The Vampire Files, Volume Three

by P. N. Elrod

  From what I could see in the faint and shifting illumination filtering through from the screen, Escott looked better than the night before. He wasn’t moving around as freely as normal, but he was moving, and his expression, though still bruised, was sharp with interest rather than dulled out with pain. Trudence Coldfield must have worked a small miracle on him.

  “Interesting fellow,” he observed when Delemare was out of earshot.

  “If you like rabid wolverines. You got here just before another Great War broke out.”

  “Indeed? He must have liked you.”

  “Liked me?”

  “Oh, yes, Shoe mentioned that Mr. Delemare enjoys a good fight more than anything else, but only indulges in one if he likes a person.”

  “Jeez, I stay here much longer and he’ll put me in his will.”

  “Then we shall delay no more. I didn’t see your car outside, how did—”

  “Gordy came by the house and helped load the goods, offered me a lift.”

  “That was most kind of him.”

  “I don’t think kindness was what he had in mind. He also offered to bury these guys in the next WPA project, but I told him you had first dibs.”

  “Thank you, I think.”

  “And there’s some more stuff: now that Kyler’s out of the way New York is sending in a heavyweight called Sullivan to take his place.”

  That caught his attention. “Sean Sullivan?”

  “According to sleeping beauty over there.” I motioned at Deiter.

  “I’ve certainly heard of the man, a rotter by all accounts. What else have you learned?”

  I quickly filled him in on what I knew from Gordy and what I’d gotten from Deiter.

  Escott gave a slight head shake. “From the sound of this you may not be required to do anything at all, simply sit back and see what develops.”

  “I don’t have to see, I know. Angela’s going to put up a fight and more people will get killed.”

  “If the Hydra we’re facing wants to chop off a few of its own heads I think it is in our own best interests to move out of the way and let it get on with the business.”

  Well, I already knew about his streak of darkness, but what Bobbi had said about him came back to me, and I found myself staring at his battered face, trying to see what was behind his eyes. For right here and now it looked like a wall made of ice-cold iron bricks.

  “I’ll try my way first, if you don’t mind,” I murmured.

  “As you wish. Best get going, then, our transportation is waiting.”

  “What is it exactly?” Needing something else to think about, I poked my head out the door and caught sight of a dark panel-sided truck that had somehow squeezed into the alley. The Stooges wouldn’t lack for room in it.

  “I contacted a federal friend of mine, a Mr. Adkins. It took him a bit to make the arrangements, but he’s come through for us, as you can see.”

  The name tripped a breaker in my brain. “Adkins? As in Merrill Adkins?”

  “The very one. My, but his fame does seem to be spreading.”

  “Well, yeah, when you mount a plow on the nose of a truck and charge into a distillery with machine guns blazing it does make for headlines.”

  During Prohibition Merrill Adkins created a name for himself by busting up more stills per week than any ten treasury agents put together. When Repeal came he shifted into tracking down federal fugitives. Last I’d heard he’d taken part in the gangster hunt and shoot-out disaster that had enabled Baby Face Nelson to escape capture sometime back. It had been an all-round embarrassment for everyone. After that he’d dropped from sight.

  “He hardly ever does that sort of thing anymore,” said Escott. “Much too noisy.”

  “What’s his connection to you?”

  “We share a common interest in fighting the Hydras. I met him a year or so back on another case.”

  “So you’re bringing him in on this? It’s important enough to get noticed by the feds?”

  “By this particular one, at any rate.”

  “On what kind of charges? Even if Deiter and his pals intended to commit murder, breaking and entering’s not exactly headline stuff these days.” Adkins had always been there for the newsreel cameras, looking closemouthed and modest.

  “Not to worry, Adkins is more than willing to take things in hand at this point.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh, he shan’t interfere with anything you have planned, particularly since he doesn’t know that you have plans, but he will relieve us of the responsibility of these three burdens.”

  “And do what with them?”

