Kiss Of The Blue Dragon

His strong, smooth forehead wrinkled with doubt. “Sugar?”

I pointed to the left. “It’s just two doors down.”

Clearly, he wasn’t buying it, but I knew he’d borrow the excuse if it gave him a chance to check out my place without a warrant. I didn’t care what he’d find. Well, except for Lola. But she could handle this guy with her hands tied behind her back.

As soon as Marco climbed the stairway to my living quarters, I shut the door and raced down the street, stopping at the corner of the blond-brick apartment building that bordered the west side of the green lot. Drummond was sitting on a bench reading a magazine.

I scoped out the rest of the lot, which was an abandoned area with a few trees and a jungle gym. Empty as usual. It was time to move. For a split second fear chilled me and the contrasting Chicago summer heat suffocated my skin. Beads of sweat slid down my back. I was aware of my muscles—strong biceps, small but rock-solid thighs, sinewy shoulders—especially at times like this when adrenaline pumped them to the max. I was also aware that retribution specialist was a role I played and Detective Marco’s arrival had thrown off my rhythm.

I took a deep, calming breath and walked down the gravel path to the middle of the tiny park. I stopped twenty feet away. “Drummond,” I called.

He looked up and put the magazine aside. “You da one who called?” he said in a typical Chicago dems-and-doze accent.

“Yeah, I called.”

“What’s dis all about? You got some kinda job for me?”

“It’s about Janet.”

He stood and rubbed his palms on his thigh-clad jeans. He towered a foot and a half above me and looked like an overstuffed bear—one that bench-pressed about two hundred and fifty pounds. He had a scruff of blond hair, a drinker’s nose and mean, bloodshot eyes. I’d been briefed on Drummond by the director of the abuse shelter and had hired a private investigator to fill in the gaps. I’d done my research and knew what to expect, but the prospect of fighting a guy who weighed three times as much as I did was always daunting, no matter how much I tried to psych myself up for the fight.

“You a cop?” he said, his eyes glazed with confusion.

“Don’t you wish.” I moved in closer.

“A lawyer? I ain’t givin’ her a divorce.”

I barked out a laugh. “When’s the last time you saw a lawyer dressed like this?” I tipped up my chin so he could get a good look at my tattoo.

His sausage fingers clamped into his fists. “You callin’ me stupid?”

“Yeah, but not for the reasons you think. You’re stupid because you think you can control your loved ones with violence. I don’t like men like you, Drummond.”

Confusion cleared from his eyes like fog in a wind. “Damn! You’re an avenger.”

“That’s right, Einstein. A Certified Retribution Specialist.”

He looked totally flummoxed. I’d seen this reaction from ROVORs before. He couldn’t believe there was a CRS contract out on him. Then his disbelief turned on a dime. He rushed forward like a Chicago Bears’ defensive lineman. I hadn’t expected this, but I was ready for him.

I ran forward and squatted at the last minute, pushing up when his shins hit my shoulder. Down he went with a thud. This was going to be too easy, I thought. Then he surprised me by shooting his hand out and clamping hold of my ankle as I leaped away, pulling my leg out from under me.

My face hit the grass, and I twisted hard like a writhing snake, but he crawled on top of me and gripped my neck before I could slither away. He moved his bulky frame faster than most thugs I’d encountered.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been downed so fast, I thought as he tightened his grip. I’d been distracted by the cop. Hell, I could use another distraction about now.

I clawed at his arms, drawing blood, but it only made him angrier. He tightened the grip on my throat as he cursed and spat at me. Soon I couldn’t breathe, and my lungs silently screamed for air. I kicked up at his fat, muscled back but couldn’t reach his head. Blood pounded in my head. My God, I thought, I’m going to die here.

“Hey, Mommy, look at that man.” It was the voice of an angel—or a kid. Either way, it was divine intervention.

Drummond looked over his shoulder and, at the sight of the kid and his mother, he loosened his grip. I saw my chance and took it, somehow managing to wrangle out from under his three-hundred-plus pounds.

As soon as I was on my feet I gave him a furious uppercut to the jaw. The jolt of it ricocheted through my body. He groaned, wide-eyed, but he remained upright on his knees. Damn, I hadn’t meant to fight this guy—especially one built like a tank. He looked at me with astonishment.

