Lady Crymsy

by P. N. Elrod

  It was about a third the usual size, making it easy to hide. Its ruled pages were divided up by neatly written-out dates, the earliest beginning in 1930. Next to the dates were numbers that could only be for dollar amounts. Some days had long lists of numbers, others only a few, and some were altogether skipped. Various shades of ink were used, but not in a way to indicate coding so much as different pens. All dealt with odd sums of cash and substantial amounts of it, sometimes thousands at a time. I identified the outgo column and the income, the latter being slightly less by an average of ten percent.

  Off to the side, in a separate column, were what might have been small amounts of cash. No decimals or dollar signs confirmed this, though. The numbers were round, the most frequently occurring one being twenty. Sometimes fifty or one hundred would pop up, but only when there was an especially large chunk of cash involved. These appeared on each and every transaction. A few initials were listed, identifying either places or people. I picked out a set as belonging to one of the larger betting parlors. Only one name was set down: Booth Nevis, and that was at the front of the book.

  There was a break in May of 1933. When the record resumed again in July of that year, a different handwriting had taken over the task. The separate column of round numbers was blank. I made a rough total of what had been listed up to that point.

  Wow.

  Things suddenly fit into place. I knew where Lena’s fortune had come from, maybe who killed her, and why.

  For all the money packed inside, the shoe box felt remarkably light. I held it and the one with Lena’s effects close, slipped under the flat’s entry, then rode the elevator down. The one quick parlor trick didn’t take that much out of me, but sieving through all those floors would. The hunger was creeping up to take hold as it always did. No escaping it, but easily remedied.

  My watch showed just past midnight. I needed to drop this stuff at Lady Crymsyn before going on to the Flying Ace to see Booth Nevis. No telling how long that interview would take, but I wanted it all finished so I could stop at the Stockyards and still be in time to get Bobbi home. My excuse to see Nevis would be to tell him about the memorial service, and once started, I’d get more from him about his real relationship with Lena. Depending how cooperative he was, I’d be able to confirm what I thought she and Rita really did to earn their keep.

  I’d returned the accounts book to the radio. The post-1933 numbers matched up with the jagged uneven writing in Rita’s address book, indicating she’d taken over keeping the records for the last five years. The two-month gap told me about when she’d come across the book, figured out the system, and decided to continue with it. I had a whole fresh batch of questions ready, but there’d be no waking her until tomorrow. She didn’t know it, but we had a date for right after the service for some more serious talking.

  Unless I got everything from Nevis first.

  If I was right about him, getting another migraine from me would be the least of his worries.

  Lady Crymsyn was as I’d left her, with no lurking reporters and the lobby dark. But as I unlocked and walked through the front doors, the bar light snapped on right in front of me.

  And, yes, I jumped. Anyone would have done the same. I damn near dropped the shoe box of cash. My dormant heart tried to leap up my throat, then got stuck there. Nasty feeling, that. No spit to swallow it down again, either.

  “Son of a bitch—stop that!” The words just popped out of me, propelled by sudden anger. I didn’t know who the hell I was yelling at. No one yelled back. No prankster popped out to laugh. Nothing.

  The place was absolutely silent. Just me, a faint background whisper from the city outside, and that goddamned light coming on for no reason whatsoever.

  So… I gave in to it. The idea of a ghost being in the place, that is.

  None of us are that far from the cave, so I didn’t feel particularly foolish over the lapse. It jittered around my gut for a very short tight moment, the time it took for the scare to wear off and my thinking brain to get back in the saddle again. This would turn out to be an electrical or hardware problem, nothing more. Leo would eventually find and fix it, then I could stop feeling like a fool.

  I wasn’t sure I even believed in ghosts; being a vampire didn’t mean I automatically swallowed all supernatural stuff whole. If ghosts existed, then they weren’t the sort of thing that happened to me; they were someone else’s problem, like the psychic girl back at the party. If she could see me in a mirror while I was invisible, maybe she saw ghosts, too. She’d be just the type to do so.

