I walked up to the bar and asked for Simon Derrida.
“He’s on in about two minutes,” the bartender said, consulting his watch. “What’ll you have?”
I ordered a Rainier, took it past the fish-eyed drunk at the bar, who eyed me like he wanted to talk, and went to one of the empty tables.
The woman at the next table looked over at me to see whether I was a better possibility than the guy she had and I shook my head no. She had lots of red hair that wouldn’t stay in place and a smile painted on her large mouth that promised more sadness than fun.
I was almost through with my beer when a guy with a ratty tux came out from behind the curtain and sat at the piano. He was about seventy. He smiled at the four businessmen, the woman, and me and being playing and singing.
He played “Jealous,” doing a kind of Tony Martin imitation, and followed it with “Chattanooga Choo-Choo” and a finger flourish. I clapped. The businessmen clapped, and the guy at the piano beamed.
“Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Now let’s all sing “We’ll Throw the Japs Back in the Laps of the Nazis.’”
He began to play and sing, but no one joined him. Undiscouraged, he tried to feed us the lines quickly before he played them. I mouthed a little, and the drunk at the bar followed us both by four muddled lines. If the old duck at the piano played another song, I was going to go to the bathroom, but he didn’t. Instead, he thanked us all again and said, “And now, the man you’ve all been waiting for, the man who can scare you and tickle you to death at the same time, our own Doctor Vampire, Simon Derrida.”
He played “Hall of the Mountain King” to applause from the drunk, and the last Dark Knight walked out on the platform, complete with the costume he had worn at the meeting. He couldn’t cover his New York accent, though he tried and came up with an awful combination of Bela Lugosi and the Bronx.
“Good evening,” he said. “It’s good to see some fresh blood in the club. I’m going to give you some stories in a new vein. My friends, do you know what is worse than a werewolf who had to get rabies shots? A vampire who has to get braces.”
The drunk burped.
“And,” Derrida went on with a flourishing of his cape (he looked more like a dry pear than a vampire), “do you know why the vampire walked around in his pajamas? He didn’t have a batrobe. Quick, what has one wheel and gets twenty miles to the gallon of plasma? A vampire on a unicycle. Or tell me what the first building is that Dracula visits when he goes to New York? The Vampire State Building.”
No one was laughing. Nobody but the drunk and me were really listening. I had a fixed smile, and Derrida started to play to me, which forced me to pay attention and fake a laugh. He didn’t seem to recognize me from the Dark Knights meeting. My hope was that his act was short or that he would be discouraged by the lack of response, but he just plowed on when he asked, “What do vampires hate to have for dinner?” and the drunk answered, “T-bone stakes.” Derrida simply ignored him and delivered the line again.
“Why don’t you like Count Dracula?” Derrida asked an imaginary character at his side. Then he moved over, raised his voice and answered, “Because he’s a pain in the neck.”
I squirmed through, “Why did the man think Dracula had a cold? Because the vampire told him he kept a coffin,” and “What do you get if you cross a vampire with a brontosaurus? A monster that sleeps in the biggest coffin you ever saw.” Then I had a simulated coughing fit that sent me to the men’s room, which was small, dirty, and without toilet paper, but at least I didn’t have to bear the pain of being Simon Derrida’s sole emotional support. The burden was too much.
I stayed in the toilet till I heard about three people clapping, which could mean only that Derrida was done. I hurried out and ducked behind the curtain. “Just a second,” he said and stepped out for more applause. The drunk and the hustler applauded and Derrida came “backstage,” which was just big enough to hold us.
“Great show,” I said. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Derrida smiled, “It did go pretty well, didn’t it? Not a bad audience for a weekday.”
We went back to my table, completely ignored, while the old guy at the piano played “Always.”
“I’ll have a double scotch,” Derrida shouted to the bartender.
“Another beer for me,” I added.
“I know you from somewhere,” Derrida said, looking at me.
“Dark Knights,” I said. “I was there with Lugosi.”
“Inspiring man,” Derrida said solemnly. “Gave me lots of ideas for new material just looking at him. I’m getting my imitation down perfect. What do you think?”
“Uncanny,” I said.
“So,” he said, sitting back and throwing his cape over the chair, “you found me out. It was bound to happen. Hell, you expect that kind of thing in show business. Heartaches, disaster. You gotta learn to live with it. I got enough material out of them, anyway.”
“You mean,” I said as the bartender plopped the drinks on the table and stood waiting for his pay, “that you don’t believe in the Dark Knights?”
“Use ’em for material, that’s all. Too bad you happened to come in tonight. I could have gotten a little more out of them.”
That made everyone in the Dark Knights except Sam Billings a fraud. A fang overbite and no true friends.
“I didn’t just happen in here,” I said. “I was looking for you.”
I told him my tale.
“You think I was putting the bite on Lugosi?” he said. “Get that joke?”
“I got it,” I said, gulping my beer. “I considered it, but I think you’re off my list.”
“Why?” he said. “Say, I can be scary too, not just funny if I want to be, buddy.”
“I can see that,” I said, “but you’re a trooper. A professional. You wouldn’t stiff another professional.”
