Lady Crymsy

by P. N. Elrod

  “I never thought that,” I said truthfully. “But I’m glad you mentioned it. I’ll make sure the cops pay for the overtime.”

  “Really? You think they will?”

  “Yeah, I can try, anyway.” And succeed, if I chose to.

  “Believe me, none of us wanted to be back there any longer than we had to with that thing.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “It’s creepy enough here without more—” He shut himself up.

  “More what?”

  “Of that… thing.” He gestured helplessly to where the cops were still gathered.

  “What’s so creepy about this joint, Leon? Something else got you worried?”

  “Nothing, boss. It’s been a hell of a night, and I need to get home to my wife before she sends out a search party. Those guys said we wasn’t to go poking around over there tomorrow, so you got something else you want us to do instead?”

  I told him he could start the men on finishing the near half of the basement once they got the okay from Blair’s people. Tools and bags of cement and wall plaster were piled up under the new stairs all ready to go.

  “There’s also some kind of stain on the floor tiles behind the lobby bar,” I added. “See if you can get that cleaned up, too.”

  He promised to handle it all, then with his new observations about the mortar, reluctantly approached Blair. I wondered if I should offer Leon a permanent position doing building maintenance. He seemed to know how to do just about every kind of job I could name. The fact that he was concerned about my misinterpreting things on the overtime gave me to think he had a solid share of personal integrity, that, or he didn’t want to risk being fired. Either way, it meant he was honest. I thought he worried too much about small stuff, but it did make him good at the work. There wasn’t one wall in the whole building where the painters had missed a spot.

  Leon eventually left by way of the back entry ramp, and I followed him up, lighting a cigarette. I couldn’t really smoke; my body wouldn’t allow me to inhale the stuff any farther than my mouth, but it gave me something to do with my hands, as well as an excuse to loiter in the alley, keeping an eye on the cops.

  After six superficial puffs it abruptly dawned on me that this was my place, and I could loiter wherever the hell I wanted.

  Damn it all, but I should be used to the idea by now. I finally had something of my own, something that would matter to people. It was also okay to have pride in what I was accomplishing. Maybe it wasn’t the Panama Canal in terms of general importance to the world, but to me specifically this club was the biggest thing I’d ever done for myself.

  Not needing it anymore, I dropped the cigarette in a puddle and took a slow stroll around my place, and if there was a bit of a swagger in my walk, I didn’t think anyone could blame me for it.

  The feeling lasted until I rounded the front corner, saw the cars still parked all over the street along with the meat wagon, and remembered why they were there.

  As Blair had said, That poor girl.

  Maybe Leon had felt her hovering presence, and that’s why the joint gave him the creeps tonight. I could imagine her for myself as well, but firmly shrugged it off. I had to believe in vampires since I was one, but my internal jury was still out when it came to ghosts.

  “So that’s where you’ve gotten to,” called Escott, coming up behind me.

  “I could say the same. Where’ve you been?”

  “Observing without being observed.” It was one of his specialties. He swatted at his clothes, having picked up a layer of sawdust. There were patches of it on his knees and elbows.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I found a most excellent place to eavesdrop, though it was a trifle dirty.”

  “Where?”

  “Under the booth seating.”

  If I asked another question, I’d only sound like a parrot. Instead I put on a face of noncomprehension. He was more than happy to explain.

  “It occurred to me that there was a quantity of dead space beneath all those raised tiers. I asked Mr. Kell if there was a way under them, and he obligingly told me about a utility door behind one of the bars.”

  “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  “He probably thought you already knew.”

  I usually arrived at the club well after the workers were gone for the day. Leon could hardly hang around every night to give me a guided tour of what they’d done, but I still felt like an idiot. “I didn’t know anything like that was there.”

  “Well, if it was not, then this night I would have suggested the construction of some sort of access. The workmen have used it for tool storage, but nothing more. Perhaps you should put a lock on the door to prevent misuse of the space. Mr. Kell informed me that it would be a ‘dandy place to take a girl,’ which is probably not the sort of activity you would wish to encourage during your hours of business.”

  “Yeah, I can see it might be like going under the boardwalk on Coney Island.”

  “Something else you might also consider is employing a portion of it as an emergency bolt-hole for yourself. It would be very simple to block off a sizable section and put in whatever you might require for your daylight comfort.”

  He meant another cot with my home earth like the one at home. It was a great idea, but after what happened in the club’s basement, not something I wanted to think about for the time being. I said I’d look into it later and changed the subject. “So you did some eavesdropping?”

  “Not in the literal sense, and not easily. The supporting framework for the tiers prevented me from getting near anyone in the lower areas, but the middle and upper seats were fairly clear. However, the materials used for construction prevented me from hearing all that much. The padded upholstery over the wood is most efficient at absorbing sound. It was more of an experiment than anything else. I doubt if one could hear much of anything once the place is open to the public, but in this case conditions were fairly—”

  “Learn anything?” I had to interrupt him. His discovery had put him in one of those cheerful moods where he could enthuse for hours.

