The Vampire Files, Volume Two

by P. N. Elrod

  “Like the part about Shorty?” I asked.

  “Hmm.” He struck a match.

  “You think you know him?”

  “I believe I know of him, though I’ve never actually met the fellow.”

  “Who is he?”

  “A dweller on the fringe, I expect.”

  I briefly wondered if his damned smoking set him off on a tangent or if he only used it as an excuse to do so. Either way, the effect was the same. “Want to explain that?”

  “You’ve met his type before. They never seem to work, but somehow manage to get by. They bounce from one unpaid bill to another and are experts at the art of living off the charity of others.”

  “The crash made a lot of guys that way.”

  “People like Shorty have always been that way. Their prime concern in life is usually centered upon their next meal.”

  “Or their next drink.”

  “There’s that, too, though I believe the addiction to drink is but a symptom, and not the problem itself. I’ve seen hundreds of them… sad faces, angry faces, lost faces, and faces with nothing left in them at all. One wonders where they’ve come from and where they will go and what ruined dreams may lie behind their empty eyes.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Charles… you’re such cheerful company.”

  “I’m in a cheerful mood,” he said.

  “So are we headed for this fringe to look for Shorty or are you planning to tackle Kyler?”

  “Oh, we shall interview Shorty first.”

  “Why? About all he can do is back up Kitty’s story.”

  “And perhaps a bit more—if he is what I think he is.”

  “Some kind of stoolie?”

  “An information salesman,” he conceded, always one to put a polish on things. “I’m hoping he will give us a line on Kyler—or rather sell us one and thus save us a bit of time.”

  “So what was he doing giving stuff away free to Kitty?”

  “I’m not so certain that it was intentional, but perhaps he was hoping his early warning might have generated some income from a grateful McAlister.”

  “How many stoolies have you met who were that dumb?”

  He decided not to answer and focused his attention on the road and his cigarette. It was still fairly early and the amount of traffic reflected the hour. You’d think they’d all be huddled by their firesides, still gloating over their Christmas presents. If any. The last eight years had been starvation lean for too many people, and the realities rarely matched up with the cozy ideals in the magazine ads. I stared out the passenger window and watched the neighborhoods change from ritzy to nice, to good, to downright hostile, and back again. Escott finally slowed and parked the Nash in a borderland area of good that was starting to lose out to hostile.

  Across the street a series of low buildings crowded close to each other, as if for warmth. On one of them hung a painted sign advertising the Angel Bar and Grill. One side of the sign was lighted, the other, with its broken bulb, dark.

  Borderland.

  “Looks like just the sort of place a guy like Stan would bring his girl,” I said.

  “One way or another, it would be certain to leave an impression.”

  A trace of rain hung in the air, just enough to dampen the streets and make us cautious of our footing as we crossed over and went inside. The place wasn’t that big, but it was crowded and dim. Escott nodded once at me and went over to the bar. I peeled away and made a circuit of the room, looking for anyone who matched Kitty’s description of Shorty.

  A lot of unfamiliar faces looked back, reminding me of the ones Escott had spoken of earlier. I shook off the image and concentrated on the job.

  Someone tugged at my coat from behind. “Hey, Jack.”

  I turned, mindful of pickpockets, and wondering who could possibly know me here. No pickpocket this time, just Pony Jones with his curiosity up. Pony did enough bookie business to keep himself, but not so much that he drew attention from the big boys. Escott had introduced us some months back when we were doing some other job. Pony always looked drunk, but never forgot a face or a name except as a dodge to trouble, then he became as vague as his appearance suggested.

  Sitting next to him was his half-brother, Elmer, sometimes known as Elmtree Elmer since he was tall and about as tough. He had a brain deep inside that big body, but was lazy about using it, and usually content to let Pony do his thinking for him.

  “What’ya doin’ here?” asked Pony.

  I could almost see all the ears swiveling in our direction. There was space at their small table, so I slipped into a chair opposite them. “Hi, Pony, Elmer. How’s business?” As I drew breath to speak, I got a strong whiff of stale smoke, beer, and sweat.

