Lady Crymsy

by P. N. Elrod

  He wasn’t in a mood to take in what his eyes were telling him. “I oughta—”

  “Yeah, I know how it goes. I break your fingers, then you’ll come back and break my leg. But I’d just get up and use it to kick your ass. There’s no need for any of this. The fact is that we just had a pissing contest, and you lost. Accept it gracefully while I’m still in a good mood. We both gotta live in this town, and neither of us should have to be looking over his shoulder for the other.”

  A moment of him breathing hard, hating me some more, then a small change in his eyes. It was enough. Not that it would last. He’d had to back down from me in front of his men; he would not let that go unanswered for long, but I’d worry about it later.

  “As long as you’re here, we might as well settle some other things.”

  “What things?” he asked, after a moment.

  I eased off with the gun. Gris and the rest looked to him for orders. Coker shook his head. We were all back to being nearly civilized again. Nearly. I still kept the gun in hand on the table and wondered how many of them were also heeled. “Give us some room, boys. We gotta talk.”

  No one moved until Coker showed them the nod. They reluctantly pulled away a few paces, but Gris stayed behind. Hard to tell if it was out of loyalty to his boss or because he hated me, too. I’d have to stay out of the Flying Ace in the future.

  “This is private stuff Shiv. You sure you wanna share?”

  He barely glanced at Gris. “He can stay. You got the gun, I got him.”

  And what a sweet couple they made. “All right.”

  “What private stuff? Punk.”

  I kept my voice low, the tone casual. “For instance, how many other laundry girls besides Rita has Nevis got on the payroll?”

  No reaction from him right away. That alone told me a lot. “Laundry girls?”

  “For his club. Nevis has to wash all that gambling cash coming into the Ace. There’s too much to lay off as legit income from selling booze. What better than for girls like Rita and Lena and others to take it to the track for him? Bet often, on sure things they’ve been told about, and use only cash. The bookies are in on the game, fix the numbers right, take their percentage. The girls come back with what looks like winnings, collect their pay for the service, and Nevis stays in jake with the tax man.”

  “He knows way too much, Shiv,” said Gris.

  “Don’t give me that,” I drawled. “Everyone in town is onto this, including the cops Nevis pays off so he can keep operating.” Somewhat of an exaggeration, but believable to insiders like Coker, who only dealt with others of his kind.

  He didn’t want to give me any points, though. “Rita shot her mouth off too much.”

  “She didn’t tell me squat. Anybody with half a brain can figure out what’s going on.” So I’d nailed it right. That book I’d found had indeed been a record of all of Lena’s gambling transactions for Booth Nevis. It was similar to one I kept myself, only mine fit on a single sheet of paper and was better hidden. “Rita’s a pretty useful gal to have around. I bet she runs a lot more errands for Nevis than that pip-squeak Upshaw does for the both of you.”

  “I’m gonna kill that big-mouth broad—”

  “She never said a word, she likes her cushy spot with Nevis and kept shut to hold on to it. But the guest list for Muldan’s party was something else again. I talked to plenty of people, and they talked back. The difference between them and Rita was they actually had something to tell me. And more than just about this scam.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like Lena Ashley and Nevis being so tight. He was off the deep end for her—and she didn’t run around with everyone borrowing dough like you claimed. What was your angle feeding me that line? Were you trying to protect your job? If you thought it’d take Nevis off the suspect list, think again.”

  “What list? Who the hell are you to be doing cop work, anyway?”

  “I’m the guy whose club she turned up dead in. Don’t know about you, but I don’t like that sort of thing, especially when it’s a woman. If I can serve the killer up to the cops with gravy on the side, I will. If it turns out to be Nevis, then you might have a good shot at taking over his spot. You ever think that over?”

  I’d hit a nerve to judge by how fast he shut down his face. He was back to playing poker again, but just a little too late. Since he made no immediate reply, it meant he was not only thinking hard, but unworried about Gris passing this kind of dynamite on to Nevis. My guess was that Coker had hired on this bunch himself, and they were loyal to him, not Nevis.

