In Plain Sight

16 The Broker

Iggy was sitting in the kitchen with a coffee cup in one hand and the pot in the other when Alex got home. The old man looked exhausted, but at least he wasn’t coming in after sunup smelling of Scotch, silverlight oil, and perfume. When Iggy caught sight of him, he raised an eyebrow.

“And just where have you been?” he said. The eyebrows went up further when Alex got closer. “That’s a lovely shade of lipstick on your collar,” he added.

Alex said nothing.

“At least you don’t smell like a brothel; that’s expensive perfume. Did you keep the Sorceress company last night?”

“God, no,” Alex said, offended that his friend would even suspect such a thing. Sorsha was beautiful, no question, but she seemed to have a healthy dislike for him. “I don’t have a death wish,” he declared. “Can you imagine what that woman could do to a man who sent her packing? Or God forbid, broke her heart.”

“Planning on sending your companion of last night packing?” Iggy said. “You seem to think that’s where all relationships end up.”

Alex grimaced. He had his opinions about the entangling proprieties of relationships, and he didn’t like Iggy’s desire to discuss them.

“Just most,” Alex said. “Although I might make an exception for Evelyn.”

“The woman with the missing brother?”

Alex nodded.

“She must have made quite an impression on you.”

“She did,” Alex said. “Now, do you have my runes ready?”

Iggy sighed and rolled his eyes.

“There’s nothing better for a man than the companionship of a good woman.”

“How about not being thrown in jail where I’ll wait to be murdered by Danny’s father?”

“That’s good, too.” Iggy chuckled and shrugged. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out four folded pieces of flash paper. “I’ve marked them, so you can’t get them mixed up,” he said. “Each rune will work for five hours or until you cancel them. Have you figured out how to get the truth out of the Broker?”

“I just need some rope and a couple of pulleys.” Alex nodded. “I’ll stop at Ralph’s place, then I’ll be all set.”

“Sounds messy,” Iggy said, yawning. “I thought you were going to avoid that kind of thing.”

“Don’t worry,” Alex said, and chuckled darkly.

Iggy raised his eyebrows as if weighing whether or not Alex was being straight with him.

“You’ll have to tell me about it,” he said finally. “I’m spent, I’m off to bed.” With that, he rose and went upstairs to his room.

Alex headed up to his room and showered, then changed into some work clothes. He had a pretty good idea how to make Jeremy Brewer, A.K.A. the Broker, talk without having to beat the truth out of him. Such tactics were time-consuming and messy. His idea involved using his vault to transport Mr. Brewer and then to force him to reveal who stole Van der Waller’s stones. And, if he had time, he’d ask where Charles Beaumont lived as well. If Beaumont was the Spook, the Broker should know him.

Alex hurried out to a building supply company run by an Italian named Ralph. His parents were very proud to be Americans. Alex had helped Ralph uncover a competitor who kept vandalizing his storefront, and now Ralph sold Alex anything he needed at a discount.

An hour later, Alex was back at the brownstone with fifty feet of heavy rope, a sturdy metal chair, two pulleys, and a thick gauge U-bolt. He installed the pulleys and the bolt in his vault in a matter of a few minutes. The walls of the extra-dimensional space were a flat, seamless gray and hard as stone. Since Alex had created the space, however, he could mold it like clay with just his hands. All he had to do was push the pulley’s anchor bolts into the material of the wall then let it harden around them. The U-bolt went in just as easily, right beside the door.

That done, he cut a thirty-foot length of rope, looped it through the pulleys on the back wall, and tied the ends to the sides of the metal chair.

“That ought to do it,” he said to the empty vault. He pulled his watch from his pocket and found that it wasn’t even noon yet. He wouldn’t be able to make his appearance at The Emerald Room until after seven.

He paced back and forth in his vault for almost a minute before he switched on the light over his work table. Opening his kit, he took out a worn, dog-eared notebook and thumbed through to the last few pages where the handwriting changed from Thomas Rockwell’s neat lettering to Alex’s more loose script. He scanned through the notes he’d been making last night before Evelyn—

Before Evelyn.

Alex shook his head like a dog.

No time for that.

