Chicagoland by Gail Martin (important books to read TXT) 📕

we all know that, it makes everyone behave. What’s the good of me turning you into a toad if your people are just going to turn me into one too? Magic becomes a deterrent because it’s a zero-sum game.”

“Unless someone changes the rules with a one-of-a-kind weapon,” West muttered.

Davis’s lips twitched in a half-smile. “Right you are. Give the man a kewpie doll.”

West rolled his eyes. “Cute. Who was Capone’s witch, and where are they now?”

“Capone is a do-it-yourself kind of guy,” Davis replied. “Must have inherited some power from his grandmother, and he taught himself what he thought he needed to know. But that’s Capone, overconfident bast—jerk,” he said, glancing at Sarah, who just smiled.

That explains why everything we’re finding seems cobbled together, words from all different languages, symbols from a hodgepodge of sources. Capone was making it up as he went. No wonder it started to unravel as soon as he wasn’t here to keep an eye on things.

The most dangerous witch is one who’s untrained.

“Lassiter. We need to talk.” The stranger strode up to the table like he had a right to confront the club’s owner in his own space. Two of Lassiter’s bodyguards closed ranks from the side, cutting off the newcomer. The stranger had his own goon behind him, although he was sizable enough to bounce the bouncer. I wondered how he managed to get by Tiny at the door.

“I have nothing more to say, Jules.” Davis sounded pissed. “The answer is still no.”

“If you’re playing coy, I can’t hold the opening for you forever,” the man warned.

Davis looked at him with annoyance. “When have I ever played coy? Seriously, Jules. I’m not changing my mind. Leave now. Or I will make it happen.” His voice veered from weary impatience to dangerous steel by the end, a shift that the newcomer seemed to register.

Jules’s expression tightened, and his eyes narrowed. The effort at goodwill he’d mustered for his attempted negotiation dropped like a discarded mask, and his lips thinned with anger.

“I’ll be interested to see how that works for you, Lassiter,” he said, threat clear in his voice. He gave a dismissive look to Davis’s bodyguards. “I can see myself out.” He turned and headed back across the club with his goon in tow. Davis nodded to his guards, and one of them followed.

“Sorry about that,” he said. “Some people just don’t know when to quit.” He paused as if debating with himself about how much to say.

“The Canadians I mentioned? Jules Duval is one of them,” he went on. “He’s Rocco Perri’s man—Capone’s counterpart in Toronto. We can’t figure out whether he was sent to spy on Capone or make deals behind his back. He didn’t waste a day after Capone got taken away before he was moving in on all of his partners, offering them better terms, trying to cut his organization out of the deals. That’s not how business is done,” Davis said, reproach clear in his voice.

“Just one guy? I’m surprised someone hasn’t come after him,” I said.

Davis shrugged. “He’s slippery. And Capone’s organization is in chaos right now. That’s the problem with a strongman—doesn’t trust their lieutenants enough, so there’s no one to hold everything together.”

Davis, like Sarah’s friend Kirkpatrick, struck me as a new generation of mobster. More educated and refined than the guys who had clawed their way up from the back alleys and never quite left that brass knuckles attitude behind them. Still all shark, but wrapped in expensive suits and pricy haircuts. That made them even more dangerous in my book because no one would mistake Capone for being an upstanding citizen, but these slick guys could pull it off, which made them a lot harder to deal with.

After that, Davis and West talked shop for a little while, with Sarah chiming in when someone she knew came up in conversation. I fell back into being a bodyguard, scanning the room for threat, making note of faces, paying attention to who was with whom. Never knew when that might come in handy.

At a certain point, Davis seemed to disengage, and West realized we’d been dismissed. We left amid promises to stay in touch, which I didn’t know whether West meant or not.

No one had paid us any attention when we walked in since we hadn’t been of importance. But after spending most of the evening with the big man in private conversation, it was clear others had noticed and regarded us with an evaluating gaze, sizing up our threat level. I gave them a dead-eyed glare, suggesting I’d shoot them and step over their bodies without thinking twice about it, and the room parted for us as West and Sarah swept through like the homecoming king and queen amid their court.

Once we were back in the alley, we didn’t need to discuss wanting to put distance between ourselves and 86. The big guys still loomed in the alley, and although seeing us leave the club meant West’s defiant whistle wasn’t necessary, we felt a little more welcome coming than going. A stray dog followed us, probably looking for a handout. I didn’t relax until we were back in the safety of The Drake Hotel.

It was well after midnight, and the night clerk gave us a bored once-over. Since he didn’t summon security, we must have passed his scrutiny.

We gathered in the suite’s parlor to make plans for the next day before turning in for the night.

“I’m going to chase down the murder house angle,” I said before anyone else could claim it. Holmes had been executed decades ago—his tomb encased in concrete to deter grave robbers—but that didn’t rule out dangerous energies. I’d be less vulnerable than either of them, which is why I claimed the task and hoped we didn’t have to argue.

“I think a discussion with the owner of this ‘famous’ occult bookstore is in order,” West mused. “If Capone was a regular, maybe he knows what topics interested him. That could help to