Boris had been off his game from the jump.
The old spark in his eyes—the cold, calculating gleam that once cut through lies like a switchblade through silk—had dimmed to a flicker. His legendary ninja reflexes? Gone like last week’s rent money. He’d been slow on the uptake, distracted, scratching at the back door of destiny like a mutt who’d lost the scent.
But even a dulled blade can draw blood.
The last piece of evidence slid into the puzzle with a whisper, neat as a coffin lid closing. Bank ledgers. Payoff lists. Shipping manifests fat with sin. It painted the picture in bold, ugly strokes: Johnny Rocco had been running Van Nuys like a private kingdom of graft and gunpowder for twenty long, rotten years.
Jonny let the silence hang heavy before he spoke.
“It’s the hangman’s noose for you this time, Rocco.” His voice was gravel in a tin can. “Boris may not have been himself lately—needs his anal glands expressed, if you want the veterinary details—but he still brought home the bacon. You’re finished.”
Rocco’s usual smirk wilted. The color drained from his doughy cheeks. For the first time since Hoover was in short pants, the big boss looked small.
“I guess that’s it, gumshoe,” he muttered, voice trembling like a cheap alibi. “Go ahead. Slap the bracelets on me.”
Jonny stepped forward, cuffs glinting under the office light.
That’s when Rocco started laughing.
Not a chuckle. Not a nervous giggle. A full-throated, rafters-rattling cackle that made the blinds shiver and Jonny’s trigger finger itch.
Jonny glanced down at his partner.
The pug’s paw went to his face.
And peeled.
Fur came off like a Halloween costume. Underneath wasn’t Boris’ wrinkled mug—but the slick, smirking countenance of J.S. Merlin, failed matinee idol and greasepaint sorcerer. The Man of a Hundred Faces. A two-bit thespian with a thousand-bit talent for deceit.
“We had you dancing, mug,” Rocco sneered, confidence flooding back into his veins. He yanked a brass lever hidden beneath his desk.
The bookcase behind him split down the middle and swung wide.
Out stepped Big Tim—a tower of muscle and menace—holding the real Boris in a chokehold. A snub-nosed revolver pressed tight against the pug’s temple. Boris’ eyes were clear now. Clear and furious.
“You said one of us would meet his maker when this was over, Mr. Big Shot Detective,” Rocco said, adjusting his cuffs like he was already measuring Jonny for a pine box. “You just didn’t figure I had a master of disguise on retainer. Merlin here played Boris better than Boris plays Boris.”
Merlin gave a mocking bow.
“Too bad,” Rocco went on. “You had a nice run. Headlines. Wisecracks. Expense accounts. But every hero’s luck runs dry.”
He turned to the hulking silhouette in the secret doorway.
“Ice ’em both, Tim.”
The revolver’s hammer clicked back.
And in that tight, breathless moment between life and a toe tag, Jonny M. realized something about Van Nuys—
The city always keeps one more secret in its pocket.