Lady Crymsy

by P. N. Elrod

  “Yeah. What’s the beef with this one?”

  “Son of a New York big shot. Thinks he’s immune to trouble. Seeing the wrong girl. Thing is, Muldan’s right about her. If her pop left her alone, she’d grow out of it, but he don’t look at it that way. He’s ready to take his shotgun to this chump, which would mean he’d get himself killed, too. This town don’t need another war.”

  “Huh.”

  “So I told the pop I’d talk to Muldan. It wasn’t going so good until you showed up. This bird don’t intimidate easy.”

  Considering the sinister surroundings, that said a lot for Muldan’s courage—or stupidity. Hell, I wasn’t the one brought down here to be talked to, and I still had to fight off getting the creeps. “What do you want to do with him?”

  “Tell him he’s changed his mind about the girl. He don’t want to see her again, and that he should tell her so.”

  “How about he says he’s not good enough for her, and she can do better?”

  “You’d be doing them both a favor.”

  So I got Muldan in the right frame of mind to listen, planted the suggestions, and told him to go. He went, followed at a distance by a few of the bruisers who’d hung around by the stairs. They’d make sure he’d leave all the way. He’d wake out of his trance sometime during the cab ride to his hotel. He wouldn’t remember me at all.

  Gordy stood, his looming shadow blotting out a large hunk of the basement. “I owe you again, Fleming.”

  “No problem; I prefer reason over gunplay.”

  “You should get into the business, you’d make a fortune.”

  “I got enough of one to suit me for now.”

  “If you’re ever short, then you come hit the tables here. Anytime.” The odds favored the house at the casino games here, but for a select few, the house could be made to lose on demand. I had an edge or two of my own as well, when I was in the mood for it.

  “Thanks.”

  “ ‘Course, if you put some tables in at your place, you’d be set for life.”

  “And have to pay for it.”

  “It don’t have to be roulette or the slots. A fancy joint like what you want could get by fine taking a percentage from high-stakes poker.”

  There was an interesting thought. But I shook my head. “I’d still have to split too much of the profits with certain kinds of cops to keep them off my back—and it would give them something to hold over me.”

  “They don’t have to know. You could make your whole investment back in one month.”

  I laughed once. “You tell me a way to keep a secret in this town, and I might consider it.”

  He took the point. “But you got ways around that. Like what you did just now with Muldan.”

  “I’m going into this club for fun as well as money. If I get myself gummed up with making payoffs, it stops being fun and there’s not as much money. As long as I keep my nose clean, the cops got no easy way to hurt me. Anything else makes things too complicated, and I’ve got enough complications to keep me busy.” Like finding a dead woman in the basement wall.

  He shrugged, which was a minimal lift of his massive shoulders, then turned, and I followed him up to his lush office. The man who had been there earlier was still there, but gathered up his cards and left when we came in. Gordy made a drink for himself; as far as I could tell it was just tonic water and a shot of lime juice. He didn’t ask if I wanted anything, knowing better.

  “You getting a cold?” I asked, with a nod at his quinine-laced glass.

  “I like the taste.”

  It kept him sober, too. Yet another way of staying ahead of rivals.

  “So… What’s the story with the body?” he asked.

  “It’s more of a skeleton by now.” I dropped into an oversize chair, stretched my legs, and gave him the short version of the whole sad business at Lady Crymsyn, putting in the part about Blair. “He guessed that I’d called you on it. Is there any link between the body and you that I should know about?”

  He shook his head, taking a seat on his vast couch. I could trust him to be telling the truth. He always did with me. “It’s probably to do with Welsh Lennet before he got bumped. Walling up broads don’t sound like his style, but he had some real bastards working for him that might have done it. Most of them are dead, too, though. The guy who tossed those grenades did the whole town a favor.”

  “Are any of Lennet’s people still around?”

  “Shivvey Coker. He was just muscle then, now he’s working for Booth Nevis.” Gordy let that news sink in. I didn’t like it. Nevis was the man who owned Crymsyn’s lease.

  “What’s Coker do for him?”

  “Runs errands.”

