discordant blaring jangled Rourke's nerves.
Several of the Klan men had jumped on the back of the truck and were unrolling the tarpaulin cover. Alone in the Courts Building's brick arched entrance, Rourke and Fio paused for a moment between the stucco pillars to watch. The tarp came off to reveal a high-backed oaken chair with leather straps, and the generator to power it.
“It's not as big as I thought it would be,” Fio said.
It looked plenty big enough to Rourke. The cheers of the crowd were suddenly like hard fists beating against his temples, and then somebody set off a string of firecrackers.
He wasn't sure what made him look up to the roof of the Blue Bayou Hotel across the street. What he saw when he did look, though, was a flash of sunlight off a rifle barrel.
Rourke threw his shoulder into Fio's chest, sending them both to the ground. Firecrackers were going off all around them now, horns blasting and police sirens blaring and people chanting, “Burn, nigger, burn.” They couldn't hear the shots, but pieces of the stucco pillar exploded into fragments above Rourke's head.
Fio's hat blew off. He snatched it as it rolled away from him and slapped it back on his head.
The pop of the firecrackers petered out, although the chanting and the blare of horns went on. Rourke and Fio crouched behind the pillars with their guns drawn, scanning the hotel's rooftop.
A shadow of movement passed across a chimney.
“The bastard's getting away,” Fio shouted.
They rolled to their feet and took off running across the street, dodging cars and wagons and stragglers from the crowd around the truck with the chair. No one else seemed to have even realized that the shots had been fired.
The hotel was small, only six stories, with a fire escape that let down into an alley. Rourke went through the hotel's revolving front door, while Fio ran around to the alley to cut off an escape at the rear.
The lobby had an elevator, a small black wrought iron cage, but the car was already on the top floor. Rourke disabled it by propping open the door, and took the stairs two at a time all the way up to the roof.
The hotel roof was flat, covered with tarpaper and gravel, and it was empty. However, he could see by the chimney a place where the shooter could easily have made the leap onto the lower roof of the apartment building next door. Rourke called down to Fio, telling him to check that building as well, but he knew they were already too late.
He went to the ledge that overlooked the entrance to the Criminal Courts Building. The area was littered with .30-caliber shell casings, from a Springfield rifle, maybe. Using his handkerchief he picked the casings up and dropped them in his pocket. The Ghoul had recently bought a new invention called a comparison microscope for conducting ballistics tests. They hadn't used it much yet, but Rourke still had high hopes for it.
The door to the stairwell squealed open behind him, and he whirled.
Fio emerged, panting hard, his face red. “What in hell is going on here?”
“What are you asking me for?” Rourke said. “You're the one whose hat got shot.”
“My hat got shot 'cause you ducked.” Fio took off his hat and poked his finger through the hole in its crown. “Shit, man, this was a good hat.”
Rourke laughed because the hat in question was ten years old if it was a day. The crown had broken down in the center even before it had gotten shot, and the brim had a tendency to curl up on the edges in damp weather.
Fio gave him a withering look. “My hat gets killed and you laugh.”
Fio placed the hat on his head with exaggerated dignity. He started to turn back toward the door, and Rourke saw that the left upper arm of his partner's beige pongee suit coat was wet and red.
“It looks like more than your hat got hit.”
“Huh?” Fio looked to where Rourke was pointing. He prodded the blood-soaked hole in the sleeve of his coat. “Ow, Jeez Marie and all the saints. I think the
Several of the Klan men had jumped on the back of the truck and were unrolling the tarpaulin cover. Alone in the Courts Building's brick arched entrance, Rourke and Fio paused for a moment between the stucco pillars to watch. The tarp came off to reveal a high-backed oaken chair with leather straps, and the generator to power it.
“It's not as big as I thought it would be,” Fio said.
It looked plenty big enough to Rourke. The cheers of the crowd were suddenly like hard fists beating against his temples, and then somebody set off a string of firecrackers.
He wasn't sure what made him look up to the roof of the Blue Bayou Hotel across the street. What he saw when he did look, though, was a flash of sunlight off a rifle barrel.
Rourke threw his shoulder into Fio's chest, sending them both to the ground. Firecrackers were going off all around them now, horns blasting and police sirens blaring and people chanting, “Burn, nigger, burn.” They couldn't hear the shots, but pieces of the stucco pillar exploded into fragments above Rourke's head.
Fio's hat blew off. He snatched it as it rolled away from him and slapped it back on his head.
The pop of the firecrackers petered out, although the chanting and the blare of horns went on. Rourke and Fio crouched behind the pillars with their guns drawn, scanning the hotel's rooftop.
A shadow of movement passed across a chimney.
“The bastard's getting away,” Fio shouted.
They rolled to their feet and took off running across the street, dodging cars and wagons and stragglers from the crowd around the truck with the chair. No one else seemed to have even realized that the shots had been fired.
The hotel was small, only six stories, with a fire escape that let down into an alley. Rourke went through the hotel's revolving front door, while Fio ran around to the alley to cut off an escape at the rear.
The lobby had an elevator, a small black wrought iron cage, but the car was already on the top floor. Rourke disabled it by propping open the door, and took the stairs two at a time all the way up to the roof.
The hotel roof was flat, covered with tarpaper and gravel, and it was empty. However, he could see by the chimney a place where the shooter could easily have made the leap onto the lower roof of the apartment building next door. Rourke called down to Fio, telling him to check that building as well, but he knew they were already too late.
He went to the ledge that overlooked the entrance to the Criminal Courts Building. The area was littered with .30-caliber shell casings, from a Springfield rifle, maybe. Using his handkerchief he picked the casings up and dropped them in his pocket. The Ghoul had recently bought a new invention called a comparison microscope for conducting ballistics tests. They hadn't used it much yet, but Rourke still had high hopes for it.
The door to the stairwell squealed open behind him, and he whirled.
Fio emerged, panting hard, his face red. “What in hell is going on here?”
“What are you asking me for?” Rourke said. “You're the one whose hat got shot.”
“My hat got shot 'cause you ducked.” Fio took off his hat and poked his finger through the hole in its crown. “Shit, man, this was a good hat.”
Rourke laughed because the hat in question was ten years old if it was a day. The crown had broken down in the center even before it had gotten shot, and the brim had a tendency to curl up on the edges in damp weather.
Fio gave him a withering look. “My hat gets killed and you laugh.”
Fio placed the hat on his head with exaggerated dignity. He started to turn back toward the door, and Rourke saw that the left upper arm of his partner's beige pongee suit coat was wet and red.
“It looks like more than your hat got hit.”
“Huh?” Fio looked to where Rourke was pointing. He prodded the blood-soaked hole in the sleeve of his coat. “Ow, Jeez Marie and all the saints. I think the
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