The Vampire Files, Volume Three

by P. N. Elrod

  The bullet-pocked entry doors were in the same condition as the ones in the radio room now, gaping wide and empty with the etched glass gone, only it was much draftier as the winter wind slipped through. The old manager, in an ancient coat with a tattered wool muffler wrapped around his head, had a box of thumbtacks in hand and was busy pinning flapping layers of newspaper over the openings. He also had the nervous twitches, looking up fast the instant he heard us coming. He recognized me and the boys right off, if I could judge anything from his terrified expression, and got out of the way to let us pass. No questions for us, though. Probably too scared.

  Broken glass from the doors and windows was scattered all over the marble floor, which also showed damage. Stray bullets had created brief plow lines in its surface where it hadn’t cracked apart altogether. Wherever you looked at eye level from the street, you could spot bullet holes in the walls, along the stairs. They only went up so high, like some kind of rock stratum, indicating the limits of the range of fire from the street. The killers had sprayed the place pretty good, though. It must have been some kind of big kick for them to blast the hell out of something and too tough for anybody who’d been in the way.

  I wondered if the shooting would hurt or help the business. Probably the latter, once word got out. When the feds and the East Chicago police had taken down Dillinger a couple years back, the Biograph Theater had done a boom in ticket sales. Of course, anyone making the pilgrimage had to stop after the show to stare at the alleyway where he’d fallen and look for blood. Nothing of it was left, though; previous souvenir hunters had seen to that, sopping it up with handkerchiefs, scrap paper, and bits of torn cardboard, or so Escott had told me.

  On the other hand, the dead man for this one wasn’t John Dillinger, but a crooked cop who’d run out of luck. By the time the papers came out tomorrow, the world would know the truth or honor him for a hero.

  Calloway motioned for the manager to come in and we all gathered at the front desk. It was at a right angle to the street, parallel to the bullet paths. No holes in the wood except for the ones already there.

  “Yeah?” The manager shifted on his feet and looked like nothing would please him more than to be miles away from us.

  Everyone stared expectantly at me. “I want you to call Angela Paco,” I said. “Tell her Jack Fleming’s back and needs to talk. I’ll be in the same room as before.”

  “Huh?” As an imitation of lack of comprehension, it was awful.

  “You know what I mean. If you don’t have her number, you’ll know someone who does. Make whatever calls you need to contact her, but do it fast.”

  He shook his head, gaze darting nervously over us all, silently pleading for me to go away. “I don’t get you, mister.”

  Calloway showed him his gun. Shoved it up under the old man’s chin, in fact. The lobby was empty of patrons, but I knew he’d have done the same thing with or without witnesses. “You get this, Pops? I thought so. Go do what you’re told.” He lowered the muzzle and signaled to the two uniforms. “Stay with him and see to it he doesn’t get funny. I don’t want Angela doing a repeat of what happened here.”

  “So you think she was behind the hit?” I asked him as we trudged up the stairs.

  “Who else would have a reason? Probably still pissed that we stuck with Sullivan instead of her after Kyler bought the farm.”

  “What about your new boss? Could have been him. You see the look on his face when I mentioned it?”

  A hesitation. Then: “Why should he?”

  “Human nature. Every job I’ve ever had, whenever they changed the top men, they’d fire the workers and bring in their own people to take their place. Don’t tell me you’ve never been through those hoops.”

  “It ain’t like that here. Not with this setup.”

  “Sure about that? Maybe Sullivan was thinking of trimming the fat so he looks good to the New York bosses. What’s a few cops more or less to him?”

  “Shaddup,” said Baker, who was just behind me.

  I shut up. Since I’d gotten a rise out of him it meant he’d been thinking along similar lines. Now he was thinking that way again, maybe both of them, since Calloway’s jaw was visibly clenching as he ground his teeth. Didn’t know what good it might do me to throw down a false trail, but having them off balance and even more mistrustful of Sullivan couldn’t hurt.

