The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

She was, rumor had it, from some backwoods swamp-filled southern state where fried alligator was the blue plate special, but her accent, manner, and way of thinking were now pure New Yorker.

  “I buy you dinner. A nice one.”

  “That’s it?”

  “We buy you dinner,” said Barrett, pushing around me. ="0"A very nice one.”

  “How can a girl refuse? Okay, what’s your big emergency? Let’s get the business part out of the way.”

  “I’m needing current news on Fleish Brogan and if he’s connected to Brogan Trucking,” I said.

  “Is that all?”

  “And if he was involved with the sudden disappearance of a well-heeled man seven years ago.”

  “You mean Judge Crater? He’s under the boardwalk on Coney Island. Everyone knows that.”

  “That was eight years ago. This would be August, 1931.”

  “It’s before I got here, but there might be something in the files. Lemme see what Clappie’s got.”

  She was either highly confident of Clapsaddle’s unconscious state or had earned a place in his inner circle. No one outside it called him that to his face without collecting a shiner.

  Izzy opened a file drawer with “1930-34” on the label and scrounged toward the back, pulling out a fat folder. “Here’s his stuff from August.”

  She dropped it on the desk and flipped through yellowed clippings of old stories and his weekly column. A column headline popped out as she got to the bottom of the stack, and she read it aloud.

  ‘Graft’ Endicott—Another Judge Crater?

  Naomi Endicott, wife of criminal attorney—you may draw your own sense of irony from that descriptive—Griffin “Graft” Endicott, has filed a missing persons report with the police. Her wayward husband has been gone for three weeks, and the lady is in need of butter and egg money.

  According to my sources, Endicott made a forty-thousand dollar withdrawal from their joint bank account in the first week of this month, leaving his better half high and dry with whatever pocket change she could find under the sofa cushions.

  The withdrawal and subsequent vanishing of Endicott follows close on the heels of his being subpoenaed by our fair city’s DA. One may conclude that this is not a case for trial but rather a case of cause-and-effect.

  The famously flamboyant Mr. Endicott, who cannot stand to read a paper unless his name was mentioned in it at least twice, has not sent so much as a postcard to his nearest and dearest in all this time. It is this reporter’s opinion that if he knows what’s good for him, the jolly fellow will continue to be missing indefinitely.

  Of course, I must mention that You-Know-Who, leading the pack of Endicott’s cantankerous clients, must also want an appointment with the bunked barrister; five minutes would be enough for Y-K-W to encourage him to take a long walk off a short pier.

  Unless that’s happened already in Brazil?

  Watch this space.

  The column was fitted around a photo of an aristocratically pretty woman and captioned “Naomi Endicott, Deserted Dame.” It must have been taken in happier times; she was smiling.

  “I remember that now,” I said. “It was the nine-day wonder. Who had it in for Endicott?”

  Izzy gave a short laugh. “You kidding? Everybody.”

  “How about the top ten names in order of the most violent?”

  “Fleming, what are you up to?”

  “Top ten. Bad tempered, most likely to use a machine gun? Ride with me on this and the byline is yours.” I was trusting Barrett would see to it she forgot this part of the conversation. Yes, I’m a manipulative stinker, but it was the quickest way to get things done. “Did they ever find Endicott?”

  “No they did not,” said a man in an irritated drawl. “Izzy, can you not entertain your male callers in some other part of the building and allow me to die in peace?”

  She made no reply, but opened a drawer, pulling out a bottle of vodka. She sloshed two fingers into a glass and took it to him. “Hair of the dog, Clappie. Hoist away.”

  He struggled to sit up and dutifully hoisted. “What day is it?”

  “Monday night.”

  He groaned. “Impossible. Far too early in the week. Everyone go away.”

  “Not just yet. Get a load of who walked in. Remember Jack Fleming?”

  Clapsaddle squinted at me. He was in his forties, blond hair turning silver, his once handsome features going soft, sliding fast from distinguished and into dissipated, so he looked ten years older. That’s what regular weekend benders will do to you. “Yes, you owe me five dollars.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  He squinted at Barrett. “Then it’s you who owes me five dollars.”

  Barrett started to protest, but Izzy shook her head. “Never mind, he says that to everyone and sometimes it works. Behave yourself, Clappie.”

  “Thus speaks my diminutive conscience. Did we make our deadline today?”

  “With thirty seconds to spare. It’s a whizzer of a story, too.”

  “Clip it for me to read on Wednesday. Now, what must I do to get rid of you three?”

  I grabbed the opportunity to use his encyclopedic brain. “Tell me what you know about Fleish Brogan, does he still run a trucking company, and does he make people disappear?”

