Page 80 of By Any Means

“I have no clue,” Laurie said frankly. “Can’t hardly see straight, to be honest.” Then he added, “’Twas us leading ’em out.”

Sam pressed his lips together, but nodded. “All right. That’s a later consideration, then.” He patted a briefcase on his hip. “Brought your spares, both of you. And some of Maud’s honey cake.”

Maud was his wife of some twenty years and exceptionally kind. This, on top of furnishing the ludicrous amount of bail for both of them. Laurie could’ve honestly cried. “Thanks, Sam. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Sam shushed him, waving. “Write me something worth printing, Laurie dear, as usual. That’s how.” He handed Laurie his spares.

Laurie gratefully got rid of the jumpsuit and pulled on the trousers, a winter-wool pair he hadn’t remembered to switch out from his desk. Summer heat or no, he thought it’d be a while before he’d take them off voluntarily in public. “I don’t know if— D’you know if they’ve let out Chary? Mr. Wright.”

Sam’s surprise at the familiarity was apparent even while he was turned politely aside. “Mr. Wright? I don’t. But Mr. Sumner left me an address in case of emergency; I’ve telegrammed there.”

Laurie’s exhausted heart picked up speed. August. August could not come there. For one, he was supposed to be dead. For two, Tjofabier Raberding hadn’t yet shown his face, but would shortly realize his prey wasn’t included in the net and would come looking nowhere else but where he thought August would be: rescuing his brother. August knew that, didn’t he?

“You haven’t given it to anyone, have you?”

“The address? No. The telegram? Yes. I shan’t apologize. What’s an emergency if not finding your two best writers arrested?”

Laurie snorted. “Oh, come on. Hiram’s a society writer.”

Sam laughed. “I’ll take that to mean you’re decent again?”

“Yeah.” He reached back to lightly scritch at Hiram’s hand. He was hesitant to touch anywhere else; the policeman Hiram had taken down to the Russian-baths floor had gotten him back and then some, with the help of his friends.

Brasher had been bailed out long since. He hadn’t been booked longer than an hour when a troupe of suits and badges came in, silently oppressive, and carried him out again over their shoulders. Laurie wasn’t sure it had been liberation over reincarceration—they were feds if Laurie had ever seen one—but Brasher had gone willingly enough. Hiram hadn’t said a word about it. Neither had he seemed upset. Laurie definitely had questions.

Hiram woke, jerking his head up. He stared wildly, unfocused, before spotting Sam.

“Hullo, Sam.” He yawned. “I thought Laurie got this kind of preferential treatment from you exclusively.”

Sam scowled, but it was insincere. “Why would it be exclusive, Mr. Sumner? Don’t you sell just as many copies?”

“I couldn’t say. We’re in the same issues.”

Laurie laughed.

“Letters to the editor, then,” Sam said, dogged.

Laurie tossed Hiram his suit. “Get dressed, H. We’re outta here.”

Hiram dressed quickly, unselfconscious. The bruising beneath the jumpsuit wasn’t as bad as Laurie feared. The worst was the face they hadn’t spared: the work of insecure men with biases worn right on their bloodied sleeves. Hiram was unrecognizable. One carefully shaped eyebrow was splitting.

Laurie wondered how Chary had fared. The sound of his face hitting the floor—his limpness after, defeated, taken completely by surprise by the violence⁠—

Yeah. That might revisit his nightmares after all.

A patrolman, expression bored, led the three of them out of the charge room and down the wide marble stairs. The boys in blue had been recently insistent a new, fancier station was needed. A larger one, they said; the police force had quadrupled. (After experiencing a hundred police coming down on one small bathhouse filled with a quarter as many men, it sure as hell seemed to have quadrupled.) Construction had begun earlier this year. Laurie had seen the plans. Greek columns and a dome. The finest building in New York for New York’s Finest. Gotta impress the oppressed. Scare away the non-whites.

In the lobby—peaceful and empty this morning—they were obliged to check out with the clerk, who stood at a safe separation of about ten feet, a wrought-iron fence, and a desk. Sam signed something or other that affirmed their payoff had been properly furnished, and then they were free citizens once more, at least until trial.

When they were nearly to the double doors, Hiram touched his wrist.

“What?” Laurie muttered. Newly fearful, he looked behind him. The police had changed their mind. More charges, new bail, another jumpsuit.

No: worse. Tjofabier Raberding was leading Chary Wright down the marble stairs into the lobby, an arm around him. Chary looked drugged. Their escort was no lowly patrolman, either: none other than the Headquarters’ Chief Inspector, leaning to listen to Raberding speak.

That fucker. Laurie took one furious step, quickly aborted; Hiram pulled him back, his grip like iron.

“No,” Hiram said fiercely. “Don’t you dare. Where you are you right now?”