The Vampire Files, Volume Four

by P. N. Elrod

  “Actually, I do. Very much.”

  “You can’t kill me over a mistake.”

  “You were willing to kill me.”

  “It was Tony!” His calm cracked. “Tony hit you! Not my idea. I just wanted the money! For God’s sake, Fleming, don’t do this!”

  I waited for him to wind down. Upshaw was openly sobbing. “Nevis, in this town I can do just about any damned thing I please. I want you to think about that when this crap closes over your head.”

  “I’ll forget about the money! I swear! I’ll give you the lease. I’ll tear it up. You can have my club, anything you want! Anything!”

  His voice had risen like a factory whistle. With good reason. I was shoving his box closer to the edge. He clutched wildly at me, but I got out of the way.

  “No, no nonono—”

  Upshaw was the same.

  This was entertaining.

  I sat on the walkway, planted a foot on the side of each box, braced, and pushed.

  “NOOOOOOOOO!”

  They went in at the same time, tipping sideways off the walk, screaming fit to wake the dead.

  Or give a good laugh to the undead.

  There followed a truly nasty splash as they hit. More thick splashing as they floundered. More screaming until it dawned on them they weren’t drowning after all.

  However, they were trapped in a good two-foot depth of it. Drowning would have been a mercy.

  With a little mutual effort, they’d be able to get themselves upright again. There they would remain for the next several hours or more until perhaps some early worker happened to look out a window and notice them. That would depend on the wind direction, though.

  I felt sorry for the poor working bastards who would have to haul them out, but what the hell, they’d have a great story to tell later at their local bar.

  A day’s rest—or rather a day’s utter unconsciousness—cured me of most of the remaining jitters from the previous night’s ordeal.

  I’d phoned Bobbi to let her know I wouldn’t be coming over to her place to celebrate after all, honestly claiming exhaustion as an excuse. From the muzziness in her voice as she said she understood, I gathered that she’d fallen asleep anyway while waiting. It happened sometimes; we never let it annoy us.

  Malone I took home. He seemed pretty battered and stunned, not unlike after his alley beating, but this was more emotional than physical. My influence must have been pretty thin by then, but there wasn’t time left to me to deal with him properly. Dawn was coming, and I wanted to clean up before collapsing onto my basement cot.

  I told him to see me tomorrow at the club, adding a nudge to it to ensure his presence. In the meanwhile, he was to act as though nothing were amiss and get some sleep, plenty of sleep.

  Saturday evening I rose to a silent house. No way to tell if Escott was out buying a loaf of bread or still avidly pursuing the delectable Miss LaBelle. I assumed he’d been home at least once, since the mail and papers had been taken in. He’d show up when he showed up, and I wished him good luck.

  In the meantime, I took along some spare workman’s clothes, expecting that I’d have plenty to do in the club’s basement. There would be plenty to do in the office as well, once Malone arrived.

  He was late. I wasn’t worried, not much, and not yet. I had confidence in my ability to influence him. He would be by.

  Lady Crymsyn’s basement was surprisingly tidy. I’d checked Leon’s work notes. He’d been puzzled by the jump I’d apparently made on filling in the trench. Carefully choosing his words, he suggested that it would be better if I left the rest of the job to his crew. Not that I hadn’t done all right, but they had more experience. The translation meant I’d left them a truly lousy mess to clean up, particularly in regard to the mixer. I’d hosed it out but should have left it to those who knew how.

  Well, I was still boss, still signed their checks, so I could take my lumps and like it. At least they didn’t have to be digging my body out of that damned trench, but I couldn’t tell them to count their blessings about it.

  Inspection of the rest of the place didn’t take long. The janitorial company had made things like new again, ready for the club’s grand opening next weekend. All that was left was to finish the basement, and the men had made a good start today. It was costing me but would be well worth it to achieve those changes, to blot out the last remains of the building’s sad and sordid past, to cleanse it for good. I had doubts, though, about ever spending any significant amounts of time in that damned basement. Certainly not alone if I could help it.

  I ended up in my office, making a point to turn on the light, though I could see fine from what filtered through the closed blinds.

  Malone would need it.

  Flipping through the books didn’t take long. Last night’s revenues were encouraging but did not nearly meet expenses. The grand opening would offer a reduced cover charge, which would defray things further, and once the joint was up and running, the red ink, with good luck, would gradually be supplanted by black.

  On a clipboard was a list of a number of acts that I could book in the future; Malone had efficiently recorded them. In the mail were letters from various performers requesting audition times. There would be no dearth of entertainment at Lady Crymsyn. The trick was to find names that would draw in the people. I’d met the Marx Brothers once, maybe . . .

  The doors downstairs. In the quiet of the building even a normal human would have heard them being unlocked and opened. I waited as tired feet carried their owner up to me.

  He was neatly dressed, as always. In his blue suit this time, having no need of a tuxedo on a closed night. Malone stood hesitating on the threshold, searching my face for some kind of clue. He looked as I’d expected him to look, weary and defeated, a haunted cast to his dark eyes as I waved him in to take a chair on the other side of the desk.