“That’s right, asshole, you’re messing with the wrong girl.” To make sure he didn’t come after me again, I gave him a roundhouse kick to the side of the head and he toppled over like a bowling pin. He raised his head, too stupid to give up.

I took one last whack at him—a full frontal kick to the groin. As my kung fu master had taught me, I employed fei mai qiao. My leg flew like a feather, but the chi behind it walloped his crotch like a hammer. My ankle burned from the impact.

Finally, Drummond groaned in defeat and rolled into a fetal position. Only slightly winded, I knelt beside him and grabbed him by his lapels, pulling his face close to mine.

“You’re gonna die, asshole.” I pulled out my counterfeit Gibson Warrant—what I should have done from the very start—and waved it in front of his face. “See this? This is a court order from Judge Gibson himself with your name on it, Drummond. If you try to talk to Janet one more time, I have permission to shoot you on sight, no questions asked.”

His eyes narrowed on the folded paper, then he went pale. Thank God he had enough brains to keep up with the news and understood what I was talking about.

“This is your last warning. If you violate your restraining order one more time, you’re a dead man, Drummond.”

He set his jaw tight and for a minute I was afraid he was too mean and stubborn to know what was good for him. I smelled his fear, though.

“Understand?” I let go of him and stood, dusting myself off. “You have to leave town. Tonight. Any CRS who catches you harassing Janet can kill you. Legally. You understand?”

He closed his eyes and licked sweat from his upper lip. Then he nodded in surrender. “Yeah.”

“Good.” This would be the last time I saw this poor excuse for a human being. Maybe Judge Gibson had done this town some good after all.

Chapter 3

Blast from the Past

I grabbed my daily newspaper, which had been tossed into the boxwood outside my front door. Then I hurried upstairs and found Detective Marco flipping through my index of music. I had a big collection of classical files, as well as contemporary artists. He seemed fascinated by my choices. His thoughtful concentration surprised me.

I glanced around. Lola was gone. She’d probably slipped out the back door, which was just as well. I didn’t need her complicating matters. I took a moment to study the cop. He’d taken off his coat—a retro double-breasted linen sport coat dating back to the turn of the century. He even had on suspenders. They pinched his starched-white shirt and clung to a waistband that tightly fit his narrow waist. His olive skin above the collar attested to what I could assume, given his name, was an Italian heritage.

“So you like Morbun Four,” he said without turning.

“It’s a good group. What of it?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “Ms. Baker, this isn’t an interrogation. Relax.”

I forced myself to take a breath. I didn’t let any man close enough to find out what kind of music I liked, much less what perfume I wore. Which was none. I’d rather be down at headquarters asking for a lawyer.

“I thought you went to the store for sugar?” There was a smug gleam in his eyes.

“The sugar shelf was empty. I got a newspaper instead.” I tossed it onto the coffee table, headlines faceup. “It looks like Chicago’s finest still haven’t found the twelve Chinese orphans who were stolen from the Mongolian Mob. People think they can sell kids like cattle.”

He glanced at the newspaper and back at the music files. “Is that the paper I saw outside your front door?”

“I thought you said this wasn’t an interrogation. What do you want, Marco? Ask your questions and get out. On second thought, just get out now.”

His intense focus shifted from the files to me and he cracked a smile. “Having a bad day?”

“Not particularly. All my days are bad. I like them that way. I know what to expect when I wake up in the morning.”

He studied me a moment with a perceptiveness that confirmed my original suspicion. This was no ordinary cop. Finally he turned from my music collection and faced me. “If I told you Mayor Alvarez sent me, would that make you feel better?”

My stomach hit the floor. “No, but it would convince me to let you stay and—what did you call it?—chat.”

“That’s right.”

“You thirsty?”

He nodded. “Sure. The mayor told me you weren’t as scary as you tried to appear. Guess he was right.”

“Isn’t he sweet. Did Alvarez really send you?”

Detective Marco shrugged strong shoulders he’d probably been born with. I resented him more by the minute. I didn’t need some prissy-dick, Brooks-Brothers-police-academy graduate in here pulling rank. What concerned me the most was how he’d found out about my connection to Mayor Ramon Alvarez. I’d done a top-secret retribution job for the mayor, which had been set up by my foster father. I didn’t think anyone but the three of us knew about it.

