The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “No. Find Shoe . . . closer.”

  I had no better ideas and at least I knew where to go. Somehow I got over to the driver’s side and drove like hell to the Shoe Box.

  Half a dozen dark men jumped when we screeched up outside the place, and I could hardly blame them. A couple came up to the car, and I recognized one man from our previous visit. He stuck his head in the window, his eyes going wide and curious at Escott’s huddled form.

  “Is Shoe around? His friend Escott’s been hurt.”

  He wasted no time on the tableau, but straightened and shouted to someone by the nightclub door, who disappeared inside.

  “How bad is he?”

  “Don’t know—it’s a knife wound; he didn’t feel it at first.”

  “Yeah, that’s how they are.” He spoke from experience, but didn’t elaborate.

  Escott’s eyes were open, but he didn’t seem aware of very much. His lips were blue and a sheen of sweat covered his cold face. I knew shock when I saw it and wished to God Coldfield would hurry. After a couple of years of pressing the sodden handkerchief, I looked up and saw his face in the passenger window.

  “Shit, what happened?”

  “Knife fight. He wanted to come here.”

  “It’s his lucky night,” he said, and looked back at the club entrance and told someone to hurry. That someone was introduced as Dr. Clarson, who peered at Escott and got into the backseat, telling me where to drive. Coldfield got in the other side and we took off. Three blocks later I stopped in front of a dusty stairway leading into a dark building. The street-level sign declared the doctor’s office was in room 201 and gave the hours.

  Coldfield took over pressure duty while Clarson went up to unlock things and turn on the lights. Between the two of us, Coldfield and I got Escott up to the office, hopefully without inflicting more damage. Escott must have been in some pain by then; his gray eyes rolled up at the harsh white light and kept on going to the top of his head.

  As the waiting telescoped, I became very conscious of Escott’s soft breathing. Every few seconds I had to stifle the urge to get up and check things. Leg muscles would tighten, then forcibly relax as I willed myself to stay put so as not to break the doctor’s concentration. Another twitch would bring up another excuse. For something to do I pretended to breathe. In that small and very quiet waiting room, Coldfield might possibly just notice its absence as Escott had.

  Escott . . .

  When there was a long, descending sigh in the next room, Coldfield went bolt upright in his chair and looked at me.

  The doctor stood up straight and nodded over his work. His had been the sigh we had heard. We crowded into the doorway to see. Escott’s clothes had been peeled away, leaving his trunk pale and vulnerable except for the bandages just under the line of his rib cage. Clarson washed up at a tiny sink in the corner and dried his hands carefully.

  “How do I handle it, Shoe?” he asked without turning.

  Coldfield looked at me. “You want to tell me now?”

  I told him how it had happened and that it had something to do with Escott’s investigation of my case. Clarson shook his head, giving his silent opinion of grown men trying to act like Saturday-afternoon serial heroes.

  “He won’t be kicking off just yet,” he told us. “So I guess there’s no harm in keeping this between us.”

  “What do we do now?” asked Coldfield .

  “Leave him here tonight, let him rest. He lost a lot of blood and got some muscle cut up, but no internal stuff or he wouldn’t be here.” He didn’t specify if he meant the office versus an emergency room or among the living.

  “What about tomorrow?”

  “We’ll see in the morning. I don’t want him moved for now. I’m keeping him quiet for a few hours, so you two can go on. I’ll call you at the club if there’s any trouble.”

  “Do you anticipate any?” I asked.

  “Not really, infection at the most. I cleaned him up good, but knives can be dirty.”

  Coldfield and I thanked him and went downstairs to the car. There was some blood on the upholstery, but it was dry now. We were just getting inside when a long, bony body lurched at us from behind. It was Cal, the skinny kid who shined shoes, but now he was minus his box and easy smile.

  Coldfield was surprised, which for him was the same as being annoyed. “What you doing out of bed, boy?”

  “Jimmy told me about Mist’ Escott.”

  “He’s all right now—”

  “Can I see him?”

