Chapter Eighteen
Sweet Lessons

There are more ways to make sugar than drops of water in the ocean. It's a simple fact of biology and chemistry I learned on the job—store and release, not create and destroy. I caught scent many times, yet didn't hunt. Take an axe to too many stills, and there are more when you die. City Hall hated that in '58 and still does.
Once you adjust your worldview, people stop being mysterious. We're slaves to a grand cycle. Every cycle comes to its release. Nature understands, and I dream of the moment things shatter.
-Ned Mahoney's handwritten journals, dated 2168.03.16, found among the personal effects of Christina Marlowe

An unassuming soul would bet that I had no issues with waking up before dawn. Given coffee, yes. The second day in a row I'd uncurled early, and the second morning where the coffee was missing a single crystal of sugar.

Wouldn't have mattered with the painkillers' bitter tingle on my tongue. I unlocked the tenant's alleyway door on the Sternwood at half to five. Hartman hadn't lit his gear yet. Good thing. I'd have clawed him into telling me how much refined sugar an unlicensed individual could have. My temper simmered like a still. Wasting the confectioner's time on a few grams made me no better than Boss Jones.

And it would leave me where I'd started. Since I'd taken Berrymount's case, my tail had run in circles. Returning to the Danwirth needed to be a separate adventure. I promised myself that Kayle and the rest of the Booze Boys would be cursing a pre-dawn raid in a few days. Especially if I was at the head and talking fast.

Minutes before five, Hartman did the sideways shuffle through the alley's doorway, stopping on a penny once he picked my shadow from the other shapes. Stress had that effect on mostly honest fellows.

He said, “Good morning, Ms. Marlowe. Your aid is always welcome, if you have a few minutes." He smiled as I nodded, continuing, “I trust—"

“Maybe you do, but I don't have the space," I said while still listening for a spare one of the Boys—or worse yet, Dixon.

Flowers. I'd buy her a dozen, and a nearly raw kilo steak in the Theatre District. I needed a line on the warehouse buns. A hungry wolfess would do. Might shake loose who scammed Dolman, if they'd been in on it.

I continued with a few gentle pats to his cheek, “How would you like to see another of your competitors end up in jail?"

His face went a special kind of red, the warmth flea-bitten children have before pestilence chokes their throat and the red becomes black. “Please, no. You saw my business yesterday." A deep breath and he was back to normal.

I said, “It was a good afternoon. Has been the past week or so."

Hartman motioned to me. He undid the many locks to his kitchen and scrawled a quick note for his employees. After pinning that by the coatrack, he grabbed a clean apron and took me into the basement. “It will ruin me if this keeps up." The mass of white linen went over his bulk and he tied it off crisply as if saying there was time between now and then.

I ambled past him to one of his three reductions stills. The stamped steel tag on the first one read 'Hartman and Sons mint oil alembic, license #HD785.2149.03', and had a much-stained logbook tied to the other side. The second still was near identical, for vanilla seed. The third was more than twice the size of the others combined. Its tag had the requisite information and license stamp. The inverse side listed maximum outputs and more. A nearby rack had dated containers of sugars. I knuckled my whiskers on one side and asked myself how quickly Hartman could burn through the stock on his racks.

He opened each still and nodded that all was well with his world. The tools of his trade accumulated around each. Despite the hour and the long day ahead, he was whistling cheerfully. I wished I could.

I cleared a spot on another table and asked, “Is sugar becoming harder to get? And if so, is this a seasonal thing? Saw a harvest report in the broadsheets yesterday."

“Lord no. I mean, the seasonal. Sugar isn't rotting grain. But the prices increase each year." He tested a low barrel's integrity with one hand, then winced as it creaked under him. “When I first opened shop, a careful man could do far more than feed a family with the profits of his labors."

“You're not the biggest player." Moderate at best, I thought. With a bigger place, Hartman could draw in the upscale crowd.

“No," he said and wiped at his brow with a rag. “But I'm never going to sacrifice my good work to blend liters of barely edible oils with just enough milkfat to trick the public. That's what those pirates are. If they had a vat of poisons, they'd figure a way to package it."

“And you're not making the profit you used to."

He chuckled and said, “It does not take a detective or accountant to deduce that, my vixen friend."

“Mind if I check my revolver while we talk? Had a spot of trouble last night." I slid off the table and set up. “Fell asleep with my hat on."

Hartman paused in concern. “You have a dangerous business."

My gun broke into its pieces as I asked Hartman the usual small talk. Nothing seemed wrong. Duds happen, but I didn't want that to be my epitaph. I tested the hammer and set the frame aside.

Time to get on with it, I thought. “You can tell me no. What I'm working on smells worse than dead fish in the harbor." He acknowledged the danger. “Earlier this week I dug up a case that's taken me places. Basement places, like this."

