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others.”
She had heard of them. They were making some noise in the lesserparts of the Midwest, though not in her hometown of
Chicago, where the Syndicate held something of a monopoly on crime—or
perhaps only an oligopoly, now that Capone was in jail. The papers must not
have run any photographs, though. Surely she wouldn’t have been able to
blithely flip past a picture of this face.
“So why am I not being tied up with them?” she asked him as two of
the robbers began tying the other hostages’ wrists to the post of a
collapsing fence.
“We still need some company for a bit longer, if you don’t
mind,” the ringleader told her. “But don’t worry, this time
you can sit inside with us. Won’t be long.”
“So do you have a name, or is it just Firefly Brother Number One?”
“Better not let my brother hear you say that—he’ll take
offense. My name’s Jason. And you are …?”
“Darcy Windham.”
“You aren’t related to—”
“He’s my father.”
“My, my. An automotive heiress.” He tipped his fedora.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“I’m afraid I’m not terribly close to my old man, so
don’t ask me for any free cars.”
“I’ve never had trouble finding free cars. You aren’t fond of
your old man?”
“Well, he did name an axle after me, but that’s about the extent of
his familial affections.”
Jason smiled. “It’s a form of immortality.”
“Yes, a rather greasy one.”
The other robbers had finished tying up the hostages, and Jason motioned for
her to get into the backseat of the Pontiac.
“You’re just going to leave this Buick out here to rot?”
“Afraid so. The cops saw it, so the cops can have it.”
“Why don’t you wear masks?”
“I hope you aren’t calling me ugly.”
“No,” and she found it impossible not to return his smile as he put
a hand on her shoulder to guide her into the car. “But it does make it
possible for your hostages to identify you later, doesn’t it?”
The man who’d vomited screamed, “Jesus, lady, shut up!”
“Hey, watch it, buddy!” Jason snapped. But
when he turned back to Darcy he was smiling again. “It’s hot under
a mask. Plus it’s hard to breathe. And who cares if people can identify
me?”
She still hadn’t quite gotten into the car. “You aren’t
afraid of the police?”
“Are you?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Never? Then why do you have that gleam in your eye, Miss Windham?”

    More thunder, rattling her apartment’s windows. More gin, rattling her
nerves. It was supposed to settle nerves, wasn’t it? Perhaps
she’d had too much, or too little. Only one way to be sure.
She hated herself as she poured. It had been years since she’d taken more
than one drink in a sitting, not since emerging from the long fog precipitated
by her mother’s “suicide.” Darcy preferred to think of it as
a murder, even though there was no murder weapon for her father to leave his
fingerprints on. Darcy had barely been in her teens, but her father
hadn’t noticed her drinking for months—or maybe he’d noticed
but hadn’t cared, at least not until the spectacle of herself became an
embarrassment to him and his business. And then his solution had been to send
her to a sanatorium—straitjackets and syringes and soft rooms.
Her father had called her a few hours ago, to see if she’d heard the
news. He sounded as if he were gloating. She didn’t know how he’d
got her number—she had assumed this apartment was her secret. The man had
tentacles; there was no limit to where they could slither. He’d asked
what she was doing and she had said what does it sound like I’m
doing, and he had told her martinis were a rather strong drink at this hour.
What’s wrong with strength? she’d asked. Didn’t you preach
the importance of strength, the necessity of strength, the primacy of strength?
Sometimes a girl needs some strength in the morning.
After hanging up on him, she’d left the apartment and walked