  “Good ’n’ bad.”

  “Looks like the bad’s winning.”

  Elmer didn’t react at all, choosing to play dense tonight. Pony’s crab-apple face only crumpled a bit more. “Don’t be a wise ass. You still working for that limey bastard?”

  “Yeah, he’s here with me.”

  Elmer grimaced. He liked Escott about as much as I liked sunbaths.

  “Why are you sitting with your back to the door?” I asked.

  “ ’Cause my back can stand the draft better than my front. Who ya lookin’ for?” His dark little eyes were avid. He knew I was off my usual track in coming to a place like the Angel.

  “You wouldn’t know him.”

  His mouth twisted. “C’mon, Jack, no need to dance around all night. Just say a name an’ I’ll let you know if I know ’em.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Flat fee, only a sawbuck.”

  “Try a buck, Pony.” Over his shoulder, I saw Escott had finished talking with the bartender. I caught his eye and shook my head once so he wouldn’t interrupt.

  “Aw, c’mon, I got family to support.”

  “Fine, go get a regular job.” I made to get up.

  “Okay, a buck’s fine, but only if I know ’em. Cost you more to find out more.”

  That always went without saying. “Guy named Shorty.”

  “My sweet Aunt Tilly, you know how many guys I know named Shorty? F’cryin’ out loud, some jerkballs even call me Shorty.”

  I gave him my best and broadest grin. Though my canines were neatly retracted, it was more than effective. He tumbled right away.

  “Aww, no, Jack…”

  “Aww, yes, Pony.”

  Pony shrugged, flashed a yellow grin of his own, and rubbed his thumb against his fingers. I found a dollar and he made it vanish. He kept his hand out and tried to look like a hurt puppy.

  “I said more will cost you more.”

  “This place is too crowded for talk.”

  He made a show of resignation. “Okay. We gotta flop close by, but I’d have to show you.”

  I caught Escott’s eye again as I stood up. “Fine with me. Pony. I could use the exercise.”

  “What? Right now? It’s cold out.”

  “Yeah, it’ll probably be like that ’til spring.”

  Elmer was looking alert and damped it down when Pony shrugged at him. He’d accepted his fate and would go quietly. He stood, all five feet one of him a visible declaration of his least favorite moniker, and made a show of buttoning up his coat.

  We walked to the door, Elmer leading. Pony behind him, and me ready for either of them to try anything. Escott was there ahead of us and held it open. Elmer paused to sneer at him and caused a minor bottleneck.

  Pony Jones was nothing if not an opportunist. He slithered around Elmer and, true to his nickname, bolted.

  8

  I got my arm out fast enough, but Pony dodged, and my fingers only brushed his collar. Without thinking, I went transparent and shot right through Elmer’s intervening bulk. Maybe he’d attribute his rush of abrupt cold to the winter air. I only hoped that the Angel’s other patrons would put the alarming vision of a ghost-man running through him down to morbid imagination and take care of it at the bar.
r />   Pony was little and had some years against him, but he was on his home ground. Though only seconds behind him, I almost missed it as he ducked between buildings. Delayed as he was by having to go around, rather than through, Elmer, Escott was seconds more behind me. He’d just have to catch up when he could; I didn’t dare wait.

  Pony Jones’s small form threaded out the other end of the alley and cut right. By the time I did the same he was out of view, but I heard the slap of his feet against concrete down another turning. When I’d made that one, he’d doubled back to another dank passage. A moment later his footsteps stopped.

  I took note of that: they’d stopped, not faded into the distance. He was holding his breath somewhere, banking on the shadows to hide him. As far as I could judge the area was pitch dark—to human eyes.

  I picked my way carefully down the alley, my footfalls as soft as I could make them. No doubt in his own ears Pony’s heartbeat would drown out their minimal sound. At the far end was a disordered row of trash cans, the tumbled remains of a discarded armchair, and an unidentifiable bundle of odds and ends that might once have been clothes.

