Page 36 of By Any Means

But—dead brother. Also possibly a murderer. Definitely still a rich man who was hiding something.

“Now,” Chary said tentatively.

Aw, dammit.

“Ah, look…” Laurie tried, and cleared his throat again. “You’re tired.”

“Yes,” Chary said, suddenly flat. Laurie winced.

“So, I’ll come back later, after you’ve slept some. Noonish? You’ll be here—or at your Fifth Avenue place?”

Chary’s chin was in his chest. “Here. I don’t believe I’ll make it there today.”

“And you’ll help me? For the sake of the truth? The bigger story? For the gaffers who died? I didn’t lie, Chary. You’re the best man to help me right now.”

“The bigger story.” Chary shook his head and pursed soft, flushed lips. “For the truth,” he said at last. “Those poor dead men.”

9

CHARY

Noonish, still in the rooming house, still exhausted, Chary was awake and shaving, dealing with plenty of mixed feelings toward Laurie—no, the anti-capitalist reporter. Lawrence Tulley. Gratitude to be able to razor himself smooth. Slight humiliation because of his failure to achieve it on his own. Unease, too: a scaleless, fleshy kind that must’ve been an aftereffect from vulnerable arousal. He hadn’t had too much practice being brought to stiff breathlessness and then dumped forthwith upon the bed.

And now…

Chary shifted on the little vanity chair. Now, yes, still also arousal. His prick was uncaring that the reporter would ruin him, given the chance, or that he thought Chary capable of murdering two of his coworkers. (Employees?) It remembered only the solid, warm feel of Laurie’s hands on his skull, the chills that had sparked every nerve in his skin to exquisite sensitivity. Remembered the yearning to be touched that he’d forgotten existed but had grown like a molten bubble, shattering and leaving a deep imprint behind.

A knock on the door.

Chary checked his wristlet watch. It was only eleven forty-nine, barely two hours since Laurie had left, but it had to be him; no one else knew he was there. Chary toweled off, made sure his trousers were decent, thought briefly on whether to pull on a shirt—why bother, if the man had already seen him at a stand and gasping?—and opened the door.

“Hel— Oof.”

A day of firsts. He’d never been punched in the gut before. The surprise of it tossed him back into the drawers of the vanity, sending bottles and combs and the shaving basin skittering; water splattered across the floorboards that his face shortly met. “Wha—” Dirty boots followed him into the little room, and then Chary was lifted, and the vanity mirror spiderwebbed between his forehead and the plaster wall as it shattered.

He groaned, fogging the glass, and went limp. His assailant paused to breathe ominously and peer at him, probably to see if he lived, which seemed good: perhaps it meant he might not have been intent on murder. At least not immediate murder. That would’ve been a bullet in his head. Wouldn’t it have been?

He was thrown down onto the wet, muddy floor and kicked, and he quickly revised his assessment of the situation. It was murder, just a quieter, slower kind.

Four dead gaffers—Laurie would come back to find another one. At least he would know Chary wasn’t behind it this time. Or maybe they’d take his body and he’d go “missing” too.

The towel was in his hand.

He rolled free of the vicious steel-toe, sheltering briefly under the iron bedframe; he crawled out the other side, half his face fuzzed with dust. He heaved up, threw himself halfway onto the vanity, slammed the towel flat against the mirror his forehead had broken—such a loss. He pried loose a shard, kicking, tearing his head free against the man’s renewed grip on his hair—he had a forearm as hard as iron—and swung backward.

“Shit!” The man saw it and reacted, jerking back, but not in time; Chary had a long reach. He hit something warm and fleshy and tendon-taut.

Beautiful substance, glass. Versatile. Chary dug in, half-hoping for an artery—frantic blows fell upon his head, fingers reaching, scraping at his neck, pushing him down—and hot blood soaked the towel; he didn’t know whose. Chary twisted his wrist.

The man screamed and let him go, staggering back. Red streaked the matelassé unevenly, a rogue dye job. The man fell over the edge of the bed and stayed there, squashed between the frame and the wall, twitching and gasping, pleading for breath. “Wait—” His speech grew fainter, more slurred. “Wait…”

There was blood everywhere.

Blood loss, Chary thought dimly. Exsanguination. Now I have murdered someone.

What had he done?

Wheezing, he picked himself up from the floor. He had no idea how he’d gotten there again.