They drove for a long time, the lights of the city casting a faint shimmer on the darkened city streets. They said nothing—after the battle in the café, calm silence had some catching up to do. Portia steered the car to the curb and killed the lights, darkness enveloping them save the lone streetlight above. It was quiet.
"So who are you?" she said, curiosity aroused.
He thought for a moment. She had handled the car quite well, and those eyes revealed something beyond that left him wanting more. He laughed and pressed her hand into his. "I was just about to ask you the same question, kid."
They sat in the car...silent, motionless. His body ached from the fight earlier tonight, but the dull pain was better—more human—than the adrenaline-fueled numbness of the melee.
He blinked.
"Do you have something stronger than coffee in there?" he asked, tilting his head toward the door of her building.
She smiled. It was charmingly crooked smile, one that made her nose scrunch up like a schoolgirl's. Her cheek had a dimple that he hadn't noticed before, and....
He shook his head. This was not the time nor the situation to be led down that sweet-scented road to ruin again.
They walked up the steps to her apartment and she went to turn the key, but paused when she heard rustling in the bushes—then nothing, and they stepped inside. She tossed her keys on the table next to the door disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a half-full bottle of scotch and two glasses. She poured both full, no ice, and handed him one.
Mac took a drink and felt it work its way down. It was good...and hopefully this case would go just as well, if he could just make out all the facts that were swirling around in his mind.
Her voice brought him back.
"So, I think you were about to tell me about yourself," she smiled.
He noticed the dimple again and again and again...
He lied, "I've been investigating a local slaying for the paper."
"Oh, which one?"
They sat down on the couch, his eyes traveling where he didn't want them to go...
"I'm sure you've heard about the serial slayings they've been tracking in the city? It's been front page news for a few months."
"So you're a reporter?"
She shifted slightly on the couch, the light catching her hair....
"Yes", he lied again and suddenly felt tired. It was late, too late, and he had a whole slew of suspects to talk to tomorrow. "I need to go," he said, rising slowly, reluctantly.
"Do I get a name, stranger?" asked Portia.
"Yeah. The name's McKay. Frank McKay. My friends call me Mac."
"Pleased to meet you Mr. McKay" she said with a warm glow in her eye. "I'm Portia LaRose."
She offered her hand, but something smoldering inside Mac began to catch light. Hands roughm knuckles sore, he cradled her chin and kissed her. It was a slow-motion, cinematic kiss, maybe from a foreign film, and then it was over.* * *
Mac awoke to bells going off in his head, deafened by the ringing and throbbing. He barely remembered the drive home, somehow getting to his own bed just before the light of day began to warm the room like a cauldron. It had been a very long and confusing evening. He lay there and rubbed his forehead in thought, then realized the bells were the ringing of the telephone. He rolled over an picked up the receiver and…
"Hello? Hello?" pleaded a desperate voice on the other end. "Is that Frank?"
"Yeah, this is Frank McKay. Who is it and whaddya want?"
"It's Portia." She didn't sound so good.
"Oh, morning kid! What's up? How did you get my number?"
"You left your wallet here and I found your card, but never mind that. There are men here, Frank. They've been sitting in a car across the street all morning and I think they're watching my building."
"Are you sure kid?"
"Yes I'm sure! Oh Frank I'm scared. What should I do?"
"Don't sweat it, Toots. I'll be right over."
He hung up the phone.
A shower and a shave would have been nice but Portia would have to forgive his slovenliness just this once. Frank took a slug of bourbon, swilled it around his mouth and spat it in the grimy sink. He took another slug for the road, put his hat on and made his way to the car, slamming the door behind him.
* * *
"I'm sure this Delphine character has something to do with it," he thought as he drove towards Portia's. "If it is a person and not a street, or a..."
"Dammit!" He cursed under his breath. The mysterious slip of paper was in his coat pocket, forgotten at home. He tried to remember the number written after the name but couldn't. He hoped it would still be there when he got back.
As he approached her street, he slowed down and scanned it cautiously. Sure enough, there was a black sedan with three or four figures slouching comfortably inside. He drove past her street, circling her block, and plotted his next move.
* * *
Alone in her apartment, the morning sun's rays filtered through the sheer draperies covering the living room bay window. From the outside, it appeared as though no one was home. Inside, Portia paced frantically back and forth. Eyes darting, mind spinning out of control.
"Mac should have been here by now," she thought. "I hope he's not in any kind of trouble!"
With nothing left to do but wait, she moved last night's tumblers to the sink and sat uncomfortably at the kitchen table. She went to return Mac's card to his wallet among the usual things one finds—money, a few scraps of paper, receipts.
As she tucked the card into a compartment she found a faded photograph, terribly cared for, with ruining creases and significant water damage. Portia could just make out the likeness of Mac—standing beside library caretaker Albert Stanton!
She gasped and quickly replaced the photo where she had found it.
"They knew each other," Portia surmised. "And Albert is dead!"
Her mind raced with unanswered questions until the awful truth dawned upon her—Albert's murder, the brawl in the diner, all arrows pointed to Mac. It was as if someone, somewhere was trying to get to Mac by disposing of those who knew him!
No sooner had Portia realized Mac was the one in need of protection did she hear the gunshots. Outside. Emanating from the whereabouts of the mysterious car. Across the street from where she now sat...helpless, defenseless.
"Mac!" She cried, dropping the wallet on the floor.
* * *
The bullets thudded into the heavy steel car door then blew the windshield into a thousand pieces. Shielding his eyes, he jammed the car to a stop and rolled out the door, his breath coming in short gasps, heart racing. Pulling his rod, he glanced cautiously around the front fender and saw two of the thugs, tommy-guns in hand, trying to reload while running for him, hats off, jackets thrown back by the wind.
The other two ran in a dead heat towards Portia's, guns drawn and leveled at her door.
"Get the punk's moll," snarled the tall one.
"Aces, Johnny, not a prob," yelled the short one.
He didn't have much time, and neither did Portia. Standing quickly, he ran towards the tommy-gun toting thugs, and dropped the first one with a round to the chest, blood spraying the side of the street as the crumb's body was thrown back to the ground. The second egg had just about finished reloading his chopper when Mac's second bullet exploded into his head, crashing the lifeless body into the hood of a nearby car.
As their blood pooled in the street Mac turned and ran towards Portia's, jacking the action on the .45 and looking ahead as the other two goons busted down the door of her building and headed for the stairs to her apartment.
He wouldn't get there in time.
The sound of two shots sent a wave of despair through Mac's gut.
* * *
He bolted up the stairs with hatred in his heart and vengeance in mind. As he came to the landing he saw her.
Portia looked remarkably calm and peaceful...for a dame that's just stiffed a pair of gorillas.
"Jesus Christ doll! I thought you were..."
"Relax Mac," said Portia with an air of nonchalance, "You aren't the only one with secrets."
Contributing to this chapter were retroruby66, Lost Soul, the_librarian, Deja Voodoo, and swingkidlydi. Edited by Dante Murphy.
| Be sure to catch every chapter in the series... |
|
Chapter 1—Cold Steel and Hot Lightning Chapter 2—Secrets |
