Lewis wrenched himself out of the vision with a gasp, caught himself on the edge of the table.
“Easy,” Mitch said.
Alma eyed him carefully. “Are you all right?”
Lewis nodded. He could still smell the resin smoke, reached for a cigarette to take the taste out of his mouth.
“What did you see?” Jerry asked.
Lewis lit the cigarette, took a long breath of the smoke. “I saw it. The thing that attacked you.” The look in its eyes haunted him — he’d thought he’d seen everything in France, but that bottomless malice was more frightening than anything he’d ever imagined. Treat it like photo recon, he told himself, just pictures, just like the bodies tangled in the wire after a night assault could become nothing more than dots, a pattern on a photographic plate. “You were right, Jerry, it was Caligula, and it’s —” He stopped, not able to find a word large enough for what he’d seen.
“Tell me exactly what you saw,” Jerry said again.
Lewis took another long pull on his cigarette, marshalling the words the way he’d ordered his reports in the war. The woods, and the dog, and the ships, and then Caligula and the thing within him. He shook his head, still groping for the words, and Alma patted his shoulder.
“That’s not good,” Mitch said, half under his breath.
“No,” Alma said. “It has to be stopped.”
Jerry handed her the coin and began folding the tablet back into its wrappings, taking more care than was strictly necessary. “Why the hell doesn’t that operator call back?”
“You know how long it takes to get a trunk line,” Mitch said. “When you can get one.”
“I’ll call Henry, warn him what he’s dealing with,” Jerry said. “It’ll light a fire under him.”
He moved to the telephone, lifted the receiver. Lewis looked at the others. “Isn’t there something more we should do?”
“Like what?” Mitch’s tone was gentle, easing the sting. “He hasn’t done anything, Lewis. Not that we can go to the police about. And his own lodge is going to have a better idea of how to find him, how to stop him. He’s on their turf.”
“And they’re a solid group,” Alma said. “I may not agree with the way they do things, but they’re of the light. They will stop him.”
The force of the vision was fading, the details disappearing like a dream, and he was glad to let it go. “And Davenport’s not Caligula,” Lewis said. “It’s not like he can order up orgies and murder. This isn’t Rome.”
“Exactly,” Alma said.
“I got Henry,” Jerry said. “He’s going to call his Magister, and some others. They’re on it.”
“Good,” Mitch said.
“I told him we’d help if they needed it,” Jerry went on. “And I asked him to let us know what happens.”
“Thank you,” Alma said. “Do you think they’ll call? If they need us?”
“They’ll call,” Mitch said.
The telephone rang then, and Jerry grabbed for it, pivoting awkwardly on his artificial leg so that he stumbled against the bed. “Ballard.” He listened for a long moment, his frown deepening. “Can’t you keep trying? He might — oh, I see. All right, thank you.”
He hung up the phone very carefully, and turned to face the others. “Bullfinch isn’t answering. The operator says he’s unavailable.”
“What does that mean?” Lewis blurted.
Jerry shrugged. “Out of town, gone into retreat, I have no idea. The operator just said the San Valencez exchange says they can’t reach him and don’t know when they will be able to.”
“On a job, maybe,” Mitch said, and Jerry shrugged again.
“God knows.”
“Which leaves this to Henry,” Alma said. “And his lodge.”
“They’ll handle it,” Mitch said. “You said it yourself, they’re solid. But it’s in their hands now.” He paused. “Look, let’s call it a day. We’ve earned a break, to get this out of our heads. I had a conversation with one of the bellhops yesterday, and he gave me a card for a nice little dinner and dance spot not too far from here. We’re in Hollywood, we might as well act like it.”
Lewis nodded. That was exactly what they needed, something normal, or as normal as a Hollywood nightclub would be.
“Our last party went off so well,” Jerry said, but he didn’t look disapproving.
Alma gave a reluctant smile. “All right. Give me time to change, and we’ll do that.”
