Free Gilded Canary by Brad Latham Page A

through the gray of Stymie’s face as
     he paled. “I—I don’t understand,” he said. His hands had begun to tremble.
    “Don’t try to con me, Stymie,” Lockwood urged, voice like ice. “You know I’m talking about Toomey.”
    “Ah! Mr. Two-Scar!” Stymie grinned, stumps of yellow barely showing in the gloom. “How stupid of me to have misread your excellent
     charade!”
    “Don’t stall me. I know Two-Scar handled the Dearborn heist, and the word is out that you wound up with the rocks.”
    “Me? Wound up with me? But why?” Stymie asked, his begrimed hands flung outward. “I’m simply a small businessman, doing what
     he can to scrape by.”
    “You’re beginning to annoy me, Stymie,” Lockwood said. “Come off the innocent kick. You haven’t been innocent since you traded
     in your baby bottle for two sets of books.”
    Stymie coughed out a laugh, choking the last of it with phlegm. “You have a marvelous sense of humor, Mr. Lockwood, marvelous.
     He always has,” he added, directing this last to Stephanie.
    “Spill it,” said Lockwood.
    “There is nothing to spill,” Stymie said, triumph mixing uncertainly with fear in the sinkhole that was his face. “I don’t
     know anything.”
    Lockwood advanced on him. “Stymie—” he began.
    “I mean it! Search the shop, I don’t care. I admire you, you’re a real gentleman, I don’t think you’d steal anything while
     you looked!” Stymie made the final gesture. “If you feel you must—search me!”
    The repugnance of this final offer stopped Lockwood, as he contemplated the ruin of clothing and mottled flesh that was Stymie
     the Fence.
    As Lockwood considered his next move, the battered bell in the shop began to jangle, and he turned to see the door open. A
     man strode halfway in, then stopped as he took in Lockwood and Stephanie. There was something about him that seemed familiar
     to Lockwood.
    Now more accustomed to the dimness of the shop, the man looked from Lockwood, to Stephanie, and back. Only one of his eyes
     was moving.
    Lockwood started forward, but the man had already spun on his heel and was speeding through the doorway. He ran five steps
     and slammed through the opened door of a black ‘38 Buick, the car screeching away before the door was even half-closed.
    “Who is it?” Stephanie shouted, as she ran after Lockwood.
    “One-Eye. The guy who put me in the hospital,” Hook answered, as he jumped into the Cord. “Stay here,” he said as she tried
     to get in.
    “No!” Stephanie cried, her eyes screaming defiance.
    “Dammit, stay!”
    “No!”
    Lockwood swore, and shot away from the curb, with Stephanie beside him. No time to argue with her, no time to get her out
     of the car, or he’d lose the Buick.
    One-Eye was already two blocks ahead. The Hook slammed the car into second gear, and then third, pushing the Twin Six for
     all it was worth, leaving a trail of burnt rubber behind.
    He roared through a red light, narrowly missing an ice truck, weaving past two foolhardy pedestrians who were trying to cross
     in the middle of the block, coming so close to one that the fender brushed him, whipping him halfway around.
    “Look out!” Stephanie shouted, eyes never leaving the car ahead. “He has a gun!”
    A shot whistled overhead, and Lockwood tightened his foot on the gas pedal. He was overtaking the Buick.
    Another red light, and the Buick made it, but Lockwood had to jam on the brakes, wheeling wildly to his right to avoid the
     Chrysler Airflow that sailed blithely by him. Then he wrenched the wheel to the left, as cars screamed to halts, horns blaring
     angrily at him.
    He was on 42nd again, and two cops were running, trying in vain to chase after the Buick. One trained his gun on the Cord
     as Lockwood and Stephanie flashed by, but held his fire, vainly shouting out an order to stop.
    Another shot roared near the Cord, and Lockwood glanced to his right. Stephanie was okay, her hair streaming rearward as