  “He’s not even awake and the doctor says he needs rest. He’s not hurt too bad, so come on and get in the car.”

  Cal looked wistfully up the stairs, then reluctantly got in between us. I drove back to the Shoe Box and Coldfield had me park around the back. Without being told, Cal got out and trotted ahead of us to the back door.

  “He lives here?” I asked.

  “Yeah, him and a few other boys his age. They earn their keep and it’s respectable work.”

  “What about their families?”

  “Some don’t have any to speak of. Cal’s dad was killed in an accident and his mama works in a bar so she can be close to the booze. When she climbs out of the bottle, Cal will move back with her, but until then he’s got a home here.”

  “In a nightclub?”

  The question should have annoyed him, but didn’t. “My sister comes by to look after them. This place is a castle compared to where they’ve been. I make ’em work and when they aren’t working, they go to school. I don’t force anything they don’t want; they can leave when they like, and some do, but the smart ones don’t.”

  The headline, “Bronze Belt Boys’ Town” jumped into my head. It would make a good story, but now was hardly the time for an interview.

  “Want to come in for a drink?” he asked.

  “Thanks, but next time. I need to get home and clean up.”

  “You got a way home?”

  “I can walk.”

  “Not in this neighborhood, you can’t. Come on, my turn to drive you.” We went to his newer Nash and got in. He asked where I lived and I told him. “That’s a pretty long walk.”

  “I like to walk.”

  “In some parts of this town, you’re better off running.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” I handed over the keys to Escott’s car. “Here, I won’t be by till late tomorrow, you take care of them.”

  “Sure. You still going to mess with Morelli?”

  “I have to, now.”

  “Take some advice and don’t.” He didn’t mention the consequences. He didn’t have to since we were both thinking about Escott.

  Back in my room I packed my dirty laundry up for the staff to work on. To save trouble explaining the bloodstains I just threw the shirt away. I spent the rest of the night flat on my back and staring at the ceiling from the bed. It was depressing having to sit through the long early-morning hours alone and not be able to watch the dawn and the change of mood a new day can bring. The only good thing was the oblivion it brought as soon as the lid of my trunk came down, and then an instant later it seemed, there was another fresh night ahead of me, as though the day had never happened.

  I phoned the Shoe Box first thing and talked to Coldfield.

  “You been out all day? I tried to call.”

  “Yeah. Call me for what? Is he all right?”

  “He’s weak, but insisted on going home. I thought you’d want to know, is all.” He gave me a different address from the little office and I wrote it down. “You aren’t going to tire him?”

  “No, just apologize for putting him through all this.”

  “It’s no one’s fault but the s.o.b. with the knife.”

  I agreed and hung up.

  The taxi dropped me at a row of two- and three-story buildings that looked old enough to have escaped the Fire, or had been built immediately afterward. Kids played in the quiet street, and parents sat on the steps and fanned themselves in the twilight. It was a respectab
le middle-class neighborhood. It hardly seemed suitable for Escott, but then again I couldn’t think what else would have been right.

  I rang the bell of a brown brick building of three floors and Cal opened the door.

  “Hi, Mist’ Fleming. Shoe said you was coming.”

  From somewhere close inside, Escott said, “Were coming, Cal.”

  Cal grinned and said it again correctly, standing back for me. It was a small entryway, with a rack on the wall to hang hats and coats. Directly ahead were stairs leading up into shadows. On their left was a hall going through to the back of the house. An open set of double doors were parallel to the stairs, and beyond them was a cramped sitting room, where Escott was lying on an old chintz-covered sofa. He was in a dark purple bathrobe; the color made him look more pale than he was. There were tired circles under his eyes, but he seemed glad to see me.

  “Come and sit down. Will you have some tea?”

  The question was for Cal’s benefit; I politely declined. “You look better than last night. How do you feel?”

  “I’ll live through it. Shoe invited me to stay at his place, but I wanted to come home. We finally compromised, and he let me go, but only on condition that Cal stays over and keeps an eye on me.”