It was solidly dark by the time they’d all bathed and changed. Lewis shaved hastily, put on his one good suit, and couldn’t suppress a soft whistle as Alma emerged from the bathroom. He’d seen the blue dress before, but it looked good on her, flattering her height and her eyes. She’d found a ribbon flower somewhere, and pinned it to her hat, and the curls that peeped out by her ears shone like gold.
“I don’t suppose Mitch and Jerry would be willing to wait a little bit,” he said.
“Not Jerry,” Alma answered, but she let him kiss her anyway, and pulled away before he could smudge her lipstick too badly. There was enough of a promise there that he held her wrap without complaint, and they rode the elevator down to the lobby under the attendant’s incurious eye.
Mitch had gotten directions from the bell captain, and led them down Hollywood Boulevard as though he belonged there. He was careful to keep at a pace Jerry could manage comfortably, though, and Lewis hung back a little himself, enjoying the feeling of Alma’s hand on his arm. There were palm trees everywhere, tall and exotic, and he craned his head as they passed, wondering if there were coconuts in them. Surely that would be too dangerous, but he couldn’t see for sure.
Ahead of them, Mitch paused, pointing to something across the street. “Or we could just take in a movie.”
On the far side of the boulevard, a line of palm trees in stone planters led back toward a square-pillared concrete-colored building. There were painted columns on the left, and paintings like in an Egyptian tomb lined the long walls. The sign above the entrance read, in enormous fake-historical letters, Grauman’s Egyptian. Alma reached across and whacked him with her purse. From the way he hunched his shoulder, she hadn’t pulled her punch, and Lewis couldn’t really blame her.
“I think we’ve had enough Egyptian theater on this trip,” Jerry said.
The dinner club was like something out of a movie, with a huge doorman in a brass-buttoned uniform who examined the card Mitch handed him with great care before touching his peaked cap and allowing an underling to open the door. There was a hat check girl in a short-skirted uniform that showed the tops of her rolled stockings, and an orchestra in white dinner jackets playing respectable jazz. A discreet tip got them a pleasant table toward the side of the dance floor, and Lewis was glad to see Alma relax a little. A waiter in a red jacket took Jerry’s drink order, and returned with glasses and a coffee pot, from which he proceeded to pour a round of gin sours. Lewis tasted his cautiously, decided that the gin had come from a clean bathtub, at least, and Jerry lifted his glass.
“A semi-successful trip, anyway.”
“Which is about all you can hope for with Henry,” Alma said, and they touched glasses.
The food was good, too, and they ordered a second round of drinks, and then a third. Lewis thought about asking Alma to dance, but after the conversation he’d overheard, he didn’t think it would be a good idea to rub it in. Jerry was in a surprisingly good mood, though some of that might be the gin, and Lewis didn’t really want to spoil that. So of course Mitch asked her to dance instead, and he watched with mild envy while Jerry told him a long and apparently pointless story about a dig he’d worked on once in Egypt.
Then as Mitch and Alma passed them for the third time, her eyes met his, and she lifted a hand, beckoning. He wasn’t about to turn that down, but he waited until Jerry hit a stopping place before he rose to cut in, and he and Alma turned gravely at the edge of the dance floor, neither one of them a very good dancer, but both enjoying the chance to hold each othe
r in public. The music stopped, the band leader announcing a break, and Alma brought him back to the table, fanning herself as she sat down.
“I suppose we should start back.”
Jerry fished his watch out of his pocket. He’d had a fourth drink while they were dancing, something dark and dangerous looking, but he still seemed good-humored enough. “It is getting late. And I promised Henry I’d give him back the tablet tomorrow morning.”
Lewis sighed softly — he’d managed to forget about magic and curse tablets and mysterious obligations — but Mitch nodded, and signaled for the check. Lewis winced at the prices, but put in his share without complaint. It was worth it to have danced with Alma in a Hollywood nightclub. They paused at the door, collecting hats and Alma’s wrap, and the doorman looked them over.
“Call you a cab, boss?”
Mitch made the mistake of looking at Jerry, who shook his head.