  “What makes you think the boss did her in?” Coker finally asked.

  “Just an idea of mine. I’ve got no proof. He was crazy for her, though. What if she was running around on him after all? He’d have a reason to be sore enough to kill her and to kill her just that way. Now, I know you wanted her, but it don’t figure that she threw him over for you… or Nevis would have killed you, as well.”

  Another hit; his eyelids flickered. “How do you figure that?”

  “Because of the way Lena died. A couple of minutes walled up in that hole, and she’d confess her life story with all the names. She’d have talked her head off for the hope of Nevis digging her out again. If that’s what happened, and you weren’t on her dance card, then he had no reason to kill you. You remember anyone else disappearing about that time? No? Well, no matter.”

  “You’re full of it.”

  “Maybe. I could be wrong. Lemme try another story. You had the hots for her, she doesn’t give you the time of day, then you’re the one sore enough to kill. But Nevis doesn’t find out, of course, or he’d have never hired you on after Welsh Lennet got croaked.”

  “Now, wait a minute…”

  I spread my hands. “I’m just throwing out the same stuff the cops’ll be thinking when they start sniffing around your leg. You gotta be ready for it. For my money I think they’ll try to hang it on Nevis, whether he did it or not. They always favor the boyfriend first. Once they start closing on him they won’t miss out on the rest of the works. They can bring in the Treasury boys, track down all the laundry ladies, and within a week the Flying Ace is shot down for good.”

  He threw a look to his men that told me a lot.

  “But… there’s a way out of that.”

  He didn’t want to ask, but I had him hooked too well. “Yeah?”

  I leaned back. “You turn Nevis in as Lena’s killer.”

  Coker’s reactions were more subtle than before, but he was interested.

  “It’s like this,” I said. “The cops got no proof, but if you happen to repeat something Nevis mumbled to you one night when he got drunk and maudlin about Lena… doesn’t matter whether it ever happened, you just repeat it. I’m sure you can find a few people who were around back then to say how crazy he was for her and let the cops do the rest.”

  He thought it through, then shook his head. “You got some nerve, but it’d never work. No DA is gonna take a chance on that one or on me. I’m not framing the boss, there’s no percentage. If I tried, they’d still shut his place down. And if you go to the cops with that load of bullshit, then I’ll make sure you won’t live to see the morning.”

  I chuckled, but he didn’t know why. “It’s good to see a man with so much loyalty, but if they can’t get Nevis, they’ll be eyeballing you, the spurned would-be lover. Think Nevis will stick his neck out to cover you if he even begins to think you’re the one who killed her?”

  “But I didn’t—” He bit off the rest, staring at me with a kind of surprise that made him very vulnerable. That’s when I focused on him full force, holding his gaze, hoping he’d not had anything much to drink that would interfere.

  Not a cakewalk. He winced, fighting something he didn’t understand, had no preparation for, and the silence stretched between us. His heartbeat shot up, and his breath came shallow. Then he abruptly stopped struggling and that dead look came into his eyes.

  “Tell me about Nevis and
Lena. Did he find out what she was doing with his winnings?”

  “What?”

  “The winnings—did Nevis find out she was skimming off the top?”

  “Skim… ?”

  Gris shifted closer. “Shivvey?”

  “Answer me.” A sharp pinching between my eyes made it hard to keep control. “You have to answer.”

  Coker made a small noise in the back of his throat.

  I felt the same way. This hurt. “Answer me.”

  Something heavy smacked into the side of my skull, making lights flash behind my eyes. When the lights faded, Coker had come back to himself, looking surprised to see me on the floor. I was surprised myself. Didn’t know I was that lost in the concentration. The men quickly moved in; someone slammed a foot down to hold my arm while another took the gun away.

  “You take chances,” Coker said to Gris, who’d apparently been responsible.

  “He was doing something to you.”

  “Doing what?”

  He faltered. “Just… something. Don’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “You gotta re—” Gris cut it, stared down at me, spooked. “What’d you do to him?”

