The door opened and music spilled out. The sheiks went through the metal door and it clanged shut behind them. Sullivan waited a moment, then knocked.
A slot opened and two beady eyes scoped him. "Password?"
"I need to talk to Mr. Torrio."
The eyes looked him over suspiciously. "You the law?"
"Do I look like the law?"
Apparently. "We got a dress code." The bar slid back into place.
Sullivan just shook his head. He waited a moment, and then knocked again, harder this time. The slot opened. "Password?"
Sullivan stuck a gold eagle through the hole. "Tell Mr. Torrio that Sullivan from the First Volunteer needs a minute of his time."
The goon grumbled as he closed the peep. Sullivan pulled out his pack of smokes and settled down to wait. He had one on his lips when he remembered what the blonde, most likely a Mender, had said on the stolen dirigible. She'd certainly got the part about picking up a cold right. These things were supposed to be good for you, but Healers could see your insides… He frowned and put the cigarette back.
Maybe that was why he was so spun up about this case. There were enough magicals around nowadays that you were bound to have some in gangs. With the times being so tough, there were four times as many people making a living from crime as there were from carpentry, so you were bound to have Actives in there too. They had to make a buck, just like everybody else.
But this crew that picked up Delilah had been different. They weren't just magical. They had all been hardcore Actives. The German had shadow-walked while being tossed around when every other Fade he knew could barely pull it off taking their time without getting stuck in the wall. The Mouth and the Mover had been better at their Powers than any other he'd met. And the way the blonde had diagnosed him, she had to have been some sort of Healer, and those were so rare they were worth their weight in gold. Even a weak Passive Healer could write their own ticket, so it didn't make any sense to have one slumming around in a gang.
Sullivan's thoughts were interrupted when the door flew open. There were two burly toughs there. One leveled a Remington Model 8 rifle at his chest. The other had a Winchester pump and stuck it against his nose. Jake slowly raised his hands. "Bad time? I can come back later."
"Mr. Torrio says he knew three Sullivans in the Volunteers," the one with the shotgun said. "Which one is you?"
"Well, I ain't the dead one. So I guess I'm the pretty one," Sullivan answered. The goon pumped a round into the shotgun's chamber for emphasis. "Jake… Sergeant Jake Sullivan. The one that saved Lenny's sorry ass at Second Somme."
The goombas exchanged glances, and finally the weapons were lowered. "You's good. That's what he said you'd say. Mr. Torrio will see you now." He put one arm over Jake's shoulder and steered him into a long brick hallway. The door slammed behind.
"Welcome to the Grid Iron."
The club was about the ritziest thing Sullivan had seen. The exterior was a crumbling warehouse, but the inside was a palace. The brick walls had been covered in blue and white curtains, and an actual chandelier had been hung from the rafters. There had to be fifty folks on the dance floor, and double that sitting along the bar, drinking themselves stupid on quality Canadian booze. The front of the space was filled with round tables and diners. The smell of fine cooking made Sullivan's stomach rumble. The waiters were even wearing tuxes.
The back of the warehouse had a stage, and the music was both loud and good. A sparkling bridge spanned the stage over the band, darn near big enough to be an orchestra, and a long-legged dame was crooning a tune. She had great pipes.
One goon had remained at the door, and the other led Sullivan along the wall and up a flight of metal stairs. A balcony circled the room, and once at the top, they entered the private lounge, consisting of some leather couches overlooking Lenny Torrio's kingdom. There were tables in darkness along the back, and Sullivan could make out a few shapes behind the glow of cigarettes. He had entered the inner sanctum.
There were two more muscle types camped at the top of the stairs. Jake saved them the trouble of the pat-down and handed over his spare gun. It was a beater Smith amp; Wesson Military amp; Police.38, but he couldn't afford to replace his precious.45. "I'm gonna want that back," Jake stated as the guard carried the revolver away.
Lenny Torrio was sprawled between two chippies in slinky gowns. He was wearing a red silk robe over his clothes. "Sarge! How you been?" he shouted in greeting. He snapped his fingers and the girls jumped up to leave. "Get outta here. Can't you see I've got business to conduct?" He smacked one on the rump as they hurried away. "Have a seat. Have a seat!"
Sullivan settled his mass onto the couch across from Lenny. Physically, Lenny Torrio hadn't changed much. He was still a skinny, bug-eyed, hyperactive type. The con was going bald now, but he'd slicked what was left over to one side in a failing attempt to hide it. "Hey, Lenny. Been a long time."
"Sure has. You want a drink?" He didn't wait for an answer, but clapped his hands. "Yo. Amish, get my boy a drink! What're you waiting for?" Lenny turned back to Sullivan and frantically rubbed his nose. "Help these days… What can you do?"
Sullivan just nodded. "Nice robe… you supposed to be Rudolph Valentino?"
Lenny cackled, way too hard, slapping his knee. "You were always a crack-up, Sarge. Mr. Truth, Justice, and the American Way. Funny, huh? That I'm on top of the world, and last I heard you were a slave to the feds." A pair of glasses and a bottle were placed on the table between them by a cross-eyed man, who quickly hurried away. "How's that treating you?"
"Pays the bills."
"Good thing I'm a legitimate businessman." Lenny poured them both a drink. "And Rockville? Is it as tough as everybody says?"
"Worse." Sullivan took the whiskey, pounded it down in one gulp, and set the glass back on the table. It burned going down. He'd never liked Torrio. The man was slime, always had been, always would be, and the only reason he'd been in the First was because a Brooklyn judge had given him the choice between serving his country or serving hard time, and for somebody like Torrio, that meant Rockville Special Prisoners' Wing.
"So… you talk to Matthew lately?"
So that was why his door goons had asked him which Sullivan he had been. Torrio had always been scared of Jake's big brother, and for good reason. He had been the meanest bastard in the First, after all. Sullivan shook his head. "You don't want to go there. I ain't my brother's keeper." He changed the subject. "Thanks for talking to me."
"What? Just because you'd sell your own kind out to the government, I'm not supposed to entertain an old friend?"
Sullivan let the dig flow off him like water off a duck's back. He didn't rile easy. "My own kind? You mean crooks or Actives?"
Torrio shrugged. "Both. I heard why you went upriver, so in your case it's the same thing. Guys like us are better than everybody else, so you got made an example. You should know that better than anybody, Sarge. We should be running this show, not them. Normals just keep us down. Times are gonna change though, I tell you that."
Sullivan nodded like Lenny was just full of wisdom. He was full of something, but it sure as hell wasn't wisdom. He scanned the room. The men at the tables weren't clearly visible, but they were far enough not to eavesdrop over the music. The one named Amish was standing with arms folded about ten feet away. "I need some information…" Sullivan paused, frowning, as he sensed the intrusion. "And tell your boy to get out of my head before I open his."