“We’re fine, thanks,” he said, and strode briskly out the door, his cane tapping on the pavement. Lewis looked at Alma, who rolled her eyes, but followed.
The street was much quieter than he’d expected, the traffic noise from Hollywood Boulevard distant and muted. It seemed darker, too, as though the streetlights were further apart.
And that was foolish, he told himself, and smiled as Alma took his arm. She tucked her other arm through Jerry’s, her heels loud on the pavement, and Mitch glanced over his shoulder, grinning. Then there was a movement ahead of them, shadows detaching themselves from a doorway, and Jerry released Alma’s arm, freeing himself to use his cane.
“Hey, now,” Mitch said. There were three of them, three big guys in work clothes, one with a sports coat that showed almost forest green in the streetlight, the others in shirtsleeves. “We don’t want any problems.”
Lewis stepped in front of Alma. The guy in the coat moved like a knife fighter, moved like trouble.
“You got ’em anyway,” one of the others said, to Mitch, and the third man stepped wide to flank them. A razor glinted in his left hand.
“You don’t want to do this,” Mitch said. “You’re making a mistake —”
The guy in the coat made a sudden rush, heading for Jerry. Lewis hesitated, trying to keep an eye on the guy with the razor, keep himself between him and Alma. Jerry turned slightly, pivoting on his good leg, and reached under the back of his jacket. He came up with a pistol, small, maybe a .22, polished steel, and fired once. The man in the green coat staggered back, blood blossoming on his pale shirt, and Jerry turned again, bracing himself with his cane.
“Get down, Mitch —”
Mitch ducked, but the other two were already running, feet loud in the quiet street, and Jerry pointed his pistol at the sky instead.
“Oh, my God,” Alma said. She caught Lewis’s hand in hers, her grip punishingly tight.
Mitch knelt by the man in the green coat, checking his pulse, and looked up with a shake of his head. “He’s gone.”
“Yes,” Jerry said, but Lewis could see him shaking.
“All right,” Mitch said, and pushed himself to his feet. “Three against one, but, Ok —”
“You and Lewis take Alma back to the hotel,” Jerry said. He tapped his wooden leg with the cane. “Who’s going to arrest a wounded veteran who’s been set upon by thugs?”
“Especially if he’s protecting his girlfriend,” Alma said. She unlaced her fingers from Lewis’s and nodded to him. “Jerry’s right. The two of you go on. We’ll take care of this.”
Lewis looked at Mitch, saw the same reluctance in his eyes, but they both knew she was right. There’d be a lot more questions asked if they were all there, and they would be questions he didn’t know how to answer. There wasn’t time to hesitate, someone would have heard the shot — maybe that was even a siren he was hearing now — and Mitch nodded slowly. “All right. We’ll come after you if we don’t hear.”
“Go,” Alma said, and they turned away.
Chapter Eight
The sirens were definitely getting closer. Jerry took a deep breath, and wrapped his arm around Alma’s waist, pulling her against his side. She leaned in stiffly, still shocked, and the first beat cop came charging around the corner, revolver drawn. Jerry lifted his cane, showed his right hand empty as well.
“Thank God! Officer —” His voice cracked: embarrassing, but probably useful. He cleared his throat. “This guy — we were attacked —”
“Hold it right there, buddy,” the cop said, but he lowered his weapon. Behind him, a car turned into the street, siren grinding to a halt. Its revolving light cast flashes of blue down the length of the street, flickering off the bricks and narrow sidewalk. More cops appeared, and a second car, disgorging a pair of men in cheap civilian suits.
“Thank God,” Jerry said again. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“Ok, pal.” That was one of the civilians, tall and lean and graying. Jerry could see his eyes moving, taking in the body and the cane and the wooden leg, drawing a picture already. “What’s your name?”
“Jeremiah Ballard. This is Alma Gilchrist.”
She nodded, wide-eyed, had the sense to say nothing.
One of the uniformed men had a notebook out, was scribbling in it, while another one knelt beside the body, feeling for a pulse.
