasy, the Fish Tank.

“da fesh tank” Ronald muttered and leaned back against the seat. He closed his eyes and tried to relax.

“What’s that?” asked the cabbie, turning around to better understand his passenger.

“Said da fesh tank,” Ronald mumbled back, struggling to make himself comfortable.

“Second third bank?”

“da tank,” Ronald agreed, finally settling into a position that eased the pain in his back.

“Alright, then.”

Ronald tried to take slow, deep breaths, but couldn’t help wincing and grinding his teeth as the cab bounced along the road. The drive felt like it lasted for ever, but he relaxed, knowing comfort was at the other end. The cab finally stopped and Crispin handed the cabbie some money, hoping he wasn’t overpaying.

He climbed out and took a moment to get his bearings. Where was the Fish Tank again? As he looked for familiar landmarks, it slowly dawned on him that he was in the wrong neighborhood. He looked back and saw the cab driving down the street.

“Rats,” Ronald thought to himself. “Rotten cabbie just took me for a ride.”

He stomped his foot in rage, causing a wave of pain to run through him and making him even angrier. He glanced around, furiously looking for any excuse to yell at someone. He caught sight of a man in a trench coat leading a man in a black suit around the side of a nearby building. As he glared, his muddled brain recognized his old partner, Harlan Stout.

“What’s that bastard up to?” he thought to himself. “I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” he decided.

He gruffly barged through a group of businessmen and saw his quarry disappear into an alley. With renewed determination, he fought through the pain and fast walked after them. He turned the corner just in time to see the man in the black suit pull a pistol out from under a newspaper and smack Stout on the side of the head. Stout went down immediately.

“YOO DIRRY BASRARD!” Ronald yelled indistinctly, despite himself.

He couldn’t stand the sight of Stout, but if anyone was going to pistol whip him, it was going to be Ronald Crispin, not some stiff in a suit. He reached into his coat for his pistol. It was only when he grasped at an empty holster that he remembered the Van Dine dame had stolen it.

The man in the suit reacted to Ronald’s movement by spinning around and firing. Stone chips burst from the wall near Crispin’s head, causing him to belatedly attempt to dodge the bullet. He dove out of the way as the man fired a second time. He landed hard and felt the stitches in his cheek and back rip. Stunned by the sudden pain, he could do little more than moan and writhe helplessly. A moment later, he became aware of black shoes standing around him.

“I didn’t even hit him,” said one voice.

“He’s definitely bleeding though,” said another.

“Let’s get him inside,” said a third. “You’ve drawn enough attention as it is.”

Crispin felt two sets of hands pick him up under the arms and drag him deeper into the alley. He felt a sudden surge of pain and then nothing.

* * *

“Ron,” came a familiar voice. “Ron, you dumb mook.”

Ronald opened his eyes. The alcoholic haze was gone now, but the pain was so much worse. He opened his eyes and found that he was in a brightly lit room. He tried to move his hands, but felt cold metal handcuffs digging into his wrists. He was sitting on a chair. He managed to look around and found the source of the voice. Harlan Stout sat in a chair beside him.

“Harlan,” Ronald croaked. “You rat bastard.”

“How the hell did you get yourself into my mess?”

“Long story,” Ronald answered evasively. “Where are we?”

Before Harlan could answer, a door at the other end of the room swung open and in walked Jim Soong, followed by two of the large, black suited men Ronald had seen in the alley.

“You’re in a private office reserved for my use at the Second Third Bank,” he answered calmly as he closed the door behind his goons. “I know that because I put you here,” he continued as the suits positioned themselves behind the detectives.

Soong contemplated his prisoners for a moment before giving a tiny nod. Ronald felt a meaty fist smash into his bandaged, bloody cheek and gasped in pain. A simultaneous shout from Harlan implied he had received similar treatment.

“What I don’t know,” Soong continued, “is why you are here.”

“I was following him,” said Ronald, painfully inclining his head toward Harlan.

