The Mammoth Book of Historical Crime Fic - By Mike Ashley Page 0,174

the distinct feeling that she knew them.”

“That’s enough,” the doctor said. “Inspectors, help me.”

Dutch gave the wounded man a hand-up to the stretcher on the floor of the ambulance. Flakes of snow came down in a sudden flurry.

“One last question, Cunningham,” Bo said. “Did you get her name?”

“She said her husband’s name was Place.”

“As in Etta Place?” Dutch said, as they watched the ambulance drive off.

“We seem to have the whole kit and caboodle. Butch, Sundance, and Etta Place. Ripe for reward-collecting.”

“Well, well, well; sure and I’m happy to see our police department has their best men on the job.”

The speaker wore a heavy overcoat and a black derby and spoke with a rolling Irish accent. His bulbous nose was red with broken veins.

“As I live and breathe, it’s O’Toole himself,” Bo said. “What’re you doing here? Did Tammany buy the building around the corner?”

O’Toole dusted the snow from his coat. “The Boss, he likes to stay in touch.”

“The election didn’t turn out so good.” Dutch chuckled. “Did it, me bucko?”

The Tammany man flicked his finger at the brim of his black derby, raising it. “Don’t mean a thing. We still got the influence.”

“In other words,” Bo said, “you know where all the bodies are buried.”

“Now don’t youse go putting words into me mouth, Inspector.”

“So what do you want, O’Toole?” Dutch said. “We got a lot to do.”

“One hand washes t’other, as the Boss always says.”

“Does he now.” Bo squinted into the snow. “Let’s go, Dutch.” They started off.

O’Toole came pussy-footing after them. “The Boss says youse might have a little gratitude for some information that’s come his way, what with a new mayor and a new commissioner starting in a few weeks.”

“And neither one owing you boys a thin dime,” Dutch said.

“Never do know,” O’Toole said. “But maybe youse want to take a look near where they aim to build another bridge to Brooklyn. There’s a tavern on Delancey with a wee bit of colour. The fortune-teller there ain’t half bad.”

Dutch pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket and lit up. “How do you mean?”

O’Toole patted his lips. Dutch grinned and gave O’Toole his own ready-made smoke, and lit a second for himself. “Talk.”

“Number one, she’s a true beauty. A real pip.”

Bo rolled his eyes. “What’s number two.”

“The fortunes she tells ain’t no blarney. They’re the real McCoy.” O’Toole took a deep drag of his smoke, tipped his derby and shuffled off into the swirling snow.

*

“There’s a bit of colour.” Bo pointed to the swinging black-lettered sign ahead. “Pink it is.”

Dutch sniffed. “Smells like Tammany to me. Is it possible Tammany’s dirty fingers helped craft the Bowery Bank robbery?” He removed his hat, shook the snow off and put it back on his head. “Crocker can’t steal an election, so he switches to robbing banks?”

“Robbing maybe. Killing? Not a good idea.” Bo stopped to watch an ugly midget, swinging a small club, which he used to knock the accumulating snow from the sign that said PINKYS.

“A beer, gentlemen? Have your fortunes told? Who knows what secret pleasures the fates have in store for you?” The little man gave them a quick, studied, smile. “Not often I get coppers in my establishment. Pinky’s the name.”

“What say you, Dutch,” Bo said. “A beer and a fortune?”

“Suits me.”

“Whiskey would be my rathers, but …”

They followed Pinky into the narrow space. Two drunks were splayed on the crude bar. “Out, out,” Pinky yelled, hitting the bar with his club. When the drunks didn’t move, he grabbed the backs of their trousers, one pair in each hand, and cast them, howling protests, out the swinging doors. He barred the doors with planks crisscrossed on the door frame.

Dutch’s eyes were drawn to a movement at the rear of the dark tavern. A white feather. The feather was attached to a red turban on the head of a woman swathed in crimson. She lit a candle, illuminating the small table where she sat and the two empty chairs opposite. Pinky nodded at the two policemen. “Have a seat, gentlemen. Lorraine! Fortune hunters.” He exploded with laughter.

Bo took the chair to his right, opposite the woman, “Let’s see what you have … Miss Lorraine.”

With fast fingers she opened what appeared to be a fresh pack of cards, split the deck in two and spread the two halves into fans. Next, with a stylish and almost melodious ruffle, she melded the two parts back into the deck and offered the cards for Bo to shuffle.

“There a back door