by P. N. Elrod
I was not in the usual alcove at home but on a cot with a layer of my earth that I’d installed at Lady Crymsyn. Having taken seriously Escott’s suggestion about turning a section under the tier seating into a sanctuary, I’d moved in all the necessities, put a lock on the inside of the door, and allowed myself to surrender to my daylight coma with hardly a qualm. Leon and his crew were no longer needing the area for storage, and the waiters and bartenders had other places for their supplies. This spot was all mine. It was not for use every day since it wasn’t fireproof, but this time I decided to take the risk.
The staff had come in before sunset to ready things, and I could hear Malone directing them. The sound of his distinctive voice, which was calm yet carrying in the big room, told me that all was going well. So far. The doors would open in less than half an hour. Had I stayed home, I’d have used up much of that meager time between my waking and the club opening just getting dressed and driving over. As it was, I needed only to dress, having bathed and shaved just before coming to the club in the predawn to retire for the day.
I had a new tuxedo hanging ready for me on a convenient nail, a paper cover protecting it from stray dust. Tucking it and my shoes under one arm, I went over to remove the padlock from the inside but changed my mind. People were working in the bar area opposite. It would require too much explanation to account for my eccentric emergence from under the seats, so I vanished to float up through the various barriers until reaching the second-floor hall. From there I floated to my empty office and went solid.
Escott and I had done a decent job of repair. The walls were whole again, the paint fumes gone, and the floor holes neatly covered by the rug. I tore the tux clear of its wrappings and quickly dressed. Bobbi, knowing I would be here, knocked and walked in just as I began to struggle with the cuff links.
“I thought it was about time for you to wake up,” she said.
One look at her and I forgot all about the opening. She was in a spectacular white gown studded with hundreds of rhinestones that floated on her shoulders and arms like silver stars. They tapered off the lower you went on her body, whose every delicious curve was revealed by the drape of fine cloth. Silver-and-white shoes with more rhinestones caressed her feet.
She took in my expression and smiled. The special one that always sent me to the moon and back. “Well, I guess Joe James knew his stuff if this little rag makes you look like that.”
“Uh . . .”
She did a slow turn. “You like it?”
“Um . . . ahh . . .”
“I guess that means yes.”
“Uh.” Oh, God, why did I have to waste my time opening this club tonight when I should be finding ways to get Bobbi out of that dress?
“Here, you need some help?”
“Yeah. Okay. Whatever you want, doll.” Unable to think for the time being, I held my arm out so she could fix the links. Then she fussed with my collar and tie, and I thought the scent of her perfume would make my head explode. It took all my willpower to keep from dragging her down onto my desk right then and there to let her know how I felt.
“Your pants are a little tight here,” she commented, her hand brushing dangerously close to a now highly sensitive and responsive area. I caught her wrists and raised them up, fiercely kissing them on the inside. The sweet pulsing of her blood teased, tempting me to linger.
“Don’t make me any crazier than I am,” I warned her. The white of the gown made me think of a wedding dress. I wanted to propose to her again, even knowing that she would turn me down. It hurt to hold the question—plea?—inside, but giving it a voice would have spoiled the mood for her.
“I’m looking forward to seeing you after closing,” she said. “You’ll really be worked up then.”
Or flattened into a state of exhaustion. “How are things downstairs?”
“Everything is going very well. I really like your Mr. Malone. He brought his little girl in today. He couldn’t get a sitter for her for the afternoon. She’s so precious. She sat up here and drew pictures of the building. This one’s for you.” Bobbi held up a pencil-and-crayon sketch on graph paper that seemed too good to have been done by a child of Norrie’s age. It was recognizably the front facade of Lady Crymsyn, right down to the diamond-shaped windowpanes in red. Off to the side stood three figures, more simply executed, wearing smiles and waving.
“Customers?” I asked, pointing at them.
“That’s you, her, and her father. She thinks he half owns the place.”
“He works like he does. I’ll have to give him a raise. The kid still here?” I wanted to say thank you.
