Chapter Five
The next morning the ringing of the phone woke Mike, interrupting a very pleasant dream of featherbeds and whipped cream. “Someone else get that,” he tried to say, but it came out “Smmels geddat.”
There was the ‘click’ of the phone being picked up and the mumble of conversation. “Mmm . . . Valerie’s got it,” Peter mumbled. The others heard ‘V’lryzzgodd’t.”
Micky raised his head. “Valerie? Thought she broke up with you . . . ”
The brewing confused argument was interrupted by the sound of a woman’s soft sobbing.
Mike sat up. “What the hell?” Tossing his covers aside and ignoring the muffled “Hey!” from Davy as the blankets landed on top of him, he charged from the room into the kitchen. “What is it? What happened?”
Bennett had his arms around a sobbing Mrs. Filchok. “They’ve torn down another house,” he growled softly. “Beverly Wade’s. She’s in the hospital—she had a heart attack . . . ”
“Mike?” Three bodies connected with him, pressing up against his back. Four haggard, sleep-streaked faces blinked out at the crying woman being comforted by the older man.
He stammered out, “Mrs. . . . Mrs. Wade . . . house gone . . . heart attack . . . ” He was trembling. “ . . . is she . . . ”
“No,” Mrs. Filchok sobbed.
Mike’s jaw hardened. “That’s it. That’s attempted murder.” He stormed toward the door. “They’re goin’ down.”
“Mike. Mike!” Peter snapped, grabbing Mike’s arm. “Stop!”
“Peter, lemme go!” Mike snarled, yanking his arm free. “I’m tired of this shit!”
“I know you are! I am too! But running off won’t help anything!” Peter inserted himself between Mike and the door.
“Peter, get out of the way,” Mike rumbled.
Peter lifted his chin, meeting the warning look with one of his own. “No.”
“Peter. Now,” Mike thundered. The others just watched blankly, Mrs. Filchok and Mrs. Jenkins clinging to Mr. Bennett, and Davy clinging to Micky.
“You heard me, Mike. No.”
“Somebody’s gotta take these idiots down!” Mike roared. “Mrs. Wade could die because of these . . . these . . . ” his voice broke and he was quaking from head to toe with pure fury.
Peter stepped out of the way and kicked the door open. “Fine. Go. Run off. Remember what it did for Micky?”
Mike took two steps toward the door before his words impacted and he froze. They saw his shoulders slump and his head bow before he shook it and walked back toward Peter. “Dirty. Pool.”
Peter shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”
Mike shook his head again and gave Peter a gentle whap on the back of the head. “So . . . ”
Bennett smiled. “So. You tell us what you found and we go from there.”
“A man named Zeckenbush is in league with the mayor to ring the city with parking lots. It’s about money,” Mike said, his voice heavily laden with disgust.
The sedate Mrs. Filchok startled everybody with three curses in a row. “What?” she growled when they looked at her. “I can’t have an opinion?”
“Someone should wash your mouth out with soap, young lady,” Micky said, waggling his finger at her with a grin.
She grinned back and kissed his forehead. “This from the sweet young boy I had to teach how to say ‘damn’?”
“I was thirteen, Mrs. Filchok!” he laughed, though he was blushing.
Mike moved to the phone. He dialed a familiar number. “Hi, Mrs. Collins?” He grinned. “Yes, it’s Mike. Could you check the files and see if you have a Zeckenbush in your records? Thanks.”
Bennett frowned. “Who are you talking to?”
Peter smiled. “Mrs. Collins. Our boss when we worked at Urgent Answering Service.”
“You do? Fantastic! And this is real? It’s not a fake address? I—oh really? You’re sure? Yeah, I would, actually, thanks.” Mike snapped his fingers, pointing to a notepad and pen on one of the tables. Peter scrambled to grab it. “Okay, let ‘er rip, Mrs. Collins.” He scribbled the address on the pad. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll remember. Next time you go to Jamaica I’ll be there. Bye.” He hung up the phone. “Zeckenbush is real, and I—” he held up the pad, “have his address.”
~~~~~
Four black figures slid over the rooftops under cover of night and moonless cloudiness. Other than a muttered “well, dagnabit” as a staff stopped a fall triggered by unseen crumbling bricks, it was done in total silence as their goal grew ever closer.
Mike crouched on the edge of the rooftop and looked down at Zeckenbush’s brownstone. “That’s it,” he said. “Lights are on so someone’s home.”
“Get closer and spy on what he’s doing?” Micky asked, bouncing eagerly on the balls of his feet just behind Mike.
“Yeah. You an’ Davy go down an’ see if you can see anything.” As they swung off Mike eased his weight onto his left leg.
“Still hurting?” Peter asked. “That why you sent Micky and Davy?”
Mike nodded. “Yeah. Think those two can handle themselves?”
They looked at each other for a long moment, then with identical sighs, they gently swung down and followed the two more headstrong Winds at a discreet distance.
~~~~~
Their climbing claws dug firmly into the white stucco of Zeckenbush’s three-story house, Micky and Davy peered into the powerful businessman’s office window. Zeckenbush was on the phone, speaking loudly but not loudly enough to be heard.
“Davy,” Micky hissed. “Gimme your knife, willya?”
“What do you want it for?”
“Just give it to me for a sec!” Micky took the blade and wedged it under the sash, using it as a lever to pry the window open enough so that they could hear.
“—honestly think I give a shit about some freakish old woman? So she’s in the hospital—so what? One more house down! . . . so what?” he roared. “Far as I’m concerned, they can all feed the worms! Less old farts around, the less protestors we’ll have!”
Two clawed hands—one Davy’s, one Micky’s—grabbed the sill and started to force the window open. As Micky hoisted himself up in preparation to lunge, a dark object slid through his belt and halted him. Four metal claws slid into Davy’s collar, pulling the fabric tight around the Englishman’s neck. He looked up, half-expecting to see one of Zeckenbush’s henchman—Zeckenbush was a villain, he had to have henchmen—and saw Peter instead.
“I’d rethink that,” Peter rumbled.
Mike tightened his grip on the pipe that held him up, his other hand still tightly clenching the staff that kept Micky from moving. “We asked you guys to spy—not attack.”
Micky growled. “You didn’t hear what he said!”
“What did he say?” Mike said impatiently. Micky repeated Zeckenbush’s words. “That son of a bitch.”
“So let us go, Mike!” Davy hissed. “We’ll clean his clock for him!”
“We not cleanin’ anything,” Mike ordered. “If we go in there now it’ll only be trouble for us. We’re tresspassin’ and spyin’, and if I let you two in there we’ll end up bein’ arrested for assault. We can’t do anything until we get proof.”
Peter said softly, “Then let’s go get proof.” He was looking into the window.
“Peter? What’re you talkin’ about?” Mike said, craning his neck.
“He’s left the room. Give me and Davy a few minutes and we’ll go in. Get hothead down and you two go wait for us.”
Mike and Micky quickly slid down to the ground and scaled the wall of the building next door, not stopping until they’d reached the roof. “What’re they doing, Mike?”
“I don’t know, Mick. We’ll just wait and see.”
On to Chapter Six
Back to Chapter Four
Back to Secrets and Lies Index