“This one’s a goner, Lieutenant,” he said, and began searching the pockets.
“Ok, Mr. Ballard —”
“Doctor,” Jerry said, gave a little shrug and a wincing smile. Better to fix it now and look pompous than have to correct him later. “It’s Doctor, actually.”
“Dr. Ballard,” the lieutenant said, with a lifted eyebrow. “So what happened here?”
“We were out for the evening,” Jerry said, “Al — Mrs. Gilchrist and I. We thought we’d walk back to the hotel, get a little air, and — this guy jumped out of the doorway. He had a knife —” Yes, the uniformed man had found it, was chalking the pavement to mark where it had fallen before another man took it away. Jerry tapped his wooden leg with the tip of his cane. “I’m not much good in a fight, not since the War. But I couldn’t let him hurt Alma.”
“Did he say anything?” the lieutenant asked. Behind him, the cop was scribbling in his notebook, while the second civilian had gone to stare down at the body, his face expressionless.
“He wanted money,” Jerry said. He looked at Alma, saw her nod. “I saw the knife, and he was coming at us.”
“Get his gun,” the lieutenant said, and the uniformed man put away his notebook. Jerry let him pat him down, felt him pull the little automatic from the holster at the small of his back.
“That’s it, lieutenant,” the cop said, and handed it over. The lieutenant looked at it for a minute, handed it back to the cop.
“You got a permit for that, Dr. Ballard?”
“Yes.”
“How about an address?”
“I’m from out of town,” Jerry said. “Colorado Springs. I’m staying at the Roosevelt Hotel.”
“You ever seen this guy before?”
Jerry shook his head.
“He have any reason to think you two would have money?” the lieutenant asked.
‘I have no idea,” Jerry said.
“Hey, Mike.” That was the other civilian, still staring at the body. “Guess who we got here? Sammy Lukeman.”
“No kidding,” the lieutenant said. “Ok, Dr. Ballard, you and Mrs. Gilchrist here are going to have to come down to the station with me. I’ve still got a few questions you can answer.”
Jerry heard Alma take a breath, and he nodded as calmly as he could. “Of course.”
The police station smelled of stale smoke and disinfectant, and the coffee they were offered tasted as though the pot had never been cleaned. Jerry sipped at it anyway, wishing for more sugar, but Alma tasted hers once and put it aside. He glanced sideways at her, wondering if he should offer his hand, but her expression was closed, and he looked away again.
They’d been through the questions again on the ri
de to the station, and once more separately, before the lieutenant — Morton — had brought them back to the interview room and left them there. “I’m sorry, Al,” he said quietly, and she gave him a half smile. There were shadows under her eyes like bruises.
“Not quite the night we had in mind,” she said.
“Maybe we should have just gone to the movies,” Jerry began, and the door opened. Morton waved his stenographer to a chair, and sat down opposite them again.
“Well, so far your stories check out, except for one little thing.” He looked at Alma. “I can’t find you registered at the Roosevelt.”
“Oh, my God,” Alma said, and Jerry caught his breath. He’d forgotten, they’d both forgotten, that she’d registered as Lewis’s wife. He opened his mouth, trying to think of something that wouldn’t make her look like a whore.
“She’s,” he began, groping for something, anything, and Morton pinned him with a look.
“I’d like to hear this from Mrs. Gilchrist, please.”
The color rose in Alma’s face, but her voice was mostly steady. “I’m registered as Mrs. Lewis Segura.”
Morton lifted an eyebrow, though it couldn’t have been a huge surprise. The stenographer smirked over his notebook. “So is it Gilchrist or Segura?”
“It’s Gilchrist,” Alma said.
“I don’t see that this is really relevant,” Jerry said. He tried to make his tone pleading rather than aggressive. “I’d really like not to cause anyone any more trouble.”
Morton ignored him. “So you’re not married to this Segura, either?”
“No,” Alma said. Her cheeks were flaming. “I’m not.”
“You get around, honey.”
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 10