“I took her home an hour ago. She’s so sweet. I gave her a tour of the dressing rooms and did her nails up with polish. She was very impressed with the big-girl stuff. Too bad he won’t be able to marry again and give her a mother. She could use one.” Bobbi knew all about Malone and had no illusions that he’d make the same mistake twice about marriage.
“Thought you didn’t like kids.”
“I like ’em fine—so long as they behave and they’re someone else’s. Hold still, your tie is crooked.”
“Okay, okay, but hurry, I gotta get downstairs.”
“Put your shoes on first.”
“Oh. Jeez.”
She watched with an indulgent expression. “Jack, stop a minute and listen to me.”
I recognized that tone and did exactly that. “Yeah?”
“I’ve done countless opening shows, acts, reviews, you name it. I’ve never, ever done one that was one hundred percent perfect. So take a deep breath—whether you need it or not—and remember that you’re doing this for fun. You are to enjoy tonight, because you will only have this kind of opening once. It won’t ever come again. Relax, enjoy, and have fun so you can give yourself a good memory about the next few hours. You got that?”
There was no not-getting it with her. “Did I ever tell you you’re the greatest?”
“Yes, and don’t ever stop.”
“MR. Fleming, I didn’t see you come in.” Malone looked very dapper in his tuxedo. All that distinguished him from the arriving crowd were the white gloves he wore. The bruises on his face hadn’t completely faded, but the self-possessed demeanor he’d assumed for the evening made them less noticeable.
“I snuck in. How we doing?”
Bobbi, who had come downstairs with me, patted my arm once, then went off to see to backstage things. The lobby doors were wide open, lights blazed inside and out, and early arrivals were starting to outnumber the waitstaff.
“Everything is going well,” he said, sounding similar enough in tone to Bobbi to make me think they’d rehearsed together for my benefit. “Leon told me to tell you that the cement mixer finally arrived. He put it downstairs.”
“A milestone,” I grumbled.
“Mm?”
“It’s about time. Now they can finish that floor.” I started calculating how long it would take for the cement to cure so the crew could build the dressing rooms. Even paying them extra for working the weekend and evenings, I couldn’t see how they could get it done by next Friday . . .
Made myself stop. Bobbi would have pinched me good for my getting distracted by things out of my control. I was supposed to enjoy tonight, not worry about tomorrow’s labors.
“What was that?” I asked.
Malone repeated, “Lady Crymsyn is here.”
I blinked in the direction he indicated. “Great. I see the dress got done in time.”
“Indeed, and the young lady inside it is doing an excellent job.” He drew me over to a delicate-looking delight of a girl with straight brows and striking hazel eyes. Her thick dark hair was swept up in a style identical to the Lady Crymsyn portrait, and she filled every inch of the blazing red costume as though it had been designed for her, not the other way around. “Miss LaBelle, this is Mr. Jack Fleming, the owner of the club. Mr. Fleming, Sherry LaBelle.”
“Charmed, I’m sure,” she said, her bewitching smile uncannil
y like the one in the picture. I had to firmly remind myself that I was not exactly available as I took her hand and gave it a brief, polite shake. In no way would I attempt to kiss it. Escott could get away with those kinds of suave Continental manners, but not this Cincinnati-born mug. I’d just slobber on her knuckles or fall over or worse.
“Everything under control?” I asked, to linger a bit longer.
“Oh, yes. You’ve a wonderful place here. I almost feel like I am Lady Crymsyn.” She motioned toward the portrait that loomed behind her.
“You do acting the rest of the time? When you’re not doing this?” Good grief, I hadn’t been this tongue-tied since being in short pants.
“I try. Work is a bit thin, but it always is, so I do all that I can.”
“And you can come back again next week?”
“Yes, I’d be happy to.”
Malone gently led me away as a fresh group of patrons came up to meet “Lady Crymsyn.” The women complimented her dress, the men reacted about the same as I to the rest of the package. Sherry LaBelle gave them all her gracious attention and answered their questions about the club as though she owned it.