  “That’s pretty vague.”

  “Has to be, he covers a lot of different areas. If Booth wants something done, Shivvey’s the guy he sends out to make sure it gets done.”

  “Maybe Shivvey can tell me something about the dead woman.”

  “Worth a try.”

  “No idea on who she could be?” I gave him the description Blair gave me.

  Gordy thought it through for some moments. He had a memory like a file cabinet. “Nothing comes to mind, but I wasn’t in Lennet’s crowd back then, so I couldn’t say who might have been with him or any of his boys. This burg’s full of women. Most guys don’t bother to keep track of ‘em. There’s always another girl coming in while one’s going out. I can ask around, but you’d have better luck. And you’d be able to get a straight answer. Try asking Shivvey.”

  “I plan to. Anyone find out who did the boom on Lennet? The reporters said it was Nevis.”

  “Some thought it might be him because he hated Lennet and then ended up owning the place, but he never did anything with it, so that didn’t make sense when it came to a motive. It was a good-paying speak, too. A shame to let it go to waste.”

  “Unless he knew about the body in the wall and didn’t want to go stirring things up.”

  Gordy shook his head. “Something like that wouldn’t bother him. He’d either leave it as is or get someone to dig it out and sink it in the lake. He knew you’d be redoing the joint and might find it. Makes more sense that he didn’t know anything. This is probably one of Lennet’s leftovers.”

  “Why did Nevis hate Lennet?”

  “Ever see one junkyard mutt go up against another junkyard mutt? Those two didn’t need a reason; that’s just how things were.”

  “Then Shivvey went to work for Lennet’s enemy,” I stated.

  “Welsh Lennet and Booth Nevis didn’t get along, but Shivvey’s a for-sale kind of mug. After Lennet’s funeral he got on Nevis’s payroll. He must have figured it to be safer than trying to take his dead boss’s place.”

  “Ever think he had anything to do with arranging the boom?”

  A shrug. “He could have. Lots of guys could. The cops never got close to nailing anyone for it and were probably told not to try.”

  “Who would have told ‘em?”

  “Back then, Big Al himself. Lennet’s speak was the last in a lot of straws. The camel’s back broke. After the dust settled, everyone had to get into line and stay that way or else. Al’s a mean one with a baseball bat.”

  I’d heard stories to back up that opinion. “Not much good to him now.” Capone was presently doing his time in Atlanta for unpaid taxes.

  “Don’t kid yourself. Nitti still listens to him. Wanna meet Frank? He’s here tonight with some of the boys.”

  “No thanks. I’ve had enough excitement for one evening.” I leaned my head back and stared at the ceiling, not fighting the frown that took over my face. “I don’t look forward to the papers tomorrow. The morning edition’s already out and won’t have anything on this mess, but the afternoon’s…”

  “If you play it right, you can turn them in your favor.”

  “How so?”

  “First, you say you knew nothing about the body, be surprised as the next guy about finding it. That’s all true, anyway. Second, you say so
mething about crime and criminals being bad. Everyone likes to hear stuff like that. And third, you give the dead dame a good funeral.”

  I sat up straight, alarmed at this turn. “I couldn’t do that!”

  “You can afford it.”

  “It’s not the money—I’d be exploiting her death for cheap publicity, and everyone would know it.”

  “Then do it on the sly. Don’t tell anyone. Sooner or later some newshawk’ll find out who’s footin’ the bill. By not talking about it you come out a hero instead. Everyone loves a secret Good Samaritan.”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “Hey, someone’s got to bury her. If nobody comes forward to claim her as their long-lost relative, then how good you gonna look if you let her go to potter’s field? The papers would really love that one.”

  I’d been stuck fast in cleft sticks before and hated the squeeze. “All right,” I grumbled. “But nobody’s going to know about it. I mean that.”

  “If you want, I can fix things on the quiet, and you can pay in cash. Make it harder to trace.”

  “That’d be fine.”

  “You work this right you could take the funeral off your taxes as a business expense.”

  If I thought I could have gotten away with it, I’d have slugged him, then I saw the crinkle in the corners of his eyes. He’d been joking with that last idea. At least I hoped it was a joke. “Wiseass.”