  If there were such things.

  Right now I didn’t want to believe in them at all, because if they were real, then I might have one in my club, and I didn’t want anything to do with it. Not for one second. They couldn’t be real. Not here, anyway.

  Though that could explain the light going on and off.

  And that shot glass of whiskey on the old coaster.

  And a couple of things Leon had hinted about.

  No. It was stupid. Completely stupid. That’s what I thought as I stood frozen just inside the entry staring at the black marble bar with its bright chrome, the clean glass shelves behind, and their patterns of shadows rising toward the high ceiling.

  No. Such. Things.

  Really.

  So I steeled myself, then strode purposefully across the lobby to the master switch. It was with grim resolve that I skeptically turned on every light in the joint.

  No, none of us are that far from the cave at all.

  I didn’t bother investigating again. The toggle would just be up in the ordinary way. Grumbling, I shook off my heebie-jeebies as best I could and passed into the main room, cutting over its expanse to the bar on the far side. Under my instructions, Leon had installed a padlock to the door that gave access to the dead area under the tiered seating. I liked Escott’s idea about turning a corner of it into a second sanctuary for myself, only when that time came I’d fix it to lock up from the inside.

  Ducking through, I carried the box with all the cash to the most distant darkest corner, hunching down toward the last to keep from banging my head. None of the workers would be likely to intrude this far in; Leon had better things for them to do. I left the box on the dusty floor shoved behind some supporting framework and gladly vacated the area.

  Just as I clicked the padlock home, all the lights went out.

  Damnation.

  I didn’t jump quite so much, but felt a quick sympathy for all those times when I’d startled Escott by appearing out of nowhere. Not so funny now.

  “Okay, you’ve made your point,” I called, not sure why. “So cut it out.”

  I did not expect to hear a reply. A man’s voice, grunting something that sounded like, “Huh? Whazzat?”

  Hackles rippled high on the back of my neck for an instant. A small, sick laugh escaped me.

  The lights came on again.

  I’d taken a breath and didn’t know it. Released it slowly.

  Heard other voices. Relaxed slightly as belated recognition—not to mention relief—kicked in as I hurried toward the front. When I reached the curtained entry I could discern them well enough. No ghost, just six very solid, unpleasant men standing uninvited in my lobby.

  The one by the front doors was Shivvey Coker. Two others I knew from last night. They were the same mugs I’d slammed around the alley for beating on Malone. Both looked colorfully the worse for wear after my tender ministrations, but still in shape to try for another bout. The remaining four men seemed to be out of the same tough mold. Between the seven of us this part of the club was getting full of suits and shoulders.

  “Fleming,” said Coker. His bland face was fixed for poker-playing, eyes blank, but his posture tense. His right hand was in his coat pocket, and the set of his arm and shoulder indicated he was probably holding a gun. I could feel a tickling just center of my gut where he’d have the muzzle pointed.

  “Guilty as charged,” I said. “What’s this about? And what�
�s with playing with the lights?”

  “Lights?” said the larger of the battered mugs.

  I decided I should ignore that. It was pretty obvious to me that this gang followed my car from Rita’s flat; I’d not been watching for tails then. Why had he brought along so many friends? Better for me that I talk fast and not make any sudden moves. “C’mon, the club’s not open yet. I was just on my way out. Let’s go over to the Ace, where I can buy you a beer.”

  “Huh,” said Coker, unmoved. “Think you’re funny?”

  I looked at him, then down at his pocket, and gave him a neutral smile. “Don’t know what your beef is, Shivvey, but shooting me will only ruin two perfectly good coats.”

  “Then I’ll save mine.” He took the gun out, a flat little .22 semiauto, lethal with a steady hand and eye behind it, something to pay attention to, but otherwise not a serious weapon to the mob boys. Its advantages were easy concealment and not a lot of noise. Now that the gun was visible, two of his men—the ones I’d clobbered—casually took up posts on either side of me, not close, but close enough. The rest ranged themselves around us.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked, less worried by the gun or the bouncers than the damage they could do to my place.