“It’s just as well she is able to return,” Malone said. “It would be a terrible mess otherwise. We’d have to find someone who not only looked right, but she’d have to fit the dress.”
I was glad he had such practical matters well in hand. Once out of the hypnotizing presence of Miss LaBelle, I found myself better able to assume my own role as grand host. For this all I had to do was stand in the lobby and meet and greet dozens of familiar faces and the people with them. Not hard, not hard at all.
Many of them I’d met at the Nightcrawler, all come over to sample the potential delights of my place. Both clubs were alike in swank, but mine did not offer gambling in the back rooms. Gordy and I wouldn’t be in any serious kind of competition for customers.
Gordy himself finally came through the double doors, filling most of the space. On his arm was the radio actress Adelle Taylor, looking very edible in a cream-and-rose gown that set off her pale skin and black hair. Behind them marched a slow parade consisting of large-shouldered guys with grim faces (Gordy’s bodyguards) and another, more ordinary couple (Gordy’s lawyer and his wife). I welcomed them all, collecting pecks on the cheek from the ladies and handshakes from the men. The bodyguards held apart from this, keeping their hands free should they deem it necessary to draw forth the guns that threw off the hang of their suits.
“Kid, it looks like you’ve done it after all,” Gordy said, pumping my hand and almost smiling. For him this was really being effusive, but he relaxed a lot when in Adelle’s company.
“I hope so.” It meant a lot to hear him say that.
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Maybe.” I thought about what Bobbi had said about this kind of night happening only once. She was absolutely right. Better for me that I savor every moment of it and enjoy. “I’ll make a point to do so. I hope this isn’t taking anything away from your place.”
“It can run itself for one night,” he said. “And you’re located far enough away so I don’t have to worry much.”
That was a relief. I’d known it to be true, but it was good to have it confirmed.
“’Sides,” he continued. “Wouldn’t be right for me to miss your opening. I feel like a godfather to this place.”
That comment inspired a double take from me. I sincerely hoped Gordy wouldn’t like my club too much. Ah, nuts. He was kidding. Yeah, he had to be kidding.
Malone turned up just then to escort Gordy and his party to their specially reserved table. I’d drop by on them later and hope that the mantle of confident host would be firmly in place on me by then.
More arrivals, more smiles, more handshakes, more of a lot of good things. Everyone appeared to be in a light mood and highly impressed with the joint. I felt a return of that fullness of feeling that was pure pride of ownership. It even lasted through the arrival of Booth Nevis. Rita Robillard, his date for the evening, held his arm with one hand and a small bunch of flowers in the other. She wore black again, a long gown with skirts composed of layers of silky stuff that swirled around her ankles like smoke as she walked. This wasn’t the time or place, but I couldn’t help wondering if she’d left her underwear home again. Happy as that prospect might be, there would be no wild dancing on the tables here. Not tonight, anyway.
“How are you?” I asked her.
“I’m aces,” she chirped, looking happy. “This is some joint, Jack. It was nothing like this when Welsh was in charge.”
“Wait’ll you see the rest.”
“I’m going to give her a small tour,” said Nevis. “If that’s okay.”
“Just the public areas, if you don’t mind. The dressing rooms are pretty full right now.”
Rita shot him a tense, pleading look. “Booth.”
He nodded at her. “Uh, Fleming, Rita would like to, well, that place in the basement . . .”
“What about it?” I was missing something.
Rita held up the flowers. “I just wanna, you know, put these there. For Lena from me and Booth. You know.”
I leaned forward to peck her cheek. “Of course. I’ll have Malone show you through. Take your time.”
“So Malone worked out for you here?” asked Nevis.
“He’s doing a great job.”
“I should hire him back, but I think you’re paying him more. He’s a good worker. Very honest.”
And wasted as a bartender at Nevis’s club. I kept my thoughts to myself and called Malone over to see to things. Nevis was talking to him in a friendly way as they went into the main room. Jeez, Nevis was talking. After that polishing job he’d done on Coker, it was entirely possible he could persuade Malone into going back.