“What?” Harlan shouted back at him. “What the hell were you do--”

The sound of another meaty smack cut Harlan short. Ronald couldn’t help but smile, although the pain in his cheek made him regret it immediately.

“I’m the one asking the questions,” Soong explained quietly. “So, Mr. Stout, what are you doing here?”

“None of your goddamn business, you triad bastard,” Harlan growled back defiantly.

Ronald turned his head just in time to see one of the suited men grab a hold of two of Harlan’s fingers and wrench them mercilessly. The resounding cracks and the scream of pain left no doubt that they had broken.

“You really want to know?” Harlan spat between gritted teeth. “I was following your cunt sister.”

“What?” it was Ronald’s turn to shout in surprise and get punched for his trouble.

“That’s right,” Harlan continued. Ronald could see a shadow of confusion on Soong’s placid face. “Your sister just got off the phone with Flo Silvestri and then jumped in a car with you. Ain’t that the cat’s pajamas?”

New York 1923 - Chapters 6-10

6. Harlan Stout

Private Dick Harlan Stout looked down at his reflection in the black coffee at the bottom of his cup.  The bags under his eyes were clearly visible, another sign that Stout's lifestyle was not a healthy one.  He gulped down the last of his joe and opened a fresh pack of Lucky Strikes.

It was 9:20 and Margery Van Dine was late.  The coffee shop he sat in had a polished checkered black and white floor and old wooden chairs and tables that were aged just enough to make them comfortable.  Dames, they were always late.  Like his father always said: "If a girl looks swell when she meets you, who gives a damn if she's late?  Nobody."  She was a looker, even though she was no spring chicken.  And so, Stout waited. 

______________________________________________

Margery Van Dine pushed the velocitator of the cab to the floor, wanting only to put distance between her and the warehouse.  The wind from the open window blew her hair around wildly, the cabbie's blood on the seat seeping through her dress and soaking her undergarments.  She had only driven a car a handful of times in her life, but somehow she was making it work.

She knew her way around New York City, but knew better than to go to the cops right away.  She needed someone she could trust, but who?  Where?  

Harlan Stout, her private dick.  She had no idea what time it was but he was her only option.  She pushed the cab to its limits, adrenaline coursing through her body.  She was close to the cafe where she was going to meet Stout.  Hopefully he'd still be there.  She turned onto 46th street and gunned it.  The cafe was at the end of the street. 

In slow motion, Margery saw a horse pulling an ice carriage emerge from an alley onto the street.  Somehow, her brain registered this and forced her hands to jerk the steering wheel left.  She jumped the curb with a crash and smashed through a cart of melons that cracked her windshield.  The sound of dragging metal screeched she pulled the wheel right and drove off the sidewalk, back onto the street.  As the melon chunks fell from the car, Margery noticed she was finally close to the cafe and slammed on the brakes.

Nothing.

She frantically pushed down with her foot again, and again and again.  Nothing.  The brakes were out.

______________________________________________

Harlan Stout heard the crash from down the street.  He looked up from the cigarette he was about to light when he saw the cab barreling directly toward the cafe.  Stupidly, he spent an entire second gauging whether he had time to finish lighting his smoke before diving out of the way.  Instead, he did neither as his jaw dropped to yell in terror, his cig hanging limply from his lip.  

The cab smashed through the front of the cafe, shattering the glass front and sending smashed furnture flying like broken matchsticks.  Harlan had enough time to dive out of the way, banging his head on the corner of a table in the process as the cab crashed into the bar and came to rest in a mangled heap right in the middle of the cafe.  The air was choked with dust and smoke from the engine, which hissed some kind of vapour. 

Miraculously, Stout had escaped serious injury, but he was pissed.  He violently opened the cab door:

"What the hell is the matter with..."  Stout stopped dead in his tracks.  It was Margery Van Dine, bleeding from her mouth and nose and looking right into his eyes.

"Help... me..." she moaned as she clutched her arm to her chest.

"Mrs. Van Dine!  What?  How!?"  Harlan was at a loss for words.  

