Free The Night Mayor by Kim Newman

back into his car, and hit his driver again. The fat boy had unwound the scarves.
    ‘He told them to wait a minute and shoot us down,’ Anna May whispered into my ear, ‘like dogs.’
    ‘Oh, really,’ I told her. ‘Thank you, darling.’ I signalled to the least intelligent-seeming of the soldiers. ‘Excuse me, do you have a cigarette?’
    He shook his head. I made smoking gestures, and walked over towards them. ‘Cigarettes?’ I said, puffing furiously at empty air and flicking an imaginary lighter. The dime dropped, and one of them grinned, tucked his riffle under his arm and reached into his uniform. I grabbed his wrist and broke it, spinning him round and holding him up. I heard the guns go off. Luckily, my shield was heavily built. The bullets didn’t go through him. I heaved him at the other two and they went down, firing wild into the air.
    If they had had pistols, they’d have been able to get a better aim. The officer, in his car, was well out of range for an accurate shot with his cheap revolver. Still, he came a lot closer than I had expected. I dived behind a handcart and came up with my automatic in my hand. I wasn’t any better at this kind of messy shoot-out than they were, but I put a hole or two in the car’s windscreen, and put one of the soldiers out for the count. Then the sidewalk three yards to the left of me started exploding, and an earthquake line of stone chips advanced towards the cart. The noise of the machine gun was deafening.
    I pushed myself back out of the line of fire as the wooden cart splintered into an abstract sculpture. Little darts stuck into my legs from the knee down. I fired in the general direction of the officer’s head, and missed. I saw him grinning ferally as he worked the gun with both hands, spent cartridges flying into the air. He was jitterbugging with the recoil, and the gun’s momentum kept his first sweep going for a couple of yards even after he realised he’d missed me. He swung the gun upwards on his mount and was obviously set to cut me in half with his next pass when the knife hilt appeared in his chest, lodged deep between two bandoliers. He staggered back, brushing at the black stains seeping from his wound, and fell off her car. His uniform would be ruined. The surviving soldier gaped and, in the sudden silence, I shot near his head. He ran off.
    I looked back at the alley. The girl was there, waving sweetly. Her topcoat was open, and I saw the belt of knives – with one missing – strung from shoulder to waist. Why hadn’t I felt them when we were pressed together? Perhaps she only had them when she needed them. Anna May buttoned her coat and scampered away, swarming like a monkey over the wall at the back of the alley and vanishing into the night. By the time I got to the officer, the children had practically stripped him. His swords were gone, and his boots, hat, revolvers and belts. My money was gone too, of course. And the girl’s throwing knife.
    Two urchins were struggling to detach the machine gun from its mount. One six-year-old Our Gang refugee stood solemnly by the car, too-long pants concertinaed around his feet, holding up the officer’s revolver in both hands, covering the fat driver. The machine gun came free, and the children staggered off under the weight, certain of a huge price on the black market. The junior gunman ran off after them.
    The fat driver giggled, then burst into full laughter, the rolls under his robes quivering like jellies. His egg-shaped body shook with his mirth, and the Model T rocked from side to side. He slapped his enormous thighs and laughed some more. I left him there, and headed for the next block.
    ‘Mist’ Americano…’ The voice was feeble, cracked and fluttering. It came from the fortune teller.
    I couldn’t see how he could be alive, but I went to him. His face was a mess, with a black bullethole and a tangle of rubber. His wrinkled nose had come off, and one smooth Caucasian cheek showed