  “A bit about the history of the club. Some of the members of your previous profession were only too pleased recalling the lurid past to notice my thumping around under their feet. They were exchanging tales of what they knew about the death of the owner in ‘32 and the rather explosive manner of his dispatch. There is rampant speculation that the unfortunate woman in the basement might have been one of his victims, but until she is identified they can form no solid conclusions. Their reasoning about there being a connection probably has merit, but they are most unwise to theorize without facts.”

  “Or do it in the hearing of anyone who’d steal the idea.”

  “This fanciful improvisation on the part of some of them is worrisome to me. You once said that reporters rarely have the time to commit such intentional distortions.”

  “Most of ‘em don’t, but the yellow press boys thrive on the stuff. It comes with the job. If a guy speculates and the public complains, he blames his editor, who blames the publisher, who blames the demands of the public.”

  “Very tidy.”

  “We used to think so. You learn anything else?”

  “Nothing I did not already know and a great deal I did not wish to know about competing baseball teams.”

  “Anyone try to corner you for an interview before you went to ground under all that?”

  “Yes, and not to worry, I was frustratingly reticent.”

  “Don’t underestimate them, Charles. When they have to fill space for a deadline they can get a story out of a blind turnip.”

  “And since there is no such thing—”

  “Yeah, think about it.”

  “Point taken. I believe the worst of it is over, though.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. The worst will be the headlines tomorrow.”

  “I doubt if this will garner much interest. How does a years-old murder compare with the Duke of Windsor ge
tting married?”

  “Trust me, a walled-up body in Chicago is going to make more copy in the American press than a former king tying the knot in Europe.”

  “The sad fact of the matter being that you are likely correct in your assessment concerning the public’s preference. You harbor a most valuable talent.”

  “Thanks.”

  “In light of that sort of fine judgment I hope you’ll not give up on your writing career. I understand that knowing what the public wants is half the battle.”

  It was damned decent of him to refer to my irregular attempts at scribbling as a “career.” “Nah. I’m just putting it aside until I get the club launched.”

  “That, my friend, might require some additional effort after this.” He nodded at the mess out front. The meat wagon pulled away from the curb and turned down the alley. We pressed into a side doorway until it passed, then followed to watch. The driver made use of the basement loading ramp that opened on the street behind the club. In this case it was more of an unloading ramp. A couple of guys went inside with a bundle and soon reappeared carrying a long, flexible wicker basket, which they put into the wagon. It seemed fairly light in weight. The photographers took more pictures, then stood back to let the truck pass through.

  Once the remains were gone the reporters also thinned out, and eventually even the cops went away. I locked things up for what was left of the night. When the law came back tomorrow Leon could let them in again.

  I told Escott where I planned to go next and asked if he wanted to come along, but he tiredly declined. He’d had a full day at his office already and didn’t need more excitement. Sometimes I forgot that his day was winding down just when mine was beginning.

  On the way home I repeated to him all that I’d learned from both Leon and Blair and the little mental whammy I’d done on the latter. “If you’re interested in keeping up on this case, you’ll find he’ll be strangely cooperative for the next few weeks.”

  “What excellent forethought, thank you.” He looked like I’d just handed him the winning ticket for the Irish sweepstakes.

  “Okay, what gives? You’re a little too happy.”

  “This particular problem is not my only concern. There are other matters I have in hand that might progress more smoothly for having the help of a senior officer in the local force.”

  “I thought you already had friends there.”

  “I do, but not all of them will have the same sort of authority your Lieutenant Blair possesses. I shall strive to make use of his cooperation while the beneficent effect of your influence lasts.”

  “Be my guest.”

  After dropping him at the house, I continued on to the Nightcrawler Club.

  Gordy and I had some serious talking to do.

  3

  I used one of the side entries to the Nightcrawler to avoid the crowds out front. This wasn’t a black tie evening, but I was still unshaved. Besides, if Blair had any stoolies working the joint, I wanted to avoid them as well. He knew entirely too much about me for my own good.

  The door was locked from the outside, but I didn’t let that slow me and sieved in through the thin cracks around its edge, then found the back stairs off the casino room. There was a touch of trudging in my walk. I wasn’t nearly to the point of being physically tired yet, but my mind had been hopping nonstop for hours, and that could wear me out the same as anyone.

  Gordy’s men must have been busy elsewhere; I didn’t spot his bruisers until I pushed open the office door. The mug who was there to answer the phone and otherwise keep an eye on things knew me by sight and understood I had a special pass to the inner sanctum whenever I wanted. I got an expressionless up and down, but without a word he left his game of solitaire to find his boss. I looked the cards over and decided he might win that round. After a minute he came back and told me to follow the man who stood waiting in the hall. This one was dressed like a waiter and had at least a .32 stuffed under one arm. I was used to seeing most of the Nightcrawler’s male employees carrying heat. What would surprise me would be finding one who wasn’t.

