Cockles and Mussels

Chicago's newest temporary tourist attraction was beginning to lure visitors, and visitors need to eat. The newsmen had come and gone, the concerned civic authorities, the law enforcement officials at long last . . . . Now the gawkers could get their way, and so could the vendors. Nothing was left sacred in this land of opportunism. Tourists snapped photographs with their new Brownie cameras, and posed in front of the yawning gap in the Chicago waterfront. Bolder street urchins and souvenir hunters evaded with ease the single guard and police officer stationed around the vast, roped-off area to reach in and grab a bit of rubble for themselves.

"Penny pies!" the grizzled, gray-toothed woman called as she hobbled her way along the strands of curiosity seekers. "Penny pies! Fresh and filling!" Here and there a tourist would stop her on her way and press a few coins into her hand in exchange for some of her card deck-sized wares. She also stopped to chat now and again with some of her fellow vendors, or to exchange samples of merchandise with them. In this manner they kept themselves fed and entertained, swapping stories. As needed, the busy biddy would return to her parked horse cart on the side street to replenish her stock in trade, or she might sit for a bit if there was room on one of the benches that had been hastily put out to accommodate the new influx of visitors. After two weeks of poor trade, the wharf and its dwellers were more than making up for it while the novelty still served to bring in more customers than they'd seen in years. Small wonder that so many new customers brought new food sellers as well. Two days was all old Maddy Luck needed to fit right in.

The cheap restaurants and bars, as well as the one that was starting to have pretensions, wouldn't have the old piewoman in, of course. But the curio shop owner was a dear – and most observant – even older thing who let Maddy in to listen to the owner's gossip or take some weight off her feet or use the necessary. One leering local codger had even propositioned Maddy outside one of the whorehouses, only to be shouted at by a visiting youth with a camera. Maddy had shouted back with a string of curses that could have peeled paint, and defended her silver-haired suitor by throwing a pie with unerring accuracy to splatter across the boy's face, making him run off. But the trade was brisk and the hours passed swiftly and profitably. By the time the second evening fell, Maddy had almost no pies left, but a tidy pile of coins to take back to her cart.

As she climbed back into the driver's seat of the covered horse cart, flicked the reins and started off in a direction away from the wharf, a sulky, familiar voice complained from within the cart's cramped interior.

"You got my collar all covered in pie goop! And you could've broken my glasses!"

"I made sure not to aim at your glasses," 'Maddy' hissed back. "Try to protect my virtue one more time and a pie in the face will be the very least of your worries, James Gordon! I can take care of myself!"

As the cart made its way several blocks from the waterfront area, both driver and cart underwent a transformation. The pie seller's long, gray hair vanished and was replaced by curly dark tresses drawn up into a bun. The apron, raggedy outer shawl and mask of wrinkles vanished as well, while the horse cart lost its flimsy outer cover and banner, and a red-headed, red-faced, still sullen young man climbed up into the front seat alongside her.

"Not taking the wig off yet?"

Jimmy Gordon shook his head.

"I thought it would be better if we didn't both look like ourselves until we got back to the house."

Amanda nodded. Well, her brother had some caution at least. Now if he could just be taught to keep his cool undercover . . . .

"Sorry," he mumbled. After several minutes of uncomfortable silence, he asked, "Does Tem know you can swear like that?"

She snorted.

"Since he was ten years old! He can too, if he has to for a disguise, believe it or not. We picked up some of the most interesting vocabulary from Mom and Dad's old friends."

"Sorry," Jimmy said again. "Guess I blew it."

"Fortunately not, but you almost did. Right now we can't afford that. In fact, we can't ever afford it!" She sighed. "Believe me, if I'm having trouble with something, I'll let you know! But we can't be careless." Amanda was as mad at herself for allowing Jimmy to take part in the undercover mission as she was at him. His 'young tourist' role should have been safe enough if he'd been able to stay in character. She shouldn't have taken the risk, though. She should have known he wasn't ready for this, didn't have enough training for this yet. Too emotionally involved.

And what do you think you are?