  “You’ve been busy,” Coker stated.

  “I have?” I didn’t think he was talking about the transformation of the club since he’d last been in five years ago.

  “Rita.”

  “What about her?”

  “You left the party together.”

  No one should have noticed us especially, but maybe he’d seen her flying leap from the table onto me and come to a conclusion. “She had a little too much of the firewater. Thought I should get her home.”

  His eyes were blank no longer. Fascinated, I watched the change as his control slipped and fell away. The hot rage blazing in them would melt a battleship. “Yeah, you went there, then came here. What happened in between?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t tell me that when her warpaint’s all over your face.”

  Damn. Not being able to use a mirror when cleaning up was a decided disadvantage. “Nothing happened.”

  “Gris.” Coker nodded to the larger of the two. They were both nearly my height, each packing a good forty more pounds of muscle. They acted like they thought they had the advantage. Gris moved in close on my left, but kept his hands to himself. His slightly shorter buddy came up on my right, grinning. He was enjoying this far too much to judge by the wheezing giggles he wasn’t holding in. The other men shifted on their feet, indicating they were also ready for some fun and games, Chicago style.

  I kept on facing their boss, thinking he must be out of his mind. He was well aware that I’d been given a hands-off from Gordy. Coker had mentioned it himself only the other night. All I could figure was that he liked Rita a hell of a lot more than he’d let on, or maybe he was one of those jealous types.

  “Listen, Shivvey, I’ll admit I tried some, but she was too drunk. Passed out on me. I don’t like ‘em when they’re passed out.” I put disgust in my tone, hoping that would be enough to at least shield Rita from repercussions. Didn’t look like I’d be so lucky.

  “Maybe you don’t like women at all, punk,” put in Gris. “Seems to me you were pretty hot for that faggot last night.”

  “Seems to me you weren’t in any condition to notice after I put your face into the bricks.”

  Gris decided I deserved a gut punch for that one. He didn’t hold back. The force of it doubled me over, and that was about all the harm it did. After a three count, I deliberately straightened. No gasping for lost breath, no retching. I fixed him with what I hoped was a cool, hard stare.

  Baffled anger from Gris in response.

  “He thinks he’s tough,” said his grinning buddy, who hadn’t caught on. “Give ‘im another.”

  Coker stepped forward. “Not yet.” He was sharp, but not sharp enough, being too focused in on what he expected to see rather than what was actually happening. Gordy certainly wouldn’t have overlooked my lack of reaction to the abuse. That didn’t make Coker any less dangerous, just more difficult.

  I frowned at him. “You got a beef with me, Shivvey, then let’s talk, but lose the hired help. They don’t impress.”

  “We’ll talk. They stay.”

  “Whatever makes you feel safe.”

  The boys almost made something of that, but Coker signed for them to back down again. They were big dogs on string-thin leashes. I’d have to watch my mouth, or this could go on all night. It could even get painful. He nodded at a table and some chairs off in a corner. “Sit.”

  Not much I could do to get rid of them without busting the place up. Coker and I walked over and sat at the same time, his crew following. He rested his gun on the tabletop, his hand loosely holding it, a visible dare. I spared it one unworried glimpse and concentrated on him. Rage still burned in his eyes. Too much for me to get through. I pulled back. Time enough for that later. I checked the faces of the other men, all bouncers from the Flying Ace. Why weren’t they at their jobs?

  “You’re not here just about Rita,” I said. Gris and his bruised friend were behind me, doing a good job of looming in a threatening manner. “So what is it?”

  “Nevis.”

  “What about him?”

  “Cops took him in about that dead broad. Raided the Ace. You’re behind it.”

  Okay, that’s why they were here. Out of work for the evening. Shook my head. “Not me.”

  “You been digging too much. I told you to lay off.”

  “Give the cops some credit for brains. They backtracked Lena to her old boss. Nothing surprising about that.”

  “Rita tell you?”

  “She was too drunk, but there were plenty of people at the party who talked.”

