Free The Spy by Clive;Justin Scott Cussler Page A

like it’s pure silver.”
    “Stainless steel,” said O’Shay. “Holds an edge and don’t corrode.”
    “So you’re back. And rich enough to pay people to do your killing for you.”
    “I won’t offer twice.”
    “I’ll take the job.”
    Eyes O’Shay moved quickly, raking the bouncer’s cheek even as he released him. The man screamed. His hands flew to his face. He blinked, removed his hands, and stared at the blood. Then he blinked again and smiled with gratitude. Blood was streaming from a slice that traversed cheekbone to jaw, but his eyes were intact.
    “Get up!” Commodore Tommy ordered. “Both of ya. Go get the Iceman. Tell him to bring Kelly and Butler.”
    They hurried out, leaving Tommy Thompson alone with O’Shay. Tommy said, “This ought to put an end to the rumors that I killed you.”
    “You could not on your best day, Tommy.”
    The Gopher Gang boss protested the insult and the contempt behind it. “Why you talking like that? We was partners.”
    “Sometimes.”
    They stood in silence, old rivals taking each other’s measure. “Back,” Tommy muttered. “Jaysus Christ, from where?”
    O’Shay did not answer.
    Five minutes passed. Ten.
    Kelly and Butler sidled into the Commodore’s office, trailed by Iceman Weeks.
    Brian O’Shay looked them over.
    Typical new-breed Gopher, he thought, smaller, compact men. And wasn’t Progress a wonderful thing? Tommy was a throwback to the old days when bulk and muscle ruled. Now clubs and lead pipe were giving way to firearms. Kelly, Butler, and Weeks were built more like himself but dandified in the latest gangster fashion—tightfitting suits, bright vests, florid ties. Kelly and Butler wore polished yellow shoes with lavender socks. Weeks, the Iceman, stood out in hose of sky blue. He was the cool one who would hang back, let the hotheads take the chances, and then swoop in for the prize. In his dreams, the Commodore would die of something quick, and Iceman Weeks would own the Gophers.
    O’Shay took three butterfly knives from his coat and handed one to each. They were German made, exquisitely balanced, quick to open, and sharp as razors. Kelly, Butler, and Weeks hefted them admiringly.
    “Leave them in the man when you do the job,” O’Shay ordered with a glance at the Commodore, who seconded the order with a blunt threat. “If I ever sees youse with them again, I’ll break your necks.”
    O’Shay opened a bulging wallet and removed three return tickets to Camden, New Jersey. “MacDonald,” he said, “will be hanging out in Del Rossi’s Dance Hall soon after dark. You’ll find it in the Gloucester district.”
    “What does he look like?” asked Weeks.
    “Like an avalanche,” said O’Shay. “You can’t miss him.”
    “Get going!” Commodore Tommy ordered. “Don’t come back ’til he’s dead.”
    “When do we get paid?” asked Weeks.
    “When he’s dead.”
    The killers headed for the railroad ferry.
    O’Shay pulled a thick envelope from his overcoat and counted out fifty hundred-dollar bills on Tommy Thompson’s wooden desk. Thompson counted it again and stuffed the money in his trousers.
    “Pleasure doing business.”
    O’Shay said, “I’ll have use for those tong hatchet men, too.”
    Commodore Tommy stared hard. “What tong hatchet men would you be wondering about, Brian O’Shay?”
    “Those two highbinders from the Hip Sing.”
    “How in Christ’s name did you know about them?”
    “Don’t let the fancy duds confuse you, Tommy. I’m still ahead of you and always will be.”
    O’Shay turned on his heel and stalked out of the saloon.
    Tommy Thompson snapped his fingers. A boy named Paddy the Rat appeared at a side door. He was thin and gray. On the street, he was almost as invisible as the vermin he was named for. “Follow O’Shay. Find out where he hangs and what moniker he goes by.”
    Paddy the Rat followed O’Shay east across 39th. The man’s fine coat and fur hat seemed to glow as he cut a path