  “You’ll have to play ball with the sob sisters, though. Get them on your side.”

  I made grumbling noises.

  “You can do it. You won’t have to give ‘em the eye for it either. Just flirt a little and say you like their hats. Works for me.”

  Gordy flirting with the sentimental, yet iron-hearted sob sisters of the yellow press. I had difficulty trying to picture that.

  He went on. “Tell them what a bad thing this is and how you’re helping the cops any way you can. Say you hope it won’t spoil the wholesome image for your club.”

  “Wholesome? With all the liquor I’ll be selling?”

  “If they like you, they’ll write you up as a hero.”

  “If they like me.”

  He spread his hands. “Look, you’re gonna have a shit-load of headlines off this no matter what. Would you rather let them choose the angle or fix one for yourself? You were in that game, you know the rules. Make ‘em work for you.”

  “I guess I could type up a statement. If I don’t say something, they’ll put words in my mouth.”

  Gordy nodded approval. “And the faster you say it for yourself, the faster they’ll go away. When do you pick up Bobbi?”

  “Around three.”

  “Then you got plenty of time to write it. There’s a typewriter and paper in the desk.”

  “What are you in such a hurry for?”

  “To make sure you do it. And there’s a couple of the crime beat boys from the Trib downstairs. They’re here watching Nitti having a good time. I can give ‘em whatever you want.”

  “You do have this town sewn up.”

  He finished his tonic and lime and put the glass on a table. “Just a pocket or two.”

  “Do they know about this story yet? If they take it away from the other reporters—”

  “Not to worry. They’ll pass it on if I ask ‘em nice.”

  Pocket or two, my ass. He had the whole damn city in a suit if he had the crime beat boys doing what he asked. Or maybe he was playing them the way he just told me to do. That would explain why some of the stories about cops raiding the Nightcrawler were short, bland, and never mentioned Gordy by name. He had only to invite a select few—or their editors—into the casino and give them a profitable run around the tables for an hour or three. If they won some money, then it was from their own good luck. They were free of the corruption of a bribe and yet full of kindly feelings toward their host, who would probably welcome them back for more, so they had a solid reason to keep the club up and running.

  I went to the desk and found the promised typewriter. “You got carbon paper?”

  Gordy needed to look in on his business, said good night, and left. I scribbled out a draft of what I wanted to say, then typed it out twice with carbons to make six copies. My old reporting style came back to me like riding a bicycle, so I made short work of the job. Too bad I couldn’t yet do fiction as easily. I took a copy with me and left the rest for Gordy to deal with, noting on each page the name of the paper it should go to; the Trib was on top. Great, I’d finally get printed in one of the best Papers in the country, but as the topic of a story, not as one of its journalists.

  I had some time left before going to pick up Bobbi, so I used it to run home. A freshly shaved face and clean set of clothes helped my disposition, but there was one other task I needed to see to, one that I normally left until the end of an evening because of the potential mess. It had been dry the last few days, though, so the damage to my shoes might be lessened if I was careful about where I stepped. I drove south until the summer air got thick with farm-smell.

  Parking my Buick in the shadow between two streetlights I checked out the territory before going in, something that was so much a habit for me that I hardly thought about it anymore. Tonight I was still a bit on edge, so I sat and looked things over first. Some especially zealous reporter might have managed to follow me all evening without getting spotted. That in itself was unlikely, but I’ve never regretted being too careful when it came to concealing my condition from the public.

  If you read up on the subject like I’ve done, you find that people in general nearly always have a bad reaction when they discover there’s a vampire lurking around their usually sane and otherwise normal world. They’ll tolerate mass murder going on in Spain, believe it when Hitler says he only wants peace, and even welcome marathon dancing, but let them know there’s a guy on their street drinking animal blood, and they have a conniption. They don’t even need to believe in the existence of vampires, it’s the blood-drinking that brings on the fit.

  Not that I blame them. It took me some time to get used to the idea myself. And I like the stuff.

  Now.

