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

there are any doors her name alone won’t open, she’s fast with a lock pick.

“We’ll let you know what we hear,” West assured him. “Did you have any other questions you want us to ask if he’s in a talking mood?”

“The disappearances are the main thing,” Ness replied, mollified at being asked. “We’ve gone up the chain of command from the shift supervisor to the vice president of the company, and they either don’t know or are scared to talk about it. At first, we thought it was a gang war, but it’s gotten worse since Capone’s been locked up, and he doesn’t benefit from disrupting operations.”

“So either it’s a rival gang muscling in on his turf and faking the cause of death to scare people, or it’s a monster who slipped his leash,” I mused.

Ness nodded. “Yeah. And it’s a toss-up which is worse.”

“I can’t breathe in this thing.” Monkey suits always bring out the worst in me. Tight collars, made even tighter by a bowtie, and a perfectly fitted bespoke jacket tailored to make room for my gun made me feel claustrophobic.

“Poor baby.”

Sarah McAllen Harringworth tut-tutted as she finished tying my tie. West had taken care of his own tie in the mirror on the other side of the parlor that separated our shared room from hers in one of The Drake Hotel’s luxury suites. That’s another perk of traveling with Sarah—she believes life is too short not to have the best of everything, which she can afford, and she is generous enough to take West and me along for the ride.

Since Sarah likes to have me accompany her to events—either as a bodyguard or a mysterious male companion—she has her late husband’s tailor whip up the latest style of tux for me when the whim strikes. She makes sure the tuxes are in one of the steamer trunks she travels with when we go on a job, and I do my best to be gracious about looking like an organ grinder’s pet.

I’d feel like a kept man, but the relationship—at least between Sarah and me—is strictly professional. My Agata was the only woman for me, and while I don’t look it, I’m a good seventy-five years older than Sarah. If there is or was anything between her and West, it’s mutually casual and none of my business. On a job, they’re all business.

“You do clean up well, Joe,” Sarah said with a teasing glint in her eyes.

“At least until something blows up,” West observed. “I’ve lost a lot of good suits that way.” Our ventures did have a habit of ending in explosions and blood.

Sarah wore a navy blue beaded silk dress in the most fashionable cut, which I knew because she had mentioned it several times. West and I might not be married men, but we were savvy enough to nod and smile at comments like that. She was a beautiful woman—blond, trim, athletic, and thoroughly modern. I might not be interested—she was far out of my league—but I had eyes.

The good thing about walking into any room with Sarah was that everyone looked at her. West and I weren’t noticed, a benefit in our line of work, although I knew it irked West a bit since he enjoyed being in the spotlight much more than I did.

“Here’s a quick history, so you’re not completely lost at dinner,” Sarah said as she powdered her nose and touched up her red lipstick. “Kirk’s father went to Northwestern with my late father-in-law.”

“Kirk?” It took me a moment to realize she meant Jonathan Kirkpatrick, the coal baron.

She chuckled. “He hates ‘Jon’ or ‘Jonathan.’ Anyhow, the two fathers stayed friends, and the families often vacationed together—hunting or skiing out in the Rockies, hiking and fishing in the Adirondacks…that sort of thing. So when I married Henry, Kirk was always around. We’ve stayed in touch, and we have dinner together if we’re in the area. I’m widowed, and his wife left him for a ski instructor in Jackson Hole, so we can be seen together without a scandal.” She grinned. “Which, of course, is also where the two of you come in.”

“Chaperones?” West teased.

Sarah looped her arm through his. They made an attractive couple. “No, silly. Arm candy.”

I knew my job—be quiet and look dangerous. This wasn’t the first time I’d played bodyguard. I didn’t mind. The food was good, and I got to see how the other half lived.

Too bad we were here at the behest of Chicago’s staunchest defender of Prohibition. I’d have to wait until I got back to the room and Sarah’s illicit stash for an after-dinner slug of bathtub gin.

“Kirk” sent a car for us, which happened to be a sleek black Maybach Zeppelin. I held the door for Sarah and West to get in the back, then rode up front with the driver. Light traffic made the ride even shorter than I expected, and we pulled up in front of the stone exterior of The Standard Club before I’d barely had a chance to settle into the comfortable leather seats.

Sarah thanked the driver, I got out to open the back door, and the club’s doorman stepped forward to check credentials.

“Guests of Jonathan Kirkpatrick,” Sarah said, slipping into the role she had been raised to play.

I was as fascinated watching Sarah recreate herself to suit the situation as I was when West shed his flashy image to go undercover. Mostly, it intrigued me because I was pretty much the same wherever I went. I’d never needed to be anyone else, and now I generally didn’t give a damn. Other than using what my mother would have called “company manners” on nights like this, I was just me.

Of course, “just me” included owing my soul to an ancient god. Maybe I wasn’t quite as uncomplicated as I liked to think.

The Standard Club didn’t disappoint. Inlaid floors, wood-paneled walls, leather furniture, and fancy ceilings with gold accents screamed wealth and privilege. Crystal chandeliers glittered overhead. Formally