He pulled out the copy he’d made of the Archimedean Monograph’s runes when he first found Thomas’ lore book. The original finding rune was very different from the one Thomas had unraveled just before he died. The man had been sure he’d figured it out, sure enough to bet his life on it. Alex had seen right away that the rune was far more complex. Thomas simply didn’t have the skill or the training necessary to decode it.

Alex brought out his own notebook and set to work.

Four hours later, he finished deciphering it.

The taxi let Alex off in front of an all-night drug store, three blocks from The Emerald Room. He decided to splurge and bought a pack of cigarettes before heading to the phone booth to call Iggy.

“I’m here,” he said when Iggy picked up. “If all goes well, I shouldn’t be in there for more than half an hour.”

“If I don’t hear from you in an hour, I’m calling Danny,” Iggy said.

“All right,” Alex said, checking the time on his watch; it showed a little past eight.

Iggy wished him good luck and hung up. Alex replaced the phone’s receiver, but lingered in the booth. He pulled out Iggy’s disguise runes and spread them out on the little shelf beneath the phone. Licking the one labeled Clothes, he stuck it to his jacket, then lit the paper with a match from his pocket. A tingling sensation ran up his spine and when he looked down, his worn gray suit had been transformed to a lustrous black tuxedo. The ebon pips in his shirt gleamed in the diffused light of the booth and the lapels of the jacket were glossy.

The rune labeled Face came next and Alex stuck it to his forehead before setting it alight. He worried that the flame might burn his eyebrows, but the flash paper was consumed so rapidly, he didn’t even feel its heat.

Wondering if the rune had done its work, he opened the folding door of the booth and caught his reflection in the glass. Instead of his ordinary, serviceable face he saw an elegant one with high cheekbones, a pencil mustache, and slicked-back hair. He looked like a thinner Clark Gable. He didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended. One thing was for sure, no one would recognize him.

The last rune for this part of the plan was labeled Money. Alex took a stack of six dollar-sized papers out of his wallet. Three of them had the number one-hundred written on them, two were labeled twenty, and the last had the number five scrawled on it. Alex licked each bill and stuck it to the rune paper, then lit it. When the flash dissipated, the paper looked for all the world like real bills. It wouldn’t last, of course, but it would be enough to get him through the evening. He had promised Iggy he wouldn’t spend any of it unless absolutely necessary.

He had a feeling that would be a difficult promise to keep.

Transformation complete, Alex checked the rest of his gear. He had two emergency runes in his right jacket pocket along with his rune-covered brass knuckles. The left pocket held the pack of smokes, a book of matches, and a card with the name Harold Troubridge, Antiquities printed on it.

He lit a cigarette to calm his nerves, then opened the phone booth and strode back out into the street. This was it. With any luck he was about to learn the name of the man who beat Jerry Pemberton to death. All he had to do was convince a vicious and well-connected criminal to tell him what he wanted to know.

Easy.

Outside the front door of The Emerald Room stood a man who had to be six-foot-four. He towered over people in the street and his thick neck seemed to strain the limits of the bow tie he had on. He wore the red jacket of a doorman, but Alex knew him for the bouncer he was. The man’s presence made a definite statement — unless you belong here, go away.

Alex took a long drag on his cigarette as he approached. The man mountain gave him an appraising look, up and down, but saw nothing amiss. He turned his attention back to the street as Alex walked right past him. Alex waited until he was inside before exhaling a cloud of white smoke.

The interior of The Emerald Room didn’t fail to impress. The floors were cherry wood, stained and polished to a red sheen. The walls were papered with a striped pattern, alternating green and white, and the lampshades were Tiffany, all made of green glass. A dance floor occupied the center of the club, with small and medium sized tables arranged around it in a semi-circular pattern. Every row of tables was mounted on a riser, each higher than the last in a stair-step pattern, so they looked down on the dance floor. The far side of the floor was occupied by a long bar made of some dark wood where three bartenders served patrons and the waitresses who took drinks to the semi-circle of tables. An orchestra played a swing tune and the whole club seemed full of the energy of the music. Running around the top of the ceiling were balconies that led to private rooms.

That was where Alex would find Jeremy Brewer, the infamous Broker.

Moving slowly but purposefully, Alex picked his way across the floor to the bar and ordered a drink. He felt the need to hurry but stifled it. Before he could go looking for the Broker, he’d need to do some reconnaissance.