  “Who?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Use your head, Shivvey, I got better things to do than get in bad with my landlord. Nothing’s going to come of it, anyway. They’ll sweat him a little, he’ll make a payoff somewhere, and he’s back running the Ace by tomorrow. Next they’ll talk to Rita, and then they talk to you. Got a good story ready for them? Hope it’s better than the one you fed me.”

  Coker showed some teeth; it wasn’t a smile. “You son of a—you think I killed Lena.”

  “If not you, then who else? Maybe you had a bad case of unrequited love and decided to wall her up for it.”

  His face went a mottled red, and his eyes blazed hotter, but his voice was oddly quiet when he finally spoke. “Gris.”

  Gris stepped in, and he had plenty of help. Three others moved at the same time, their tombstone mitts coming down hard on my shoulders and arms to hold me in place.

  In reflex, I started to struggle, but quelled it. Now wasn’t the right time.

  While the rest kept me still, Gris firmly caught up my right arm, grabbed my index and middle fingers and folded them hard the wrong way. I winced at the double crack they made, my hand bucking from his grasp as though stung. The men braced for me to try fighting; I stayed put. When it was clear I wasn’t going to move, they pulled away. Gris eyed me, waiting and ready for an answering challenge.

  I calmly checked my wrecked hand. My fingers were at an unnatural angle and hurt like hell. Ugly to see and feel, but nothing to get panicked about. Without a lot of hurry, I held my hand up so Coker and the rest had a good view of things, then popped the fingers back into place. They made a dull cracking sound. There was more pain, briefly, the kind that told me I was already healing.

  I flexed my fingers, made a fist, and opened it. I looked across at Coker, and said, “Ow.”

  That jolted him. He seemed fairly flabbergasted. Mouth sagging, the heat gone from his glare. Almost funny.

  Similar reaction from a few of the others. One of them in the back muttered, “I told you about this guy.”

  Before Coker’s shock could wear off I did a fast move of my own and, quick as a snake, took away his gun. Left-handed. His yelp
galvanized his men, but I jabbed the muzzle right between Coker’s eyes. He froze, arms out from his body, palms down, caught halfway between lunge and placation. Everyone else froze as well.

  “Shivvey,” I said, giving him a steady stare, “this is the night you learn not to annoy me.”

  “Boss…” began Gris.

  “Shuddup,” Coker snapped. His face was dead white. God knows what he saw in mine as I glared down the length of my arm at him.

  All the anger he had that would have blocked me was gone, but there was no need to hypnotize him. I had his full attention. “First, lemme tell you what annoys me, Shivvey. You and your goons coming in here is at the top of the list. Trying to push me around is right next to it, along with not believing me when I give you a straight story. Those are the only ones you need to remember because you’re not going to repeat ‘em again. You got any of that?”

  Some sweat forming on his brows. “You goddamn punk. Think I’ll let you—”

  I poked the muzzle hard enough against his forehead to make him blink. “I asked if you got that.”

  He gave out with one nearly imperceptible nod, hating me.

  “Good. Now, I’m gonna tell you again, and this time believe it, I did not sleep with Rita. I did not turn Nevis in to the cops. Clear?”

  Another small nod. Lots more hate.

  Time to ease off. I did so, but kept the gun centered.

  Disgust from him now as he lowered his arms, probably because I’d not shot him. He certainly would have shot me. The idea of it made him brave. “You think you got the world by the tail, don’t you?”

  “A piece of it,” I admitted.

  “Lemme tell you something, punk. I seen your kind come and go. You may think you’ve got it all with Gordy looking after you, but that ain’t gonna last forever.”

  I canted my head. “You see Gordy around here? You think I run crying to him every time some bozo pokes his head in the door and makes scary faces? Look around, Shivvey. Look at me.” Made another fist with my right hand. The pain was mostly gone. Opened it, then snapped my fingers a few times just to show I could and rapped a tattoo on the table. “I may be a punk kid to you, but you know I can take care of myself. Don’t give me a reason to start breaking your fingers.”