I went to the sideboard. “What do you want, Detective?”

“Alcohol straight up.”

I poured him a neat glass of classic Vivante—a tasteless liquor that took on any flavor that the imbiber thought about. If you couldn’t make up your mind, the taste would change with every swallow—rum one sip, brandy the next. And you never had a hangover from mixing drinks. I put the glass on the edge of the sideboard.

“So let me guess. Did I rough up an informant of yours?”

He retrieved his drink as I poured one for myself. When he was just inches away, I inhaled, expecting nauseating cologne. I smelled nothing, but felt a twinge of closeness. He was one of those men who used his personal skills to conduct his professional duty. A dangerous habit.

As he retreated with his glass, I realized we were having a four-way conversation. There were words. And then there was the unspoken energy between us. It had been a long time since that had happened to me. I’d spent so much time with AutoMates I’d nearly forgotten how to handle subtext with a human male.

“I heard you were direct,” he said at last.

“Thank you.”

“I’m not sure it was meant as a compliment.”

“Really?” I shrugged. “Imagine that. Have a seat.”

I motioned to the brown leather couch and overstuffed chair by the empty marble fireplace. I’d never spent one iota of time worrying about decor. My apartment was furnished with a collection of hand-me-downs. Seeing it through Marco’s eyes, it struck me as terribly masculine and not very fitting for a woman. Marco would probably be more comfortable in my foster sister’s apartment. It was feminine, like her, with colors like peach and lilac. She had silky hair, high heels for every occasion and seductive reticence. In other words, she was my antithesis.

He settled at one end of the couch and I sank into the nearby armchair. As he leisurely sipped his Vivante, he took in every detail of my apartment and not in the surly, suspicious way of an everyday patrolman. Not even in the cool, jaded way of a seasoned detective. He was more like an art appraiser—scanning ancient plaster walls, my black-and-white framed photographs, the white-brick fireplace that had been painted over a million times, the hardwood floor scuffed by my myriad boots.

Suddenly, I wanted him out of here. “You’re not a regular detective, are you?”

“No, I’m not. I worked in psy-ops for five years.”

Psychological operations. He was a frickin’ shrink. No wonder he gave me the heebie-jeebies.

“Two years ago I went back to the academy to enter a new program designed to streamline the training of solo detectives to replace those killed by the mobs. I graduated yesterday.”

And today he was at my door. This was getting worse by the minute. “Why did you decide to switch from being a shrink to a gumshoe?”

He looked at me with those dark-lashed eyes of his. “You don’t want to know.”

Goose bumps spread over my arms. He was gunning for me. But why? I didn’t think it had anything to do with Alvarez. The mayor’s nine-year-old niece had been molested. The guy got off because he’d been smart enough to leave no DNA. After the trial, I’d found him and brought him to the mayor’s brother for a little justice. That was the end of my involvement. I had a feeling Detective Marco had done some research on me and mentioned the Alvarez case simply to get in the door.

“Let’s cut to the chase, Marco. Is this about the Gibson Warrants?”

His mouth twisted with irony and he took a drink, watching me as he sipped, then said, “No, that’s not why I came. But, since you mentioned it, I’m head of the Fraternal Order of City Police committee working to outlaw your profession. I was actually happy about the Gibson Warrants. They’ve shown the world what I’ve known all along—that you’re nothing more than a bunch of outlaws. This isn’t the Wild West, Ms. Baker.”

“Oh, but it is.” I moved to the edge of my chair. “That’s precisely the point. I don’t approve of what Judge Gibson has done, but I understand it. How many hundreds of thousands of restraining orders have judges given out over the last hundred and fifty years? How many of them have actually stopped an enraged husband from killing his wife? Everyone knows restraining orders are a joke.”

“But if you commit murder to prevent murder, is society any better off?”

“I haven’t decided that yet.” I wasn’t about to tell him that I thought the warrants went too far. For some reason, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“So you want to play God. Are you saying that you—or Gibson—have the power to determine who lives and dies?”

“People are going to live and die no matter what we do.”

“You can’t be that cynical, Baker.”