  We reached the door at the end of the hall. It was half off its hinges where they’d broken through earlier. I’d left Calloway right up against it before hightailing out the fire escape, so you could make book that the bruises he took were probably giving him twinges now that there were fewer distractions. Have to allow he’d be in a bad temper from the discomfort, maybe even find a way to take advantage of it.

  Inside, the room was the same as before, but much colder. Apparently no one had troubled to close the window I’d used. Calloway covered me, keeping his distance, and sent Baker to take care of the problem and look at the heater.

  “It’s on,” he reported from the back. “Just not working so good.”

  “What’s the time?” I asked.

  Calloway checked his watch. “Half-past ten. Better hope your girlfriend wants to talk soon. Or else.”

  “Maxwell didn’t say anything about an ‘or else.’ I’m just supposed to call him then.” I dropped into the chair by the phone. Calloway, gun in hand, tossed the blindfold in my lap.

  “Put it on.”

  “Jeez, are you kidding? What the hell do you think I—”

  “I don’t know, but until I do, you’re gonna wear that. Put it on.”

  Arguing wouldn’t have gotten me anywhere, so I wrapped it loosely around my head, tied off the ends, and sat there feeling like an idiot.

  “What the hell’s this?” asked Baker, coming in.

  I turned my head in his general direction, crossing my arms. “Haven’t you heard? They’re making a talkie of The Sheik and I got the lead.”

  “You’re cute, so cute I should drop you off a bridge. Can we do that after this is done, Lieutenant?”

  “Maybe if we ask Sullivan real nice,” answered Calloway. I didn’t need to see to know about the smirk on his narrow face. The whole of it was in his voice. He should have been on radio.

  Baker groused on. “God, but I hate punks like him.”

  “Who?” I asked with bright interest. “Punks like me or punks like Sullivan?”

  “No one’s talkin’ to you.”

  “Just wanted some clarification,” I said, all injured innocence.

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Smart-ass bastards like him coming out with the five-dollar college words and pretending to be so tough. Well, you ain’t so frigging tough, pretty boy. You don’t have any idea what tough really is.”

  “Calloway, make him stop, he’s scaring me so bad I wanna puke.”

  “Both of you lay off, before you give me a headache,” Calloway snarled.

  Baker growled something under his breath I didn’t catch, but it must have been aimed at me since Calloway didn’t take exception to it. I kept shut and let him have the last word for now. My turn would come later, after the blindfold was off.

  Sitting around listening to them breathe was only slightly less boring than actually watching the process. That I was spared from seeing their faces for the time being was another consolation. Calloway would just throw me more hate-filled looks, and then I’d probably sniff and rub my nose the wrong way, and Baker would try hitting me again. Try. Now that Opal was out of the reckoning, I was more or less free to take some chances.

  God, I hoped she’d be okay.

  Just have to wait on that one. Find out later. Bide my time—what there was of it until midnight came or Angela called—and take my best chance when it offered itself.

  Soon now. Maybe.

  Calloway had the right idea with the blindfold. There’s a lot of power in the eyes. You don’t need to be a vampire to influence others with a stare, just have to have the knack for it
. Some people are naturals, others learn how to control it. How much is bluff and how much is real depends on the individual and how others react to them. I had a reporter friend back in New York who once saw Hitler in person and said it was the look in his eyes that grabbed people first and pinned ’em to the wall. You either fell under his spell and loved him or came up with an instant and irrational urge to shoot him. My friend wanted to shoot, which he found to be extremely upsetting since he’d been raised a Quaker.

  Maybe Calloway, now that he’d had a sample of my unnatural talent when I’d gone overboard using it, was having a similar reaction to me. Only in this case he didn’t have any objections to using violence based on his religion, or based on anything else for that matter. If Sullivan gave him the go-ahead, he’d scrag me willingly enough. Nuts to that, he’d do it without a go-ahead, like he’d tried in front of the hotel, only this time there would be bullets in the gun.