No, that was not going to happen. Nevis might win Malone over, but I’d still have the last word. I’d use hypnosis to keep him on my payroll. Nothing quite like fighting dirty, especially when the competition doesn’t know about it.
Time to play host again. The next wave brought in Tony Upshaw and half a dozen leggy women, with Ruth Woodring holding his arm in a casually possessive manner. They were all dancers if I could judge anything by their collective look. Perhaps Miss Woodring was combining business with pleasure by showing off the best students from her studio. I had the feeling that Upshaw would be twirling each one of them over the floor tonight.
“Jack, you darling man,” she said, forsaking Upshaw’s arm to latch onto mine. She seemed to have forgotten that she’d been mad at me for all but openly accusing her precious Tony of murder. “I hope you’ll forgive me and let me in.”
She hadn’t forgotten, then. “Nothing to forgive. I was a louse, but it’s over now.” It seemed wise to play the gallant with her in the interests of peace.
“Oh, you are a darling. Tony explained to me that you had only the best of intentions.”
“The only thing to pack on the road to hell.” She seemed confused, trying to work out if that was a barb or not, so I softened things with a smile. “You’re looking quite lovely tonight, Miss Woodring. I’m glad you’re here. You will make the place beautiful.”
She relaxed but was somewhat nonplussed by the sincerity of the compliment. “Why, thank you. I needed to give this an airing.” She was dressed head to foot in some pleated gold gown that was vaguely Egyptian in design. It ended just at her shoulders, which were decked in a wide, elaborate thing that looked like a cross between a fiat collar and a necklace. It had a lot of beads, glass, and gold thread. Matching bracelets covered her arms halfway to the elbows. Her long shock of red hair was in a single braid that trailed down her front. She followed no fashion that I knew of, but everything looked good on her.
Upshaw was urbane and butter smooth, giving no sign that not too many nights back he’d been cowering on the stairs over there begging me not to hit his face. I shook his hand, welcomed him, and gestured for them to avail themselves of the main room within.
It was all I could manage. I still had a very strong desire to punch that Roman nose of his around so it would stick out one of his ears.
That image put me back in a cheerful mood again.
Joe James turned up, shook my hand quite a lot, and introduced me to some theatrical types with whom he’d been staying. The woman looked like a Valkyrie minus her spear and horse; the man had a flowing black beard like a cartoon Russian. Actors in search of a stage, I thought, greeting them. They both enthusiastically dragged Joe off toward the bar. Yes, definitely actors.
Another wave of motley people hit, Escott standing out from them because of his height and manner. It wasn’t something you could catch with a photograph, but tonight he looked decidedly more English than usual. He’d taken some trouble with his preparations: a haircut, his tux was postcard perfect, and I caught a distinct whiff of shaving lotion as he came over to shake my hand.
“Congratulations, old man. Looks like you’ve a real success on your hands.”
His open enthusiasm really meant a lot to me. “So I’ve been told. I just hope the place is packed like this every night.”
“Indeed. And where might I find—ah.” His gaze froze in the direction of Sherry LaBelle, who was busy doing a slow turn in front of Joe James’s critical eye. He seemed pleased. Considering his likes and dislikes, the approval had to be for the dress, not the girl.
Escott had a clear field . . . and he was rooted in place, his jaw uncharacteristically dragging in a floorward direction. This was interesting; he always had something to say.
“Hey,” I said.
No response. Good grief. She was a dish, but he was a big boy. He knew how to deal with beautiful women. At least I thought he did.
“Hey. Charles.”
I’d heard the term poleaxed before but had never actually seen it in action. He was showing all the symptoms.
“Charles. Charles—wake up before I have to stuff you with sawdust and put you in a corner.”
“If it is next to that charming creature, I shouldn’t mind a bit,” he murmured dreamily.
He could still talk. “Come on, you’ve never even met her. She looks like the painting, she might not be like the painting, not for real.”