Someone who couldn't afford to be anything less than professional herself. Whoever had taken a shot at Tem two nights ago hadn't intended to miss. She could only be grateful to chance – and maybe a bit of divine intervention – that she was still Tem's wife and not his widow. The assailant must have spotted him examining the warehouse ruins with Agent Elser and gotten nervous that another Secret Service man was being brought in just when the heat had seemed to be tapering off.

From here on out, all three of them would have to rely on their disguise skills to keep themselves safe in what had been up until now their own home city - at least until the last of their unseen enemies had been caught or driven from their bolt hole. She agreed with Tem that there was another hideout, another snake's nest still here that the other investigating agencies had overlooked. Jimmy's surest safety lay in the fact that no opponents in their right minds would be looking for a sixteen year old spy. Amanda and Tem were nowhere near as famous or 'known' as their fathers had been, but they had started to make names – and other enemies – for themselves, names they might pay for if they got caught. Aunt Kate would have to be watching her and Uncle Jeremy's backs more closely too.

From start to finish, if they could see the finish, for the Wests this was going to be personal.

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

"How's Canasta?" Amanda asked, as she poured herself and Tem cups of hot tea that evening around the Gordon home kitchen table.

"Better. The leg's a little sore, but Dr. Kimmel says no serious harm done. He'll be fine." Tem's faithful steed had slipped on the city pavement during their strategic retreat, so now Tem would have to make do with the 'black beast' whether he liked it or not, even while they were still in town. "Find out anything more?"

"Other than that my brother still thinks I'm a virgin?" Amanda related to him the incident involving the old roué outside the whorehouse and her aim with pies. She was rewarded with the first genuine grin she had seen on her husband's face in days.

"You know, I could disabuse him about the virgin part," he said, placing his hands around her waist.

"You'll have to prove it by me too, Mr. West," she teased, running a finger down the bridge of his nose and tracing it around his lips. She sighed. Even after a tiring day of surveillance, she knew what she really wanted to do now. But they were both still professionals with a job in front of them, damn it, so they both sat down to drink their tea. "As you suspected, several of the local merchants thought that there was something a little strange going on in that warehouse months ago, but none of them wanted to talk to the authorities about it. Our side didn't do itself any favors by breaking up the neighborhood's usual nickel-and-dime schemes when they came in to investigate the weapons ring. But for what it's worth, the curio shop owner doesn't seem to have missed a trick, and she says that the gunman on the roof who shot your father was a new addition to the operation, only added the day before your father died. That could mean that the operation hadn't gotten itself into full swing until right before Uncle Jim destroyed it, or that some new, major event was about to take place or . . . ." she shrugged, "who knows? She also noticed Uncle Jim on the day itself, and gave me a frightfully accurate description of him and his cane, and of seeing him sneak into a side alleyway to get into the warehouse. She doesn't get many customers, so she keeps herself entertained watching the entire neighborhood through her window, and she's got an eye for intrigue that would do Aunt Kate proud."

Tem whistled softly.

"Wish we had more like you and her working for the bureau, then! And I wish we could get people like her to go to the authorities a bit more when they notice something fishy. If only we'd known this was going on sooner . . . ."

He didn't need to finish the sentence. They'd already had enough 'if onlys' to last them the rest of their lives.

"There is one other thing." Amanda bit her lower lip and then took another swallow of tea before continuing, uncertain of the reaction her next bit of news would get. "She didn't just give me an accurate description of your Dad. She gave me a pretty detailed description of the rooftop gunman too. And since she does have an eye for detail . . . ."

Tem's eyes narrowed.

"You think it's accurate?"

"I do," she nodded. They'd already discussed the likely possibility that Uncle Jim's shooter had been among those who escaped the warehouse unharmed. Only one corpse had been found by firefighters in the ruins themselves. Nine wounded men had been brought to the hospital and perished there, along with the policemen assigned to keep them under guard. Two men with only minor injuries had been brought to the nearest police station, but released before their duplicitous stories could be verified. Then those two, along with anyone else who had been working in that warehouse, had vanished like smoke before the Secret Service could investigate.

Amanda felt as well as saw the intensity in her husband's gaze. She knew that he might obsess over the hunt for the gunman, but she had no right to keep that information from him.