  “Good, I was afraid you’d be alone.”

  At second look, the place only seemed cramped. The high ceilings made the floor area appear smaller in proportion. The floor was highly polished, reflecting the lamplight and a few comfortable old pieces of furniture. Several pictures hung by long wires from the upper moldings. They were all large mediocre prints of naked women reclining on clouds with naked babies and doves, and were hardly consistent with Escott’s character.

  “Did this place come furnished?

  He noticed where I was looking, his eyes crinkling. “Do you like them?”

  “They’re . . . interesting.”

  He didn’t miss my expression. “You have excellent taste. They shall no doubt prove profitable to the junk dealer as soon as I can get around to it.”

  “They came with the house?”

  “Yes, certainly. It has an interesting history. I have it on good account from my neighbors that the place was once a bordello.”

  “The previous tenants are gone?”

  “Yes, the owner died some time ago, the place went for sale, and I was able to buy it quite cheaply, as no one wanted to live here. You know, I still occasionally have to turn away an old customer who hasn’t heard the news yet. My life is not dull—sometimes odd, but never dull.” He sipped his tea. “Shoe thinks I should talk you out of pursuing your own case and to turn it over the police.”

  “You know I can’t go to them the way I am.”

  “I know, but Shoe doesn’t. He obviously has decided that I have no further interest in it because of this little incident.”

  “I’m not too surprised; he mentioned it last night. I am sorry about this. If I’d been faster—”

  He shook his head. “No one else could have been faster, I’ve seen it and you did save me, after all, and I am grateful. Forget about it, I’ll be up and doing soon enough.”

  Cal came in with a glass of water and a small bottle of pills. “It’s time.”

  Grimacing and accepting two, he washed them down quickly to get it over with, then Cal took the glass away to the kitchen. As soon as he was gone, Escott spit the pills fastidiously into a handkerchief and tucked it into the robe’s pocket. He drank more tea to wash away their taste.

  “What gives?” I asked.

  “They’re morphine. I’ve seen what it can do to people, and I’d really rather endure the pain. At least I know it will go away. Clarson is an excellent fellow and discreet, but he really should know better. I had an armful of the stuff this morning and could hardly do anything for myself.”

  I wondered what he could possibly feel up to doing in his condition. “Do you need anything now?”

  “Only more patience.”

  “You aren’t talking me out of this mess?”

  “We’re enough alike that I know better than to try.”

  “I’m going there soon.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tomorrow. I want to give them time to cool down from last night’s fracas. They wanted to know who we were with. You think they thought we were Paco’s men?”

  “Possibly, or any of a dozen smaller gangs out for trouble. I’m inclined to think they were just naturally suspicious. What do you plan to do?”

  “I was a journalist two weeks ago.... I’ll just check things out like it was any other story and see what happens.” Vague at best as an idea, but it had worked for me on other occasions and had turned into acceptable copy. I was hoping to turn this into my missing memory.

  Escott was visibly tired, so I wished him well and left, walking around the city for a couple of hours. Coldfield was right about some places being dangerous, but I was a big boy now and could take care of myself. I was looking things over, getting acquainted with the streets and the personality of each block, slowly working toward the Stockyards and my inevitable stop there.

  By now I had ceased to be too squeamish about the blood drinking. That oddball reaction had hit me on my second visit there. My first feeding had been done in a kind of panic; “you must do this or die.” It had been quick, dreamlike, and with no time to think. My second visit had been more leisurely, and when it came down to brass tacks, I almost balked. The thought of opening an animal’s vein with my teeth and sucking blood from the wound was nauseating, but out of necessity I had to push the thought from my mind and get on with the business. Intellectually, I still had trouble handling the process, but by now I was at least getting used to it. It helped to think of it in terms of a habit, like brushing one’s teeth; boring, but it had to be done.

  The blood completely satisfied my hunger and gave me strength, but its ingestion was a far cry from sitting comfortably around a table with friends and socializing into the small hours over real food and drink.

