Page 64 of Shadow Ticket
“None of the GPU regulars,” Dieter reports, “This one’s clearly high-level. Said to be running a narkomat of his own.”
“Keep on like this, Zoli,” Heinz waving a finger, “somebody’s going to start taking you seriously.”
“I hope you boys can behave yourselves.”
“Hasn’t been easy,” Dieter with a playful grin, “since we were issued the new Schmeissers,” anybody’s guess how much of this is being spoken in fun. As ZvK will reveal to Hicks later, one of many rumors about Drei im Weggla is that they’re secretly ananti-Soviet assassination squad, whom Stalin and the GPU have been after for a year, but owing to a deep inventory of extra-sensory skills, able to pursue unharmed a notorious career of retro-White mischief.
Suddenly Csopi has showed up at ZvK’s elbow, looking uneasy, muttering in Esperanto, with a lot of that wishfulusound in it.
“The Lamp,” ZvK up on his feet, “he says it’s out in back, and we’d better grab it while it’s still there.”
“Right on your tail, Zoli.”
They arrive about the same time as a roar and throb Hicks hasn’t heard since Milwaukee, from some hotshot on a Harley-Davidson Flathead that Hicks, PI reflexes kicking in, guesses to be Bruno Airmont’s deputy Ace Lomax. La Lampo Plej Malbongusto, not, as far as Hicks can tell, allthattasteless in appearance, trembles in the grasp of a nervous mug in a low-priced suit, who’s more than happy to hand it over and disappear beforeHicks can ask for any backup in dealing with Ace, now off his bike and advancing in a way you could say bodes ill.
“I’ll go get the car,” ZvK whispers. “Back soon.”
“That’d be helpful.”
“Mind the Lamp. If it should decide to apport on out of here again, don’t become alarmed.”
“Ain’t what I’m worryin about right now.”
Hicks has been keeping Praediger’s PPK heater parked in an inside pocket, undetermined tenths of a second away from being out and aimed before Ace will possibly have dropped him. However, Ace apparently is encountering some delay in disengaging from his own drapes whatever he has brought along in the way of persuasion, giving Hicks an impossible fragment of time to calculate which will cost him more, an unscheduled victim on his conscience or yet another homicidal personality out somewhere still at large and more motivated than ever to do him in. What a choice.
“You might want to think this one over,” the PPK aimed and steady, “unless your week’s been pretty slow.”
“Go ahead, then, Alphonse or is it Gaston, you need help finding the trigger?”
Hicks motioning with his head. “You mind?”
Ace shrugs and hands over a full-length broomhandle Mauser, which he might not’ve been planning to actually use.
“And how do you unload this piece of artillery here?”
“Bottom of the magazine just pops off.”
“Thanks.” Hicks opens the magazine, dumps out a handful of rounds, pulls back the bolt to eject the last one, gives Ace back the gun.
“That’s ten rounds you owe me.”
“Call it a nickel apiece, we can start a tab if you want.” Hicks lighting a local gasper, handing it to Ace, and lighting up one for himself. “See if I’ve got this straight, here we’re about to start shooting over some lamp nobody’s seen for more than a minute or two, some funny business too deep and far away to make much sense of, and I just happen to step into your line of fire—”
“Or me into yours. That’s it, pretty much it, nothing to get nervous about.”
“Big relief, thanks.” What has in fact been gathering around Hicks, not fully noticed by Ace, is a peculiar nimbus, likely due to Oriental Attitude, where it’s all the same whether he will now blast Ace into eternity or let him go on with a life in which, from what Hicks can see, there isn’t that much to object to. Another colleague in the same racket, just happens to be working for a different outfit. Of which there are already on this ticket more than enough to keep track of.
“You’re the gangster from Chicago.”
“On the schnozzola, pal, bad as they come, worth an El Producto at least, remind me sometime I owe you one of them.”
“How’s ’ose Cubs doing since they traded Hack Wilson?”
“Startin off the season pretty good, lost a couple to Cincinnati, Brooklyn.”
“Hornsby still playing second?”
“Nah, it’s this kid Billy Herman. First time at bat he swings, slams it into the plate, it bounces back up, hits him in the head, knocks him cold. Meantime the Rajah ain’t playin much, they’ve got him in as manager, the Commissioner’s after him, front office ain’t happy, everybody figures his days are numbered.”