  Before Escott could answer Adkins himself walked through the door. It’s a bit of a jolt to be face-to-face with someone you’ve seen in the newsreels and all the papers. This guy had even gotten into the New York Times, which is some trick since his line of work was more suited for the Hearst rags. He was in them, too, a lot, a real somebody who had done things to deserve the fame, if you could believe the reports. I tried to match the black-and-white shadows I’d seen in the reels to the reality.

  You know exactly what celebrities look like, what they’re doing that made them famous, even admire them for it, and there they are with you, close enough to touch. You want to but you don’t because of the combination respect and bashfulness reflex most people get when they have a brush with a big shot. They don’t know you from Adam, and probably have no reason to correct the oversight, but because they’re famous, you want them to know you, you want to matter to them in some way. Even if it’s just for a minute, it ends up being your minute, your little piece of them to take away. Nutty stuff, but that’s human nature, and I was no different from anyone else on it, and even with all this in mind I found myself straightening my hat and touching my tie.

  Adkins was less formally attired in a short hunting jacket, a striped scarf wrapped around his neck, and a sweat-stained newsboy’s hat. He seemed about my age, had a thin hard face, small mouth, heavy lids over slightly protruding black eyes, a determined, unsmiling expression, just like in the reels. Not handsome, but he didn’t have to be. Escott introduced us and we shook hands. I said it was a real pleasure. Adkins gave a noncommittal grunt for a reply and didn’t bother removing his work gloves.

  “This it?” he asked, gesturing at the Stooges.

  Escott nodded. “Three less heads for this Hydra to turn upon us.”

  “We’ll take care of ’em.”

  By that I understood he had friends waiting outside. “You want a statement or anything from me?” I asked.

  He gave me a once-over glance, shook his head. “Don’t need to right now.”

  That didn’t sound kosher. Government guys were sticklers for paperwork. “When, then?”

  “Later, we’ll let you know.”

  “Where you taking them?”

  The glance was turning into a stare. “Out of the way.”

  “Out of the city? Out of the state?”

  “You don’t need to worry about it, kid, they won’t be sneaking up on you anytime soon.” There was more than a hint of condescension in his tone.

  So my restored youth was working against me, that or he was a career asshole. I shoved whatever hero worship I might have had in a deep pocket and put on an expression of earnest relief. “Well, golly gee, I sure am glad to hear it. I wouldn’t want to have to hurt ’em all over again.”

  His small mouth got smaller, and I wondered for a moment whether he’d try punching mine. If so, then he’d only get the one attempt. But his gaze flicked around me and to the side the way you do when you’re dismissing something way beneath your notice, and he told Escott he’d be back with help, then went out.

  “He always like that?” I asked.

  Brows high, Escott went innocent. “Like what, old man?”

  “Forget I asked. Think I’ll go find Delemare again so we can have a nice cozy race riot.”

  He had time for half a chuckle then held the door open as Adk
ins returned with two more men dressed like himself. They ignored me and went about the business of hauling Stooges out to the truck. I didn’t offer to help; I’d done my share and figured to have more work ahead tonight.

  “You’re going to look for Miss Paco?” asked Escott, only just loud enough so I could hear him over the sound from the movie.

  “And find her, if what Deiter gave me was straight.”

  “You might want to consider holding off a bit until Sean Sullivan gets settled in.”

  “Uh-uh, I’m finishing things up tonight. She’s not going to be so busy with him as to cancel the hit on you.”

  “My thought was to spare you undue disquietude. You gave me to understand that you’re not quite comfortable about employing your persuasive talents on young ladies. By holding off and waiting, you need not distress yourself at all.”

  A few nights back I’d told him about a still-too-fresh crisis I’d had when hypnotizing a woman to get some information. While she was under my influence I’d started taking her blood, way too much of it. That loss of self-control had scared the hell out of me. I was still scared, of myself, of my questionable ability to keep my own dark side in check in the future. I hoped I was scared enough.

  “Can’t get out of it, Charles. I’ll be careful.”

  He looked at me like he wasn’t all that convinced of my assurance. His cautious attitude didn’t offend; it just made for two of us. “You may avoid any problems altogether by waiting a day or so.”

