The Case Of The Cheap Suit Plot

By Sullivan Hardgrave

Magic shouldn't exist in a city that thrives on science and industry, but Chloe Stewart is the best — and perhaps only — private investigator suited to handling supernatural problems in 1938 Chicago. Her spells and unique ability to commune with the divine spirits of Vodou give her an edge in cracking cases. For a price, of course.

 

But when the daughter of Chicago's most powerful shipping magnate becomes the target of a sinister group wielding unnatural powers, Chloe finds herself out of her league. Alongside some unexpected allies, she must discover the truth of their schemes, how they connect to a rash of kidnappings, and reveal a horrifying plot that could bring the Windy City, or even the country, to its knees.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sullivan Hardgrave
• Release date: May 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224596829

Book preview

The Case Of The Cheap Suit Plot

A Chloe Stewart Novel, Book One

Sullivan Hardgrave

Copyright © 2024 by Sullivan Hardgrave

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law, nor 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.

Any semblance between original characters and real persons living or dead, is coincidental. The author in no way represents the companies, corporations, or brands mentioned in this book. The likeness of historical/famous figures have been used fictitiously; the author does not speak for or represent these people.

ISBN: 979-8-218-37636-9 (paperback)

Lyrics to Little Girl Blue by Lorenz Hart.

Cover by GetCovers.com.

Created with Atticus.

Content Warnings

This book contains strong language, depictions of racism, torture, blood/gore/violence, and sexual situations.

To anyone who has ever felt like a monster.

Helpful Terms

Haitian Vodou – An African diasporic religion that developed between the sixteenth and nineteenth centuries. It contains elements of traditional African religions and Roman Catholicism.

Louisiana Voodoo – A version of Haitian Vodou practiced in the southern United States.

Vodouisant – Someone who practices Vodou. Priests are oungans, priestesses are mambos.

Bondye – The Supreme creator deity in Haitian Vodou. Humans cannot interact with Bondye and must interact with lwa instead.

Lwa – Also spelled Loa, these spirits act as intermediaries between humans and Bondye.

Wanga – An object infused with a spirit's power or medicines.

Author's Note

This story is not meant to be seen as a dialogue or criticism of the Vodou faith or any other African faiths, traditions, or beliefs, nor is it meant to parody them. What is depicted here takes place in an alternate world where the wall between the living world and the spirit world is thin and shifting, and so the protagonist’s means of interacting with the Lwa differ from our real world greatly.  If you wish to learn more about the Vodou faith, or the Lwa I have featured, this author highly recommends speaking with a mambo or oungan local to you, or if your region lacks one, many practitioners on the Internet have posted a huge amount of information.

Contents

1.The Wayward Sister

2.The Furnace on the Fortieth Floor

3.It Gets Weirder

4.Open Wounds

5.Reading The Bones

6.Hard To Swallow

7.Viking Dracula, Dracula Viking

8.Say It With Flowers

9.The King's Guy

10.The City Of Bolted Shoulders

11.Downpour

12.We Always Have Room For Monsters

13.Wednesday, March 9th, 1938

14.6641

15.Hellybeans

16.Hello, Banjo

17.I Want My Brother

18.Of All The Damn Things

19.Half Off Faces

20.The Florist Fryer

21.To Hunt A Hunter

22.The Welder

23.Impure

24.Getting Cozy

25.Little Monsters

26.Doohickey

27.Quite Remarkable Stuff

28.The Heist

29.Hostile Takeover

30.Family

31.Its Most Diabolical, Heinous Form

32.Plans Beyond Tomorrow

33.Dire Straits

34.The Battle Of Lake Michigan

35.The Fury Of The Spirits

36.A Feast For the Fallen

Acknowledgements

About the Author

The Wayward Sister

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Chloe

Tuesday, March 1st, 1938 10:11 am

Hey, you’re Miss Stewart, right?

Hearing my name causes me to involuntarily drop my sternly enforced rule about ignoring the world from my bus seat. A man is smiling at me from under a beaten straw hat. He got on the bus at Bronzeville, the same as I did.  

Do I know you?

It is you! Chloe Stewart. Well, I’ll be! My neighbor told me about you. He said you was the one that drove the ghost out of his sister’s house.