"Please, get me out of... here.  Somewhere... safe."  Margery coughed and expectorated flecks of blood from her mouth.     

"God dammit!  Sweet Jesus Mary and Joseph!"  Harlan looked around.  The dust was still thick in the air when he saw silhouettes against the morning light approaching the car.  Stout pulled Margery from the wreck.  Moans of other injured patrons began to fill the air.

As people began to flood in through the front of the cafe to help the injured, Harlan and Margery limped through a back door and escaped.

________________________________________________

Back in Stout's apartment on Lexington, Margery and Harlan cleaned up.  Margery held a towel to her mouth and nose and had her arm in a sling.  Harlan was looking in his dirty mirror finishing stitching up the gash over his eye from hitting that table.     

He snipped the thread and dabbed at his soutures, then looked at the mangled remains of his formerly fresh pack of Lucky Strikes.  Harlan sighed and pulled out two crooked smokes, offering one to Margery.  He lit hers first, then his own and took a long reassuring drag. 

Smoke trailing from his nostrils, Harlan asked: "Now that we're all settled, mind telling me what the hell that was all about?"

Margery told him about her ordeal.  Stout visibly tensed as he listened carfully, asking for more details here and there, especially when he heard the name of that jack off Ron Crispin.

"What does that son of a bitch want with you?"  It had to something serious if he was willing to drive out all the way to the middle of nowehere and threaten her with a gun, not to mention killing the damn cabbie.

"I don't know" Margery responded with hesitation.  Stout looked deep into her eyes, willing her to spit it out.  "He did call me by my maiden name, though."

"And that is?"  Harlan coaxed

"Soong."  

"Soong?  As in Jim Soong?"

"Yes.  He's my brother,"  Margery answered, clinging to the idea that somehow Harlan Stout could save her.  "Why are you smiling detective?"

"Baby, you just gave me the one thing I was looking for.  A lead."

7. Ronald Crispin

“Well ain’t that the cat’s pajamas,” said Ronald Crispin, admiring the contents of the safe he had just blown open.

“It sure is,” agreed Harlan Stout. “Looks like we cracked another case wide open, partner.”

“How much do you figure that thing is worth?”

Harlan’s eyes narrowed as he turned his head toward his companion.

“It’s worth the $80 Mrs. Van Dermear agreed to pay us for retrieving it,” he answered carefully, his tone conveying an unmistakable warning.

“$80? Harlan, quit being such a wet blanket. Look at the diamonds on it! That thing’ll fetch us twice as much in Brooklyn!”

“You’re talking about stealing from our client, Ronald! What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? We’re stealing from a thief! A dead thief at that!”

Harlan turned his back on his partner and angrily strode across the room.

“You shouldn’t have shot him. Damn kid was still wet behind the ears!”

Ronald threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

“He was a no-good, lowlife! He got what was coming to him!”

Harlan spun around on his heel and pointed a finger accusingly in Ronald’s face.

“Yeah? And what are you then, huh? You think you’re better than that dead kid? You’re ready to steal the same thing from the same dame as he did!”

Ronald waved a hand dismissively and approached the safe.

“Tell you what, Harlan,” he called over his shoulder. “Why don’t you scram and protect your honor. I’ll do what needs to be done to keep our heads above water, just like I always do.”

“Don’t give me an earful of your bull! I’ve just about had it with you!”

“Yeah?” said Ronald turning to face the other private detective. “Fine! You’re holding me back anyway!”

“Ronald!” Harlan shouted back at him. “Ronald! Ronald!”

“What?” he answered in confusion.

May 7th, 1923 - 10:30am

“Ronald! Are you alive?”

“What?” he repeated, gradually becoming aware of the cold cement on his cheek.

“I asked if you were alive, but don’t worry, I figured it out.” Ronald recognized Rex Dickson Carr’s voice. “I wish I could say the same for Terry.”

Ronald blearily opened his eyes and saw what looked like an endless ocean of dry, coagulated blood.

