Podmore, P.I. - Part 9
Welcome back to the Windy City, locked in a heatwave and a never-ending struggle for power. The politicians have dinner with the gangsters, the cops are the real criminals, and sometimes the ones they call criminals are your only friends.
One of the few honest men left in that world is Sturgis Podmore, Private Investigator. When we last saw the detective he was on his way out of the Cook County Jail, having had a talk with accused murderer Regulus Black and caught sight of his worst enemy: notoriously crooked cop Dylan Selwyn.
But every day falls to night, and this night finds the detective once more in his office. As usual, he's got a lot to think about...
* * *
The sun set over the city proper, warm light fading to let the amber glow of streetlights take over. Women fanned themselves on the sidewalks, desperate for the relief of any breeze at all. The city would not provide, simply letting the tar melt at the edge where the sidewalk met the street as the last rays of the sun let go their stranglehold on Chicago's airway.
Night fell faster on the South Side, or at least it felt that way. When the shadows sensed even the smallest chink in the armor of the day, they attacked in full force - and as always, for another night, they won. Tonight, Detective Sturgis Podmore couldn't fault them; any change from the pounding heat of the sun was a welcome one.
Change of any kind was welcome. Another day of questions that led to more questions was passing on, and frustration was beginning to set in. Who was Chloe? Why the hell wasn't Celeste Lestrange taking his calls? Why would the likes of the Malfoys or the Lestranges take out a hit on a cabaret singer? How had that banker pissed off Mayor Riddle?
The answers to what and how, the evidence...all that lay somewhere in the why. If he knew why, then he could find out how, and then he could work on proving it. With even a shred of proof for this crazy story, he could take it to the outside and maybe get something - Ed Bones up at the FBI still owed him a solid from way back. If he couldn't help, Al Moody'd do it just to piss the Mayor off.
But neither of them was going to put his neck on the line without some proof. That was the job of crazy ex-cops who had nothing left to lose.
"G'night, boss."
Podmore sat up straight, broken from his thoughts by the sound of his secretary's voice. When the hell had she come in?
"Didn't I tell ya to quit doin' that?"
"Doin' what, Boss?"
"...nevermind." He shook his head, and remembered Regulus Black's panicked warnings from the jailhouse. "Your brother here to walk you home?"
The secretary nodded, and nearly left that as her only response. The question was an odd one, though, given that Doyle always came up to walk her home. He'd been doing it the whole two years she worked here, every night except for the ones he spent in jail - and even then he'd send one of the fellas he hung around with to see her home. The boss knew that, so why was he asking?
"...you all right, Boss?" Her voice was quiet as ever, her head cocked to the side just a bit with her inquiry.
"Yeah, fine," he replied, dismissive. "Just...be careful."
Sturgis Podmore said he had nothing left to lose, but the truth was that if somebody wanted to hurt him bad there were easier ways than breaking his kneecaps. First and foremost was Lacey, but Lacey was safe at school in New Hampshire, where nothing down in the city could touch her. Lydia was still here, though, and Sully, Betty, and Gum and Robards...it'd be too easy, for the kind of ruthless sadist that Regulus Black was clearly terrified of. Given the kinds of people Black had grown up around, for him to be that scared they were facing down some real bad business. Podmore didn't have many friends; he needed to keep the ones that were still around.
"Sure, Boss," the secretary replied, and though it was clear she still had her suspicions, she stepped back, silent, and faded through the open door.
It wasn't long after that Podmore followed, thinking his way down the dirty, echoing stairwell to the front of the building. From the little dance hall on the third floor he heard the piano and cornet warming up. Down to the first, out the door, into the dark. Below a white streetlight he struck a match and lit a smoke for the first half of the walk. His thoughts were on the case, always on the case, and whether or not the old Model T would make it to the MacFusty farm or not. He was almost preoccupied enough with other concerns to forget to watch his own back.
Almost.
There was just something a little too careful about how that Gardner rounded the corner. Realizing it gave Podmore just enough time to start diving as the tommy gun was pointed out the window.
Shots rang out quick like raindrops. Bullets struck the bricks behind him, another ricocheting off a metal trashcan, another whizzing right above his head. Light began to creep into the street from the apartments startled to waking by the sound. Even in this neighborhood, you seldom heard that many shots fired at once.
A roar of six cylinders firing, then rubber tires whining as like a cockroach frightened off by a sudden shaft of lamplight, the car sped away. The gunman fired off a few last farewell rounds, keeping Podmore on the sidewalk until the car rounded the corner. With the speed and the dark it was hard to tell much, even as he got quickly to his feet and sprinted full-tilt after the car.
No license plate, of course. Black Roadster, brand new. And a tommy gun. At his office.