The Big Mitt (A Detective Harm Queen Novel Book 1) (2 page)

“Just you and me?” He shook his head in disbelief. “Minneapolis ain’t so big. Emil’s got guys everywhere. He’s got plenty of dirty cops paid for, too. We can’t just parade a gaggle of girls through the snow. The bulls’ll pick us up quick, take us to jail, and then sell us back to Emil. He’ll work you extra hard to pay that back. And as for me, he won’t need me anymore, I reckon.” He formed his hand into a gun, held it to his head, and imagined his demise with a whimper. “And we don’t have no cush. I don’t, anyway. Do you?”

She pulled her bottom lip back with her teeth. Might as well tell him, she thought. If he doesn’t help me, then it won’t matter anyway. With care, she stood up, wobbling slightly. “No money now,” she said, as she rubbed her legs. “But I’ve got someone who has, and a raft of it too.”

“How can that be? You’re just a—”

“Yes,” she interrupted, “we both know what I am. But I know people, people from my old life.”

“Really?” Ollie replied dubiously. “Is it that Ace fella?”

“I can’t say, but please, just trust me.”

“It’ll be suicide trying to sneak Trilly and Edna out in the middle of the night.”

He was right, of course. She couldn’t put anyone else in harm’s way, especially the two other girls in Emil Dander’s employ. Better to leave, fetch the money, and then come back for them. First, though, she needed to find a way out of this miserable hole. “You’re right. Just me then. I’ll figure out what to do about the others later. Now go downstairs, Ollie,” she ordered. “I’ve made a lot of noise. Make sure I haven’t disturbed the house.”

“Okay,” he said uncertainly. “Then what?”

“Give a whistle,” she said, slipping on her only pair of shoes. They were so old that her big toe poked out from the end of one.

“What kind of whistle? Like I was looking at a pretty girl?”

“No, not that kind. Something cheerful. What’s that song you like to sing? That popular one you heard at the vaudeville?”

“You mean the ‘Bluebirds of Broadway’?”

“Yes, that one. And act like you’re in a good mood when you whistle it. It’s New Year’s, after all.”

“Right.” He grinned slightly. “Miss Mabel Johnson sings it. I’ve seen her four times at the Dewey Theater. She’s the sweetest peach I’ve ever laid eyes on and dead swell built. I wish I could see her up close some time.”

She leaned forward, and kissed him on the cheek. “Ollie. Stop talking. You need to go now. Before they get back. Check the house, and make sure the way is clear. Whistle that tune and I’ll be ready.”

“What happens if someone comes? Should I whistle something different?”

She thought for a moment. ‘Nearer My God to Thee,’ she said firmly. “I need to get ready. Go.”

He nodded, and flashed her a quick smile. “You sure are brave. Braver than me, anyway. And beautiful too,” he added sheepishly. He took off his jacket and handed it to her. “Take this, please. You don’t have nothin’ warm to wear ‘cept that flimsy gown. It’s too cold for only that.”

She took the jacket and put it on. “Thank you,” she whispered, holding back a flood of overwhelming gratitude. First, he frees her, and now this. Moments of kindness such as these were rare in this place.

Face red and avoiding her eyes, Ollie ran to the door and slipped through, pulling it shut behind him.

She tugged his jacket tight over her thin shoulders, examining herself in the cracked mirror over the dresser. An emaciated, tired corpse is all that’s looking back at me, she thought. She sighed and pulled open a drawer in the battered nightstand. One final thing to take with me. The drawer came out completely and her fingers reached behind to where a small groove had been cut in the nightstand’s back panel. Her hand clasped her prize, and she held it tight and with some relief. The stickpin’s value was obvious. It was about an inch and a half long, gold, and embedded with four small but spectacular rubies. She pulled up her gown and gently inserted the pin into the hem.

Satisfied, she had nothing to do but wait. Five minutes passed without the signal, and then ten. She heard noises downstairs, distant and muffled. At one point she thought she had heard some footsteps, but then no more. The anticipation was excruciating. She moved to the filthy window and wiped the pane with her hand, removing soot and frost. It was one of those exquisite winter evenings, where the fresh snow reflected the city’s lights into the night sky. She brightened at its beauty, but also knew she would be easy to spot once she tried to make her way through the neighborhood to freedom.