  “He’s a smart and dangerous bas—son of a gun.” Clapsaddle was not so hung over as to use vulgarities in front of a female. It was one of his private rules. “Yes, he does, and it’s been known to happen.”

  “Did he have any connection to Graft Endicott in ’31?’

  “Such as Endicott defending Brogan on a murder charge and being so clumsy as to get caught trying to bribe a jury member? They declared a mistrial and didn’t go for another. Evidence mysteriously disappeared from the DA’s office at about the same time as Endicott.”

  “Endicott did that?”

  “Tip of the iceberg, my lad. You were around here then, where’s your memory?”

  “I pickled it that year.”

  “Yes, you put in a lot of evenings on the dog watch. Avoid it next time by getting yourself a column and a brilliant guardian angel to write it for you.” He threw a companionable wink at Izzy, who shook her head and went back to the desk to flip through the clippings.

  “About Endicott. . .?”

  “The DA had a solid case, but the graftster disappeared. The first thing they suspected was that Brogan had removed him. Endicott would have violated attorney-client privilege and done his best imitation of a canary if it meant avoiding a trip upstate to scenic Ossining on the Hudson. The second thing they suspected, after they found he’d cleaned out his bank account, was that he’d done a bunk to South America.”

  “Who was Brogan supposed to have murdered?”

  “A business rival who failed to follow through on threats he’d made to kill Brogan. They found the body on a sidewalk outside the Pendlebury Hotel; supposedly he leaped to his death all on his own. That said, what is your interest in the two of them?”

  “I’m working on a story.”

  “For whom? I’ve friends employed by various Chicago papers and none of them dress so well.”

  “The Times is involved,” said Barrett. “London, of course.” He’d played up his accent, trying to sound more English, I guess. I wanted to kick him.

  “And I’m the Duchess of Windsor,” said Clapsaddle, waking up more. “What’s the story, Fleming?”

  “You’ll read it in Atlantic Monthly,” I said. “Or True Detective, I’ve not made up my mind where to send it.”

  Clapsaddle growled, but it turned into a groan, and cupped his head with one hand. Green from the neck up, he was in no condition to attempt to scoop me.

  “Where does Brogan hang his hat on a Monday night?” I asked. “His trucking firm?”

  “Hardly. He has lesser minions running that place. It’s gone legit now, anyway. He’s got other businesses like that chop-house over on . . . oh, that burned down.”

  “Gang war?”

&nbs
p; “Drunk cook. Brogan invested in a new place, trading the cook for a bartender and dancing girls, but you can still get a good steak if you know to ask for it.”

  “Where’s the new joint?”

  “Do I look like a telephone operator? There’s a precinct house up the street; ask the desk sergeant. The police usually know where to find someone like Brogan; it’s putting and keeping a collar on him that’s the hard part.”

  During this exchange, Izzy futzed with the typewriter, dropping a cover over it and straightening papers. I threw a glance her way, but she just shook her head again.

  “Leave me out of it,” she said. “You don’t work here; I do, and I like it.” She jammed a hat on her head, pulled on a coat, got a purse and gloves from a desk drawer, and marched out. “Get some sleep, Clappie. I’ll see you Wednesday. Bye, Fleming.”

  “Don’t we owe her a meal?” asked Barrett.

  “That would be the lady’s choice,” I said. “She’s not interested.”

  “Then perhaps I can make this fellow a bit more cooperative.”

  He wanted to hypnotize Clapsaddle, who was still squiffy as hell from his weekend party. I didn’t care to stand around and watch that. “Forget it. Let’s find that precinct house. See you around, Clapsaddle.”

  “If the gods decree such a calamity, then somehow I must endure.” He eased back on the couch with a groan and put one arm over his eyes.

  I led the way out. Barrett hesitated, but caught up with me in the hall.

  “This is not good,” I said.

  “In what way?”

  “Say we find Brogan, and say he’s behind the body you found. Someone like Fleish Brogan is no small fish. He is a big bad shark surrounded by other sharks. We can probably get past that and isolate him, but then what? What do you do with him?”

  “It does bear consideration,” he admitted.

  “Which you haven’t done.”

  “I never thought we’d come this far.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Really, Fleming, all you have is a name on a trucking firm and the say-so of a drunkard that there is a connection between that name and a missing lawyer. There’s no proof that the body I found was Endicott’s. It could be some other man.”

  “Then we should stop now and go back to your house.”

  “We cannot. Whoever shot us might discover that it didn’t work. They could return later to make a better job of it, and that puts members of my household in danger. I won’t have that.”

  “Then you want to carry this through?”

  “Yes.”

  “How far?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You mentioned retribution. I know how messy that can get. Make too much of a mess and you lose that quiet life on your estate. You’d have to pull up, leave, and not come back. If the cops don’t come looking for you, the bad guys will.”