  He must have had a hundred questions, but that many makes it impossible for any one to emerge coherently. The important one, though, was plain on his face.

  What will you do with me?

  I’d felt the same almost a year back when walking into Escott’s office for the first time. He’d had my fate in his hands and no clue from me on whether or not I’d fight him for it. Malone would not fight, not for himself, anyway.

  “Get any sleep?” I asked.

  Tic. “Yes, quite a lot actually.”

  “Well, it was a long night; you needed it. I never thanked you for all the help. You remember much?”

  “The last part vividly. For a while I thought you were going to kill them.”

  “Huh. They probably wish they were dead by now.” The two of them would likely be very sick for the next few weeks. I hoped they’d have the sense to see a doctor, though there were probably things growing in that muck of which medical science had never heard. They could expect dysentery at the least, maybe lockjaw . . . Oh, yes, there were lots of grim possibilities.

  “What happened between you?” he asked.

  “Nevis got pushy, and Upshaw got stupid. I have a short fuse with those types.”

  He couldn’t take more social chat. He drew a deep breath, about to plunge to the heart of the matter, but held off as I raised my hand, palm out.

  “I know, I know. There’s some things we need to clear up.”

  “I’m—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lie to you about myself, about who I am.”

  I shrugged. “It’s over, and I understand why. But I think you’ll understand that I have to let you go.”

  “I expected that, but what about the—”

  Before he could say “cops” I waved him down again. “Knowing what we both know, I doubt if we’d ever be comfortable working together again. However, I’ve written you out a good reference. I fibbed on the dates so it looks like you had a steady job here for a long time, but no one is too likely to notice.” So saying, I handed him an envelope.

  He didn’t move, just blinked, not comprehending. “I d-don’t—don’t—”<
br />
  “Malone or Tielli or whatever the hell you want to call yourself, I can’t judge you. I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I can’t undo them, but for the life of me I don’t think I would given the chance.

  “You’re a good man. You did what you thought you had to do. What you did was wrong, but I might have done exactly the same thing. I heard two wrongs don’t make a right, but there are times when it just doesn’t apply.”

  He bowed his head, releasing a long sigh that wavered close to weeping.

  “I did a lot of thinking about this. You asked me last night to protect Norrie. After mulling it over I concluded the best way to carry that out is keep you two together. She’s had everything taken away from her once in her life, that’s too much for anyone. I’m not going to be the one to do that to her again.”

  “Dear God.” That’s all that came out of him for a while. I waited until he fumbled for a handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “You’ll be doing me a favor,” I continued. “I’m rotten with kids. The kind of life I got I wouldn’t be able to watch out for her like I should. She needs a father. That’s you. That’s your job; I sure as hell don’t want it. And it would be a good idea for you both to get out of town.”

  He took the suggestion without surprise, leading me to suspect he’d been considering it himself. “I suppose that would be for the best. It’d be foolish to stay here with all that’s happened.”

  “What you should do,” I said, leaning back in my chair, “is head out to California.”

  “But I don’t know anyone there.”

  “Count that in your favor. You don’t want to know anyone.”

  A very small hint of a smile almost made it to his features but turned into that tic again. Maybe once he got out from under things, had some control over his fate, he’d relax.

  “It’s a good place to be, I hear. Orange trees right in your front yard. Maybe you can open up another store, work for yourself for a change. Be around for your kid when she’s out of school. They got some good schools there, colleges, universities. I don’t know how they are about architect majors, but you’ve got plenty of time to figure that out before she’s ready.”

  It was a good picture. He obviously liked it. “Thank you. I’ll get us out there. She can start the new school term—”

  “Ah, there’s just one little thing.”

  He shut his eyes, swallowed. Bracing.

  “That problem I had with Nevis also had to do with Lena—Helen. I’ll call her Lena. It seems she was a bit light-fingered with him when it came to her job. Now he didn’t mind it at the time, but when he found out exactly how much was involved over the years, he got itchy about it. The way I see things, if he didn’t mind at the time, he shouldn’t mind later, the later being now.”

  Malone blinked, desperately trying to follow.

  “Doesn’t matter, you don’t need to know the details. What I’m saying is that Lena built up a sweet nest egg for herself. I happened to find it. I told myself then that it would only be fair to give it over to her family—providing she had one. The money should go to her daughter, but I don’t know how you’d feel about accepting it, considering the source.”

  “It does present a moral perplexity,” he admitted after thinking a bit.

  “It would never make up for the wrong Helen did, but it might alleviate some of the hardship that resulted from that wrong.”

  “I was hoping you’d be smart about it.” I pulled a fat manila envelope from my jacket pocket and laid it before him on the desk.

  His eyes got big. “Goodness, how much is there?”

  “Enough to get you to California. You need to put a chunk of that in a savings account for Norrie’s college, you know. There’s also the tax problem, but I can tell you how to get around those declarations. You’re gonna get real lucky at the track for the next few days.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Fleming.”

  “You can call me Jack, now. You’re resigned, remember?”

  “Yes, Jack. I don’t know what to say. I owe you my life, Norrie’s life.”

  “Just make sure she grows up pretty; she’s already got the smarts.”