  The bundle was breathing, very quietly, and its heart was racing. I reached into it, this time getting a good grip on the collar before hauling him up.

  “Aww, Jack…” he whined, shedding rags and limp sheets of newspaper.

  I got my bearings and found we’d all but circled back to the alley behind the Angel. Escott popped into sight less than fifty feet away. I called to him. He skidded to a halt, peering doubtfully in my general direction. It reminded me just how dark it was for him. I kept my grip on Pony’s collar and marched him forward. Spill from a distant streetlight defined our figures as we emerged into view.

  “Well, well,” he said, straightening his hat. “Was there any reason behind your quick exit, Pony?”

  Pony dropped into his first line of defense, which was to shuffle with a bowed head and mumble that he didn’t know nothin’.

  “I see. Then you aren’t too terribly interested in increasing this evening’s profits?”

  Scenting more money, Pony raised his head.

  Elmer trotted up, puffing. “Leggo a’ Pony,” he told me, expecting instant obedience.

  Escott got in between us. “Hold off your rescue for just another moment, Elmer, we’re conducting a business deal.”

  “Huh?”

  “Deal?” said Pony at the same time.

  “Money for information is the usual pattern, is it not?”

  Elmer became surly as he cottoned onto the fact that Pony wouldn’t allow him to beat up on a potential source of income. “WhyVcha talk normal, so’s a guy knows what you’re sayin’?”

  “I think we understand each other well enough, Elmer.”

  “Limey bastard,” he muttered, echoing Pony’s earlier comment. The last time Elmer had dealt with Escott, he’d spent a few days in jail. He wasn’t the forgiving type.

  Escott had a smile on his face—a rather serene one at that—when he abruptly hauled Elmer around by both shoulders and slammed him buck first against a wall. Elmer yelped in surprise, shock, and pain, cramming it all into the same sound. The impact inspired him to fight back, and he brought a sudden fist up and threw a gut punch with as much force as he could muster. He missed the bulletproof vest by an inch, digging in just below the belt.

  Escott hissed once through his teeth but kept his grip. He was still smiling when he bounced Elmer against the wall again. And again, very hard. The third time he let go, and Elmer slithered to the ground and stopped moving.

  He’d startled me, because though I’d seen him angry before, I’d never seen Escort lose his temper.

  He stared down at Elmer, immobile except for a slight tremor in his hands as the excess adrenaline wore off. His smile gradually disappeared, easing away by small degrees until nothing was left but an impassive mask. Considering the insult, his initial show of teeth was understandable, but the mask I saw now made me uneasy.

  “Charles?”

  He brought one hand up, fingers spread a little, the gesture a request for silence. I clamped my mouth shut and waited.

  He turned slowly away from Elmer and faced Pony. The mask was still in place. If I was uneasy, Pony was definitely frightened. Escort plucked Pony away from me and pushed his back to the same wall, pinning his shoulders to it. Both glanced down at Elmer’s semiconscious form and then at each other. They arrived at an obvious conclusion at the same time. Pony gulped unhappily.

  “Why did you run?” Escott asked him, his tone dangerously reasonable.

  Pony shook his head. “Just wanted to, that’s all.”

  There was more behind it, but Escott let it pass. “Tell me what you said to Kitty Donovan.”

  “Who?”

  “Stan McAlister’s lady friend.”

  “But I don’t know…”

  Escott shook him once so that his teeth clicked, then leaned in close. “Jones, we got off on the wrong foot, though that situation may be easily corrected. What you must keep in mind is that it can get worse.” He let that sink in. “Do you wish that?”

  Pony shook his head a lot. He’d never seen Escott like this before. His last bit of resistance faded.

  Even in the dim light, Escott read it in his face and posture. “Good man. Now tell me what you did and said last night concerning Stan McAlister.”

  “It wasn’t much,” he said, licking his lips. “I saw his little twist walk in and park. Thought I’d go over and tell her that that clown Leadfoot had a head of steam up about Stan’s owing him.”