  “Do what?” Coker demanded.

  Out of his element, Gris shook his head, and backed off a pace. “You saw,” he said to the others.

  “Saw what?” Coker. Voice rising.

  I had to work hard to not grin and didn’t quite manage. That was enough for Gris, who instantly stooped, grabbed handfuls of my second-best suit, and hauled me up.

  “What ya want us to do with him, boss?”

  I motioned toward the still-open front doors. “Gentlemen, it’s been great having you over, but it’s late and I have to be—”

  “Shuddup, punk,” said Coker, realizing he was back in charge again. “Gris, teach him about not annoying me.”

  It was just exactly what Gris and the rest were waiting for.

  The next few fast dirty seconds were a confusion of fists, gouging fingers, kicks, and curses, with me getting most of it because I really didn’t want to kill anyone. Too hard explaining the bodies to the cops. I could take what the mugs were dishing, pick my opening when it came, and use it. There was no reason to make it easy, though. Whenever I threw a fist or foot I connected; they were packed close and in each other’s way. When I connected, it made a satisfying thump and cleared things, but only for an instant. Another body would move in. Five at once and all after the same target was a bit much even for me.

  Then a general surge took place as three of them organized enough to lift and carry me backwards. I was strong, but they had momentum on their side as they slammed me hard into the marble-topped bar.

  My spine cracked against it, and it hurt. Hurt bad. Right up through my skull kind of hurt. I grunted, my legs going to water. Slithered down, but the goons grabbed me up again, lifting bodily. Managed to wrest one arm free and make a swing that was little more than a wave. No strength in it for some reason.

  They put some fancy spin in it and flipped me clean over, a high, forceful somersault with a very messy upside-down landing. I slammed back-first into the thick glass shelving behind the bar.

  The stuff broke away from the walls as I dropped in a graceless sprawl on the hard tiles. The shelves landed heavily around and on top of me, shattering with a tremendous noise. Something banged against my neck with unexpected force. Too late I tried to cover my head; I was moving half a step behind everything.

  A warm flood from my throat, almost familiar. Too much, too fast. This was wrong.

  A ferocious burning along my skin there. All wrong, but what… ?

  Abrupt haze before my eyes. Light-headed. Sick.

  Bloodsmell.

  Then I understood. Tried to do something to stop it and to hell with who saw.

  The haze became more pronounced… but too slowly. It should have been faster. I should have vanished.

  Weakness washed over me instead. My hand came up, clamping over the wound to stop the flow. The haze never quite turned to soothing, healing gray. I lay utterly still, not daring to move for fear of making it worse.

  Heard them above me. Talking.

  “Jeez, lookit the mess.”

  “Boss, I think you better see.”

  Pause, then Coker’s voice. “Right, leave him.”

  “You sure?”

  “We’re cuttin’ outta here. Now.”

  Deep within me, a thin dark voice wailed at the unfairness of it.

  12

  Heard the hasty shuffle of departure. The slam of doors. Brief echo throughout the building. Silence, until their car rambled to life and took them away, then silence again.

  No movement from me. None. Didn’t dare. Kept the pressure hard on my neck and prayed it would work. The broad rip under my palm burned. Couldn’t tell if that was good or not. Wanted to vanish. Bleeding too severe.

  Back hurt. Hurt a lot. Terrified it might be broken. If so, then there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to help myself.

  Wouldn’t matter if I bled to death first.

  Shied away from the panic. Needed to wait it through. The wound would knit up, everything would heal, but the blood loss would interfere, make it take longer. To mark time I counted to a thousand. Or tried. Had to start over and over. Couldn’t keep track of the numbers. Pain distracted. And hunger. Hollow inside. God, I was hungry. Waves of it marched through my battered body.

  Blood everywhere. Pooling. Smell of it… dizzying, maddening.

  Corner teeth were out. Nothing to use them on.

  Small move. I could risk that much. Just—just a small one.