  I cocked a sharp eye at him. “You know something I don’t?”

  “Only a bit more about local gang politics. Even if Angela does manage to get Kyler’s account books the other mobs are not going to want to deal with a woman. If they don’t already know, they will soon find out about the pretense of her using her father as the front man and won’t stand for it. She will soon be brushed aside.”

  “Translated, that means a gang war.”

  “Fewer heads on the Hydra. Angela Paco is only one of them. The world has thousands more. When a war breaks out they only kill each other, so I say why not let them get on with it?”

  There was that cold streak again, and it made a kind of crazy sense up to a point. “I’m all for it, but we both know innocent people get hit in the cross fire. And if you get scragged who’s going to pick up my laundry?”

  No answer for that one.

  Adkins and his boys got the last Stooge tucked away in the truck. He came over to speak to Escott.

  “Can’t give you a ride back,” he stated. No apology in his tone. No emotion whatsoever. I didn’t have to wonder what Bobbi would have made of him.

  “I’ll find other means of travel. Should there be any new developments will I be able to contact you at the same number?”

  “Yeah, sure, something will get through to me.” If he didn’t watch it his piss-and-vinegar enthusiasm could sweep us off our feet. Maybe Escott found him useful, but to me he was about as charming as a dead mackerel three days gone. Adkins jumped in the cab of the truck with his buddies and the thing trundled out of the alley, gears grinding, exhaust billowing and stinking the place up before the wind got to it.

  “You going back to the Shoe Box?” I asked Escott, shutting the theater door on the parade.

  “Not right away. I thought I’d take in the show, then see if Mr. Delemare won’t give me a ride.”

  That’d be a good trick, but then Escott was a genius at talking people into things. I fished out his requested pipe, tobacco, and the fifty bucks and gave them over.

  “Excellent,” he said, pleasure evident on his face. “Cigarettes are a quick convenience, but there’s nothing quite like a pipe for a real smoke.”

  “And here’s a bonus.” I hauled his Webley-Fosbury automatic revolver from my coat and presented it to him, enjoying the expression on his face.

  “My dear fellow, you are a miracle worker. Wherever did you find it?”

  “Deiter must have taken it as a war prize. Sure you want it back? The last two guys who had it weren’t exactly lucky.”

  “My delving into the realm of myth and superstition is strictly limited to the theatrical profession, not cases like this.” He checked the cylinder and muttered a grudging approval for the ammunition it held.

  “What about me? Ain’t I a myth?” I vanished and reappeared a foot to his left to illustrate the point.

  “You,” he said, not looking impressed, “are merely a scientific puzzle that wants a bit more research.”

  “Thanks a heap.”

  He put the Webley away in his overcoat pocket, wincing at the movement.

  “Shouldn’t you be someplace safe and quiet? Resting?”

  He made as expansive a gesture as his taped ribs allowed. “Who would look for me here?”

  “You’re kind of noticeable, pale face.”

  “Not to worry, I’ll sit way in the back and not make any trouble. Hopefully, Mr. Delemare will vouch for my good behavior should anyone take offense.”

  I got out my little notebook and wrote a number, ripped the sheet free, and handed it over. “This is where you can reach Bobbi if you need to. She’d probably like to hear from you.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “Worried, wants all this finished and done.” Another reason for me not to delay. “Oh, and if you need to talk to Gordy, it can’t be to his club, there’s a tap on the line.”

  “Does he know what you’re going to do?”

  “He didn’t exactly ask and I didn’t exactly say. Maybe he talked some with Bobbi and has a notion about things from her. He gives me the idea he’s waiting to see what happens and then will go from there. His New York bosses told him to stay out of it, presumably to give Sullivan some elbow room.”

  “Or to provide reinforcements should they be required. I’d advise you to be cautious with him, not rely on him if you can help it. Gordy may be helpful now, but if push comes to shove . . . ”

  Gordy was a businessman, and he wouldn’t put himself out for anyone if it jeopardized his spot in the organization. He was too fond of breathing. “Yeah. Tell me about it.”