  I gave a shudder in spite of myself.

  “Whatsamatter? You cold?” Baker turned it into a jeer.

  I wasn’t but said I was. “Must not have done such a great job with the heater.”

  “I’ll give you heat, you—”

  “He’s right,” said Calloway. “Go turn it up.”

  “It is turned up.”

  “Then check it again and see what’s wrong. I can see my breath hanging in the air.”

  Soon.

  I leaned my head back as though to rest against the wall. It allowed me to just see under the bottom edge of the blindfold. A slice of floor and Calloway’s feet slid into view. He was in the chair by the radio I’d used earlier when I’d been here with Opal.

  Heard Baker tinkering with the heater, muttering to himself.

  He’d be back any second.

  No time like the present.

  Calloway had suspicions about the hypnosis, but not a single clue about my other major talent.

  Vanishing.

  One instant in front of him, solid and real as an anvil, and the next gone and on the move, leaving him an abruptly empty chair to gape at.

  In this state a blindfold is a pretty useless hindrance against me, since I can’t see anyway. I used my memory and what sense of touch remained to whip around behind Calloway. It happened so fast he had no time to react either verbally or physically. He was still seated and trying to take in the impossible when I re-formed, tore off the cloth, snaked a hand around to cover his mouth, and used the other to fix his gun in place.

  Now he did start a ruckus, kicking and flailing like a crazy man. He rose high out of the chair, making it crash over. I dragged him clear, then spun him around and did the same as before, focusing on his wide-open eyes and telling him to take a nap. He slowed, but didn’t collapse. Too on guard against me, I guess. He got out a couple of sobbing sounds—it was fear, absolute terror—and tried to wrest his gun free. My hand was closed tight around the cylinder, else he’d have fired it by now; I’d already felt his trigger finger making the attempt.

  Hypnosis was out, but another fighting instinct kicked in, and I tried a less exotic but highly effective fist on his jaw, my arm going too fast for him to follow. Kept the punch pulled, though; I didn’t want to kill him. He thumped straight to the floor, a bag of rags.

  Baker was next on my list of chores. From the bedroom he’d heard me dancing around with his pal and charged in, ready for the worst. I went semitransparent, which isn’t easy to maintain, but is great for avoiding bullets while still being able to see the shooter.

  He froze, absolutely froze, mouth sagging, eyes popping. Couldn’t blame him. Suddenly being able to look right through a guy to see the room beyond must be pretty hard on the old rational facilities. Must have been especially hard on Baker; from the expression on his mug his brain must have completely closed down for the winter. Or maybe even until further notice. Since I didn’t have that long to play games I got within a yard of him and gradually went solid. His whole horrified attention was on me, so I had an easy time convincing him to hand me his gun, go back to the other room, and climb into the bed for a nice nap.

  Oh, yeah—I told him to forget all about my imitation of a ghost. It was for his own good. That kind of inexplicable thing is hard for a person to live with, better for everyone that he not remember any of it.

  I surveyed the battlefield—no permanent casualties and me with all the weapons—then gave myself a mental pat on the back. Damn, but it felt good to be in charge again.

  JUST to give myself something constructive to do until Angela called, I righted the toppled chair and dragged Calloway’s extremely unconscious body into the other room to get him out of sight. While I was at it I lifted his watch from his wrist to mine. It was a cheap thing. Whatever money he got on the side, he was smart enough not to give away easy clues to it like wearing something pricey from the Boston Store. No heirloom, so my conscience didn’t chafe much. He could afford a replacement—that is, he could if Sullivan still wanted him on the payoff roster after this latest failure.

  I watched the minute hand of my new property shift from one marking to the next a few times and wondered how long before Calloway woke up so I could whammy him like Baker. My idea was to make sure their stories matched—the details of which would depend on the outcome of my talk with Angela.

  Who was taking her own sweet time.

