“Charlie Vit,” Vit said distractedly. He was getting drunker and drunker thanks to Holly, and seemed to be having trouble focusing.
“What brings you back to Chicago?” Alistair asked mildly, as though the matter was merely one of polite conversation.
Vescovi’s mouth tightened slightly. He was a somewhat plain man with light brown hair and dark eyes. Like Ursino, he’d gotten his start in New York City and retained the accent. “Business,” he said. “Are you still working for Sullivan?”
It was all Alistair could do not to bristle, but he wanted to keep on Vescovi’s good side. “We still have our arrangement, if that’s what you mean.”
“Right.” Vescovi’s eyes roved the room, and it was clear he wasn’t actually interested in the conversation.
One last bit of information, then, before he could leave. “Are you staying in Towertown? If so, come to The Pride and I’ll stand you a drink.”
“What? Oh, yes.” Vescovi brightened slightly. “Maybe I’ll do that.”
At that moment, Sam reappeared. He had one hand deep in his pocket, probably clutching Vit’s wallet. Alistair met his eyes and received a tiny nod of confirmation.
Thank God.
Might as well introduce them now, if they meant to use Vescovi later. “Sam, this is Adamo Vescovi, an old acquaintance. Mr. Vescovi, this is my friend Sam Cunningham.”
Vescovi had been extending his hand for a polite shake, but it jerked slightly at the sound of Sam’s last name. “Cunningham?”
Sam nodded. “I guess you heard what happened to my cousin.”
“Eldon was your cousin?”
“I was staying with him, actually. I mean, I’m still staying in the house…” Sam trailed off.
“Oh.” Vescovi looked concerned. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I knew Eldon…well, before I went away. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral.”
“It’s okay.” Sam sent a nervous glance in Vit’s direction.
“I should go.” Vescovi turned to Alistair. “I’ll take you up on that drink soon, Mr. Gatti.”
Once he was gone, Alistair patted the seat next to him. As soon as Sam sat down, Holly flung her arms around him. “You’re such a good friend,” she slurred, though Alistair noticed she’d barely touched her drink. “Are you going to take me for a drive soon, like you promised?”
Sam’s face had gone bright pink, but he had the presence of mind to say, “Um, yes?”
“I knew you would.” She kissed him on the cheek, turned to Vit, and grabbed his arm. “You should come with us, Charlie. Keep me company in the rumble seat. We could have a picnic!”
Vit, who had consumed quite a bit of champagne on Alistair’s dime, hugged Holly and whispered something in her ear. Her expression became a little fixed, but she lingered long enough to replace the wallet she’d gotten off Sam. Then she pulled back—and slapped Vit’s face.
“I’m not that kind of girl!” she exclaimed, jumping to her feet.
The commotion drew the eyes of the drinkers around them. “You tell him, toots!” someone yelled.
Vit looked deeply confused. “I’m sorry,” he slurred.
She turned her back on him. “Come on, boys, let’s take this party somewhere else,” she said and marched away, back straight and head high.
Alistair and Sam hurried after her. Once they’d retrieved their coats from the check and returned to the chilly street, Alistair said, “You’re exactly that kind of girl.”
She laughed. “Yes, but not with men. Did you get it, Sam?”
Sam pulled out the leather wallet that held Eldon’s old hexworking inks and brushes, and slid out a hex. It was a complicated design, bright with greens and blues and reds.
“I did it,” he said, and the grin that bloomed on his face warmed Alistair despite the cool air. “I actually did it!”
Holly squealed and threw her arms around him. “I knew you would!” Then she stepped back and pinched his cheek. “You’re so cute when you blush. Come on—let’s go back to The Pride and actually drink some champagne this time.”
14
Sam floated through the rest of the night, buoyed by an unfamiliar sense of accomplishment. He’d had a job to do, and despite the less-than-ideal circumstances, he’d done it.
The hex itself, though complicated in appearance, was simple in use. Presumably the doorman at The Black Rabbit would use it as a sort of identification spell.
Not the easiest thing to copy. Well, forge, if he was going to be honest about it. But he’d done it.
Everyone else was happy, too. Or at least pleased with him. He’d gotten more than one clap on the back, and Philip had actually cheered, which earned a glare from Alistair for some reason.
He finished the last few hours of his work shift, clearing tables and washing dishes, humming to himself the whole time. Maybe Alistair was right. Maybe he could make a go of hexwork. He couldn’t step into Eldon’s place—he didn’t know enough yet to feel confident creating something new. But the vast majority of hexmen were just copiers anyway.
And it would pay better than most jobs he was likely to get. Enough for him to get his feet under him, rent an apartment. He’d try to get one in Towertown if he could, so he would be close enough to come over to The Pride on the weekends.
He lowered the dish he was washing, staring into the water. That was the one thing he’d miss. The camaraderie.
And Alistair.
He’d miss waking up in bed together, even though they tried to stay on their own sides. Having breakfast across the table, talking about the news, or music, or whatever topic came up.
God. He really was a mess sometimes.
Once the last stragglers were gone, and the last dishes done, he and Reinhold adjourned to the main room where everyone else had already gathered. “There he is!” Philip exclaimed, and popped the cork off a bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket.
Heat crept up Sam’s face. Alistair sat back in his chair, arms folded across his chest, and frowned at Philip. “It’s a bit premature to be celebrating, isn’t it?”
“We have to take what victories we can,” Reinhold said, sitting beside Teresa.
“Exactly.” Philip took out white grape juice and mixed Sam a mock champagne. “You don’t have to drink with us if you don’t want to, Alistair.”
“I just don’t want to lose sight of the big picture. This was step one. Step two is getting inside The Black Rabbit and looking for some clue as to whether Ursino is the one behind all this.” He paused. “Adamo Vescovi’s back in town.”
“He’s out of jail already?” Wanda asked, taking a glass of champagne from Philip.
“That’s the man I met tonight?” Sam asked. “He was in jail?” For a moment, he felt a bit concerned he’d been consorting with a criminal—then wanted to smack himself in the face when he remembered he was currently surrounded by criminals. Technically he hadn’t sold any alcohol himself, which was the illegal part, but he doubted a court of law would see it that way.
Not that the courts or the police or anyone else in Chicago seemed to care much about enforcing the Volstead Act. Which meant Vescovi must have crossed the wrong person.