  Leaving the yards, I wandered a long time until I found an all-night theatre and went in. Leslie Howard pined after Merle Oberon in The Scarlet Pimpernel, and I watched it three times in a row, until I was rooting for Raymond Massey to win. He never did, so I went home and read the papers until dawn.

  The personals still carried my question to Maureen, but had no reply. I told myself again I was a fool to hope after all these years and should just give it up. As always, I gave a mental shrug. It wouldn’t hurt for just one more week, it really wouldn’t.

  But it really did. The trick was to ignore the hurt and keep hoping.

  The tuxedo fit well enough. I was one of those lucky ones who could buy things right off the rack, even pants. The new patent leather shoes were a bit snug, but they’d be well broken in tonight. A mirror would have been useful, for I was interested in how young I appeared. I’d fed heavily last night to obtain a good color as well, as I planned to pass myself off as Gerald Fleming again.

  I transferred some cash into a new wallet and worked the stiffness from it. The rest of my money was locked in the trunk with my other personal papers. The wallet had a little pasteboard card with lines for printing one’s name and address. I filled it in with the name of Gerald Fleming, a phony out-of-town address, and the name of Jack Fleming as someone to contact in case of an emergency. As a legal ID it was totally useless, but better than nothing at all. I draped the white silk scarf so it hung in front, and finished things off with the top hat.

  I left by the back door, partially from paranoia, partially from the idea that if anyone in the lobby glommed me in this memorable getup they’d raise my rent. A few blocks away I caught a cab and had it take me to the lion’s den.

  Tonight the windows of the Nightcrawler were bright, and fancy people were streaming in and out even at this early hour. I paid the driver and trotted up the wide steps in order to slip inside with a knot of revelers, but found my way suddenly blocked by an agile mountain disguised as a man in a tuxedo. He had
short blond hair, small eyes, and a chronically grim set to his mouth.

  “Good evening,” he said civilly. I mumbled a reply of some kind, noting he was giving me careful study. His eyes flicked to some grillwork set like an oversized vent in one branch of the U-shaped entrance. The darkness of the small room beyond wasn’t quite adequate to hide the man with the gun who sat there. He nodded and the mountain stood aside and let me by. I pretended not to notice this exchange, as they decided I wasn’t a dangerous character. It was favorable to be underestimated. I looked young and hopefully innocent—all that was needed was a touch of stupidity. Considering some of my antics from the past, that would probably be very easy.

  The doorman did his duty, but I paused at the threshold with a brief attack of doubt and insecurity. Though it would have been too dangerous for him, I wished Escott was along. I missed his confidence. Despite the advantages I had now, I could still get scared. For just one second I nearly turned back, but a silly-looking woman with frizzed black hair and too much makeup caught a look at me and whooped hello. Her party had preceded me coming in and were already more than a little drunk.

  “Whatcha waitin’ for, a streetcar? Come on in, cutey,” she shrilled.

  I couldn’t stand this kind of drunk, but went in before I started thinking again. She latched on to my arm.

  “Isn’t he cute? Hey, Ricky, isn’t he cute, isn’t he?”

  Ricky said, “Yeah,” and swayed a little. How had they qualified getting in if the watchdogs had been so careful with me?

  “That’s how I like ’em, tall ’n cute,” she told Ricky reproachfully. I hadn’t been cute since I traded my short pants in for an older brother’s hand-me-downs, but let them drag me inside. Stepping away from the door, I heard the men behind us chuckling. Good. If they found my situation something to laugh at, they might also think me harmless.

  As politely as possible under the circumstances, I detached myself from the lady’s grip and checked my hat and scarf in with the first of the many stunning blonds that worked there. Platinum was the dominant color, apparently a requirement for employment. They wore short black dresses decorated with silver sequins in the pattern of a spider’s web. Over their hearts were black, red and silver pins of stylized spiders, all of which were a nice gimmick to tie in with the name of the club.