by P. N. Elrod
Heard them above me. Talking.
“Jeez, lookit the mess.”
“Boss, I think you better see.”
Pause, then Coker’s voice. “Right, leave him.”
“You sure?”
“We’re cuttin’ outta here. Now.”
Deep within me, a thin, dark voice wailed at the unfairness of it.
12
HEARD the hasty shuffle of departure. The slam of doors. Brief echo throughout the building. Silence, until their car rumbled to life and took them away, then silence again.
No movement from me. None. Didn’t dare. Kept the pressure hard on my neck and prayed it would work. The broad rip under my palm burned. Couldn’t tell if that was good or not. Wanted to vanish. Bleeding too severe.
Back hurt. Hurt a lot. Terrified it might be broken. If so, then there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to help myself.
Wouldn’t matter if I bled to death first.
Shied away from the panic. Needed to wait it through. The wound would knit up, everything would heal, but the blood loss would interfere, make it take longer. To mark time I counted to a thousand. Or tried. Had to start over and over. Couldn’t keep track of the numbers. Pain distracted. And hunger. Hollow inside. God, I was hungry. Waves of it marched through my battered body.
Blood everywhere. Pooling. Smell of it . . . dizzying, maddening.
Corner teeth were out. Nothing to use them on.
Small move. I could risk that much. Just—just a small one.
Shifted. Carefully. My face against the floor. Wet. Blood there, lots of it. I had to take some of it back. No time to be particular.
Pressed my mouth to the hard tiles. Taste of salt. Grit. Sharp things like fish bones. That would be the broken glass. No matter.
Impossible to take in the quantity I needed, but I couldn’t stop myself. Lapped it like a dog, spit glass when I found it, and damned Coker to hell and gone.
No good. I needed much more than this. Had to get up. Had to feed.
Cautiously lifted my hand from the wound. No fresh flow. Hopeful. Felt the damage. Found a spongy, irregular furrow in the flesh, very tender and raw. What was left of a deep gash. Long one, too. Seemed to go halfway around my throat. Fleeting thought about Malone’s kid, Norrie, then back to my own troubles.
Arm movement dislodged shards of glass. Pieces dropped away. Destructive tinkling music as they hit the stained tiles.
Tried to move my legs. Couldn’t tell if they responded or not. The fire in my back suddenly hotted up. Left off and went still again. Had more healing to do.
Very tired. Wanted sleep, but not until dawn, not for hours yet.
Chance of passing out, though. Even a small loss of blood put me in a bad way. If I gave in to it . . . no, that could not be allowed to happen. Once gone, I’d not wake again until tomorrow night, if I was lucky. Though safe enough here from the sun, the last thing I needed was Leon Kell and his crew coming in and finding me like this in the morning. To him I’d look dead. Then it’d be cops, newspapers, radio flashes about another spectacular murder at Lady Crymsyn . . . no, that just could not be allowed to happen.
Damn Shivvey Coker to hell and gone. Again. Several times again.
Anger for him helped keep me from drifting off. Several plans—none of them even remotely pleasant—of what to do when I caught up with him helped as well. The same went for his goons. I could get very creative when the mood was on me.
Wincing, I moved my arms enough to find out if they would work. They did but not too well. Felt like a half-squashed bug. Still able to move, but not very coordinated about it. Weak.
After a bit I managed to lift from the spread of broken glass and blood and push clear of it. Arms only. Legs like anchors. My back sparked a hellish protest; ignored it. Pushed, then dragged along. Two yards of progress, then I had to stop and not do anything. The pain crashed in, blinding. An awful fluttering inside warned me I was about to vomit. When I held still, it went away.
Rested and thought longingly about vanishing. Before trying again I had to get fresh blood and lots of it, and right now the Stockyards were too far away.
Only option, though. I needed help to get there. Escott out of town, Bobbi probably still onstage and not readily reachable. So was Shoe Coldfield. I wasn’t sure if he’d even be at his club. Couldn’t afford to leave a message and hope he’d get it before I was too far gone.