  Shifted. Carefully. My face against the floor. Wet. Blood there, lots of it. I had to take some of it back. No time to be particular.

  Pressed my mouth to the hard tiles. Taste of salt. Grit. Sharp things like fish bones. That would be the broken glass. No matter.

  Impossible to take in the quantity I needed, but I couldn’t stop myself. Lapped it like a dog, spit glass when I found it, and damned Coker to hell and gone.

  No good. I needed much more than this. Had to get up. Had to feed.

  Cautiously lifted my hand from the wound. No fresh flow. Hopeful. Felt the damage. Found a spongy, irregular furrow in the flesh, very tender and raw. What was left of a deep gash. Long one, too. Seemed to go halfway around my throat. Fleeting thought about Malone’s kid, Norrie, then back to my own troubles.

  Arm movement dislodged shards of glass. Pieces dropped away. Destructive tinkling music as they hit the stained tiles.

  Tried to move my legs. Couldn’t tell if they responded or not. The fire in my back suddenly hotted up. Left off and went still again. Had more healing to do.

  Very tired. Wanted sleep, but not until dawn, Not for hours yet.

  Chance of passing out, though. Even a small loss of blood put me in a bad way. If I gave in to it… no, that could not be allowed to happen. Once gone I’d not wake again until tomorrow night, if I was lucky. Though safe enough here from the sun, the last thing I needed was Leon Kell and his crew coming in and finding me like this in the morning. To him I’d look dead. Then it’d be cops, newspapers, radio flashes about another spectacular murder at Lady Crymsyn… no, that just could not be allowed to happen at all.

  Damn Shivvey Coker to hell and gone. Again. Several times again.

  Anger for him helped keep me from drifting off. Several plans—none of them even remotely pleasant—of what to do when I caught up with him helped as well. The same went for his goons. I could get very creative when the mood was on me.

  Wincing, I moved my arms enough to find out if they would work. They did, but not too well. Felt like a half-squashed bug. Still able to move, but not very coordinated about it. Weak.

  After a bit I managed to lift from the spread of broken glass and blood and push clear of it. Arms only. Legs like anchors. My back sparked a hellish protest; ignored it. Pushed, then dragged along. Two yards of progress, then I had to stop and not do a
nything. The pain crashed in, blinding. An awful fluttering inside warned me I was about to vomit. When I held still it went away.

  Rested and thought longingly about vanishing. Before trying again I had to get fresh blood and lots of it, and right now the Stockyards were too far away.

  Only option, though. I needed help to get there. Escott out of town, Bobbi probably still onstage and not readily reachable. So was Shoe Coldfield. I wasn’t sure if he’d even be at his club. Couldn’t afford to leave a message and hope he’d get it before I was too far gone.

  Gordy, perhaps? Not that I ran crying to him all the time, but this was an emergency. I didn’t want him involved, but he was a friend who knew about me, who knew everything. And he was always at the Nightcrawler.

  All I had to do was call him. The phone was upstairs, though. The public one had been installed in the lobby booth, but I didn’t know if it’d been hooked up yet.

  I spent what seemed like hours inching across the floor, my back screaming every second. Had to go slow. Whenever that fluttering swooped on me I stopped. The frequency increased; the rest periods lengthened. Could not allow myself to get frustrated over the delay, to waste what little strength I had. By the time I made it to the booth I was shuddering uncontrollably from the strain, and praying again, asking that the phone would work. My alternative would be trying the stairs to the office. In the shape I was in, I’d never make it.

  Long rest, then crawled into the booth, reached up. Knocked the receiver clear. Damn. Needed a nickel.

  More rest, then huge effort to haul up into the seat. Dizziness hit like a brick. Damn near fell out again. Fluttering. Sick. I braced. Falling down at this point would finish me. Waited until it passed.

  Found change. Shaking like a drunk. Barely got a nickel into the slot. The dial tone came on. Thank God, the phone company, and Leon Kell for getting things done.

  Was very careful about the numbers. No desire to get the wrong one.