  “I was rather hoping that would be unnecessary.”

  TO avoid drawing more attention I left by the back door and started walking until I found an L-train to take me to the neighborhood I wanted. Chicago is a hell of a sprawl, swallowing up little towns one by one, making them part of the big one. My destination was one such spot. At the turn of the century it was probably a rustic delight, but the boom brought on by Prohibition had turned it into a square mile of brothels, gin joints, and burlesque houses, blocks of ’em only occasionally interrupted by an eatery, a grocer’s, or some other more ordinary business. The population lived cheap and died young, usually just a few steps ahead of a landlord with his hand out for back rent. Oddly enough, the Depression hadn’t hit here as hard as in other places, since people could always be counted upon to have enough money to spend on their vices.

  Just on the edge of things was the all-night movie house that was one of my regular haunts. I was usually out this way a couple of times a month when I got tired of staring at the walls of my room on those evenings when I didn’t have a date with Bobbi. For other people, when the bars closed down and they still didn’t want to go home, this was the place to spend the rest of the night. During the winter, if they could scrape up a dime for the admission and not spend it on booze, the bums would come here to get a warm place to sleep. They could stay at one of the rescue missions for nothing if they wanted, but most preferred watching a movie to being preached to, and second runs of a Shirley Temple feature was close as they wanted to get to redemption. I was here often enough that they knew me by sight and that I wasn’t a soft touch for drink money. Once in a while if it was really bad weather, I’d pay the way in for a regular or two, but I handled the tickets to keep them from being traded off for a share in a bottle.

  The neighborhood didn’t appeal to me beyond the movie house, so I’d never paid much mind to it beyond th
e attention necessary to avoid getting mugged. This time when I strolled along the sidewalk from the L-stop, I had more eyes for my surroundings. Sure enough, there was Flora’s Dance Studio across and down the street just like Deiter said. Passing the theater (it was a Marlene Dietrich film tonight), I walked unhurriedly along until I was opposite my goal. For a cold, windy night they seemed to have plenty of business going for them. A dozen or so men were gathered under the bright lights of the entry, and whenever the doors opened I heard the brassy tones of a live band banging out a fast version of “Melancholy Baby.” Once past the glitter, I saw an old, rambling two-story structure that must have stood duty for dozens of other businesses over the decades; you could see where past signs in the wood had faded and been painted over. One of the current signs read FIFTY—COUNT THEM!—FIFTY BEAUTIFUL GIRLS WHO WANT TO DANCE WITH YOU! Lights showed on the top floor, but the blinds were down.

  I crossed the street and joined a line of men in front of a ticket kiosk. So it wasn’t an instructional studio, but a hall for taxi dancers. The men paid out one or two bucks for a string of ten or twenty tickets, then a bouncer pretending to be an usher motioned the way inside. I bought ten tickets and followed the rest through the door. To the right was a place to check your hat and overcoat, but some of the men kept theirs, leaving them draped on chairs lining the sides of the hall. I left mine on, same as a few others who weren’t trusting in the integrity of their fellow citizens not to steal. My reason had to do with the fact I didn’t know how long I’d be staying, and if I had to leave in a hurry I’d rather have my property with me.

  It was a pretty big place, with a low ceiling held up by thin metal columns at regular intervals. The noise was high over the music, shuffling feet on the scarred wood floor, a woman’s artificial laugh, a man’s hopeful voice, muttered conversation everywhere between strangers holding each other in an imitation of passion. Everyone was well behaved, though, there were lots of bouncers to see to that. For some of the customers this was the closest contact they could manage with a woman, and they weren’t about to screw things up for themselves by getting thrown out. I saw men of all ages and backgrounds, and just standing there heard five different accents asking the girls variations of “what’s your name?” and “will you dance with me again?” Most had taken the trouble to dress themselves up; even if the suit was twenty years old, it was brushed clean. I saw little old guys with hair parted in the middle like they did when the century turned, and gangly kids that were all pimples and buckteeth, hair slicked back with half a jar of Vaseline in hopeful imitation of George Raft.