The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

He bounced one eyebrow. “And I thought it was Mr. McCallen who was the blackmailer. What about this LaCelle and his toughs? Will he be at this event?”

  “Probably.”

  “Then I shall be happy to attend.”

  “Great, just don’t tell Bobbi you’re there adding to your rogues’gallery files.”

  “Certainly not. You do seem determined to fill up my social calendar this week. I phoned Shoe, and we’ve an appointment for dinner and to see the show playing at his club on Wednesday.”

  “You can have my plate of snails.”

  “If Shoe is not merely boasting about this new chef he’s acquired I just may do that.”

  AS this was the first real date Bobbi and I had in a while, I put a little extra effort into making myself presentable. The tuxedo with the white coat was back from the cleaners, but I double-checked it for any sign of dark lint, just in case. Though I couldn’t see anything in a mirror, I at least felt like I looked damned sharp. Escott glanced up long enough to say that I’d outdone myself, wished me and Miss Smythe a most enjoyable time, then went back to his evening papers. Unless work beckoned, he was more stay-at-home than Emily Dickinson ever thought to be, but minus the poetry writing to distract him. He had other activities to fill the hours.

  His latest project with the crossbows appeared to be complete. The dining room and its big table were all cleared and cleaned, and hanging from its walls like trophies were the weapons he’d repaired. He’d been doing some practice with them, too. At the far end of the downstairs hall he kept a bale of old rolled up carpet about two feet thick and four feet square bound tight with rope. Most of the time he threw a tablecloth over the ratty thing to conceal it, but that was off now, revealing the target he’d tacked on the side. The red bull’s-eye center was nearly eaten out by holes made from crossbow bolts.

  Everyone should have a hobby. Besides, this beat the indoor pistol firing that had come before the crossbows. The neighbors had had fits complaining about the noise until I persuaded him to start going to a real shooting range.

  I hopped in the Buick and went straight to Jason McCallen’s place. It didn’t look too promising; all the lights were out and his car was gone. On the slim chance that he might be playing games and skulking inside, I did another break-and-enter routine, though with me it was more of a vanish-and-slip-in-through-the-cracks act.

  The living room was very still and dim. I listened hard before moving, but couldn’t hear anything. My flashlight brightened things considerably, but did not reveal the presence of the owner, though it flushed the cat out as I went searching. The bedroom was in order, the clothing in the closet and bureau undisturbed, so McCallen hadn’t packed for a lengthy trip—unless he planned to buy what he needed along the way.

  In the kitchen the ample food in the cat’s dish was still fresh, so the animal was in no danger of starving. It reassured me more than anything else I’d seen here that McCallen planned to return. He could have dropped in at any time today to feed his pet, who was presently trying to leave a coating of shed fur on my tux pants as he rubbed against me. I found the phone and called Escott. He took the negative news with a kind of verbal shrug.

  “Nothing for it then but to get on to the rest of your evening.”

  “I’ll try here again later. He has to come back to sleep sometime.” I had the idea of waking McCallen in the wee hours to deliver my message. If I did it right he wouldn’t even remember it as a dream.

  “Only if it’s convenient to you,” said Escott.

  I hung up and vanished, which scared the hell out of the cat, to judge by his hiss and yowl as he tore from the room. Animals are usually fine with me until I try disappearing. Maybe they don’t like the cold in the space I occupy. I floated all the way across the street to the car, filling back into myself right in the driver’s seat and feeling pretty smug about my ability to do so. Of course, I’d have felt a whole lot more smug if I’d actually reappeared in my own vehicle. The damp wind from the north had caused me to drift too far to the left. I was in somebody else’s Studebaker.

  A nice car, but my key wouldn’t fit. I sieved out and humbly walked to my Buick.

  A short drive later and I found a parking space no more than a dozen steps from Moe’s tavern. Maybe I’d have better luck than Escott at finding McCallen here.

