Pipsqueak by Brian M. Wiprud

stories above the storefronts, windows were boarded, shuttered, or dark behind the black zigzag of fire escapes. Traffic, radios, shouts, and honks—New York’s equivalent of waves at the shore—faded as we walked, beckoning us back to the relative safety of urban bustle.
    The building they’d entered was obvious by the seam of light under the door.
Gunther’s Thread
was spelled out in peeling gold on the store glass, specks of light visible where the black paint had flecked. The hubbub of voices, of a crowd, was audible within, but deep within. In fact, our ears directed us toward the metal sidewalk cellar door, where the crowd was louder.
    “They’re in the basement.” Angie pointed, getting down on her knees to put an eye at the latch hole.
    “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” I snapped my fingers.
    “Wow. I can’t see much except a few elbows and some folding chairs. Sounds like quite a crowd.”
    “Angie: time to go,” I whispered. “We can’t crash this shindig. Marti will definitely spot me.”
    Angie stood, brushing off her knees. “So what if she does?” she whispered back.
    “I dunno. What if she thinks I’m following her? I mean, it seems pretty obvious that somehow she’s mixed up in Pipsqueak’s kidnapping.”
    “Theft. Assuming this isn’t just some kind of coincidence.”
    “How about ‘squirrelnapping’? ‘Puppetnapping’?”
    Angie rolled her eyes. “What’s she going to do about it? There’s a whole lot of people down there. I can’t see her pulling a gun. Besides, you’ve caught her off guard. She’ll probably think it’s coincidence or something. But she’ll have to think about it awhile before she does anything.”
    Light suddenly poured from the front entrance. Like possums in the headlights, Angie and I squinted at the forms of two men standing in the open door. A retro man in a wide-striped suit stepped past us, gave us the once-over, and moved on up the block. The big silhouette in the doorway boomed, “Well?”

Chapter 13

    H i!”Angie chirped.
    “We were just—” I chortled.
    “Password?”
    “Nobody told us about any password,” Angie snitted.
    “Nobody
who
?” Silhouette leaned defiantly on the door frame, the shadow of a toothpick waggling in his lips.
    “You mean who told us to come? Garth, who’s that friend of yours? The one that told us . . .”
    “Friend of a friend, really.” I shrugged. “Jeez, Angie, whatsisname . . .” I snapped my fingers.
    “Hardy har-har,” Silhouette boomed, standing aside. “Get on in.”
    Before I could grasp what he meant, Angie glided into the speakeasy. “Thanks!” Angie nodded to the silhouette.
    I followed, tipping my hat and bestowing a nervous smile up at the doorman. Out of silhouette, he was still looming large in what must have been a size-58 jacket. His neck and head were shaved close over cauliflower ears, a nasty-looking scar on his forehead arcing up into a streak of white hair on his scalp. A shoo-in nominee for the Heavy of the Year Award. He didn’t give us a second look.
    Directly inside was a dusty, vacant shop, walls lined with empty spool pegs. A cracked glass counter on our right was piled high with hats. Attending was ennui personified as a bobby-soxer. She said nothing as she took my hat and held out a ticket.
    Angie and I bounced eyebrows at each other and continued toward the only obvious route at the back of the room, where we went through a set of curtains. I heard Mr. Heavy open the front door and growl, “Password?” Snapping fingers followed, and the next group entered. So that was the password. And to think but for dumb luck we’d have been safely on our way home to call Dudley and explain our disappearance.
    Skirting a room of aging crates and scattered excelsior, Angie and I descended a narrow stairway to the left, a rush of cigarette smoke and convivial murmuring rolling up at us.
    I put a hand on Angie’s shoulder. “Take it easy with the small talk down here,