  Usually Gordy would make time to see me whenever I dropped in, and we’d sprawl comfortably on his expensive furniture in the office and talk about all kinds of stuff. I’d saved his life once or twice, and that meant something to him. We also had pretty much the same hours. Escott was a hell of a good friend, but couldn’t stay up all night just to keep me company, so Gordy filled in that particular gap. It was pretty educational, too. I learned more about who was who in mob politics than should be healthy, but Gordy knew it wouldn’t be repeated by me to others. Well… maybe to Escott.

  This being escorted to another room was different from his regular pattern, so my curiosity perked up. Things got more interesting when I was led down more stairs to the club’s basement. I could have done without the feeling this turn inspired. Gordy didn’t keep bodies here—that I knew of—but the dim lighting and the scent of dank, uncirculated air annoyed me with its reminder of what I’d just left. I shoved the bout of déjà vu away.

  We walked past a trapdoor in the floor. That was a relief. It led to a brick-lined tunnel running under the street all the way to another building. I’d had my fill of sinister underground chambers for the next few decades. We stopped. Amid stacks of boxes containing everything from seltzer water to tinsel party favors I took in an interesting little tableau.

  Only one forty-watt bulb lighted things in this wood-and-cardboard grotto. The shadows were harsh and sucked color from everything. Gordy, who was large enough and solid enough to give Mount Rushmore some competition, sat on a crate looking at another man I vaguely knew from my time in the bookie joints. The guy’s name was Royce Muldan, a handsome specimen possessing a fine appreciation for his own looks. It was said he risked his life every time he passed a mirror because of the way he twisted around to take in all the gorgeous details. One of these days he’d do it too fast and break his neck. He was dressed with an East Coast polish more suited to Boston than New York, which in Chicago made him stand out like a traffic light in a wheat field. Some people claimed to be blinded by the shine on his shoes.

  He wore a patient, somewhat amused expression as I came into view. I nodded once at Gordy and kept my mouth shut until I figured out what was going on.

  Gordy nearly always avoided involving me directly with mob business. He knew I preferred to remain on the outside. He rarely talked about the seamier things he had to do to stay on top, though if I asked a question he’d give a straight answer. If there was anything really dirty going on here he’d have kept me waiting in the office until he was finished. All I could pick up for the moment was that this was something he wanted me to see.

  Muldan took me in with a glance, then went back to Gordy, having apparently dismissed me as a threat. Maybe he’d have been more impressed if I’d shaved.

  Gordy didn’t bother with introductions, just made a nod to me in return before putting his attention on Muldan. “It would be better for you to lay off,” he said in a slow, measured tone. He sounded patient, but firm. “For you and everyone else.”

  Muldan shrugged. “Not my decision. The girl likes me, and I’m not going to argue with her good taste.”

  “You should take a vacation. Havana is very nice this time of year.”

  “Too hot.”

  “Cooler than here. Her father—”

  “Doesn’t matter. She wants to see me, so I’ll see her right back.”

  “That would be a very bad thing. For you.”

  “Or what? Her father has me scragged? That can’t happen, and you and he both know it. I’m too important.”

  “Royce, you are making difficulties. Make too many of them and anything can happen. Even to important guys. And you know it.”

  “By the time things get to that point she’ll be tired of me and looking at someone else. It’s not my fault her father can’t control her. Look, I’m just going along for the ride. Tell her old man to step back, let her sow her o
ats, and he won’t have any more trouble with her.”

  Gordy heaved a great, gentle sigh. The sigh of a man about to do an unpleasant, but necessary task. “I’m sorry you won’t listen.”

  Maybe I’d never been on stage like Escott, but I recognized a cue line when I heard one. “Want me to do something with him?”

  Muldan gave me a contempt-tinged “what’s it to you” look, on guard, ready to meet my challenge.

  Gordy said, “Only if you don’t mind. I’m thinking this guy needs to take a nap.”

  I smiled, briefly. “Then have your guys take a break.”

  He signed to the other mugs hanging around in the background, and they silently moved off. He knew I never cared to have witnesses for certain kinds of work.

  Muldan was aware something was up, but his mind would be running along ordinary lines, anticipating ordinary threats. He stood up a little straighter and loosened the buttons on his coat. It was finely tailored, but not to the point where it could completely conceal his shoulder holster. “Just what do you think you’re doing, Gordy? Have you forgotten who I am?”

  “Nope, but you are not being smart about this. You are making a problem. Though sometimes when you sleep on a problem it clears itself up.”

  “I’m not the one with the prob—” Muldan began.

  But I was already moving in on him.

  The lighting was bad, but adequate. I put all my attention on Royce Muldan, catching him with my gaze before he had a chance to draw his gun. A few seconds later he was standing very still, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes shut fast.

  What a fate for Mrs. Fleming’s youngest—becoming part-time mob muscle. If she ever found out, she’d thump my head with her big mixing spoon, and if she still used the one I remembered, which was made of wood, it would cause me damage.

  “Sure a good thing to be able to do stuff like that,” said Gordy as he peered at the quiescent and now quite oblivious Muldan. There was a note in his normally deadpan tone that was very close to admiration.