  The main room held only a scattering of couples, but no sign of McCallen, Paterno, or any of the others who had chased me. I crossed to the curtained-off area they’d emerged from, but no one was there either. The only familiar face in the joint was Jim Waters, who sat sideways at one of the tables so he could stretch out his legs. I had time for a short visit, so I went over, said hello, shook hands, and apologized for my swift exit the other night.

  “What was that all about?” he asked after inviting me to sit. “What did you do to get that big guy so mad at you?”

  “It’s a long story with no payoff. I need to settle something with him, but not when he’s surrounded by a crowd.”

  “Well, I’m glad you got away. Leastwise, you don’t look worse for the wear, so I’m assuming you got away.” He gave my duds a thorough eyeballing. My topcoat must have represented a month’s earnings for him, even with an army pension.

  “I’m taking my girl someplace fancy tonight,” I explained. “Buy you a beer?”

  He had one empty bottle on the table by him. “I won’t say no so long as I buy the next round.”

  I lifted the bottle so the waiter at the bar could see and he nodded back. “This’ll sound crazy, but I can’t drink alcohol.”

  Waters laughed once. “I knew there was something wrong with you. You under the age limit?”

  “No, it’s just bad for my insides. Makes me sick as a dog, but I don’t mind watching someone else enjoying a cold one.” The waiter misunderstood my order and brought two bottles. Waters assured me he could make a home for the spare. I let him clear his throat with a good swallow of brew. “That big Scotsman, you know anything about him?”

  “Thought he was your friend.”

  “No friend. It’s a business deal with us, and I don’t know him that well, or the people with him.”

  “I see him here a few times a week with his crew. They don’t mix much with the rest of the crowd, mostly stay in the back.”

  “They must be tone deaf. What do they do there?”

  “Talking and drinking. Once in a while I hear them arguing about stuff when I’m trying to sing. I usually just do a louder number.”

  “Arguing?”

  “Donno about what, I don’t pay ’em much mind. Weird-looking bunch. Couple of ’em have that hungry, mad-at-the-world look. Maybe they’re communists.”

  That caught my attention. It might explain a few things about why someone was willing to pay McCallen a couple of grand. Maybe he’d gotten Miss Sommerfeld to join the communist party and instead of love letters the envelope was full of papers proving it. That would break the engagement to her prince fast enough. If there was one thing royalty hated more than rioting peasants, it was rioting communist peasants.

  “Does anyone else here know for sure? The staff? The owner?”

  “I doubt it. Moe lets ’em have the room so long as they keep buying beer. He doesn’t ask questions unless somebody starts busting furniture.”

  Since this seemed to be the limit of his information I asked him about his music. “Singing tonight?”

  “It’s early yet. I like to have some kind of a crowd before I interrupt their talking. You still serious about that nightclub?”

  “Yeah.” But I could tell he wasn’t quite buying it yet. I wanted very much to convince him what I had planned was more than just some kid’s ambitious pipe dream. “Look, how would you like to meet Bobbi Smythe? She’s going to be on the Archy Grant Variety Hour tomorrow night and afterward there’s going to be a celebration at the Nightcrawler Club. I’ll introduce you.”

  “I don’t know if that’s my kind of party—”

  “You need to meet h
er anyway. Once my club’s up and running you’ll be working together.”

  He hemmed and hawed until I was tempted to give him a little hypnotic nudge. Then: “Is she as pretty as she sings? I’ve heard her on the radio a few times.”

  “Brother, she’s a knockout.”

  “Well . . . I think I could be persuaded to—”

  “Great, I’ll have a paid-up cab outside your store tomorrow at seventhirty.”

  He gave me a startled look and chuckled. “You don’t want me to change my mind, do you?”

  I grinned back. “Nope.”

  He shook his head and started on the second beer. “This club of yours, where you setting up?”

  I gave a shrug. “The best location I can afford.”

  “Well, you look like you can buy the best. Is it your money or the mob’s?”

