by P. N. Elrod
“This is not amusing,” said Escott, his face sour.
“Dugan probably had you under a microscope within an hour of his arrest. Those birds will know we work together. No sense staying glued to the bar, so relax.”
“I suppose not. I just hadn’t expected this, particularly from a pack of bloody amateurs.”
It did rankle. Usually we were the ones shadowing people and making them nervous. “Well, I wasn’t exactly watching for tails when we left home tonight.”
“I advise a change in that for the time being.”
“No kidding. Think Dugan’s got a real detective after us?”
“It’s a possibility to consider. I would, in his place.” Escott turned around, one elbow casually resting on the bar. Despite his tense mood, he showed nothing of it in his posture or expression now, which was that of a man free of cares, in a celebratory mood, even. He was one hell of an actor.
Still too pissed off, I knew better than to try mimicking him and stayed in place. “You see any contenders?”
After a few minutes, during which he took a mental picture of everyone in the room and compared it to the filing cabinet in his brain, he said no. “None that I know or have seen, at any rate. There are none here with the look.”
I could trust his conclusion. He was better at spotting cops or PIs than Gordy, which was saying a lot. “So we just have the society types to worry about, huh?”
“Indeed. They’re amateurs, which is something of a relief, but one never knows what tomfoolery they could get up to.”
True. This wasn’t our usual kind of opposition where we could swap fists in a back alley with mugs who knew the ropes. Anthony’s well-scrubbed and perfumed bunch seemed fit for nothing more harrowing than a college fraternity party. They were playing way outside their field.
Escott pretended to watch the dancers as they swung in time to Adelle’s latest song. “I’m getting the impression they’re waiting for someone. Dugan, perhaps?”
Hell. I didn’t want him here dirtying up the place. “Maybe. I can find out. If any of them leaves for the john, they’ll have a detour they won’t remember.”
He puffed a laugh.
“Take your drink back, make like everything’s normal, and lemme see how this plays. Tell Bobbi I’m working, whatever’s safe to say in front of Roland. She’ll get it. Gordy’s here—”
“I noticed. Isn’t that Hog Bristow with him?”
I’d not mentioned him, but I wasn’t surprised Escott knew the man by sight. He was a walking encyclopedia when it came to crime bosses. “Yeah, they’re talking business, though; Gordy’s gonna be working on that.”
“Just as well. No need to trouble him with such a minor annoyance.”
Minor? I hoped he was right.
We went our separate ways. I took my time, again stopping at tables, but managing to miss Anthony’s. Carefully not stealing a glance at him or the rest of his crowd, I felt them watching me as I left.
Between the lobby and the main room there’s a small blind spot in the passage, just this side of the portrait. It wasn’t anything planned by the designer, just turned out that way, and at times like this, was useful. Once there, I vanished and streamed quickly back toward the party.
I hovered over Anthony’s table but only picked up a word or two; it was hard to hear with Adelle’s singing going on. They were a sulky bunch, not saying much.
Then a woman, Marie Kennard by the bored tone of her voice, said, “I think he’s gone for a while, Anthony. Time for another call.”
“Right,” came the reply. I sensed Anthony’s slow exit from his seat. “I’ll be a minute.”
“We’ll keep what’s left of your drink warm.”
He grunted. I tagged along as he walked. The music faded, replaced by the brief creak of hinges as he closed us into the confines of the lobby phone booth. Coin in the slot, dialing, then he greeted whoever was on the other end of the line.
“Hello, hello? Gilbert? . . . Yes, it is I, who else?”
I experienced a warm feeling of satisfaction, slightly marred by the frustration of getting only half the conversation. I’d have given a lot for Hurley Gilbert Dugan’s side.
Anthony went on. “He’s left . . . No, I don’t know where . . . Follow him? But you told us to stay together and not draw notice . . . Oh, bother this. Why are you so interested in him? . . . Well, be that way. We’re only trying to help . . . All right. All right . . . No, I’m not drunk . . . Yes, I’m sure I haven’t the least idea where he’s gone. Probably in the building if you’ve not seen him. His friend is still here. I think they spotted us, though . . . No, we did not do anything; he’s a detective and must know his trade . . . All right. Yes, I’ll call again if I see him . . . Well, don’t let yourself freeze . . . Yes, good-bye.”