Gordy, perhaps? Not that I ran crying to him all the time, but this was an emergency. I didn’t want him involved, but he was a friend who knew about me, who knew everything. And he was always at the Nightcrawler.
All I had to do was call him. The phone was upstairs, though. The public one had been installed in the lobby booth, but I didn’t know if it’d been hooked up yet.
I spent what seemed like hours inching across the floor, my back screaming every second. Had to go slow. Whenever that fluttering swooped on me, I stopped. The frequency increased; the rest periods lengthened. Could not allow myself to get frustrated over the delay, to waste what little strength I had. By the time I made it to the booth I was shuddering uncontrollably from the strain, and praying again, asking that the phone would work. My alternative would be trying the stairs to the office. In the shape I was in, I’d never make it.
Long rest, then crawled into the booth, reached up. Knocked the receiver clear. Damn. Needed a nickel.
More rest, then huge effort to haul up into the seat. Dizziness hit like a brick. Damn near fell out again. Fluttering. Sick. I braced. Falling down at this point would finish me. Waited until it passed.
Found change. Shaking like a drunk. Barely got a nickel into the slot. The dial tone came on. Thank God, the phone company, and Leon Kell for getting things done.
Was very careful about the numbers. No desire to get the wrong one.
Ringing. After a few rings I began counting. After twelve I was losing hope. Someone was always in the Nightcrawler office to catch the phone. Maybe I’d misdialed. I could have called a closed business or—
“’Lo?” Gordy’s voice.
Vast relief. Found it hard to speak.
“’Lo? Who is it?”
“’ S Jack.”
“Can’t hear you. Who is this?”
I put more breath behind it. “It’s Jack. I need help.”
“Where?” From his tone I had his undivided attention. I never asked for help. Not unless it was life or death.
“My club. Come over. Alone.”
“You got company?”
Didn’t understand the question for a second. Then I figured out he was worried about walking into an ambush. “Had company. Did me over. Gone now, but I’m hurt.”
“How can you be hurt?” Sudden doubt in his voice. From personal experience, he was certain that I was indestructible.
“I lost blood. Lost a lot.”
“How?”
“Make it fast, Gordy. Please.”
“On my way.” He hung up.
How long for him to tell one of his people he’d be going out, get to his car, drive across town . . . how long? I wanted him here yesterday.
Not fair, wailed that thin voice again. I told it to shut up.
I wedged into the corner of the booth for the wait. It would be too humiliating for Gordy to walk in and find me on the floor.
Nasty mess there. Long smears marked my progress. I’d have to clean it up before Leon came in. If I got through the night.
Pain knifed up my spine. Nothing new there. Shifted to ease it. A whole new knife dug into me. This time the sharpness ripped along my limbs like an electrical shock. I cursed and groaned. Felt sweat popping. The cold kind. Sick-making sweat. Wiped my brow. My hand came away bloody. Couldn’t afford to lose more. Licked it clean. Was that desperate. Hunger hurting worse than my back.
The bar light went off.
I groaned again. Of all the lousy times . . .
On again.
Grimaced toward the bar.
Off.
On.
About a five-second interval in between.
“Okay,” I whispered. “Have your fun. I don’t give a shit anymore.”
Longer pause with the light on. Then off. All of them. Every damn light in the place went off.
One-two-three-four-five—
On. All of them. For the count of five, then off.
From my angle I could see the toggles for the main switch. They were all moving at the same time. By themselves. If that wasn’t the damnedest thing.
Began to laugh. It made more pain, but I couldn’t help myself. The situation was just too ludicrous.
THE lights were on when Gordy pushed through the door, moving like a mountain shook loose from the rest of the range. He had a .45 in his big fist and swung it with surprising speed to cover the lobby. He spotted me but did not come immediately forward.
This time the lights stayed on. I waited, but the toggles stopped flipping. Damn, but that was weird.