Baron’s Balls, I clear wraiths out of one person’s bathroom and suddenly I’m the neighborhood exorcist. Now half of Bronzeville thinks I’m a miracle worker. Or a witch doctor.

A woman in the seat opposite me crooks an eyebrow in my direction. My spine goes stiff; this guy could get me disappeared.

I force a grin. Ghosts are usually just con jobs or wild imaginations. In fact, the person you’re talking about? She just had a pipe burst from the cold.

What? But he said you did spells. His sister saw you doing rituals. The stranger waves his hands like a stage magician.

The bus driver calls out my stop, just inside the Loop. A judge declaring my stay of execution couldn’t sound any sweeter. 

You can’t believe all that hocus pocus stuff. Anyway, I get off here. Have a good day, friend. I tip my trilby politely.

The stranger’s face falls as I get off the bus. I hope I don’t seem too rattled. As it pulls away, I adjust my tie. My next case is just a couple of blocks away. Between the buildings, I can just make out the glass skyscraper, my destination. 

The H.G. Building stabs at clouds like a gleaming knife jutting up out of the skyline. To build this architectural wonder, the newest addition to Chicago’s busy Loop district, city officials were more than happy to let the developers bulldoze over older, dilapidated structures. Lots of those structures still remain, though. The Great Starvation wracked the entire country, and the Windy City was no exception.  

I have to dodge past a few union protesters with signs, angrily parading about the entrance to a scrapyard. A couple of cops are impotently trying to shoo them away from the yard gate. Beyond the fenceline, pneumatic men go about their day, disassembling and crushing cars with their large clawed hands, as though the protesters calling for their dismissal didn’t exist. Pneumatic men don’t care that they’ve taken the jobs of hard-working people. They just do whatever their foreman programmed into the punch cards in their metal heads, motivated only by the steam pressure batteries driving their internal cogs and gears. It’s no skin off my back, though. The day some brainless automaton can replace a competent private investigator is a ways off.  

Kid, hey you, kid! It takes me a minute to realize the white guy in the crappy suit is calling out to me as I pass him. As I look around, he takes a couple of steps toward me and pulls open his shabby jacket slightly. Want to buy some Up?

These are the assholes the cops should be cleaning up. Damned pushers are everywhere these days. 

I don’t want your uppers, I don’t want your downers, but I do want you to take a long walk off a short pier.

His eyes drop to my chest. He’s figured out I’m not a kid, just a short woman. I turn on my heel to walk off before he can say anything. He snarls something about being a bitch behind my back. 

Turning around much more slowly, I stare into his eyes. I’m all of five foot nothing, and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, and I don’t even look the twenty-three years I have, but I imagine I strike a fairly imposing figure in my burgundy suit, matching trilby, and black overcoat.

I raise an arm and point a finger at him, hunching my back slightly, the way Grandma used to do whenever she gave someone the Evil Eye. I start muttering nonsense words under my breath as I begin to walk toward him, finger outstretched.  

To my satisfaction, it works. The color drains from the twit’s face as he starts to back away. He then turns to run but stumbles over a trashcan and goes ass up into the sidewalk slush. Scrambling to his feet, he darts through the nearby parking lot, disappearing behind the cars. 

Chuckling to myself, I return to my journey. I have an appointment I’m not about to miss. 

I arrive at the H. G. Wetherbee building with about thirty minutes to spare. I take the time to admire the structure as I meander my way inside. 

Unlike most other buildings, the brick and mortar are hidden behind an almost entirely glass facade. It’s taller than even the Board of Trade building, even if it’s only by a few feet. Supposedly, Horatio Wetherbee hired the most ingenious architects and had an army of pneumatic men construct it in eight months to the day. 

Inside the main entrance are white marble floors, with art deco carpet runners segmenting the various pathways. I go up to the registration desk, a massive block of dark mahogany and glass partitions, and the receptionist there gestures to the security guard at the far end. She deadpans, Colored check in there. Christ, she could at least add a please to it. How badly do I want this job? 

The security guard, an elderly man with a face like a bulldog, asks if I have an appointment, to which I show him the newspaper clipping of Mr. Wetherbee’s ad. It reads:

Wanted

Private Investigators in the Chicago metropolitan area

Your services are required at the H.G. Wetherbee Building 

Promptly at Noon, on March 1st.

Details of the assignment will be given at that time. 

Payment upon the assignment’s completion.