More footsteps coming down the hallway sent her heart leaping into her throat. They sounded dull and heavy, perhaps work boots. She balled a fist knowing she probably wouldn’t come out well from this, but was sure and determined to kick up a row. She put her body against the wall next to the door, thinking if it were Emil, he’d still expect her to be tied submissively in bed. In his confusion she could slip out past him and make a run for it.

The footsteps stopped, just beyond the door. Straining her ears, she made out raspy, forced breathing. Perhaps it’s just some randy old reveler, she thought, and wondered how he would react to find a woman behind the door who didn’t quite meet his expectations of an obedient whore. Slowly, the door handle turned, and her body stiffened with dread. Back went her hand, ready to punch his hallowed jewels if necessary.

And then she heard it. The agreed-upon tune, whistled low. A voice feverishly whispered, “Open up. It’s me, Ollie. Nothin’ to worry about.”

She smiled and threw open the door, and a massive paw flew into her face, cracking her nose and sending her crashing to the floor. All went black for a second or two, and then as her eyes focused though the searing pain, she saw Higgins’s hulking form standing over her, rubbing his reddened right hand.

“Ain’t no porcelain face on you, dearie.” He smirked. “That actually hurt a little.” His breath reeked of dog-cheap whiskey, and when he smiled his usual leer he showed a stunted row of rotting teeth.

“Where’s Ollie?” she managed to ask, sniffing as blood ran from her nose onto her lips.

“He spilled his chicken-shit little guts!” Higgins laughed. “Pock took him to the basement. Figured we should wait till Emil comes back before we rip his stringy limbs off. You know, I don’t get to many shows, but I saw a vaudeville last month with that song in it.” He whistled a few bars. “That damn tune is gonna be stuck in my head now for a long time. Looking forward to tellin’ this story to the boys down at the saloon, though. Crazy woman thinks she’s gonna fly the coop, and instead I come in and mangle her face!” He tilted his head back and guffawed. “Ain’t life like a big old ball of sunshine, dear heart?”

She nodded solemnly, and with all her might, rammed her fist into Higgins’s crotch. Her aim wasn’t perfect but it did the trick. He keeled over in agony, falling to one knee and bellowing like a branded cow. She was momentarily stunned, not at the writhing mound on the floor, but at her own mettle. Her struggle to free herself from the bed hadn’t completely drained her strength after all.

His thick fingers reached out for her, but his slowed speed was no match for her desire to cut dirt and rip out of the room. His body still blocked the door, but she clambered over him, falling into the hallway. Pulling herself up, she closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them, adjusting to the gaslight’s glare and her path to escape. The wallpaper’s stained and faded pattern of blue and pink flowers seemed to blur, then focus, and then blur again. At the end of the hall, a door led to the stairway. Her chance at freedom went one flight down to the main door. Higgins’s voice had diminished to a low moan now, and she looked back at him with horror. He stumbled after her, half crawling, half walking, and staring at her with frenzied, bloodshot eyes.

If he catches me, guaranteed I will never see the light of day again, she told herself. She rushed to the staircase door, pushed it open and leaned back, wanting a few inches of leeway in case Pock or another of Emil’s hired men were lying in wait with a baseball bat or crowbar. When no one appeared, she leaped into the stairwell, slammed the door, and bounded down the steps, two at a time. She held her gown high so she wouldn’t trip. From above, she heard Higgins scream down at her, barely coherent, a din of jumbled curses. Her blow had certainly made its mark, she thought with a short, grim smile. A just punishment for the ass, beating on a girl like that. Her smile widened as she reached the bottom, and a short hallway leading into the kitchen. It was quiet here, for the moment. She knew Higgins would soon come lumbering down the steps, furious enough to kill her right where she stood. The girls above were probably awake too, but too terrified to leave their rooms. Edna would be scared, anyway, but she could imagine Trilly attempting something as daring and foolish as this.

Opening the kitchen door, her nose wrinkled at the lingering stink of the burned potato soup that had been dinner. Worn cupboards lined the walls. A cook stove crouched in the middle of the space, a faint glow flickering from the firebox through the air-vent. A flour barrel sat in the corner, and with some grunting she managed to spin its bottom until it rolled like a heavy coin to a stop in front of the hallway door. She took a moment of satisfaction from her barricade, hoping it might buy her a few extra minutes.