  Of course, getting to a supply of it could be a little tricky. Not every bovine I approached in the countless corrals of the Union Stockyards was willing to share. Some were stirred up by the stink of the place, no doubt sensing their pending demise. By now I’d become an expert at picking out a quiet animal who’d let me get close enough to feed. Then I would use a soothing word and a steady look to calm it even more. It was a variation of the forced hypnosis I’d done on Muldan—just as effective, but more rewarding.

  Satisfied the area was clear of inconvenient witnesses, I quit the car. My corner teeth were already budding in anticipation as I strode across the street, and slipped through—and I really mean through—the fence. The noise and smell seemed worse on this side, though that was just my imagination. One thin barrier of wood wouldn’t have made all that much difference in controlling the flow of the fetid air. Bad as it was, the reek did not discourage my awakened hunger. The scent of blood, old and new, hung heavy all around me, teasing at my fully wakened hunger.

  The Yards covered a vast amount of real estate and never really closed. Depression or no, America had to eat, and this is where most of her beef and bacon came from. Trains constantly arrived full and left full; the cattle and swine cars changed out for refrigerated cars of frozen carcasses headed all over the States. There was a similar yard in my hometown of Cincinnati, chiefly concerned with pork, but nothing like this.

  The constant activity often worked in my favor since there were plenty of anonymous men walking about. I was frequently not dressed like the regular workers, but few of them ever bothered to stop a man in a suit, particularly when he acted as though he knew what he was doing. This night I passed unnoticed into the pens as usual and found a likely donor from the dozen or so cattle there. They were new arrivals. It wasn’t too muddy for my shoes.

  Feeding didn’t take all that much time. Mos
t nights it took longer to actually get into the Yards than anything else. A few moments was all I needed to cut through the tough hide with my teeth to reach a surface vein on a leg and draw off my fill. I could drink up to a quart or more of the stuff and usually did. It was enough to keep me going for up to three nights, four in a pinch, but I came in every second night whenever possible. Going without for longer than three in a row is bad. The hunger tears at me from the inside out, and I can’t think straight. My reflexes slow and an all-over weakness makes every movement an effort. When that happens it’s dangerous for me and could also be so for anyone around me. Not that I’ve ever lurched out of a dark alley to attack some poor innocent bastard for his blood, but there’s a first time for everything when desperation’s in charge. I’d taken blood from unwilling human donors, but it’s not something I’m proud of; nor was it safe. On one occasion the tainted stuff I drank damn near killed me. Again. For keeps.

  The pure heat I drew in now was good. It was always good. The change I’d undergone made it so. Whether or not they like the taste, normal humans can’t handle large quantities of blood; it’s too much like drinking seawater, but I thrived on it. When that liquid fire hits the back of my throat it’s like an electric charge, but without the pain. It wakes me up until I feel ten feet tall and able to do anything. I’ve heard that drug addicts get the same kind of reaction, only my drug sustains life instead of destroying it. The only odd side effect I have is the way my eyes flush deep red right after feeding, but that passes off pretty quick.

  I straightened and quickly dabbed my mouth with a handkerchief. There was hardly a trace to wipe away, but such close contact with a cow’s hairy skin wasn’t what I’d call pleasant. Maybe I should switch to horses. Shorter, smoother coats. I knew of two people like me on Long Island who preferred them over cattle for that very reason.

  But I’d think about that another night. Now I had to get to the Red Deuces.

  It was a roundabout drive to leave the Stockyards, spinning through the Back of the Yards to find a big enough street that would take me north without too many stops. Chicago’s composed of a lot of different little towns disguised as neighborhoods, each with its special ethnic group or groups. Sometimes the divisions were from street to street, with Jews or Italians on this side, Poles or Irish or Germans on the other. I’d heard about America being a melting pot, and the description was particularly true here. Much of the time it was less a pot and more of a boiling stew as each group tried to beat the other for supremacy, or lord it over newcomers. Old World rivalries and prejudices didn’t stop at Ellis Island. It was mostly the young kids in gangs who made the more violent trouble after being carefully educated by their parents and the hardness of life in general about whom to hate.