As the guard reads over the clipping, another PI comes in. It’s Larry Sweet Reeves, a house dick with a tendency to use violence to solve his cases instead of actual investigation. He’s a chubby, sweaty white guy, and I can smell the salami and rum he had for lunch from here. He flashes his PI license to the receptionist who barely looks at it before pointing him at the elevators. I watch him tuck his shirt back into his pants as he departs. 

The guard grunts as he finishes scouring the clipping. "You’re a PI?" 

Yes, sir, I say.

Like... a licensed PI? 

I want to ask him if he’s a real security guard, since he’s old enough to be my great-grandfather and doesn’t look like he could catch a cold without fighting for air. I keep it cordial. Yes sir. I have it right here, if you’d like to see it, sir.

Mr. Wetherbee is a very busy man. I’m not sure he needs a negro woman running around playing at detective work when he’s got serious business to conduct. He says with a sneer, Maybe you should go home, little girl.

Oh no. I can’t let a racist, wrinkled old bag of wet farts like him keep me from this opportunity. Maybe, sir. I nod politely, then add, But it also may be that a female, colored investigator is just the kind of professional Mr. Wetherbee needs. And if that’s the case, what do you think he’ll say when he finds out you were turning colored folks away?

 The guard glances around to find the receptionist staring over the rim of her glasses at him. Knock it off, Howard. 

He makes a face at me that reminds me of an infant filling its nappy. He points to the stairs. I tip my hat and smile as I step away from the desk, and dart into the nearby open elevator. There’s no whites only sign on it, and few things give me joy like putting a bug up the ass of bigots. 

Mr. Wetherbee’s office is on the fortieth floor. I’m presented with a bird’s-eye view of the trainyards, and Lake Michigan just beyond them. Despite the grime of the trainyards, it’s a gorgeous view. I drink as much of it in as I can, as I follow the hall away from the window. The top floor seems to be shaped like a large ‘O’. Several large offices are located here, but none are so large as the one taking up the entirety of the north wall, belonging to one Mister Dominic Wetherbee. 

One of the wealthiest families in Chicago, the Wetherbees are naturally plastered all over the news the moment one of them so much as sneezes. The papers made a big deal out of it when H.G. Wetherbee turned over the position of CEO to his eldest son a few years ago. It must be a lot to handle for a man who’s not even 30 yet.

I enter through a pair of glass doors with the words Wetherbee Shipping stenciled across them in grand bronze letters and find myself in a waiting room. To my left, a larger pair of doors, probably heavy oak, bar entry into Dominic’s office proper. Next to me, typing away at a desk, a young secretary clears her throat. Hello, can I help you?

Yes, I’m a private investigator, I’ve come in response to the ad in the paper yesterday. 

She blinks but doesn’t comment. At least some people have tact. I’ve grown used to people being incredulous that I’m a PI, but it still irritates me. She hands me a paper with a clipboard. I just need you to sign here, then you can go have a seat, she says.

The paper is written in legalese, and while I’m pretty well-read, I can’t make heads or tails of this stuff. What’s this?

Oh, that’s a non-disclosure agreement, she says. Mr. Wetherbee is very serious about his case not being released to the newspapers. So your discretion is going to be very important.

I guess I can understand that. Wealthy or not, I wouldn’t want the papers flagging my every move either. I sign. Satisfied, the secretary takes the clipboard, and gestures to the couches and chairs laid out in the center of the room. Please have a seat. He’ll call everyone into the meeting in a few minutes.

The waiting area is populated by Sweet Reeves and two other white men I don’t know. I’ve no desire to talk to them, especially not Reeves, since they might be competition for this gig. I flop on an unoccupied couch, pop the collar on my overcoat, and do my best to shrink into it.

It doesn’t take long for someone to sit next to me. I don’t look at them. 

Not as many people showed up for this as I thought there’d be. It’s a male voice. Sounds white. A glance at his ungloved hands confirms this. What do you suppose Mr. Wetherbee wants, huh? 

This man’s going to keep talking to me. Again I question how badly I want this assignment. Think of the money. Think of the money. I shrug. Something he doesn’t want leaked to the public.

Oh yeah, the NDA. His voice is bouncy, electric. You think maybe it has to do with the rumors that the Wetherbee family is tied to the Outfit?