"The curio shop owner – her name is Mrs. McMulligan, by the way – says she got a very good look at the man who went up on the roof because he came into her shop the first morning he showed up. He wore a very distinctive hat, from what she said, and even though he didn't make himself visible up on the roof of the warehouse for more than a few seconds at a time both days he was up there, she noticed the hat when he did."

"She could see that much from a shop window across the street?"

"With help," Amanda said. "She has a spyglass that she uses to keep tabs on the whole neighborhood. She showed it to me and let me take a peek for myself. I've no idea where she got it from, but it's astonishingly good – almost as good as anything we could be supplied with from the bureau. When she doesn't have customers or visitors, which is most of the time, she apparently uses it semi-constantly. I don't think she misses much."

Neither did Amanda, and Tem's stare could have burned through paper.

"So," he said, and Amanda could hear the effort it was taking for him to keep his voice calm, "what did the man look like? I gather she noticed more than just the hat."

"Yes . . . ." Bite the bullet time. "He is about six and a half feet tall, with tanned, rough skin, no beard or mustache. Maybe in his forties. Blue eyes, which may mean he's fair-haired, but she couldn't see what color his hair was underneath the hat, so I guess he keeps it short, if he has any. And he's got a very distinctive scar on his neck and part of his face." Amanda traced a line with her finger from one side of her jaw, underneath her chin, to the other side of her jaw. "Like someone tried to slit his throat with a dull knife and aimed too high. That's the way she described it."

"And the hat?"

"A cowboy hat, like the kind our fathers often wore, but it's an unusual color – garnet red, with a brown band at the brim decorated with shiny metal discs about the size of a quarter. A bit gaudy looking. She offered to buy it from him and he didn't take it well – stalked right out of the store."

"Without leaving a name or address or anything else helpful, I suppose?"

"That's about the size of it." Amanda nodded again and took another drink of tea. "I know it sounds as if it might be something she were making it up. But she certainly didn't make up her description of Uncle Jim. She had him right down to the limp and the eagle head handle of the cane."

Tem frowned.

"Well, it doesn't sound as if we'd mistake him for anyone else – assuming that scar is real and the hat wasn't just part of a disguise, like you and Uncle Arte have gone in for. Wasn't that your father's first rule? Make yourself conspicuous so that people are sure they know what you look like."

Amanda grinned a little.

"I don't know if that was his first rule, but it was certainly right up there." She sighed. "It gives us a description we can check with Washington on, anyway. I suppose we'd better give it to them." The grin was replaced by a slight grimace. Telegraphing was often a joint activity for the pair. Amanda was better and faster at tapping out even the most complex messages, but those messages would get a more prompt and honest response if the receiver in Colonel Longworth's office thought that they came from Tem rather than her. Tem shared her frustration on that score. He wrapped his arms around her as they both put down their cups and stood up from the table.

"And then we've got another job to do tonight, Mrs. West," he whispered into her ear.

"And what would that be, Mr. West?" she asked, returning his embrace.

"Proving your brother wrong."

[WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW]

As it happened, Tem and Amanda would find a response to their queries sooner than Washington could get back to them. The next morning, Jimmy, recovered from his pie trauma and embarrassment, was down at the kitchen table eagerly covering it with prints of the photographs he'd taken the day before. Also as usual when he was working on something, considerations like actually eating breakfast or letting anyone else do so hadn't even entered into Jimmy's hyperactive brain. Prints even covered the chair seats. Tem and Amanda drank their coffee and ate improvised toast, bacon and egg sandwiches by the kitchen sink counter while their youngest partner waxed enthusiastic about anything and everything to do with George Eastman and his Kodak company. When Jimmy finally slowed down enough for Amanda to try getting a breakfast sandwich into him, they had their chance to take a look at the photos without a sixteen year old whirling dervish in the way.