“I’m fine,” he said, not even able to convince himself.

“I didn’t ask,” said Rex drily. “What the hell happened here?”

Ronald tried to lift himself off the floor, but felt a sharp, stabbing pain radiating out from his upper back. He sank back down, struggling to breathe.

“Whisky,” he croaked.

“What? You were drunk?”

“No, I need whisky for the pain. Lots of it.”

Ronald heard Rex sigh and a moment later, he was painfully hoisted to a sitting position and a metal flask was pressed to his lips. The liquid burned reassuringly down his throat. Ronald grabbed at the flask and forced its bottom straight up, draining it in a hurry.

“Hey!” complained Rex. “That stuff was expensive!”

“Gimme a break, Rex. I’ve been shot. Twice.”

“All I’m hearing is ‘I screwed up, Rex, and I don’t deserve the money you’re paying me.’”

Rex angrily shoved the empty flask back into his jacket.

“Now tell me what the hell happened here.”

Ronald related the story in detail, only omitting the part about his gun being taken by a woman.

“Brilliant plan. Abducting a woman in broad daylight.”

“Keep your socks on, Rex. The only witness is the Irish corpse over there.”

“That’s funny,” returned Rex, “because I got a call from Cyril Van Dine a little while ago, telling me he saw a man jump into a cab with his wife.”

Ronald looked up sheepishly into his employer’s eyes. Mercifully, he felt the whisky starting to take effect.

“Butt me,” croaked the detective, after a long silence.

Rex glared at his torpedo for a moment, before finally pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He handed one to Crispin and stuck another in his mouth. He lit his own before leaning down to light Ronald’s. The detective took a slow, deep drag off the cigarette and erupted into a painful coughing fit.

“Damn it, Ronald,” Rex’s tone betrayed a faint undertone of sympathy. “Let’s get you patched up.”

He leaned down and pulled Ronald to his feet. Crispin cried out in pain as he got up.

“I parked across the street,” Rex grunted as he helped Ronald limp out of the garage. “I’ll take you to my old sawbones in the Bronx.”

“What did you tell Van Dine?” asked Crispin, still trying to puff on the cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

“What do you think? I told him I’d look into it.”

“If you rat on me…” warned Ronald.

“Not that you’re in any position to make threats, moron, but if I rat you out, I’ll be circling the drain with you. No, I have a better idea. I think I know just how to turn this situation in my… er, our favour.”

8. Rex Dickson Carr

Rex Dickson Carr stood just inside the doorway to the warehouse and waited patiently in the dim lighting. He took a long, slow drag off his Marlboro to keep himself occupied and scanned out the windows for signs that he might have been followed. 

Soon enough he heard familiar footsteps walk in the rear entrance and Rex moved himself into the light. No sooner had he revealed himself than the footsteps started coming towards him faster until the small figure was right in front of him and before he could react her hand slapped him right across the face.

"Do you know what your damn PI did? He killed a poor cabbie, he almost killed me!"

Margery Van Dine stood before him looking furious. Rex wondering how much planning she'd put into this little entrance.

"Ya, he told me. You can't blame me for that one. You were the one that chose the Dicks remember? Besides, it sounds like you got him better than he got you."

That did nothing to help Margery regain her usual composure. She stared him straight in the eye like she was trying to drill a hole straight into his brain with her gaze.

"Did you or did you not try to have me killed?"

"Sweet Mary and Joseph no! Why would I do that? Why would I do that then show up here? I need you for this just as much as you need me." Rex met her gaze head on, it was crucial that he didn't lose her trust or their whole plan, everything they'd worked towards for years went out the window.

Margery stared him down for a solid 10 seconds before she finally seemed satisfied. 

"Fine, but this NEVER happens again, you hear me!"

"Darling, I can't even tell you that this will never happen to me again. We both knew the risks we were taking. I need to know if you're still in."

Again an eerie silence fell over the warehouse again until finally Margery responded,

"Of course I am."

Rex breathed a sigh of relief. Margery was the one that continued,

"Have you been able to find out anything from my brother?"