At this, I finally turn my head and look at him. Now I see it. The shape of his dark eyes, coupled with his jet-black hair, gives away his Asian heritage. He’s about my age, with an athletic build, and he’s wearing the uniform of the silver screen private detective: button-down shirt under a trenchcoat, navy blue slacks, and dress shoes. The only thing he’s missing is the fedora. Instead, he’s sporting a baker boy cap like the newsboys wear. 

You sound awfully excited about this case, buddy, I say.

This’ll be my first big one. Oh, I didn’t introduce myself. Elliot Shu, of The Other Shu Private Investigations and Security. 

There are more detectives at your agency?

No, just me. Why?  

I don’t get a chance to answer him. The heavy oak doors swing open and a tall, broad-shouldered Adonis of a white man appears, with dark hair, steely gray eyes, and a jawline that could lift a car. Dominic Wetherbee is the kind of guy that makes Tyrone Power look like Peter Lorre. He has an aura of celebrity that seems larger than life. The pictures in the papers don’t do him justice. His standing there, right in front of me, makes me realize how light my wallet feels.

Those of you answering my ad can come in now, he says before vanishing back into his office. 

Elliot nudges me and rubs his hands together with a grin. Hee hee, here we go! His voice is low, but I still glance about nervously, hoping Dominic didn’t hear. 

You need to calm down, I hiss at him. Too much enthusiasm is poor form. 

He stands up straight. Oh, uh…sorry.

Dominic Wetherbee’s office is everything I’d imagined a millionaire’s office would be. The polished hardwood floors reflect the sun shining in from the massive window at the back. On the right side of the office, a single huge landscape painting dominates the wall. It’s a view of Lake Michigan from Lincoln Park. On the opposite wall are oil paintings of his family. The first and largest is of course his father, H.G. Wetherbee, then a picture of himself. Next to that is his younger brother, Gaius Wetherbee, one of Chicago’s Aldermen. Then a picture of Chastity Victoria Wetherbee, looking more demure than the newspapers would have us believe, and finally a picture of his youngest sibling, Tabitha, who appears as a baby in her baptismal gown. If my math is correct, she’d be about eleven years old now. 

Twenty folding chairs have been set up neatly in front of Dominic’s imperial-looking desk, which the CEO leans against, waiting for us all to find a seat. There’s a glimmer of disappointment in his eyes as he realizes far fewer people answered his call than he expected. Had this been a full room, I’d have to sit in the back, or even stand. I march to the front and take a chair in the center. If Dominic notices my behavior, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he looks a bit distant. He sits quietly for a moment before standing up straight and addressing the group in a powerful baritone voice, "Welcome to my offices, gentlemen and lady. 

I have something of an emergency happening in my private life, and I need my entire family around me to resolve it. Sadly, a member of my family is absent at this time."

Dominic walks over to the oil paintings. "Some of you may recognize my sister Chastity Victoria Wetherbee from the newspapers. You may also be aware that she’s very interested in… spending time with the various citizens of Chicago at social events and public places rather than at home, much to my father’s displeasure. 

Regardless, she is now needed at home. She recently slipped out of her bodyguard's vigilant supervision. She’s been missing from home for almost two weeks now, and while I’d normally just wait until she came back on her own, given the situation, I believe it’s in the best interests of both her and my family for her to return immediately. So that is what I’m asking of you. Please find my sister tonight, and return her to our family estate on the Gold Coast by noon tomorrow. Do this and I will have a generous payment of two hundred dollars each waiting for you when you arrive, plus I will cover any expenses you incur.

Elliot raises a hand and asks, Why not just go to the cops? Have them bring her home?

You all signed non-disclosure agreements to get in here, Dominic says. So you know that I am asking for your discretion, including everything we discuss here today. As for the police, my sister is well known for having journalists sniffing about her for posts in the social pages and local rags. If she is seen being…escorted by police, it will be in the next edition of the paper. The fewer who see her come home, the better it is for everyone, including all of you.

Now Reeves speaks up, You want us all to work together? He gives me the eyeball as he asks this.

Dominic shakes his head. Frankly, I don’t care who does what. It doesn’t matter to me if you all work as a team or split up. I don’t care who does the most work. I only care that my sister is returned to me by noon tomorrow. Those of you who show up at my father’s home at that time, with my sister, will receive my payment. But I don’t doubt that she’ll put up a fight. I can’t imagine she’ll make bringing her back easy, so don’t commit to this unless you’re prepared to take on the responsibility for her safety. If you’re in for a penny, you’re in for a pounding. This brings a chuckle from the men, obviously picturing a woman hysterically swatting at them with a purse.