“May I interrupt a moment, Ms. Marlowe?" I nodded, and Hartman gestured at the bricked-over door arches along the south and west walls. “That alone has improved my sleep these past years." His knees and back sighed in time with the barrel as he stood. “Help an old man load this thing for the morning if you need to talk. And going by your tone, I guess you have much to ask."

He directed me to haul over a ten-kilo drum, then water. I'd never observed him at this part of his craft. The man's leg probably weighed close to my whole body, but his hands worked over the combination alembic and column with a ballerina's precision.

I hefted the drum and said, “I've never paid due attention to the farm reports. Always thought the cops didn't either."

“And why not?" he asked, then held the drum steady as I lifted the water. “You've never been out to the farms?"

After the last drop splashed, I admitted, “Not the big ones."

“Then believe this. It always has been an issue between men like myself and the fuels companies. Actually, any edible goods and the fuels industry. They discover something, and the new surplus all goes to tanks or livestock feed. Then I still owe the city for the pleasure of doing what they cannot."

“Wait. What?" I asked as I pulled my notebook. I wrote my ideas as he went through details beneath anyone's notice.

It was too early for me to play dumb about that side of the bootlegging trade, but I needed Hartman to field strip the truth like my revolver. I'd fired off more half-truths than I had bullets yesterday.

Point one: Camberlyn had been ready, and he admitted everything he knew would be bad for the markets. He'd also tried to send me out to Dolman's place. By this afternoon he'd find out the snare hadn't caught me.

Point two: Delmar and the boys had bigger things to worry about than a confectioner. Me, for one. I'd sit all over their plans and raise a stink until it stopped turning a handsome profit.

Point three: Tierney had lost big enough to claim Delmar had a hand in it, except that and the previous two items didn't fit together.

Point four: what did fit was Jones having a breakthrough. That meant Tierney or one of the other big guys were close as well. Then again, that whole line of thought was like saying the tunnels were usually dark.

Point five: Kayle had more pressure than normal from both City Hall and IA. See point four and draw another card.

Point six: whatever the buns, or a faction, were doing, it involved the cats. Both were in over their ears.

I flicked back to the page where I tallied up Jones, Berrymount, and the buns. An arrow connected the last two, so at the bottom of the bun's column I wrote: Dolman or Delmar?

The problem with that obvious result was what I'd seen at the end of last night. It left out why Jones had been hit, along with the numbers. Along the same lines, it left out why the cats were cleaning up and who they were cleaning up for.

Wasn't a drop of that to clear up how Jones' blueprints went missing. Too many questions, and I had plenty of people that could add more.

That brought up an old memory of Mahoney talking about Regulated Goods. He knew more than any other two people I'd ever known, and that included the few ITC agents that had to deal with me. Made sense, given that he'd been one of the Booze Boys for decades. But like Kayle, he had an iron sense of how to manage matters. That meant sniffing along the trails of freshly printed money, finding out what was really being shuffled around.

I tucked away my notebook after upgrading Berrymount's rates again. The sad look he'd have holding an empty wallet got me laughing. Time to remind someone not to play monty with me, busted nose or not.

Hartman watched me from the safe distance of his racks and said, “Please do not feel offended if I ask you to reserve your humor for City Hall or my utility bill." He tapped beside his right eye and turned on the first alembic's gas. It hissed to life.

Someone knocked at the basement door and called, “Mr. Hartman, the gentleman from yesterday is here to see you. He wants to come down."

The confectioner rested a sack on his knee, the last alembic open and half-loaded. He said, “I am finishing—"

A bruiser in a blue-banded fedora eased past, shiny shoes tapping down the stairs. “Morning, Marlowe. Mr. Hartman. I apologize for interrupting."

“Like hell, Givens," I said, then asked Hartman, “You know him?"

They shared a glance as Hartman finished his work, then Hartman said, “He stopped by after I'd closed and was concerned."

I got right in Givens' way and said, “No. Got that?"

He pushed himself back and dusted off, then kept his hands between us. “Professional courtesy. Boss wants to know a few innocent things. Didn't touch a hair."

It took a few seconds for Hartman to confirm, and a good bit more for Givens to admit the real reason for showing up. A folded broadsheet from his inside his jacket dropped on the table, covering my disassembled gun.

With a grin, Givens said, “Sneaky deeds are usually quieter."

“Usually," I agreed.

Hartman shuffled over and opened the broadsheet. “Is this what you were talking about?" he asked, the cheap paper rustling in his hands.

The corner drooped enough for me to read the byline. “Not the first adventure I've had." Givens laughed at my dryness and I continued, “It could have gone smoother."

“I can see," he said and indicated my revolver. “Did you find anything I can take back?"