That worked.
“Right,” he said seriously, finishing his drink. “Say, I wish I could help you but I’ve got nothing going. Why don’t you stay around for the second show? I have new material for part of it.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I’ve got a big day tomorrow. By the way, I don’t plan to turn you in to Billings. I think he needs you more than you need him.”
“I don’t get you, pal,” Derrida said.
“Skip it,” I said and headed for the door.
The drunk waved. The bartender read a book. The redhead talked, and the old guy at the piano tinkled. I walked out the door and headed for my car.
The sound of screeching rubber came from the parking lot of the rival tavern across the street. I paid no attention and kept on walking till I realized that the car had crossed the street and was coming down the sidewalk right behind me. I faked a move to the wall and took a dive toward the street, feeling the pull in my knee. The car swerved and passed me, and a bullet chunked a piece of street near my face. There were two figures in the Ford. I couldn’t see the driver, but the guy in the passenger seat was my attacker from the library.
I waited to see whether they were going to make another try, and sure enough I heard the car turning down the street and saw its lights. Fear was gone. I was hit with anger. Someone was trying to kill me, and they were going to keep at it till it worked unless I did something about it. Now seemed a good time to do something. I rolled into the shadow next to the car I had dived over and wormed my way to my Buick while the Ford eased forward, looking for me. I crawled to the sidewalk side, opened the door as little as I could, slid in, and started the engine as soon as the Ford pulled past. I got into the street with a tear of rubber and put on my bright lights. I could see the two figures ahead of me and they realized now I was behind them. It was a time for madness, and I sped forward, ramming into the rear of the Ford, sending it jerking ahead and snapping the heads of the two guys in the front seat.
The hell with my Buick. It was a discardable weapon now, and I meant to use it. The driver of the Ford decided to wait for a better da
y and stepped on the gas, but I had no intention of giving him a better day. The night was mine and I meant to have it.
I chased them through Burbank and into the hills. Not a cop showed up to stop us, and that was fine with me. We went through Griffith Park and far beyond. We ran red lights and missed pedestrians. The only thing that was going to stop me was a bullet or an empty gas tank.
Then I lost them. I cursed the car, my brother, my stupidity, and fate. I didn’t even know where we were. I knew it was a poorly lighted street with small apartments. I drove slowly down the street, watching and listening. Nothing. Then I heard a car backfire or a shot and went around the block, where I spotted the Ford under a street lamp. Its doors were open. No one was in sight.
I drove next to the car and got out. Instead of going to the Ford, I went to the trunk and got out my tire iron. The Ford was empty, but in the light from the lamp I could see blood, a lot of blood on the seat, particularly the passenger side. There was a dark trail leading from the Ford. I began to follow it, tire iron in hand. The moon was full above, and I began to regain my sense of self-preservation and fear, but I followed the trail of blood to an apartment house door. Then it hit me. I thought I was having one of those feelings where you think you’ve been someplace you’ve never been, but I’d been here. I’d been here in the daytime and talked to a janitor named Rouse.
I went in and rang Rouse’s bell. He came into the hall with his shirt and mouth open and unlatched the hall door.
“I just called you two minutes ago,” he said. “How did you …?”
“Upstairs?” I said.
“Yeah, someone’s up there.”
Then he noticed the trail of blood leading up the stairs into the darkness and the tire iron in my hand.
“I’ll give you the five when I come down,” I said, moving to the stairs slowly.
“Mister,” said Rouse, “you keep your five. I’m calling the cops.”
He disappeared into his apartment, locking the door behind him. The blood trail led right to the door of the apartment Camile Shatzkin had rented as Mrs. Offen. The door was open and the lights were out. I moved in slowly, kicking the door closed, and standing back with tire iron ready in case anyone was behind it. No one was. There was enough light from the street to follow the blood, but I reached over and turned on the wall light, tire iron ready.
The trail led toward the single bedroom. I followed it, kicking that door open. He was there. The guy who had jumped me in the library and tried to kill me in the Ford. He was on the bed staring at me, but he wasn’t seeing anything. A wooden stake was imbedded in his chest, and his dead hands were clutching it in a final useless effort to wrench it out.
CHAPTER EIGHT
B efore the police arrived, I went through the unpleasant pockets of the guy on the bed and found that he was Thayer Newcomb. That was two down for Mrs. Shatzkin and a little confusing for me. The apartment and Newcomb were tied to the Shatzkin murder, but Newcomb had acted more like a Dark Knight of Transylvania than a plotting lover. The stake in his chest seemed to confirm the vampire line, and the neatly typed card in his wallet, albeit a bit bloodstained, didn’t help at all. The card bore the exact words of the threat Lugosi had received over the phone. I returned the wallet, complete with fifteen bucks, put my tire iron on a lower shelf in the kitchen, and waited for the screaming siren.
It came in about fifteen minutes. Heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs, a heavier knock hit the door.
“Police,” said a high voice.
“Come in,” said I, sitting on the sofa with both hands showing.
They came in with guns out, blue caps over their eyes, ready to create more blood trails if someone said the wrong thing. I said the right thing.