I raise my pencil from my notepad. Is she in any kind of immediate danger?

Not that I am aware of, but as a member of an affluent family there is always the possibility someone might wish her harm. I expect her to be treated with the same respect you’d pay any woman of her station.

From there, we give him the usual run-down of questions. Age twenty-four, no distinguishing marks or scars. No steady boyfriend Dominic knows of. She was last seen at a dance hall and bar on the south side called the Last Draft and may be renting a hotel room near there. She associates with jazz players, she drinks and smokes, but Dominic doesn’t believe she’s done any harder substances than that. 

We all know what she looks like, but Dominic insists on handing us a photograph of her, taken only the week before she ran away. I’ve seen her picture plenty of times in the papers, but I’ve never seen her this way. She’s sitting on a couch, I’m guessing somewhere in her father’s home. She looks sullen, thoughtful. A woman on top of the world dwelling on the bigger-picture problems normal folks never see or deal with. 

What constitutes a family emergency for the Wetherbee household? Well, I’m here to do a job, and collect a fat paycheck, not pry into the personal affairs of the super-rich. In fact, since so few people showed up for this gig, it makes me wonder if the rumors that the Wetherbees are in bed with the Mob are true. Or maybe they have an even worse secret like they sacrifice virgins or eat babies or something. Whatever the case, I don’t want to know. The Wetherbees can keep their secrets. A paycheck isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on if you don’t live to spend it. 

As we all file out of the room, Elliot pulls me aside. Hey, listen...uh, like I said, this is my first big case, he says, fidgeting with his hat. Would you be willing to work together on this? I mean we get paid the same either way, right?

I make a show of looking him up and down. Men only ever ask for help when they’re desperate. This is doubly true if asking a woman. I want him to know I’ve taken his measure. I gesture to the three white PIs wordlessly boarding the elevator. Not one of them has even acknowledged the two of us leaving the meeting. What, you don’t want to follow around Moe, Larry, and Crumby Curly? 

Ew, he says. No, I don’t think I’ll get along with them, let alone learn anything from them. Y’know, on account of me being half-Chinese and all.

I nod, all too familiar with that pain. All right, I’ll work with you, but I have conditions. His puppy dog eyes and half grin are at once both endearing and make me want to slap him. One: you let me take the lead on this. Let me do the talking unless I say otherwise, and you follow my instructions to the letter. He nods. Good. Two: if you hit on me, I’ll kick you so hard your grandmother will find your family jewels in with her earrings.

Okay… so, now what? Should we head to that club, the Last Draft? Stake the place out so we can watch for Miss Wetherbee?

I roll my eyes. Yes, let’s loiter suspiciously outside a nightclub that won’t be open for several more hours, we can be sure to spook the lady real good when she shows up that way. I’ve always wanted to explain to the Chicago PD why I was chasing a white woman down the street. Cool your heels, this is a waiting game.

Got it, he says, still grinning. Anything else?

The elevator door opens again, and I step into it. Yeah, meet me outside the Last Draft club at 9 pm. Don’t be late. With that, I tap the door close button and pop a spliff into my mouth. The doors close on Elliot’s face, and I ride the elevator to the ground floor in silence.

Chloe

Tuesday, March 1st, 1938, 8:58 pm

After the meeting, I treat myself to a big subway sandwich from the shop up the street and take a nap. Later, I prepare a couple of Wanga I might need. A snail shell is the main component, as well as some silver paint and certain herbs. I’m guessing young Ms. Wetherbee will require some convincing to let us take her home. Since Sweet Reeves likes to solve his problems with brute force, and her well-being directly affects my payday, I want to make sure I can do something about it. Moreover, trying to drag a young woman out of a nightclub could start a larger ruckus, so I bring my .38. 

I arrive outside the Last Draft, shivering and waiting for Elliot. Supposedly the temperature is above freezing, but when the wind blows it feels like bees made of ice are trying to rip my face off. The brilliant lights from the dance club look warm and inviting, but they do nothing to stave off the frigid air. I may never get used to Chicago winters. 