The nearest bartender was a short, pudgy man with an elaborate mustache. He had the kind of face that encouraged men to tell him their troubles. An ideal bartender.

“Can I help you, sir?” the bartender asked with a smile. He had a slightly Midwestern accent along with the kind of physique people got from growing up on a farm.

Alex decided to splurge. He told himself it was to better establish his character, but he knew that the Broker wasn’t likely to ask the bartender for a reference.

“Your best single malt, please.”

“That would a Macallan 30-year-old,” the bartender said. “Will that do?”

“That sounds acceptable.”

“Very good, sir.”

A moment later he brought Alex a glass of very smooth whiskey. Alex pulled his fake money from his pocket and peeled off the five spot. When the man returned with his change, Alex tipped him outrageously, then turned and leaned against the bar, surveying the room while he slowly savored his drink.

He wasn’t much of a socialite, but he recognized a few Broadway stars and a textile millionaire in the crowd. As his gaze swept the room, he located the stairs going up to the private areas. There was no guard there, but the Broker would surely have someone watching his door.

Regretfully, Alex finished his drink, setting the glass on the bar, and headed back across the floor to where the band leader was conducting a slower number to give the dancers a rest. He got the man’s attention, then slipped him a twenty along with a note to play In the Mood. Alex needed something brassy and loud to cover any noise he might make, since the private rooms had open balconies.

Taking a deep breath, Alex lit another cigarette and climbed up the risers where the tables sat, then up the stairway at the back. A long hall ran along the back of the building with doors set in it where the private rooms were. At the far end was a door marked Exit that probably led to the fire stairs. It would also explain how the Broker and his clientele could come and go unseen. Alex knew that while the Broker’s clients came in through the front, most of his associates didn’t have that kind of clout.

At far end of the hall, nearest to the fire door, a man in a simple black suit stood next to the last door. He had a broad, flat face with a long nose that appeared to have been broken at least once and eyes that looked as if they were always squinting. His hair was slicked back and his shoes were shined, but something about his face told Alex that he was a plain thug. Maybe it was that nose.

“What do you want?” he asked, doing a fairly good job of hiding a Jersey accent.

Alex reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out the card with the name Harold Troubridge on it and held it out. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Brewer,” Alex said in his most aristocratic British accent.

The flat-faced man didn’t move or accept the card; he just looked Alex up and down, trying to take his measure. “Do you have an appointment?” he asked.

“Unfortunately no,” Alex said. “I just arrived in town and I shan’t be here long. Please give him my card and tell him I’m here regarding a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

The man gave Alex another penetrating look, but Iggy’s disguise runes were as solid as he claimed. “Wait here,” he said, taking the card.

Down below, the band was striking up In The Mood.

As soon as the guard was gone, Alex took out one of his rune papers and crumpled it up in his left hand, holding it in place with his thumb. He patted the weight of his brass knuckles in his jacket pocket and hoped he wouldn’t need them. And if he did need them, that they’d be enough.

When the door opened again, the flat-faced man stepped back, allowing Alex to enter. Inside, dim lamps illuminated two men sitting on velvet-lined couches around a small table. Along the back wall stood a well-stocked liquor cabinet with frosted glass panels and bright brass knobs. Chairs were set up along the balcony side so people could watch the band and the dancers below.

One of the men was large with big shoulders and hard, expressionless eyes. His features were sharp, even his beak-like nose, and he had bushy eyebrows that contrasted with his entirely bald head. He wore a loose white shirt and black trousers with a red silk sash around his waist for a belt. Sitting with his legs crossed and his arms over the back of the couch, he had an air of casual violence about him.

The other man was clad in a red smoking jacket, with a cigar in one hand and a snifter in the other. He had an infectious, crooked smile that showed off perfect, white teeth and his blue eyes were alive with curiosity. This was the man Alex was looking for, the elusive Broker.

“Mr. Troubridge,” the man in the smoking jacket said invitingly. “Come in. I do enjoy meeting new people.”

Alex relaxed a little, taking his cigarette between his right fingers. This was going better than he’d hoped.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, his arms were seized from behind by the flat-faced man and held tight.