"These are very good," she told him. Their idea had been for Jimmy to blend in with the other tourists and gawkers at the warehouse site to get photos of the scene to add to what the bureau had already given them, most of which were dry closeups. Even with other people and a rope barrier in the way, Jimmy had somehow done a better job at conveying the overall scene and scale of the destruction. If Amanda had inherited their father's more artistic side when it came to language, music and drawing, then science and photography were Jimmy's creative mediums. His prints would have been good enough to sell to the newspapers.

"Thnk 'ou," Jimmy muttered around a mouthful of egg and bacon on toast. In spite of their mother and Aunt Adele's attempts at early intervention, Jimmy's everyday manners were often a creative medium as well. Amanda wished their father had made more of an effort with him, especially since Jimmy had hung on Artemus Gordon's every word, but their father had overindulged both of his children shamelessly, in spite of having flawless etiquette himself. Uncle Jim hadn't helped any, either.

"Look at this one," Tem said, carefully lifting up one of the photographs by the edges.

The photo was an image not of the ruins or rubble themselves, but rather of the crowd that had gathered to view them. Tem had asked Jimmy to take a number of such snapshots on the off chance that the culprits they were looking for returned to the scene of the crime, as criminals did with surprising frequency. There, in the middle of the mass of gawkers, stood a man in a broad-brimmed cowboy hat that had a band decorated with small discs circling the crown. It was impossible to tell the hat's color from the black-and-white photograph, but . . . .

"Do you have your magnifying glass?" Tem asked softly.

"Of course!" Jimmy dug the requested item out of one of his vest pockets and handed it over, still not seeing anything special about that photograph himself. The younger man finished wolfing down his breakfast sandwich while Amanda and Tem gave the figure with the cowboy hat their fullest attention.

The image appeared distorted, curved when examined very close up with the magnifying glass, but Amanda could just make out a line of scar tissue that ran the full length under the man's chin and up one side of the jaw.

"He was there," she whispered, as Tem saw what she saw.

"Who?" Jimmy asked.

"The man who shot Uncle Jim."

Jimmy coughed so hard he spit out the last piece of his sandwich before snatching the photograph out of Tem's hands with enough force almost to rip it. He glared at the little figure to memorize every detail as Tem handed him back the magnifying glass and Amanda explained about the curio shop owner. Amanda wasn't surprised by the look of pure hate on her husband's face as he stared at the image. She'd seen that emotion before as she and Tem had been forced to confront some truly slimy individuals. But she'd never seen it on her little brother's features until now. This man in the photo was the cause of all their grief. This man was the cause of Uncle Jim's death and, by extension, Lily Gordon's.

We were so close to him, and never even knew . . . .

Amanda hadn't noticed that man at the warehouse site. He either hadn't been there long, or showed up before she had his description, or both. He could even have been one of the individuals who planted the bombs at the hospital, though they might never know. But he was definitely alive and definitely here in Chicago.

"We'll get him," Tem whispered.

Now they pored over each of Jimmy's photos with extra care, seeking any other images of the scarred man in the banded cowboy hat. They found none. They knew what their enemy looked like – one of them, anyway. Did the chin-scarred man know about them too?

"I don't think Maddy Luck or Freddy Smith the photographer had better show up there again," Tem said.

Amanda agreed. She had plenty of other costumes and personas she could pull out for surveillance purposes. She didn't want Jimmy down at the waterfront either. He'd given them a solid clue with his camera talents, but she didn't want him anywhere near a killer. Then again, what more did they have to gain by staying at that location? Nothing indicated that the conspiracy's second hideout was anywhere near the first. The scarred man in the hat had already showed – but not long enough for more than one picture.

"Time to search a few more areas?" she asked. "Not as ourselves, of course."

Tem nodded, and picked up the original photograph that had drawn their attention.

"We should get a copy of this to Washington, and to our friends in the Federal Building. Jimmy, can you make some more prints?"

Jimmy nodded, all earlier enthusiasm replaced by seriousness of purpose. Without another word, he took off for his darkroom upstairs to perform the necessary task. Amanda, watching him go, with a pang realized how much their strange new cause was changing them all. She hoped when this was over – if it ever was – there would still be some of her innocent baby brother left inside the man he was growing into. As much as his childish side drove her crazy sometimes, she'd miss it if it were gone.

Would he?