“In the bedroom,” I said.
One guy was young, in his twenties, and looked as if he had tailored his uniform at his own expense to the body he had probably built up as a high school athlete. When I was young and twenty, I thought, looking at his frightened blue eyes. Cop Number Two was older by ten years, heavier by twenty pounds, and possessed of a skin that looked as if it had suffered a blast of BB shot when he was a kid. The older cop went into the bedroom. The younger one prepared to kill me if I scratched my nose.
“There’s a dead guy in there,” the cop with the bad skin said, coming out.
“I know,” I said.
“I was telling my partner,” he said.
“Sorry.”
The partner kid ran into the bedroom, holding his holster in his free hand to keep it from slapping his thigh. He came out fast.
“He’s dead,” he said. “What do we do?”
“Call the cops,” I suggested.
“You’re not funny, guy,” said the older cop. “Where’s the phone?”
“None in here,” I told him. “Downstairs, janitor has one.”
The younger guy hurried downstairs, and the older guy kept his hand on his gun.
“What happened?” he said.
“Beats the hell out of me,” I said.
A little over an hour later, after I watched the guys from the evidence lab try to figure out the difference between what was evidence and what was junk dropped by the cops, I was on my way to the Wilshire District station. I had told the cop who questioned me that the murder was tied into a case being conducted by an Officer Cawelti. The cop called Cawelti and was glad to dump the case in his lap along with me and his report. He had his own big problem, a tire theft gang, and as far as he was concerned, with the shortage of rubber, that was more important than actors getting murdered.
“Actors have been getting murdered and killing themselves in this town for half a century,” the cop told me philosophically while he chewed a wad of gum.
I told him that was true, though I didn’t see what that had to do with his disinterest.
At the Wilshire station Cawelti, his hair still parted down the middle and slicked down, stood up when I was ushered into the squad room. There were a few cops in the room, and I thought I heard the sound of voices from my brother’s office. A big cardboard box that had held sandwiches rested on one nearby desk. From the smell I could tell they had come from a delicatessen.
Cawelti took the report from the officer, who said, “You’re welcome.”
“What do you want?” said Cawelti, “A tip?”
“I’ll give you one,” said the cop who had brought me in. “Some day you might ran into me again when you need a favor. Think about that.”
“Guys,” I said sweetly. “There’s been a murder.”
The cop who had brought me turned in disgust and walked out. Cawelti threw me a snarl. I smiled at him as sweetly as I could, and he turned to read the report. It took him about three minutes. He didn’t read it twice. He should have.
“Why did you kill him?” he said, looking up at me.
“He was dead when I got there,” I said. “I met the building janitor downstairs, and we saw a trail of blood. I followed it. The janitor’s information is in the report.”
“You probably stabbed him with that wood spear and followed him up there to be sure he was dead,” he tried.
“Then I waited for the cops to come,” I said.
“Why not?” he said, leaning back with his hands behind his head. He wanted me to squirm, but I wasn’t playing it.
“Come on,” I said, “I was on a case. I think this guy had something to do with the Shatzkin murder.”
“The guy Faulkner shot,” he said.
“Mrs. Shatzkin rented the apartment where the body was found, and according to her, the dead guy was her boyfriend. Take out both your hands and all your pinkies and add it up. It comes out to a pile of rotten fish.”
“It comes out to your pipe dreams,” said Cawelti, leaning forward to tap at the report.
“Why not ask Mrs. Shatzkin about her boyfriend and check with the janitor? Show him her picture.”
“She jabbed the spear into this guy Newcomb?”
“I don’t thi
nk so,” I said. “It might have been a monster who laps at her heels named Haliburton. He was jealous. Maybe he found out about Newcomb earlier today.”
“Mrs. Shatzkin sure plays around a lot,” Cawelti said with acrid sarcasm. “Even if you’re right, what about Shatzkin’s dying statement that Faulkner killed him?”
“I’m working on that,” I said, looking over at my brother’s door, which had just opened. He and Seidman walked out. Cawelti spotted them and sat forward businesslike, finding a pencil.
“And what were you doing following that Thayer guy into the Culver City apartment?” Cawelti said evenly, letting his eyes but not his head turn toward the advancing Phil and Seidman.
“I promised the janitor a five if he called me when he heard anyone go in the apartment.”
Phil and Seidman were in easy earshot now.
Cawelti attacked.
“Rouse called you, left a message at your boarding house, and you arrived two minutes later? And you live over on Heliotrope in Hollywood? You made good time.”
“I was trailing Newcomb. He had tried to run me down because I was getting too close to him. I was protecting some innocent cop like you who should have been digging up what I was digging up and worrying Newcomb instead of sitting here trying to prove what it means to be a true pisshead.”
Cawelti started to get up and threw a look at Phil, who didn’t move, just watched without a word. Seidman looked at his watch.
“You got a report on whatever’s going on here?” Phil asked as Cawelti reached forward and grabbed my jacket, pulling me out of the wooden chair. The chair went skidding across the squad room, ramming the table with deli refuse and sending it tumbling along the floor, where it would feel right at home.
Never Cross a Vampire Page 12