  Full of nervous energy again now that I was back in control of this little piece of my world, I paced around as before to work it off. Didn’t feel like dancing, though. No partner. I circled the room, chewed the inside of my lower lip, and offered a prayer or two for Opal. God, she was only a kid with a raw deal on life, so raw that she didn’t really know how to live yet. The potential was there, if only she could have the chance to see it, reach for it. Sullivan had damned well better be taking good care of her or I’d take it out of his Harvard hide.

  Wanted to make some calls, but didn’t dare. Talking to Escott and Coldfield would have to wait to keep the line free.

  Line. What if it wasn’t working? Picked up the receiver, very quickly. Heard the reassuring hum of the dial tone. Okay, the phone was fine. Good, great, wonderful. Now everything depended on the scared old man below. I couldn’t run down to check on him, to make sure he’d done his phoning, not with the other two cops on duty. Kept telling myself there was really no need. If there’d been a problem, one of them would have come up to report it to Calloway by now. I almost wish they would so I could get the drop on them. That would simplify my exit from this joint when the time came.

  Checked the hall. Empty. Pushed the door more securely shut. If anyone knocked, chances were it’d fall down from the force of the raps, but I wanted the feeling of privacy a closed door imparted. It’s all in the mind, like most things, the same as pulling blankets up over your head to keep out the bogeyman. If he really wanted to get you, he would, but until that time came, you were safe under the covers with your illusions.

  Phone.

  I let it ring a couple times, then picked up.

  “Fleming, you son of a bitch, what the hell kind of scam are you pulling?” Angela yelled in my ear.

  Things were off to a flying start. “So nice to hear from you, too, sweetheart.”

  “First you pull a raid—”

  “Not me, I told you that was Sullivan’s—”

  “Then a hit on the hotel. You were trying to set me up.”

  “And did a piss-poor job of it since you weren’t anywhere around when it happened.”

  “You were trying to get me killed.”

  “Get sensible, I was right in front of the guns while they were shooting, not you.”

  “Fleming!”

  So the lady wasn’t interested in making sense just yet. She’d probably been storing this up for hours and needed a release. I was just the man to help her do it. “Angela, calm down, count to ten, and then I’ll be glad to let you know what’s been going on between me and your Irish friend.”

  “You’re a dead man, you bastard!”


  I bit my tongue so as not to tell her she was way too late for that and waited until she’d cooled enough to talk. After a minute her curiosity would win out over her temper, and I could begin the preliminaries.

  “Well?” she demanded after a stretch, when I’d stopped responding to her cursing and threats.

  “First off, Opal’s still alive.”

  “Alive?” That changed her tune. “I thought—”

  “She took a bullet, but they have Doc looking after her.”

  “What? Doc’s supposed to be . . . he hadn’t called in and I thought he’d gone on a drunk.”

  “Nope, they snagged him at the studio raid. Roughed him up some, but he’s alive, mostly well, and drinking as usual. I think the idea is to use him as a hostage like Kyler used your father.”

  She gave a snort. “Doc’s not my father, and he knows it. What about Opal?”

  “She’s not feeling so good, no thanks to the hit on the hotel, Doc’s pretty worried about her. You should have sent your boys to collect us faster and we might have avoided a lot of trouble.”

  “Don’t go blaming that on me, you frigging snake. Sullivan’s the one behind it.”

  Right, so Sullivan thought Angela had made the hit, and unless she was lying she thought him to be responsible. That left one other possible player, and I still hated the idea: Gordy. Damnation. Escott was right. When it came to this kind of cold-blooded business, no one could be your friend. I still hadn’t figured what specific advantage killing Opal would gain him, but in general terms it would throw both sides off balance. The fact that I might get hit in the process, too, was part of it, and that made me want to punch holes in the wall, or in him. Gordy, along with very, very few others, knew I could survive such an attack.

  “I’ll have that Irish bastard’s balls on a meat hook before this is over,” said Angela, still going on about her new competition.

  “And he sends you his love, as well.” No point in mentioning Gordy to her right now. I’d have to take care of him later.