“No," I lied.

“Remember what I said yesterday," he said and turned to Hartman. “The Boss would like you to reconsider."

Hartman shook his head and said, “I cannot, Mr. Givens. The offer was more than generous, but I'm a family man.

“The Boss only wants one hour of your time," Givens replied.

I yanked Givens' tie and let him see my teeth. “What's this about?"

“Just business," he said as though this was normal.

I pulled him lower, nose to nose. “The permits and building?"

“We have a shot," he said and didn't explain further after being released.

“Hartman has said no twice?" I asked after giving both men the side-eye.

Givens said, “So far."

Hartman went back to his alembics, and my ears pinned back all the way. Couldn't blame Tierney for trying to come out even, or me for not adding Dolman's problems to my mess.

I stayed between the two men and said, “Let's get a few things straight, Givens. You're not setting up shop downstairs from my office."

He replied, “Mr. Hartman would be moving out."

“Irrelevant. But since you're here, you can be useful. What's to stop the guys from City Hall from dropping by after close?" My nails ticked on the wood as I added, “Offer drops on this table. Forty percent stake in return for their patronage." I looked over my shoulder at Hartman and said, “You could write your own loans and expand as needed. Everyone profits."

His head hung low as he mopped at sweat. "Except they would not be so generous. I'm not an animal at the slaughter."

Givens asked, “You think they had that deal with Dolman?"

“Maybe they did, maybe not," I replied. “But it would have been an awfully easy way to punch his ticket."

Jonah's parting words kept interrupting my thoughts. I was no one's sweetheart, and that sounded too real. If me, then why not Dolman as well?

I continued, “I'll take it that Tierney didn't hand over a penny to Dolman without a few assurances?"

“His books were in the same order Mr. Hartman's are."

I shouldered Givens despite the pain and sniffed at what laid under his cologne. “The Professor always was good at accounting."

“The Boss," Givens said slowly as he eased me back, then went on, “likes things neat and tidy. It means that guys like me can go kiss our grandmothers with a clean conscience."

“She figured out years ago why people get nervous once you're concerned," I said as I flicked at his dangling tie.

That forced him to grab my hand. He applied gentle pressure on my knuckles for a moment, then released me. “The business runs in our family, just like the small luxuries pay for our mutual friend's bills. I'd be far less concerned if I had an idea why Spirits doesn't have the money."

There it was. “Hold up," I said and extracted my notebook. “You said that the Boys grabbed his books."

Givens nodded as his scent soured. “Maybe they want to know what he needed a pile of cold green for, and where it went."

Nice, I thought, and don't cry if I let that one slip somewhere later. “Here you are, acting like I shouldn't be concerned that you want Hartman to dance like a worm. Hmm?"

“I'm in a civil mood, Marlowe, and I dislike being nudged into gutter insults. We both want the same thing: figuring out where it derailed."

For my side, it happened at the interchange where the buns/ Berrymount line crossed the Jones/City Hall one. After last night, I practically had the case bagged. A couple of stops this morning and I'd have enough to swing for the fences. Oh, I still had plenty of loose ends. I'd whip them into rope and tie up the cats, then figure out a nasty way to sniff back to whoever owned all that material up in the Unrestored. That kind of money deserved a surprise.

One problem with my plan: all those loose ends were playing outfield. Their surprise for me? Gloves the size of a streetcar.

“You thought of something new?" asked Givens. “Perhaps something Jones shared with you last night?"

“His boys owe me the cost of a new hat," I replied.

The anger started peeking out at Given's collar and reached his jawline in seconds. “That is a piddling concern and you know it!"

“Want more?" I asked, then continued, “IA is rattling the Booze Boys hard. Now maybe you know something I don't, but we're even now."

Givens' lip twitched and he said, “Horse snot."

“As long as you keep out of the way of the Boys, Tierney can do what he wants. He's not stupid, and that's why he's going to drop the subject. I'm going to deal with my client. If that money connects to Dolman, I'll share." I let my smile show teeth. “But only after I close out."

“I'm starting to agree with Terrence. You're a nosy vixie and good at getting on my nerves." He turned to leave, but halfway up the stairs he added, “Don't expect any favors from me, Marlowe."

For several minutes after the only sounds were Hartman's bubbling alembics and the metal on metal of my gun as I reassembled it. The broadsheet Givens had left behind went for the sensationalist angle. I scanned through the narrow columns of text before dropping it in a bin.

This case kept getting worse, I thought, like a rope left uncoiled. When I finally spoke, it startled Hartman from his ritual of appeasement to the gods of accounting.

I said, “Berrymount doesn't realize he's been stuffed in a still pot, and I jumped in after." And the heat's on, I thought, with no way out but up.