Cut-Throat Dogs by Loren D. Estleman

Author:Loren D. Estleman
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

SEVENTEEN

A match cracked and flared yellow, illuminating only the broad planes of a great slab of face. Something slid with a grating sound and the sharp stench of kerosene pierced my nostrils. Greasy orange light spread from an oil lamp, forming a lopsided circle a foot and a half in diameter. The glass chimney grated back into place over the burning wick.

Stan Kopernick blew out the match, dropped it on the floor, and puffed on his cigar. The smoke was silvery in the meager glow. The light didn’t quite reach the brim of his hat, leaving a strip of shadow there with his eyes glistening through. He was sitting in a mohair-upholstered armchair with stuffing billowing out of it like steam from a locomotive.

“You took your own sweet time getting here.”

I took the Ruger off cock and put it away. “Not so sweet,” I said, “and not my own. I sold it to a client. I had to hire a time machine to find the place. Where’s yours?”

“Around the corner, under a light. Those unmarked units are candy to carjackers. You’ll be lucky if yours is still waiting for you.”

“That’s why I camouflage it with dents and rust. Why here? Siberia too far?”

“That ain’t just rotten wood and rat turds you’re smelling. It’s history. They ought to put a brass plaque on the place. What do you know about the Black Legion?”

I lit a cigarette. The stink of history was getting to me. “Klan offshoot,” I said, stepping on the match. “Thirties or thereabout. They burn a cross here or what?”

“Nothing so gaudy. They tried a guy for being colored without a license: Set up a table for the judge’s bench, folding chairs for the jury, Confederate flag, the works. Twelve bad men and false deliberated without leaving the room. The bailiff and the sergeant-at-arms drove the poor son of a bitch clear out to Melvindale and shot him by the salt mines. Those days there weren’t as many empty lots as now.

“Even yellow-bellies had some guts,” he said. “They set up court right here in the middle of the Black Bottom; what the locals called Paradise Valley. That’s like organizing a Nazi bund rally in Tel Aviv. Not that brass balls did them any good when they stood trial for real. Doing life in Michigan can make you beg for the chair.”

“Charming story. You should be a tour guide. The urban explorers would want to know about this place; they love to play Indiana Jones. I don’t see you for the part. Why meet here, and not the Second? I left my cloak and dagger at home.”

“It’s practically the only place in town without a working surveillance camera or a busybody next door.” He blew a ragged ring of smoke. “I got a call from Chester Goss a couple of hours ago.”

I dropped the butt and crushed it out. “You and I only got hitched this afternoon. His pipeline into the department must be top-grade copper. Excuse the play on words.

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