The back door was locked, and from the inside. She knew why, of course. Trying her weight against it, she felt it give a little. Hitting it with her shoulder, she felt the wood bend. After a third attempt didn’t break it, she stopped to catch her breath and decide what to do. Cans of sugar, salt and flour lined the counter, so she used her arm to fling them aside, hoping a key might reveal itself. She shot a glance over her shoulder as she scoured the kitchen’s mess. He should be down by now, she thought, banging on the door and calling her “bitch” and “whore” and whatever else in his vocabulary filled in for a woman. It was silent, though, and the silence scared her even more. She reached underneath the little table, groping for any crevice a key might fit in.

And then she found it. Her fingers curled around the key and she pulled it up, triumphant. Throwing herself at the door, she fumbled the key into the hole, turning it and flinging the door open. Her heart pounded with the thrill of freedom. The room upstairs had been cold but the air outside was far below freezing. It hit her hard in the face and she buttoned up Ollie’s jacket with numbing fingers. Snow was falling lightly but lay thick on the ground, wind-swept drifts that looked like white waves frozen in mid-movement. As she stepped outside, the door slammed behind her, sending icicles from the eaves cracking and spearing into the snow.

The path had actually been shoveled, to her surprise. The yard was small, bordered by a rough wooden fence, about ten feet high. A forlorn tin-roofed shed stood in the corner, snug by the fence, eerily glimmering from the winter light. Trying her best to keep her shoes from crunching on the thin film of snow, she gingerly followed the path to the corner of the house. Caution made her stop and peer around the corner. She threw her body back when she saw the dark figure approaching. It was Higgins. She caught a cry in her throat and turned. Frantic, she considered going back inside and locking the door. Or should she run for it in the other direction? There was no way to avoid him. She’d get only a few steps in the thigh-high drift before he’d reach her and finish her there. Without time to deliberate she squeezed herself flat against the house.

Higgins was broad chested, big-bellied and taller than most. He reminded her of a troll in a fairy book that had frightened her as a child. After an instant’s contemplation, she realized she might use his size to her advantage. He turned the corner and stopped, leaned forward with his big forearms against his knees, and attempted to catch his breath. “Goddamn dirty bitch,” he whispered.

Slowly, he sucked in the icy air, wheezing like a broken accordion. As he stared at the ground she watched his eyes register her footprints. His gaze followed them up until he looked her cold in the face. The surprised gasp he made amplified into a yelp as she wheeled her leg to kick him in the meat of his calf. He went down fast, big arms clawing at the air to prevent his rendezvous with hard ice. Still, he ended up face down on the cement walkway, a fat pile of moaning flesh. The gown she wore had caught on her leg, and now she too fell, right on top of him. He roared with anger and she desperately slapped at his head as he strained to grab her.

“Get off me, you penny whore!” he yelled, spit and frost flying from his mouth. She was small match for his muscle, but still scratched and clawed at his face and neck, drawing lines of bright red blood with her fingernails. With brute strength he turned her over as she kicked and screamed, until his heavy body lay on top of hers. She felt his chest crushing her, and fought to catch her breath.

“I don’t care how much tin you earn for him,” he said, and threw her arms over her head. They slapped limply against the wet ice, and then he held them down with his hands. “He’s not going to care a lick what I do to you now, because I made sure you stayed right here.” Tears spilled down her face. She turned her head to avoid the stench of his foul mouth, so close to hers. He laughed and forced a kiss on her. She felt the bristles of his unshaven chin against her cheek, and tasted vomit in her throat.

“Hell, I don’t even feel the cold now, dearie,” he laughed, and he let go of one of her arms to unfasten his trousers. He was excited now, and hummed a chipper tune, something about the month of May. It was a song she’d never liked. Now she hated it. As he fumbled distractedly with his belt, she used her free hand to feel through the snow, finding nothing but clumps of hibernating grass in her fingers. Higgins struggled with her gown next, trying to force his way through the fabric. She wondered how, in the middle of winter, a man could take off his trousers on icy pavement in the middle of the night and find any joy or arousal. The weight of his body against her was staggering, but she still, desperately, sliced her fingers through the snow, ignoring the crushing pain and hoping to find something, anything, she might use for a weapon. He tried to kiss her once more and she moved her mouth away, so he grabbed her cheeks in his fat paw and held her head still so he could slam his skull into hers.