“Aw, Bill,” the hairy man muttered. He fell into line shamefacedly behind Lacey.
The returning party’s pace was faster than it had been as they entered the uncomfortable caverns. Enthusiasm at leaving made up for the need to carry Swoboda and the wounded gunman. Lacey had learned to throw his own chain forward with short, quick steps. He kept up with the others without being goaded. Rather to his surprise, the Southerner found that his mind was no longer on how best to accomplish his real mission. All the way back to the throne room, he was considering how to kill Horn and Bill Allen.
Black May sat down on her gold-draped chair and stared at the chained men. Her boy stopped pouting and began to massage the bare side of her scalp. Lacey tried to look nonchalant. If May didn’t order his release now, he was in trouble.
“Bill,” she said, “I want them where they’re out a’ the way.” The bald side of her head was faceted by scar tissue. “Keep ’em where you’ve got prisoners for ransom—or do you have any now?”
“Naw, two got paid off and the woman’s working The Boxcars right now.”
“Good. Keep this pair there and keep a guard on ’em. That one for starters—” she pointed a finger at Horn; she hadn’t forgotten either. “I’m going to get 38th Precinct to run Doc here’s movements for the last few times he was topside. It’ll maybe take a couple of days, ’cause it’ll have to go in as routine street-sweeps; but if our fink’s right, it’ll be hard lines for the Doc.”
Lacey grinned broadly. It made him look cruel and confident, both of them qualities Black May would appreciate. Besides, it genuinely amused the Southerner that he would soon be unmasked by the very data banks he had served for fifteen years.
As he shuffled toward the steps beside Allen, Lacey suggested, “If you cut these damned chains now, it’ll save you having to lug me up these stairs.”
The big chieftain snorted. “Sure. I watch you lay out Mooch and I’m supposed to take your chains off when May says not to. Besides, it ain’t my back you’ll ride on. Horn, Ledder—get this bastard up the steps. If you drop him, I’ll kick your butts all the way to the bottom myself.”
* * *
The trip back through the tunnels gave Lacey a charleyhorse in each thigh. Since that came on top of the beating he had taken from Mooch, Lacey was dizzy with pain by the time they stopped. According to his reckoning, they were in a branch tunnel near The Boxcars. Allen unlocked what had probably been an equipment closet. The door was sheet metal and not particularly substantial. Some of the customers in nearby booths watched what was going on. The shills and bartenders did not: they knew Bill Allen, and they knew that his business was none of theirs.
The rock on the other side of the small closet had been cut away recently. Allen shone a hand light within. The new opening gave into what seemed to be a blocked-off elevator well. The area was choked with trash, but in the middle of it stood a massive eyebolt, its base sunk deep into the concrete floor. “Home, simps,” Allen said with a chuckle. “Till May gives the word.”
A pair of his subordinates had appeared from the direction of The Boxcars, carrying shackles and a glowing brazier. Wank must have summoned them by phone. Allen nodded to the pair and said, “Lock this pair by the wrists, Becky. You can give ’em three meters to be comfortable; but don’t knock the leg irons off, hey?”
The smith and her helper riveted a manacle to Lacey’s right wrist with a few expert blows, using the eyebolt as an anvil. Then they ran the attached length of chain through the eye itself and manacled the other end to Swoboda.
“Horn,” Allen said grimly, “you sit right there at the doorway. Anybody tried to get in or out, you cut ’em apart with your toy there. I’ll have a meal sent down in a couple hours. And you do any goddam thing but what you’re told to, I make a belt of your hide and give the rest of you to May. Understood?”