"Barely, but I have been planting a few seeds, what about your guy in Silveri's crew?"

"The same, I told him about the money my brother was moving tomorrow night. I'm sure Silveri's guys will make a move on it."

That was excellent news. Every scumbag mobster that ate a bullet from another scumbug mobster was a win in Rex's book.

"Good, that's good, Margery. One more thing, the mayor's son. I assume you had something to do with that?"

She never skip a beat. "Did it work?"

"If by that you mean he's got a pierced lung and he may or may not walk again but he's alive, then yah it worked. Do me a solid and fill me in the next time you make me an accesory to the attempted murder of a political figure's children."

"I had no way to contact you and there was an opportunity. Is he saying you did it?"

"No, in fact I dragged his sorry mug to a hospital when I figured out who he was. Kid was right grateful although your brother won't be too happy. I missed a meeting with your husband though. 

You still sure keeping him out of this is the right move? Seems to me he's just as motivated as you for what they did to his brother and his nephew."

She wasn't too happy he mentioned Crispin and her son. 

"Cyril's too much of a pill to dress himself. It's gotten so bad he can't get outta bed without a drink. Things are too hot right now to have him muck it all up. If we wanna keep the mob and the Triads focused on each other and not us then we need sober heads. I am not gonna let anyone stop us until they ALL get what's coming to them. Silveri, my brother, Judge O'Mally, every single one of 'em!" 

Margery had that look in her eyes. Sometimes the dame scared Rex more than he would ever admit. Still, she was his only friend in the world right now and he couldn't help but respect her. This dame had a bigger pair than anyone Rex had ever known.

"I'm in this with you 'til the end darling. You watch your back out there."

"You too Rex." Margery turned around and slipped out through the back door.

Rex took a moment to light up a new Marlboro before stepping out onto the docks. He took a deep drag then tossed the butt into the water. 

Things were about to go to the next level and he could only hope that he was ready for it.

9. Cyril Van Dine

May 7, 1923 - 1pm

Cyril Van Dine woke for the second time in the same day, this time with a giant standing at his feet. He screamed and dove for the other side of the bed only to find he wasn't in his bed at all, he was on a sofa, the back of which utterly foiled his attempt at escape. On his stomach now, he scampered as far toward the other end of the sofa as he could, trying to escape the giant's reach.

It didn't matter. When he turned, the massive man was already leaving the room. His heart pounding, Cyril watched as he turned the corner into the hallway and disappeared from sight. His heavy steps seemed to shake the building with every footfall.

Climbing down from the sofa Cyril crept to the hall and poked his head around the frame in time to see the giant duck into the kitchen where he again disappeared from sight.

Glancing to his left Cyril saw the front door was intact and the deadbolt locked, as he thought he had left it. Ignoring the question of how the giant had got in, Cyril made a dash across the hall to the door. He was already opening the deadbolt when his eyes fell upon the umbrella in the stand in the corner.

Its handle was long, straight and red as blood. It had a triangular cross section and on all three sides an identical pattern of Chinese characters had been engraved. Cyril Van Dine couldn't speak or read a word of Chinese but he knew what they said nonetheless. Standing handle upward they read from bottom to top, simply, one, two, three. And where the threes met, a glass pyramid encased the last symbol. Not four, but sounding just like it to the ear.

Cyril turned the deadbolt back to the locked position as he turned toward the kitchen at the far end of the hall. A puff of smoke emerged from the right side of the doorway and slowly dispersed into the kitchen.

Quickly smoothing his sleep trodden clothes and hair Cyril forced himself to walk the length of the hallway as casually as he could.

Jim Soong sat at the table in the chair nearest the door. A wide brimmed hat rested on his head, tilted forward so that it hid his eyes. As always he wore a suit of charcoal grey trimmed with red. His cufflinks were the sillouettes of golden dragons. His fingers were intertwined and both hands sat on the table. The wrinkled scrap of newspaper from the morning lay in the center of the table, the article on the Wallacks premiere facing up.