  Maybe I’d been hanging around Gordy and his friends too much. Something of them must have been rubbing off onto me. On the other hand, in these hard times the only people with bucks were the racketeers. “I earned it, and I pay taxes on it.” True statements, but both avoided a direct answer about its source.

  He nodded, a wise gleam in his eyes. He was on to me all right, but willing to let me keep my secrets. “You got a name for this place yet?”

  I’d been sitting on that one for a long time. The name had come to me one night with no effort or thought, yet it struck me as being absolutely perfect. “Oh, yeah. I do.”

  “Ready to share it?”

  I had to grin again, I was so pleased with myself. “Lady Crymsyn.”

  8

  “A blues club named Crymsyn?” Waters gave me a cockeyed smile of wry doubt.

  And spelled funny to boot. I figured it’d be memorable, not underwhelming, but he wasn’t going to see me falter. The name was good luck, and I knew it. “The club won’t be strictly blues. I’m planning to have in all kinds of music, lots of other talents.” “What? Like magicians and dog acts?”

  “Only if they play good music and can sing to it.”

  That got a chuckle. “Then I’ll allow as you just might get away with it.”

  I decided he wasn’t trying to throw a blanket on things, only being innately cautious. He didn’t know me from Adam, after all. I could be some crazed eccentric out to impress a stranger before disappearing into the crowd never to return.

  There was one sure way to dispel that impression; all I had to do was find the right location to put the joint.

  He sipped his beer and we talked about some of the other singers and bands in Chicago that would fit the bill for Lady Crymsyn. He’d been to the Shoe Box a few times with friends, and was impressed when I said I knew the owner.

  “He has some prime talent playing his place, but I heard Shoe Coldfield himself was a killer,” he said.

  “That I wouldn’t know about. He’s always been straight up with me. Pulled me out of a couple jams a while back.”

  “What kind of jams?”

  Sometimes I talked too much. Not wanting to scare him off, I trimmed the complicated and violent past down to essentials. “I had trouble with some guys not unlike this stuff going on with McCallen. Shoe came by and helped peel me off the sidewalk.”

  He sat back, looking shrewd as Solomon. “There’s a lot you’re not telling, son.”

  “When I know you better. And when I have more time. For right now, what I do know for sure about Shoe is that he’s a businessman looking after his part of the world.”

  “But he’s still mob.”

  “Does that make him much different from a banker foreclosing on a widow? He’s legal, but it’s wrong. Shoe looks after his own.”

  “Meaning he might shoot the banker but not turn out the widow?”

  “Why don’t you come meet him sometime and judge for yourself?”

  Waters gave a good-natured shrug. “I won’t say yes or no.”

  “Maybe I can bring him here some night. I’d like him to hear you sing.”

  “What you planning on? Some kind of audition?”

  “That’s up to Shoe. I can’t make promises for him, but I think it’d be a hell of a thing to have you playing at the Shoe Box.”

  “A white guy at a colored place?”

  “If Shoe says you’re in, you’re in. Turn the lights out and your music still hits the heart same as the rest.”

  He flapped a hand. “Sure thing. Bring him anytime you want, there’s no cover, but I don’t know if Moe might have a problem with a colored guy coming in here.”

  I smiled. “I’ll have a little talk with him. He won’t mind.”

  “Jeez, boy, but you are sure of yourself.”

  “That’s the best way to go in this town.” Of course, it does help to have a hypnotic edge over people.

  “You know what kind of odds are against you for success with a new club?” he asked.

  “I’ve been getting a pretty good idea from others in the business.”

  “Getting’s not the same as having, and you gotta pardon me if I think you look too young to have much experience for this sort of game.”

  I nodded, giving him that point. My apparent youth would probably always work against me. I was getting used to dealing with it. “I know, but it’s my investment to risk, my dream to bring about. Besides, I know enough to hire people who will be experienced.”

  “That’s half of it, and I wish you luck.”

  “Hey, if I get artists like you coming in regular, the luck’s already there.”