I gave him an exaggerated scowl. “Don’t be such a Boy Scout. You know as well as I do that rich people almost never pay for their crimes because they can afford great lawyers. And anybody, rich or poor, who is smart enough to keep DNA out of a crime scene will be back on the street, even with a conviction, after only two years. That’s a slap on the wrist. You’ve got to hate that, Detective. All your hard work trying to catch the perps goes to waste.”

“The system sucks, I agree. So why don’t you try to change it instead of compromising it?”

“Because the system is controlled by giant corporations and international crime syndicates who don’t give a damn about life, liberty or the pursuit of happiness, thank you very much. But if I can protect one woman from an abusive husband, or help a victim at least get an apology from his assailant, then at the end of the day I’ve done something worthwhile.”

“An apology?” A sardonic half smile tugged his lips. “Is that all your clients want from their perps after you hand them over? Some of the ex-cons you people haul in wind up at the bottom of Lake Michigan.”

Heat burned my cheeks. “That’s not my fault.”

“Isn’t it?”

“I don’t take any clients who would do that sort of thing. Nor does any other retribution specialist who is certified. We have a professional code and contracts that specify that no perpetrator can be killed or tortured. Surely you know that.”

“What I know is that you’re playing with fire. You can’t take the law into your own hands, no matter what criminals do. Even if what you do is legal, it’s not right. You have to leave law and order to trained officers. We’ll do our job.”

I snorted in derision. “And who are you? Elliott Ness? You think you’re going to clean up this town like Ness cleared out Capone and his gang back in the early 1900s?” I shook my head. “Cops. You’re all either corrupt or egomaniacs who think you’re going to save the world.”

He blinked slowly. “Why do you have such a low opinion of legitimate law enforcement?”

I took in a deep breath. Because the cops who arrested my mother and put her in jail for bookkeeping had been placing bets at her apartment the night before. Because the social workers who put me in foster care the next day knew my foster father had a history of abuse. Because I don’t trust anyone.

“Because,” I said in a rough voice, “even if you do your job perfectly, the bad guys are going to go free. Judge Gibson wants to change all that. While you can argue with his method, I can’t imagine anyone who would argue with the result.”

“So you’ve used Gibson Warrants?”

I leaned back as I thought about my encounter with Drummond. “You might say that.”

His chestnut-colored eyes darkened. “How many people have you executed?”

“In the past two months?” I shrugged. “I’ve lost count.”

For some reason he wanted to hate me, but he knew I was yanking his chain. He sighed and leaned back, taking another sip.

“What are you drinking?” I asked.

He licked the clear liquor from his lips. “Chianti.”

“Chianti.” I smiled. He was Italian. “I should have known. But I might have taken you for a Scotch man.” I hated Scotch.

In the pause that followed, the old-time elevated train roared by not two hundred yards away. It was the only original el-track still functioning in the entire country and a real tourist attraction. In the mid-twenty-first century, all of Chicago’s elevated trains and subways had been replaced by aboveground superconductor lines, which were virtually noiseless. I had the dubious privilege of living near the only remaining electric track capable of making my two-flat rattle from its vibration.

“So, Detective,” I said when the rumble died, “let’s cut to the chase. I’m not a bloodthirsty ogre and we both know it. What really brought you here?”

“Danny Black,” he said.

Two words. They may as well have been two fists pounding into my solar plexus. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. I tried to keep my cool, but my eyes closed of their own will while unwanted images flashed in my mind. I saw Officer Daniel Black’s body lying in a pool of blood in a rat-infested alley in the Loop. A minute before there had been seven of us—me and Darelle Jones, a drug dealer I’d been contracted to bring in, Officer Danny Black and four dealers—connected with the neo-Russian mob.

Darelle opened fire, killing everyone but me. I was close enough to witness the massacre, but just out of sight around the corner of a nearby building. When the smoke cleared, I was the only witness. The fact that I was the lone survivor and had prior connections to the assailant made me doubly suspicious. But a thorough investigation cleared me of any collusion.

I put the unpleasant memories aside and opened my eyes. I found Detective Marco heading toward the door, readjusting his sport coat. He wasn’t even going to hear me out.