Before Cyril could even think of anything to say, Soong spoke.

"Deepest apologies for waking you, brother." His voice was as smooth as silk, unaccented and without a hint of encumberment from the cigarette perched in the far corner of his mouth. "I trust June Bug didn't give you too much of a fright." As he said it he waved a hand toward the far end of the room where the giant stood, head almost scraping the light fixture. He had a thin mustache and had an appearance Cyril could only liken to Genghis Khan.

"Of course not," Cyril said hastily. "If you had only told me you were coming I...we could have been more prepared," he sputtered. "Not that you're not welcome, even unannouned," he added. His mouth suddenly felt dry and he longed for a drink but his kitchen stockpile lay in a cupboard fully concealed by June Bug's breadth. Instead he licked his lips and strode into the kitchen so he could face his guest more directly. He forced a smile. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Cyril Van Dine had laid eyes on Jim Soong no more than a dozen times since he had been married to Margery and not a single one of those experiences had been a pleasure. Cyril had no doubt that his sudden appearance had something to do Margery's actions earlier in the day. Never should have trusted that Rex Dickson Carr, he chastised himself. Though he had agreed to meet with Cyril, something in his voice had made Cyril uneasy. Cyril knew Carr was unhappy with Soong, and he thought their past would have counted for something, but some loyalties were tough to crack. Particularly ones that were intended to be kept until death, one way or the other.

The end of Soong's cigarette flared red as he pursed his lips and inhaled deeply. A moment later smoke billowed from his nostrils and the tip faded back to a smolder again as he seemed to ponder the question. He delaying to make him nervous. And it was working.

"My heart hurts, my brother," he started, once again referring to Cyril as he had since his marriage to Margery.

Cyril tensed. He remembered what Jim Soong had said to him that day. Our brother is dead. His body lies with crabs and whale bones. I am your brother now, until death breaks our bond as well. Though he had said it with a smile and a hand on his shoulder, Cyril had taken it for the threat it was. Be a good husband, he was saying, or be nothing at all.

Soong paused once again to inhale and when he did the ash at the tip of his cigarette grew perilously long. Cyril was about to push the ash tray toward him when June Bug grabbed a tea cup from the counter and crossed the kitchen in two thunderous strides. Positioning the tea cup beneath the tip of the cigarette Soong made an almost imperceptible thrust of his bottom lip and the ash fell silently into the cup.

Margery had once told him that her brother lived by a simple rule. No matter what might pass his lips, his hands shall always be clean. The code seemed to extend to cigarettes as well. Though Soong smoked rarely, when he did, his fingers never touched the cigarette.

Dreading the next words out of Soong's mouth, Cyril felt sweat begin to bead on his brow.

"I feel betrayed by my own blood," he finally continued.

I'm the one who has been betrayed, Cyril thought to himself. He knew better than to interrupt Jim Soong, particularly with a statement that would likely get him killed in his own kitchen.

"You are a smart man," Soong said, "and I have done much for you."

So why did you let your wife get into a taxi with another man? Cyril imagined him asking next. Ignorance would be his only answer and Cyril knew it would be insufficient. He was a bad husband. Wives don't run around on good ones. This would all be blamed on him no matter what he said or did.

Soong's fingers untangled from each other and his right hand reached out slowly across the table. His index finger, the nail long and white, came down and tapped the small article in the bottom corner. From where he sat Cyril was only able to see the last sentence.

...Escorting the Hollywood couple to the premiere will be Mayor Hylan and his wife Agnes, both devoted aficionados of the silver screen.

Cyril felt both sudden relief and new trepidation. He had no desire to discuss Margery, but the only topic that would be of comparable uncomfortability was the Tuscania.

"So how is it that I did not receive and invitation to this illustrious event?" Soong said as he raised his head so that Cyril could see his eyes for the first time. In them Cyril saw no anger and a hint of a smile even seemed to creep out from between his cigarette laden lips. "Am I not a prominent business person of this great city?" he added, sweeping his hand across the table as if the entire city were laid out before him.