  He did enjoy hearing sincere praise. I got the impression he didn’t receive a lot of recognition for his work. Maybe he’d become a fixture in this place, and no one paid him much mind because he was so familiar a sight. That would change if I had anything to do with it.

  Time was short; I told Waters I had to leave and would see him tomorrow, then paused long enough at the bar to ask after McCallen. Neither the waiter nor bartender had anything useful to share about him. He came in often, usually had two or three beers along with his friends, all gathering to talk in the back room. The waiter thought they did a lot of speech making. Often when he went to check on them there would be one man reading aloud from some papers. They seemed to take turns, then argue with each other about whatever they’d heard. The waiter never paid attention to them beyond the fact that they were lousy tippers. It was a sliver more of information than Escott had, and it reinforced Waters’s communist theory. Whether it proved to be useful remained to be seen.

  And that was as much as I wanted to put into the McCallen problem for the present. For the rest of the evening I had better things to do.

  BOBBI looked like one hundred percent nitro when she greeted me at the door wearing a blazing red dress with a band of gold sequins that spiraled up around her figure from hem to neck. It had some kind of matching-scarf things trailing from the shoulders that she wound in a repeat spiral over her arms and acted like sleeves. If she slipped them off her arms, they trailed gracefully down her back. She said it was another Adrian, and I asked if dresses came in models like cars.

  “That’s the designer’s name,” she told me, getting her big coat with the high fur collar.

  “So’s Ford’s Model A.”

  She shook her head and gave a little eye roll, like I’d never really get it. “Adelle helped me pick it out when we went shopping. I’ve decided to wear it for the broadcast.”

  “It’s too bad only the studio audience will see. If everyone else could you’d be a star in the first minute. Now, how do I get it off you?”

  “Later, Mr. Caveman. Take me to some food, I’ve been singing all morning and helping Adelle with the dancing all afternoon. I’m completely starved.”

  I took her to one of our favorite dinner-and-dance places. She wasn’t in the mood for dancing, not after all the rehearsal, but the food—she assured me—was marvelous. Last night I’d called Escott’s answering service and told them to make an eight-thirty reservation for me. There shouldn’t have been a problem as they were usually very
efficient, but something had gone wrong. I went through variations of my name and even Escott’s with the hostess, who gave me an apologetic smile and said she did not have any of those in her book for this evening. A table might be made available in another hour if the gentleman and lady would care to enjoy cocktails in the bar.

  She had a glacial face, but I melted it with a long, steady look. “I think if you’ll check just one more time you’ll find my name listed.” I released her from my concentration and waited.

  She checked, and her smile got very sunny, indeed. She led us in triumph to a table overlooking the dance floor and saw that we were comfortably seated.

  Bobbi managed not to break up until the woman was gone. “It’s spooky when you do that—but so convenient,” she whispered.

  “Saves on bribes, too.”

  A waiter with an accent soon swooped in and out with Bobbi’s order. I asked for only a cup of coffee, which seemed to worry the man, but I didn’t owe him any explanations. To make things look all right, Bobbi occasionally sipped from the cup so he could refill it. She was very well accustomed to the fact I would never be able to join her in eating a normal meal. On the other hand, what we often shared between us afterward more than made up for it.

  “Won’t that keep you awake?” I asked, indicating the coffee.

  “I thought you preferred me alert.”

  “And kicking, but you need your rest for tomorrow.”

  “Then you’ll just have to get me to bed early and exhaust me.”

  “Whew. I’ll do my best.”

  “As always.”

  The restaurant had a live orchestra, not as brash as the Melodians, but good enough to get the point across for listening as well as dancing; just in case she was up to it, I asked Bobbi if she wanted to take a turn around the floor, but she shook her head.

  “We can find another floor to turn around on at my place,” she said, then attacked her steak like she had a grudge against it.

  When we went out to eat I usually did most of the talking to start with until she’d worked her way past the food. She would nod and make encouraging sounds to hold up her part of the conversation, then have a turn later. I told her about the Sommerfeld case and the possible communist angle.