  “Out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “Don’t be a—ahh, no, I thought I could get something outta her for it, but the kid’s green as grass. She din’ know what I was gettin’ at or that it was supposed to be for sale. By the time I dropped enough hints on her, she’d put things together herself and ran out on me.” He raised his eyes, looking for approval. He was disappointed.

  “Was there a hit out on McAlister?”

  “I dunno.”

  “How did you find out about McAlister’s troubles with Leadfoot?”

  “I keep my ears open, as usual.”

  “Exact information, Pony.”

  “But there ain’t any. You know how it is. The news just goes around. I maybe heard it at the Imperial.”

  “Which is… ?”

  “A pool hall. Leadfoot’s muscle hangs around there. Sometimes they talk.”

  “And who else was there?”

  “I dunno what you—”

  “Who else was looking for McAlister?”

  Pony shut his mouth.

  “Was it Vaughn Kyler? Was it one of his men?”

  “No! I dunno.”

  Escort’s smile threatened to return. “Will I be able to find Kyler there?”

  Pony was breathing fast, then he brought it under sudden control. His little eyes lit up with new confidence. “Yeah, you’ll find him there— or at the Satchel. He keeps on the move, but you ask around and you’ll find him … or maybe he’ll find you.” That thought cheered him—a lot.

  “Then I’ll be sure to tell him you said hello.”

  Pony dropped his grin and went six different kinds of pale. He struggled and pushed away. Escott let him go. Pony vanished around the next corner, content to escape himself and leave Elmer to our tender mercies. Maybe he’d return later to pick him up, but I wouldn’t want to bet on it.

  Not that it mattered much; Elmer was showing signs of waking and might be long gone before Pony got up enough courage to check on him.

  “You fight dirty, you know that?” I said as we walked back to the car.

  “Pah, the man was hardly worth the effort, but at least we got some names from him.”

  “Yeah. Which place do we start with?”

  “The Satchel, unless you want to risk running into Leadfoot Sam again.”

  “Uh-uh. I’ve had enough of him for one lifetime.”

  “I daresay he might share the same opi
nion about you.”

  We drove to an unpretentious neighborhood with modest and respectable storefronts and stuffily closed businesses. The only lights showing at this hour came from an undistinguished two-story brick building in the middle of the block. Cars lined both sides of the street. One of them pulled away as we came up, and Escott pounced on the empty spot.

  “You sure this is it?” I asked. “I don’t see any sign out.”

  He set the brake. “An establishment like the Satchel hardly needs or wishes to call undue attention to itself.”

  That’s when the dawn came and I sat up a little straighten “How’d it get a name like that?”

  “I believe it’s related in some way to the satchel the collection man carries on his rounds. This particular place is used as a sort of bank; the various funds are added, divided, and dispatched from here.”

  “Where do they go?”

  “My dear fellow, though this city is not very old when compared with others, it does have a quite lively and consistent history of corruption to make up for its relative youth…. Use your imagination.”

  I didn’t have to use much, since I’d seen the same thing in other places. Vice flourishes best when it makes regular contributions in the right pockets. We went up the steps together and opened the double doors. Music was playing somewhere inside.

  “Wait a sec,” I said.

  He paused and turned to look where I was looking. A new Cadillac with smoke-dark windows was parked not twenty feet from the entrance.

  “I think we’ve come to the right place, Charles.”

  “His car?”

  “Or one of his stooges. Keep your eyes open.”

  “With pleasure.”

  The foyer was conservative: simple white curtains, a plant in a big brass pot, and a square of carpet, but then this part of the house was visible from the street each time the door opened. Furniture was limited to a table holding up a lamp and a chair next to it holding up the bouncer. He had the kind of scar tissue you get from boxing, maybe a couple pounds’ worth, and all the rest of him was hard muscle. He gave us a close and practiced look, nodded, and pressed a button on the little table. A buzzer buzzed and Escott opened the next door in.