"I... I...," Cyril stumbled taken aback by the sudden change in mood in the room. Even June bug seemed to have lost interest and was now inspecting the contents of the ice box. "I wasn't invited myself," he finally managed. "I only learned of it, as you did, in the paper. I was going to head down there this afternoon to straighten it all out. I'm sure they would be happy to add you to the guest list."

Soong waved a hand casually in dismissal. "These motion pictures," he said and leaned forward slightly, "Is there money to be made in them?"

Not by me, Cyril wanted to say but he didn't want Soong to know how poorly his investments were turning out. Margery had told him that the Van Dine's had money was one of the reasons her brother had agreed to her marriage to Crispin.

"Talkies, that's where the money is," Cyril said instead, with confidence. "Rivoli's started showing 'em three weeks ago. They're pulling in cash hand over fist, night after night, no doubt about it."

Jim Soong nodded knowingly and smiled broadly enough that his golden tooth showed. A single ruby graced the center of it. "I see," he said. "So the era of silence is at an end."

"Yes," Cyril said smiling back and nodding. "I believe it is."

"Then so it should be with us, as well," Soong replied as his smile disappeared and his head lowered to shield his eyes again, "and the time for secrets is over."

Across the kitchen June Bug closed the icebox door and stood tall again. Outside the rain had started again and Cyril could hear it pattering on the window behind him. He suddenly felt cold and craved the burn in his throat more than ever.

"Secrets? I have no..." Cyril started, feigning confusion as originally planned. Soong silenced him with a single raised finger.

"Nothing happens in this city without me knowing," he started, a hint of anger and accent creeping into the words. "If a horse shits on Broadway, I know what it smells like before the stink catches the wind. When it rains I know before the drops hit the ground. I can tell you the colour of autumn leaves at the first bloom of spring." Jim Soong was well known for his rants and Cyril normally found them mildly entertaining. But now that he was at the receiving end, Cyril wanted nothing more than to crawl under the table and into the furnace duct in the floor at his feet.

"How do I know these things?" Soong paused and spit the butt of his cigarette into the tea cup still lying on the table. A thin wisp of smoke slowly drifted up over the rim, rising and twisting like the stem of the rose emblazoned on its side. "Because I have ears in every speak and blind pig. I've got legs in every whorehouse. I have eyes on every street corner." His head tilted slightly to one side so that Cyril could see Soong's left eye just below the brim of his hat. "And, most importantly, I have eyes on my family," he added. "Eyes that saw strange things this morning. Things that I was hoping you could explain," his head straightened again, "brother," he finished. The last word he almost hissed through gritted teeth.

"I don't know who the man was!" Cyril said as quickly as his tongue would allow. "I ain't never seen him before, I swear it."

"I know who the man was!" Soong spat. "What was my sister's business with him?"

"She only said she had errands," Cyril replied hoping the terror he was feeling was coming through in his voice. Pretending to be cool might get him killed at this point. Soong seemed angrier than Cyril had ever seen him. "She was dressed up, wouldn't tell me why."

Soong inhaled deeply through his nose and, by some sign Cyril did not catch, informed June Bug that the time had come to strangle him. The next thing Cyril knew his feet were no longer on the ground, his face was pressed up against the ceiling and June Bug's massive fingers were threatening to meet his gargantuan thumb somewhere between Cyril's spine and his esophagus.

"She crashed a taxi cab filled with blood into a coffee shop an hour later," Soong continued, looking up at Cyril from below.

"Can't...drive," Cyril managed to squeeek through June Bug's grasp.

"This is not useful information," Soong said calmly. "I want to know whose blood it was and where she disappeared to after the crash. Have you seen her since?"

"Sleeping...all...day..." Cyril choked out. He was starting to feel light headed. In his oxygen deprived mind he was being pressed against the floor and Soong sat on the ceiling. June Bug released his grip suddenly and any errant notion of which way was up was instantly corrected as he crashed to the floor gasping for breath.