“Fleming?” He was looking around, puzzled as well. “What’s the problem?”
“Short in the wires,” I muttered.
“We alone?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
He grunted acceptance, then hurried over, holstered his gun, and peered in. I could imagine what was before him: drying blood masked my face, clothes soaked with it, the stink of desperation. His usual phlegmatic expression was quite gone. He was worried, and that scared me. “You shot?”
“Cut. Back’s messed up, too.”
“How bad?”
“Bad. Can’t walk.”
“You look like hell.”
“Feel worse.”
“What do you need?”
“Gotta get to Stockyards. Hungry.”
“Hungry?”
“Need to put the blood back. Fast.”
“Who did it?” He reached in so I could take his arm.
“Shivvey, his boys. They—oh, shit!”
When he tried to pull me out, everything snapped loose then and there.
Falling sensation, flames shooting up behind my eyes, and a jagged floor in the pit when I hit bottom. Next thing I knew I was looking at a drunkenly spinning ceiling. No need to breathe, but was gasping all the same. It felt like someone was gouging through my back with a white-hot drill bit. A dull one.
Gordy’s face came into view. “Jeez, kid, you need a doctor.”
“Can’t.”
“You’re not gonna make it to the Stockyards.”
“Got to.”
“And what when you get there? You can’t go climbing fences like this.”
“What, then?”
“You gotta hang on. Lemme make a call. Can you hang on?”
I didn’t have much of a choice. “Yeah.”
He bobbed out of view, and I heard him work the phone. Don’t know who he called, the name went by too fast, and then he launched into a kind of spoken shorthand that I couldn’t follow. I heard “blood” and the address of the club and for them to hurry. He hung up and came over.
“I’m having some brought in,” he said, looking relieved in a tight-faced sort of way. “What can I do? You want water, a blanket?”
“I’m okay.”
“No, you’re not, kid. What can I do?”
His version of anxious concern really touched me. “Nothing.”
“Want I should get Bobbi?”
Shook my head. She did not need to see me like this. “Later. Time?”
“’Bout one thirty.”
Only that? Pain does things to one’s perception. Thought it’d been hours since Coker’s invasion. Days.
Was suddenly aware of Gordy’s heartbeat. The bloodsmell coming from him. It came right through his skin at me. Teasing, taunting.
Oblivious, Gordy followed my smeared trail to check behind the bar. “Hell of a mess here.”
No. This man was trying to save my life. I was not traveling that road again. No.
He returned. Squatted next to me. Too close. Weak as I was, I could still reach and grasp. The hunger would make it possible.
“Can you talk?” he asked. “What happened?”
I could make myself talk, a little, in fits and starts. Not easy, but any diversion to keep me from thinking about my back. Or anything else. I gave him a short version of Coker’s visit, naming names.
“Shivvey went too far,” Gordy said when he had the basics.
“Yeah. But my problem.” I knew he’d be thinking about reprisals.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
“No,” I whispered. “He’s mine.”
Gordy seemed to want to argue the point but finally nodded. “Okay. But I get to watch.”
“See what I can arrange.”
“How you doing?”
“Same.” It was a lie. I was cold, getting colder. Even the drill bit in my spine was icing up.
He must have seen through the lie. “They’ll be here soon.” He put a hand briefly to my shoulder—from him an incredibly rare gesture of reassurance—then rose and went to the doors, opening them. Warm city air wafted over me.
Waiting. Not something I liked. Less so under these circumstances. Good to have company, though. Helped, not being alone, but I kept picking up the heavy scent of Gordy’s blood. He had more than enough life in his veins. Enough to share. To keep me alive. If he came close again . . .
But I could hold off a little longer. A little.
Cold. So damned cold.
Footsteps. Gordy crossing the room. Checking the light switches. He turned most of them off. Looked down at me. “They seem okay now. When I drove up, the joint was blinking like Christmas. Thought it was you trying to signal for help. A short, you said? Looked more like an SOS.”
