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"Well," said Milos, "maybe I am after something more than trust." He let the thought linger for a moment, then gave a slight, but courteous bow. "Now if you will excuse me, I have to get Pugsy some sports scores." He turned to go, but Mary wasn't quite done with him yet.
"You asked for an impossible task," she said. "Perhaps I can give you one."
Milos turned back to her, watching as she strode across the Promenade, peering down out of the angled windows, looking at the Afterlights in the court of honor. The children here now played games. The same games, day after day after day. "Things have certainly gotten better here since my arrival," she told Milos, "but Pugsy is really more of a hindrance than a help, don't you agree?"
Milos, who had no love of the Death Boss, said, "Of course I do."
"Well then, I want you to ... talk ... to Pugsy. I want you to persuade him to leave Chicago. Forever."
"I do not think this is possible," Milos told her. "He will never leave Chicago of his own free will."
Mary shrugged and raised her eyebrows. "Well, you said you wanted an impossible task; there it is."
Milos considered it. "Persuade him, you say ..."
"I'm certainly not suggesting anything unseemly... ."
"Of course not. You would never do such a thing." Milos came to the window beside her, "And if I succeed?"
"If you succeed," said Mary, "and Pugsy ceases to be a problem, you'll have better things to do than fetch his sports scores." Then she smiled. It wasn't her usual warm, welcoming smile. This time it seemed steeped in intrigue and design. "Tell me, have you ever been to the West, Milos?"
"No," he answered. "I have heard stories of skinjackers who jacked their way across the Mississippi, but they never returned. Are you planning an expedition?"
"If you accomplish the impossible," Mary told him. "Perhaps I will too."
Milos gently took her hand. "It is a pleasure to be in your service, Miss Hightower, Governess of the East, and soon to be West." Then he raised her hand to his lips and gently kissed the silken, glowing back of her hand. He knew he was being too bold, and if ever there was a moment she would throw him out, this would be it, but instead she slowly withdrew her hand, and said, "You, Milos, could be very dangerous."
To which he replied, "Is that an observation, or a request?"
That brought forth a laugh, but no answer. Perhaps because she was still undecided.
That night Pugsy Capone dined on lobster. There was always lobster, or steak, or good old Chicago Pizza since Mary became a part of his establishment. Her children diligently ventured out into the living world in search of crossed food, and her relationships with some fairly wellknown finders resulted in a trade surplus that kept Pugsy in the pink. Whatever he wanted, it was available. Even his own Chicago Afterlights were following suit, becoming busy bees, instead of lazy oafs.
"I've been thinking of declaring myself boss over Indianapolis, and then spreading East to Ohio," he had told Mary. "Whadaya think?"
319
"It sounds visionary," Mary had told him. "Stretch as far east as you like."
While he had been reluctant to join with her at first, he had to admit that they were an unstoppable team. The future was looking brighter than ever before. So when he was approached by Moose, who told him that a truck had arrived full of tributes and gifts from the Indianapolis Afterlights, foul play was the last thing he suspected.
As he crossed the midway with Moose, it didn't trouble him that his trio of bodyguards were nowhere to be found. He had come to rely on them less and less since security, and a need for six-fisted intimidation, had become less of a priority. He was caught off guard by the sack that was thrust over his head, and before he knew what was happening, his hands and feet were tied, and he was carried off.
He was dumped some time later on a wooden floor that creaked beneath him, and when the bag was ripped from his face, he was looking up at three Afterlights glowing in the dark night: It was the new skinjackers. All three of them.
"What do you think you're doing?" Pugsy shouted.
Milos was way too calm. "We are having a meeting. I am so glad you could come."
As Milos was a Ruskie, Pugsy hated him on principal. It was Mary who had convinced him that Milos could be trusted. Well, Mary would get an earful for this!
He tried to stand but his legs were tied too tightly. "All three of you have just bought yourself a place on the mantel." Which was one of Pugsy's pet expressions for a trip to the center of the earth--along with "earning core time" and "sleeping with the magma."
"Look around you, and think again," said Milos. Pugsy glanced around, and instantly knew exactly where he was. This was what he affectionately called "the submarine terminal." It was an Everlost dock on Lake Michigan where he would dispatch unwanted Afterlights into the "dirty deep," yet another pet name for the center of the earth. In fact, right now, there were three others bound and gagged, with cinder blocks tied to their ankles. He would have thought the work was done by his bodyguards. Except that they were his bodyguards. Now Pugsy began to worry.
"Tell me," said Milos, "how many are the Afterlights you have thrown from this dock?"
"I don't know," said Pugsy nervously. "I don't keep count."