“If you’ve bothered to look at the record, Marco,” I said as I stood and crossed my arms, unwilling to chase after him, “you know that I was found completely innocent in that tragedy. The chief even held a press conference announcing that conclusion. The case is closed.”

He opened the door, adjusted his collar and seared me from the distance with a laser-beam glare. “I’ve read the record, Baker. And you’re right, you were cleared of wrongdoing. But you couldn’t be more wrong on another count. The case isn’t closed. It’s now officially reopened.”

He slammed the door behind him. I didn’t move for a long time. I couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d said, “Frankly, Scarlet, I don’t give a damn.” And in a way, that’s exactly what he did say.

Chapter 4

Black Coffee, Blue Dragon

As soon as Marco left, I called the private eye whom I’d hired to watch the abuse shelter where Drummond’s wife and kid were staying. Some retributionists who make good money have a whole staff of private investigators who do everything from watching over victims to tracking the whereabouts of ex-cons. I kept my operation simple by using a freelance P.I. when needed.

My guy was an old pro from Skokie. I told him about my fight with Drummond and told him to call the cops and me, in that order, if my threats failed to cower Drummond and he showed up at the shelter. The police could legally shoot the sonofabitch if he attacked his family. I could only do it with a bogus Gibson Warrant and wind up in jail for fraud.

I had just hung up when someone knocked on the door again.

“Now what?” I muttered as I flung it open. And there, standing before me with a rakish smirk and a tilted fedora, was none other than Humphrey Bogart.

“Bogie,” I said on a long sigh of relief. “I forgot you were coming. Man, am I glad you’re here.”

He passed me with a wink and a whiff of tobacco trailed behind him. There was something so simply and confidently masculine about him that just watching him climb the stairs and saunter into my flat made my wire-tight shoulders unfurl. Okay, fine. I’d given in to Chicago’s uniquely primal summer heat. I was here. He was here. My libido was definitely here.

Though Bogie wore a trench coat, he wasn’t sweating. I was. He shrugged out of the coat and tossed it onto my couch, then poured himself a glass of Vivante. Bourbon. You never had to ask with a man like Bogie. He took a long sip, then looked at me long and hard. His upper lip twitched once—one of his rare signs of emotion.

“You look tired, Angel.”

I nodded. “More than you could ever know.” Between Drummond and Detective Marco, I felt as if the whole world was against me. I needed someone who would accept me as I was, ask no questions and leave no doubts that I was a woman. Lucky for me, that someone was standing in arm’s reach.

When Bogie put down his glass on the serving bar and came my way, hands tucked into his suit pocket, my skin tingled all over. He kissed me lightly. I smelled tobacco on his breath, and it was so real I melted in his arms.

“Make love to me, Bogie.”

“Is that an order?”

I nodded. He took me to my bedroom and undressed me. His jaded eyes lit with hunger.

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.”

And I knew from experience he would do much more than that.

The next morning I arose, as usual, to the soft sound of Mike’s Chinese gong and the smell of incense. Both were di rigeur for his meditations. Sound and scent floated up from the garden through the open French windows in my bedroom. I flopped my arm across my double bed, not expecting to find Bogie there. And I didn’t.

I’d only contracted with AutoMates to have Humphrey Bogart until 3:00 a.m. With his internal clock fully engaged, quite literally, Bogie always rose promptly, no matter how deliciously exhausting our lovemaking was. He’d light a cigarette, which AutoMates were permitted to do. After all, tar and nicotine can’t hurt a robot. Granted, second-hand smoke was still a problem, but the stinking rich AutoMates corporation lobbyists had convinced Congress that a few smoking movie star robots couldn’t produce all that much smoke.

After lighting up, Bogie would dress in darkness, his rugged features illuminated only by the red glow of his cigarette, and depart.

His zombielike obedience to time always reminded me a little of those blond people in The Time Machine who went off in a trance whenever the Morlocks called. The 1960s movie, starring Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux, was a classic. It was in color, but I still liked it.

The fact that Bogie had been programmed to send me to the moon diminished the afterglow, but not by much. With a compubot produced by AutoMates, the premiere manufacturer, satisfaction was always guaranteed. And I was lucky enough to get exclusive dibs on the star attraction of Rick’s Café Americain, the reality bar down the street.