Maybe that’s what it had been. What a helpful ghost it was to be sure. No strength left in me to smile.
“Fleming?”
“Mm?”
“Keep your eyes open.”
“Try.”
“Do it.”
He was worried. Forced my lids up. Wanted to ask, just ask if he could roll up his sleeve. Better if he wasn’t struggling. Just bring his wrist down so I could . . . “Talk to me. How’s business?”
Gordy wasn’t much for idle chat, being more of a listener. He made an effort, though, filling me in on the doings at the Nightcrawler. I needed the inanity. It might keep the darkness away. The temptation.
This week the club’s show was some kind of Paris revue with a can-can line. It’d been specially written for his girlfriend, Adelle Taylor, the radio actress. She was a fair singer, could dance well, and had a good turn for comedy.
Wanted to move, to get out of my body. Escape the tearing hunger. “Adelle’s having a great time. Customers can tell, too. They like that,” he said.
I could get him to come close again. It wouldn’t be hard. Once he was within grasp . . .
“Papers saying good stuff about her. About the club. An’ I didn’t even have to pay ’em for it.”
But I’d only take what I needed to survive. No more. Apologize later.
“Likes the applause.”
Or make him forget everything. I’d be able to do that. No need to apologize if he had no memory.
“Really makes her happy,” he concluded.
He’d fight me. He might win. Had to take that chance. Had to live. He’d understand. Maybe. Didn’t matter. I was past having a choice. The hunger wouldn’t wait any longer. “Gordy?”
Canted his head. “Just a sec.”
He went to the front. I heard a car motor. Did the mental equivalent of holding my breath. Let it out when he returned with a small crate. Muffled clinking noises came from within. He set the crate down next to me and wasted no time pulling out a medical-type bottle and removing the seal.
Bloodsmell. The scent of damnation and death, redemption and life.
I reached toward him. He fitted the bottle into my hands. My fingers closed convulsively. Pulled it to my lips with unexpected strength.
Couldn’
t stop. I drained the stuff away like a drunk on his last binge. Emptied it in seconds. Gordy quickly opened another for me. Then another.
“Jeez,” I heard him say.
Human blood. More than I’d ever had at one time before.
Even cold and long separated from its donor, it was glorious. My chill faded, changing to living heat gusting through me. I felt life and strength and the needle sharp focus of nerve returning. An almost painful tingle encompassed my throat. Had to pause until it passed. When it was gone, I made myself sit up. Was able to do so now. Dived into the crate on my own. Fingers were clumsy, but I got the cap off and gulped another pint.
Odd expression on Gordy’s face. Never saw that one before. He was a tough guy, but to watch what I was doing would make anyone sick.
“Why don’t you go get a smoke?” I suggested.
He made a small nod. “Maybe. How much of this you gonna need? They only had eight pints on hand.”
“All of it.”
“You gonna need more?”
“Let you know.”
He backed slowly away and stood by the doors. He put a cigarette in his mouth but forgot to light it.
He would have fought me. That much was obvious now that the hunger-driven insanity was clearing from my brain. He’d have fought and lost. I’d have snapped his neck to hold him in place, and if that hadn’t killed him . . .
I drank every drop from every bottle, then lay down again to savor a massive bout of profound relief. For everything. Waited. Felt the healing taking hold. Restoring, rebuilding. When instinct said it was time, at long last time, I vanished.
Almost as good as the blood.
Release. No pain, no gravity, no barriers; I was awareness and thought freed from the bondage of a frail body. Just me floating, savoring.
Don’t know how long I hung there in the gentle gray nothing. Gordy’s voice jolted me out of it. He didn’t sound happy.
“Fleming? Where the hell are you?”
I melted back, standing. Still covered with my own blood, slightly wobbly, but on both feet once more. Gordy took his unlit cigarette from his mouth and gave me a long stare. He’d seen my vanishings, so it must have been the sudden restoration that surprised him.