Hunh, you made it. The voice makes me look around, and I see Sweet Reeves trundling up the sidewalk. This guy looks like wet sewage with a double chin. 

He takes a swig from a leather-bound flask and belches. I don’t suppose you seen the others?

Elliot should be here any minute, but I figured the other two would come with you.

Elliot. The Celestial kid? He squints at me. Whatever, and those other two probably took a powder.

 Why would they do that? This is good money.

Reeves emits a sharp, loud bark, followed by a coughing fit, and for a moment I think he’s having a cardiac episode, but it’s apparently just the way he laughs. You really think this’ll be a trip for biscuits, don’t you? Trust me, at some point tonight, everything’s going pear-shaped. 

Finally, Elliot pulls up to the curb on a red bicycle with a metal box bolted in place behind the seat. I’m here, I’m here. He puffs. Sorry, took longer to get here than I expected. He chains his bike to a light pole, then begins rifling through his box, pulling out a camera and a notepad.

You won’t need those, boy, Reeves says. You got a gun in there?

No. Why? Elliot glances at me.

All I can do is shake my head. Look, man, I say to Reeves, maybe you enjoy playing with your pistol, but not everything needs to end in a shootout.

As we turn to enter the dance club, Reeves says, The Wetherbee family has been in bed with the Outfit since Big Jim Colosimo ran things. Chastity Wetherbee is a mob princess. I hate that he’s right about this going pear-shaped.

So? Elliot asks. 

So, the only reason her older brother would need someone like us, not cops, to go get her, is ‘cause he can’t do it himself. And that’s ‘cause someone’s trying to kill him. Reeves turns and steps into the Last Draft, letting the door swing shut behind him. Elliot looks at me, expectantly.

Don’t listen to him. He just thinks that everyone sees solutions with their fists. He’s probably the biggest threat to her tonight, so just don’t let him get rough. Otherwise, we should be fine. I start to open the door, then pause and add, Still, be ready for anything.

The Last Draft Night Club is located right on the edge of Bronzeville and is one of the few clubs that is completely desegregated. White and colored folks mingle, dance, and drink here with abandon. It’s not considered a rough joint, but it’s not a church either. The place used to be a speakeasy back during Prohibition. 

We stop at the threshold to the first dance hall, and the alcoholic stink coming off Reeves, overpowering even the acrid smell of cigarette smoke actually comes in useful. People move away to escape the stench, giving us an easy line of sight on the whole crowded room. I’m surprised there are so many people here on a Tuesday. The band is in full swing, but we can pretty easily see between the people dancing, to the bar at the far end of the hall. Miss Wetherbee doesn’t seem to be in this room.

We move through to the second hall which is less crowded than the first. Here, the jazz band seems to be winding down from their first set, and I spot our girl, sitting alone at the end of the bar against the far wall. We approach our quarry.

Chastity Victoria Wetherbee wears a silk, light blue blouse and matching pencil skirt, with respectable heels and a dancing purse, tiny periwinkle beads forming diamonds on its sides. Her hickory brown hair swims down the sides of her cheeks to just below her jaw, and I can see she’s put in the extra effort to go for a natural look with her makeup this evening. Her heart-shaped face accentuates her creamy skin, and her pale eyes seem to be gazing past the band, through the wall to something beyond. I don’t go for girls, but if I did…

A guy sitting next to her pulls out a cigarette and offers it to her, and she absently waves it away. The fellow makes an indignant noise, snatches his drink, and staggers off into the crowd. She doesn’t seem to have noticed us yet. 

Cute purse, I say as I take the stool next to her. European? 

Oh, thank you. Yes, it’s Czech actually. Her voice is lower and hazier than expected.

You’re Chastity Victoria Wetherbee, right?  Elliot sits down next to me with his back to the bar.

She pulls her purse in a little closer to herself. Yes, but call me Vicki, please. I must confess, I don’t much care for my given name.

Sure, Vicki.

And who are… Her eyes drift past me to land on Elliot. "...You!"

Elliot groans. Reeves and I look back and forth between them. You know each other? I ask.

Before Elliot can even open his mouth, she snarls, "You’re the son of a bitch who wrote that scandal in the Chicago Breeze implying I had an intimate relationship with Barbara Hutton!"

You’re a fuckin’ scoop hunter, Reeves grinds out with a wheezy chuckle.