"You see your wife get into a car with a strange man and you simply go back to sleep," Soong exclaimed now feigning confusion of his own. "Are you sure?"

Carr, Cyril thought to himself. He knows.

"No," Cyril whispered and tried to rise from the floor but June Bug's foot suddenly materialized on top of his spine and forced him back down driving his last breath from his heaving lungs. "Made...call," he croaked.

"Ahhh," Soong cooed as he sat back down at the table and looked away from him and toward the back window. Cyril could see triumph in his eyes. "Tell me, brother. Whom did you phone?"

"You already know who," Cyril said from the floor more defiantly than he had intended. "Rex Carr."

As soon as the name left his lips Cyril could see that he had made a mistake. Soong's eyes widened ever so slightly and the look of triumph on Soong's face was momentarily replaced by anger. But it was not the anger he had shown Cyril only a moment before. This was an anger that was not for show and not meant to inspire fear. It was true rage that burned deep inside and shone through his eyes. Soong had not known about Rex at all. Cyril had sold him out.

The look on Soong's face disappeared as quickly as it had arisen. A smile crept slowly across his face but his gaze was still far away, out the window. Cyril felt sick.

"Deepest apologies, brother," he said as he grabbed the newspaper from the table and went to one knee in front of Cyril, "but you're going to miss your premiere." Soong stuffed the newspaper page into Cyril's mouth. June Bug took care of the rest.

10. Margery Van Dine

Margery Van Dine was pissed. One of her molars had broken in to a few pieces when that fuck-ugly detective had pistol whipped her across the jaw, and left a terrible gash inside her cheek. She didn’t know if she’d swallowed the pieces or had been spat in to his face with a glob of her blood, but regardless of that, she felt the tooth was a lost cause. The remainders protruded sharply from her gums, and she poked at it idly. What the hell had that ugly shit Ronald Crispin been playing at? Killing a cabbie? Trying to kill her? What had Rex been thinking hiring a drunk?

She sat on the corner of a comfortable bed, in a dim little room at a fairly priced but well maintained hotel not far from Harlan Stout’s office. He’d put her up there on his dime (which she felt was incredibly generous, since she was supposed to be his client and all) and told her to stay there until he came to get her. As soon as he’d left, she’d called Rex and set-up their meeting. She’d been out and back inside of an hour. Despite the earlier setbacks, everything was perfectly on track.

The telephone next to the bed; one of those western electric models, rang suddenly. Margery smiled to herself, shimmied backwards, and stretched her arm to pick the two-piece device off of the nightstand. She picked the speaker up from the side of the receiver and held it up to her ear.

“Call from a Mister Argent,” said the operator on the other end of the line.

Margery’s smile deepened in to something intense and pretty, and she raised the receiver to her mouth. She lay back on the bed.

“Thank you operator. You can tell ‘Mister Argent’ that I am ready to receive him.”

“Stand by,” She said.

The line clicked and there was silence for a second before a deep, rich, and accented voice spilled out of the speaker.

“Hello Miss Soong. How are things.”

“Wonderful now I’m talking to you,” She replied, and tittered gently, her voice intentionally taking on a smoky quality. “And how are things on your side?”

“Everything is good sweetheart. I just need to know that you’ve moved all of the pieces in to the right places, and we can get this ball rolling,” said the man.

“Of course I have. I got that detective you suggested in on it too, and Rex doesn’t suspect a thing. He’s on a collision course with my brother, and when it all comes together…”

He completed her thought “All the lying will be done, and they’ll pay for what they did to us.”

“Oh yes they will,” Margery said. “When can I see you.”

“Soon, sweetheart. Real soon. As soon as all of this is over.”

 “You mean it? As soon as?”

“The very hour,” he said.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night then,” she smiled. “Warts and all.”

“You talk like I haven’t seen you naked,” his voice had taken on a playful property. “I know you don’t have warts. See you tomorrow night, Miss Soong.”

“See you then, Mister Silveri.”