“Of course I prefer to know people before I meet them,” the Broker said, putting aside his snifter and standing. “And I don’t know you.” He came close enough for Alex to smell the Cuban tobacco on his breath and studied Alex’s face. “No,” he said after a long moment. “I’ve never seen you before, so how is it you know my name?”

Alex began to turn the smoldering cigarette around in his fingers. He had to move slowly so as not to arouse the suspicions of the flat-faced man. He needed to stall, but only for a minute.

“I heard it from someone who wishes to remain anonymous.” Alex said. He didn’t even have to lie. Brewer’s face grew angry and he nodded to his bald-headed companion.

“Search him,” he said. The flat-faced goon pulled Alex’s arms in tighter as the big man began patting Alex down.

“What’s this?” he asked, pulling the brass knuckles out of Alex’s pocket. Alex smiled at him as his cigarette touched the flash paper in his left hand.

“Insurance,” he said.

The paper erupted in fire and light, but it didn’t stop. The light exploded into the room, flowing like water until it filled every crack. The second Alex felt the paper burn, he’d shut his eyes tight.

It didn’t help much.

The light from the flash rune burned brighter than staring at the sun, but only for an instant. He hoped the people in the club below would think the light was just one of the overhead magelights burning out.

The hands holding him let go and the three men not expecting the flash started to swear. When Alex opened his eyes, bright dots swam in his vision, but he had no time to worry about that. Bending over, he picked up the brass knuckles where the bald man had dropped them. Slipping them over his right fingers, he turned to find the flat-faced man and Brewer on the floor; the bald man, however, had pulled a snub-nosed .38 from his waistband. Alex strode over to him and unceremoniously punched him in the arm with the brass knuckles. The runes on the metal flared into sudden life and the man howled in pain, the gun falling from his nerveless fingers.

Alex grinned. The rune was one of his own invention. It delivered a shock that felt like a dozen bee stings and left the area numb.

Without stopping to admire his work, Alex pulled back and slugged the bald man in the gut, sending him down on the floor in a gasping heap. He only had another minute or so before they regained their vision, so he had to work fast. Dropping the brass knuckles in his pocket, he took out the piece of chalk and drew the door to his vault on the wall. Next he stuck the second piece of flash paper in his pocket to the wall and lit it, bringing his vault door from chalk to reality. Taking out his key and opening the door, Alex retrieved the bottle of chloroform and rag he’d left on the table just inside and set to work.

The Broker was shaking his head, trying to clear his vision, when Alex tackled him and jammed the chloroformed rag over his face. Once he stopped struggling, Alex stood and dragged him into the vault where he had a pair of handcuffs ready. The Broker thus secured, Alex closed the vault and the door disappeared, leaving only the chalk outline on the wall.

He turned in time to see the flat-faced man pull a pistol from a holster inside his jacket. It was clear he still couldn’t see, but that didn’t seem to stop him. He fired three shots before Alex punched him in the face with the brass knuckles. Flat-face went down hard.

“That was close,” he said, kicking the gun away from the unconscious man.

“Got you,” a snarling voice said, and the bald man drove his fist into Alex’s back.

Alex stumbled forward, losing the brass knuckles but catching himself on one of the couches. Turning just in time, he ducked an uppercut that would have laid him out and landed two hits to the bald man’s solar plexus. Baldy grunted but didn’t give ground, driving his fist into Alex’s jaw so hard he knocked out a tooth.

Alex staggered back, but the bald man still couldn’t see well and his next punch missed. He lunged forward, trying to tackle Alex to the ground where his lack of vision wouldn’t be a hindrance. Bringing up his foot, Alex managed to kick the man away, but both of them went down. As the bald man groped for him, Alex rolled out of his grip, his hand landing on the brass knuckles. He slipped them on and scrambled to his feet, intending to put the big man down for good. When he turned, Alex found that baldy had found a weapon too, the flat-faced man’s pistol.

The bald man brought the pistol up and fired. His vision must have gotten better because the bullet hit Alex in the side. Gasping in barely-controlled pain, Alex stepped forward before the other man could fire again and drove the brass knuckles into his jaw so hard he heard it crack.

Finally the bald man went down like a sack of flour. For his part, Alex just stood there gasping, as fire and pain spread through his torso. Grunting, he pressed his hand against his side and it came away soaked in blood.

“Good thing…” he gasped, “I live with a doctor.”