Elliot throws his hands up. No, I don’t do that anymore. See, we came to escort you home because of your family emergency and- 

I slap him across the face hard enough that he finds himself looking out at the dancers again. Dammit Elliot, you’re a reporter? You wrote some slime about her and you didn’t think she’d recognize you? I turn back to her. Look, I’m really sorry about him, but we are actually private investig—

Sure, my brother sent some house peepers here as his hatchetmen, because of a family emergency? She stands up from her stool and heads toward the backstage entrance labeled Staff Only. I don’t have time for this, I’ve got to speak to my boyfriend. 

Reeves grabs her by the arm. She yelps and batters him with the purse, but he pushes her through the staff door, out of sight of the public. I follow but realize Elliot is still sitting, staring stupidly out at the crowd. 

I didn’t belt you that hard, genius. Come on. I might need some backup if Reeves gets overenthusiastic.

Who— He doesn’t get to finish as I yank him off the bar stool by his collar.

The backstage area is a long cement hall, with a makeshift lounge for the band at one end, dressing rooms with mirrors and tables in the middle, and a rear exit that opens to the alley. The ceilings and walls are little more than cinder blocks, with pipes and wires racing every which way overhead. The entire hall is lit only by a string of bare light bulbs and a couple of lamps that appear to have been scavenged out of the trash.

The jazz band that went on break is here. Vicki is yelling at them about needing to speak to her boyfriend, having wriggled away from Reeves. The band members yell at her that he doesn’t want to see her, and Reeves is threatening to start cracking skulls if everyone doesn’t calm down. 

I move toward them all, when Elliot says, Who were those guys coming in? 

Huh? What guys? 

He creaks open the door we just came through and points. Those guys, dressed like hobo kings.

I peer through the crack. The dance hall now has a bunch of guys standing around, all wearing cheap, ugly suits, like the kind you find in a thrift store, with equally shabby hats, mostly fedoras. They stand out from the crowd not only because of their clothes, but because they aren’t dancing, or talking — none of them are even drinking. It’s like they’re just standing around…waiting. 

I don’t know, I say to Elliot. But I don’t think they stopped in for a nightcap. Let’s get these two and make tracks. 

...I don’t give a shit what your problem is, Vicki, Teddy said he doesn’t want to talk to you, one of the band members says to Vicki. 

But he’s got to listen to me, Vicki insists. It’s terribly important!

Another band member looks petulant as he sits on a couch back in the lounge area. "You think you can just bust in here and tell me what’s up when you haven’t even spoken to me for a month?" he hollers.

I swear to God, sweetheart, I’m about to break someone’s neck, Reeves growls. 

I elbow Elliot. Help me. We step into the squabble. I gently take Vicki by the arm, as Elliot pulls Reeves away from her. Vicki tries to push past the band members, and Reeves tries to grasp at Vicki. Everyone’s shouting something.

Hey! comes a new voice. Everyone freezes and turns. 

The rear exit to the alley now stands open, with six men in cheap suits crowding into the hall. All but one are armed with handguns. They draw their weapons and advance as one of them bellows, "Everyone against the wall, now!" 

I’m not sure if it’s because we all had our hackles up before they came in or what, but in the single greatest act of defiance I’ve ever seen, the musicians begin swinging their instruments like baseball bats and clubs. Vicki looks back for her boyfriend, but he seems to have dived under the couch. Reeves pulls a previously hidden .45, and Elliot has pressed his back against the staff entrance, peeking out the door to the dance floor. Screams and gunfire come from the dance hall. Elliot mouths "It’s bad," to me. 

I’m about to turn to tell Vicki to run when a loud pop accompanied by a flash and something warm spatters across my cheek. Reeves crumples to the ground, a large hole having appeared in his head, and blood begins to pool around him. I can’t help but let out a scream. One of the cheap suits shoots the clarinetist, then turns and drills two more slugs into the bass player. Elliot suddenly dances into the group, throwing a flurry of kicks and punches almost too fast for the eye to follow. I knock over a makeup table and throw myself behind it, pulling Vicki down next to me. I pull out a Wanga and slap it into her hand. 

I want you to spit on this, rub it five times, then crush it, I say. 

She eyeballs it dubiously. What is this? A snail shell? 

It’ll protect you, just do it! I pull a second