  He hesitantly reached for the envelope and peered inside. “Oh, my God. How much is here?”

  I told him.

  Then I had a bad few moments dealing with things when he tumbled forward in a dead faint.

  WHAT with Malone and a lengthy visit with Bobbi I got back late. Escott was home by then, still awake, and in the parlor with a stack of papers. He still wore what I knew to be his best suit and his shave was good for another few hours, but he had his shoes off, his feet up.

  “Have a good date?” I asked.

  He had his nose buried in an article about some woman trying to fly around the world. It reminded me of Nevis. He wouldn’t be flying for a long time. “Yes. Miss LaBelle is quite pleasant company.”

  “When she’s not speaking for ghosts?”

  “Indeed.”

  I wanted to ask more, but he was a gentleman and gentleman don’t talk.

  “The reviews are over there,” he said, pointing to a stack of newsprint on the table. “They seem most favorable.”

  I’d read them all at Bobbi’s. She’d been almost as excited as if it had been her club. We went to the Nightcrawler to celebrate with Gordy and Adelle, then I took her to dinner, and then . . . well, a gentleman doesn’t talk.

  “Thanks. I’ll have to get a scrapbook.”

  He looked over the edge of the paper. “Is there something wrong?”

  “Just a small problem. Might not come to anything if I can hire someone in time for next Friday.”

  “And just what do you define as being a small problem?” he asked warily.

  “As of tonight, I’m short one general manager.”

  “Really? I thought Mr. Malone was doing an excellent job.”

  “He was, but there’s been a death in the family. He’s going to have to leave town. There’s some kind of inheritance involved, so I don’t expect him back.”

  “Dear me, that does rather leave you in the lurch . . . oh, Jack, you don’t mean to say—”

  I shrugged, all apologetic. “I know. It’s an imposition. But if I can find someone else in time, you won’t have anything to worry about.”

  He made curmudgeonly noises.

  “Seriously, it’d be a real favor to me if you could fill in.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Just to open the joint and watch things until I’m up and awake and can take over. I’ll be more than glad to pay for your time.”

  He muttered deep in his throat.

  “There’s one other thing—I’ve hired Miss LaBelle to play Lady Crymsyn for the rest of the month. She’ll be there every night.”

  That put a new face on it for him.

  We worked out the details and shook on it.

  He snorted, though. “I had a dreadful feeling that it would eventually come to this—me working for you.”

  I had the good grace not to say anything.

  COLD STREETS

  With thanks to

  Teresa Patterson & Roxanne Longstreet Conrad

  1

  Chicago, January 1938

  I remained invisible during the ride to the ransom drop, with no idea where we were beyond the few verbal cues passed to my partner, who was playing chauffeur. Our cue-giver and client, Mrs. Vivian Gladwell, didn’t know I was floating next to her in the rear seat of her Cadillac. Her daughter had been kidnapped two weeks ago, and the poor woman had enough on her mind without having to deal with a supernatural gumshoe.

  “He said to stop on that bridge just ahead,” she told Escott, using the speaking tube that served the driver’s compartment. I could imagine my partner nodding.

  “And then what?” His voice was thin through the tube; my bodiless state muffled the sound almost too much to hear him.

  “I’m to drop the money off the right-hand side.”

  “Very well.”
r />   We’d been on a merry little tour of Chicago for some time now, driving from phone box to phone box. Each time we paused, she had to rush out and wait for it to ring, then get fresh instructions from the kidnapper on where to go next. He said he was watching, so Escott faithfully followed instructions, just in case.

  The big car eased to a halt, skidding a little on icy slush, motor thrumming impatiently. I hoped this wouldn’t be another water haul. Not waiting for Escott to come open the door, Vivian slid across the seat toward me. I kept my incorporeal self out of her way, clinging weightlessly to the suitcase she pulled along. It was full of cash meant to buy back her daughter’s life.

  The bridge didn’t seem to be over water, a complication we could do without. I have a problem crossing the free-flowing kind. Vivian gave a small, ladylike grunt of effort, lifting the case, banging it against something. I sensed the shape of a wide railing. Just as well I couldn’t see how far the drop would be. I hate heights.

  Wrapped around the case, I gave an internal wince for what was to come.

  A shove, then a horrible, time-suspending plunge, truly awful. I couldn’t force myself to hang on. It didn’t matter that in this state I’d suffer no hurt from the fall; instinct took over. I whipped away a crucial second early and made a slower landing.

  Oddly, there wasn’t a lot of impact noise from the case when it hit. Just a soft thump. Maybe it was in a snowdrift. I sensed the ground and tried to figure out where the cash had gone. It would have been nice to be visible, enabling me to see, but too much of a risk. The kidnapper had brains behind his efforts. I had to respect that.

  From what seemed like the far distance came the rumble of the Cadillac driving across the bridge above me. Escott would return Vivian to the Gladwell estate, and there they’d have a long, grim wait for news of the daughter’s pickup location. Hopefully, it would come from me, not the gang.

  I hovered, impatient, wondering if I dared move off, find a secluded spot to hide, and melt back into reality to get my bearings.

  “Hurry!” called a man’s voice. Urgent. Not close, but too close.