  He looked annoyed. “My choices are not at all appealing. I can drop matters now and hope to not be bothered again.”

  “Hope, yeah. Hope is such a wonderful thing.”

  “Or track down the guilty party and see to it he leaves me alone.”

  “Evil-eye whammy, yeah, good stuff. Not permanent, but good.”

  “Or . . .what?”

  “Make a mess, but make sure you’re not blamed for it.”

  “How does one do that?”

  “Guys like Brogan always have enemies. Sometimes you don’t have to look very far to find them. Let’s track him down, size up his situation, and take it from there. This could run for a few nights, though.”

  He shrugged. “This city has many fine hotels. I can telephone a neighbor to look after my horses, and I’ve a bag of my earth in the car. What about you?”

  “It’s in my money belt.”

  “Interesting. I should obtain one of those.”

  “Great, fine, and we have to lose our names.”

  “Sensible.”

  “And I’m in charge. That means you don’t try to help unless I ask for it. That bit you threw in about The Times took Clapsaddle off the rails.”

  “On the contrary, I distracted him from becoming too curious about you.”

  “Which I could have handled. You want this resolved, then I have to run the show. If horses come into it, then you’re in charge, but this is stuff I know.”

  “I suppose you do.”

  “There’s another part to it—I need to know you can watch my back.”

  That surprised him. >

  “Good. Mouth shut, eyes open, we’ll do okay.”

  “You’re different, Mr. Fleming.”

  I tried not to ask, but the words popped out. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Calmer, more confident than I remember.”

  Could have knocked me over with a feather. “It’s the suit.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do, and what’s with you giving Izzy the eye?”

  “I’m undead, not dead.”

  “No argument, but I’ll remind you that only last night you were crying into your teacup about Emily.”

  He considered that. “True. But what you said opened my eyes.”

  “Hah?”

  “Your unexpectedly profound statement about it being the lady’s choice. Such is my situation with Emily. The lady made her choice.”

  “You bounce from Emily to a new girl just like that?”

  “Hardly. But Emily’s gone for good, and I’ve been moping for over a month about it. The fact is, it was rather a relief. We’re no longer fighting and hurting each other. I hope she finds happiness. Why should I not seek a portion for myself?”

  “No argument, but—”

  “I have been told many times that it is a free country. Miss DeLeon is over twenty-one and quite able to make her own decisions.”

  “Yeah, but. . .”

  “What?”

  I looked him in the eye. “Izzy is a friend of mine.”

  “Yes. . .?”

  “Make her cry and I will hurt you.”

  He stared, then chuckled. “Well-a-day. Perhaps there is a gentleman lurking under that fedora after all.”

  I wanted to pop him one, just as a public service.

  He looked toward the city room and Clapsaddle’s office. “I still think I should try getting through to that fellow. It won’t take long.”

  “Maybe, but this will be faster.”

  “What will?”

  I punched the button for the elevator. The doors parted instantly since it was still on our floor. Izzy was inside, arms and ankles crossed, leaning on the wall as though settled in for a long wait.

  “This,” I said, stepping in. “There are two things you can rely on in the news trade: that Isabelle DeLeon never turned down a chance for a scoop or a free meal.”

  “Smart aleck,” she said, and told the operator to take us to the lobby. The doors silently shut us in.

  “Can you find Brogan for us?” I asked her.

  “Only if I come along to watch.”

  “Deal.” I put my hand out and we shook, again knowing that Barrett could make her forget anything inconvenient.

  “But Mr. Clapsaddle said that this Brogan was dangerous,” said Barrett. “I should not like to take the lady into anything approaching peril.”

  “Trust me, you want Miss DeLeon where you can see her. It’s when she’s out of sight that she can be a problem.”

  “Really, Fleming—”

  “Yeah, really. She once slipped into the White House without anyone being the wiser.”

  “Indeed?” He looked at her, clearly curious.

  “I’ll tell you about it over dinner, big boy,” she said, linking an arm through his. “A nice dinner. . . .”

  I didn’t say a word about being relegated to the backseat of the Studebaker while Barrett tried charming Isabelle in the front. She’d gotten faster and sharper in two years—and that from a running start—so I wasn’t worried he’d seduce her off her feet when I wasn’t lookin
g. It was educational watching him trying to find out about her while she returned the favor, neither of them getting far, but enjoying the game.

  Izzy gave directions to a New York hotspot that was popular enough to bring in crowds even on a Monday. Well-dressed people loitered around the entrance, waiting for or emerging from cabs. There was no parking nearby, of course. Barrett found an opening a block away, this time pulling in sedately. She told him to lock it, which he did with a slight shrug, then they linked arms and strolled. I was a few steps behind.