Highlander - Donna Lettow [58]
“Who’s that?” MacLeod whispered to Avram, as they started down the stairs to the malina. Avram shushed him with a wave of his hand.
“Later.”
The stairwell was a long one, the bunker far deeper than any MacLeod had seen so far, and there was an odd quality to the light. It was a few moments before MacLeod realized that the light seemed strange because it was coming from light-bulbs in the ceiling. He’d grown so used to candles and oil lamps in the power-deprived Ghetto, he’d nearly forgotten what electric light was like. “Avram, what is this place?” he hissed in his comrade’s ear.
Avram took a quick look over his shoulder to make sure they were out of earshot of the bruiser manning the entrance. “Welcome to the gangsters’ lair, MacLeod.”
“Gangsters?”
“You know. Dillinger, Capone, Cagney. ‘You’ll never take me alive, coppers,’ all that stuff—gangsters.”
“James Cagney is an actor, Avram, not a gangster,” MacLeod corrected.
“Gangster, actor, what’s the difference?” Avram said as they continued down the stairs. “Anyway, Shmuel Issachar is the king of the thieves, pickpockets, blackmailers, hired killers—name your vice, he’s probably got a piece of it. Chicago hasn’t got a lock on corruption, you know.”
“And this place is his?” MacLeod looked around in the bright, steady light as they reached the bottom of the stairs. On either side of him, the corridor stretched on for hundreds of yards. He could hear voices through some of the open doorways, and occasionally someone would move from room to room down the hallway.
“When the king needs a place to hole up from the Nazis, he builds the Taj Mahal. Generators, hot and cold running water, game room, library. Rumor has it if the Aktsia doesn’t start soon, old Izzy’s putting in a pool over the summer.” Avram pointed out a large, broad-shouldered man moving quickly toward them down the corridor. “Speak of the devil.”
“Tzaddik!” Issachar engulfed the smaller man in a bearish hug. “It’s been far too long!”
Avram grinned and bore it. “Shmuel, this is—”
“Duncan MacLeod!” Issachar released Avram abruptly and turned to MacLeod. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
“I’m sure you have.” MacLeod found something obscene about the gangster’s pudgy hands and fatty chins in a city where starvation was the way of life.
Issachar laughed. “A rat can’t shit in the Ghetto without me knowing about it. Isn’t that right, Tzaddik?” Without waiting for an answer, the man put a beefy arm around MacLeod’s shoulders. “So, they tell me you have connections in the French Underground …”
“Later, Shmuel,” Avram interrupted, pulling MacLeod away from him. “First we need to talk some business.”
“Isn’t that a coincidence, business is my middle name. Step into my office, gentlemen.” Issachar ushered them into a side room full of fine art and antique furnishings, and a desk to rival King Arthur’s round table. “Take a seat,” he said as he lowered himself into the thronelike chair behind the desk.
MacLeod noticed two more hulking goons, like the one guarding the bunker’s entrance, placed strategically in the room. “We’ll stand, thanks,” he said.
“Suit yourself,” the gangster said. “So, boys, what can I get you? Whiskey? Women?”
“Guns,” Avram said with finality. He wasn’t buying into Issachar’s joviality any more than MacLeod.
The false smile left Issachar’s face. “Guns,” he repeated. “Now, Tzaddik, my dear boy, what makes you think I can arrange for guns any better than you can?”
“Because arranging them wasn’t the problem. We’d already done that for you. One dozen brand-new Russian rifles. That conveniently disappeared two days ago between the Aryan side and the Ghetto.” Avram sat on the edge of the enormous desk and leaned into the gangster’s face. “Face it, Izzy, I know you’ve got them. Now I want them.”
The gangster leaned forward as well, until he was nose to nose with Avram. “Go away, kid. You’re scuffing the furniture. I never heard of your damn guns.” Issachar raised his hand, and the two goons hauled Avram off the desk.
“You don’t get it, do you?” Avram said as he squirmed