He snorted and hung up in disgust.
“He’s completely mad,” he said, apparently to himself, then shivered. I’d not been careful about avoiding contact with him. He shoved the folding door open and slipped clear. I trailed again; he headed for the main room instead of the john, which was too bad. Not that he was in any condition for hypnosis. His slurred speech told me the futility of that ploy, but there are other ways of getting information that don’t leave marks. I intended to ambush him in the passage, but he moved too fast for me to materialize and grab him.
Damnation. Aiming for his table, I got there just as he sat down. He repeated his private comment to his friends.
“He’s going through with it?” a girl asked. Marie Kennard again. She sounded less bored now.
“If that Fleming fellow ever decides to cooperate. Blast. Gilbert will catch his death out there waiting for that fool.”
Interesting. So Dugan himself was on the watch for me? I didn’t want to miss him, but I also didn’t want to miss whatever else this pretty crowd might have to say.
“Oh, Anthony, don’t make such a face,” Marie said, petulant. “Gilbert won’t blame you if the man doesn’t cooperate. He’ll just go home.”
“Be sure to remind him of that, won’t you?”
“I’ll write a note in my diary. How much longer must we endure this place?”
“At least an hour more.”
“So long? How perfectly dreadful.”
Now, that just hurt my feelings.
“Marie, it’s not as though we’re on the front lines in a trench, so put on a brave face and think of how this is helping Gilbert. We’re spies in enemy territory, sacrifice is de rigueur, and it is in a noble cause.”
“I’ll feel more noble after another drink.”
They impatiently called for a waiter. I waited for more information, but they seemed to be stuck in their collective sulk; Anthony ordered another Four Roses triple. Hardy type. Might as well leave and see what opportunities Dugan presented, if any. I felt my way back to the blind spot and hoped no one would be there when I materialized again.
It was clear, and just as well. Dizziness struck with a vengeance, sending me staggering as though I’d been blackjacked. I swayed against the wall like a drunk, both hands on it to steady myself. Hot and cold shakes waved over my body, retreating slowly and leaving a clear message: get to the Stockyards before the hollow ache inside went out of control. I couldn’t push further without risking all kinds of grief. When my version of hunger got too serious, common sense and restraint were the first to go. Food now, fun and games later.
No activity in the lobby. The check girl chatted with Wilton; both stood a bit straighter when the boss appeared, but I didn’t mind so long as their work was caught up and the customers were promptly served. I gave the girl a message to repeat to Escott: that I’d be gone for less than an hour and to keep an eye on our special guests for me.
“An hour?” Wilton asked when she’d left.
“Got an errand.”
“You okay, Mr. Fleming? You don’t look so good.”
“Just a little warm. You remember that fancy-suit stick who was just in here using the phone? Loo
k out for him, see if he makes more calls, and write down when. If he or anyone else asks for me, I’m still around but unavailable.”
Wilton nodded, and I went upstairs. In the office I got the cash envelope from the safe, locked the door, and avoided the lobby by using the back-alley exit to leave the club.
A slow walk around the building to the parking lot didn’t flush any obvious stakeout. I fully expected one. Anthony gave me to understand Dugan might be lying in wait. I’d be pleased to find him, but only after I was in better shape.
Eyes peeled, I gave everything in view a good scrutiny, but the street looked the same as ever, no unfamiliar cars at the curbs or extra shadows in the doorways, just the wind blowing stray paper around. Nothing conspicuous here but myself, doubled by the fact I’d left my hat and coat behind. The cold didn’t affect me as much as it had before my change. On a run to the Stockyards outer coverings weren’t necessary; I moved faster without them.
If Dugan was on watch, where would he be hiding? My skin prickled as I imagined the kinds of things that could go wrong. Did he have a gun aimed at my chest? Hard luck for him if he fired. Metal bullets, whether silver or lead, can’t kill me, but they hurt like hell, and getting shot would put me in exactly the right mood to break his neck. With Gordy’s help, disposing of a body was no great challenge.
But all was quiet. I almost wished otherwise. It would bring an end to the matter for damn sure.
Uneasy but not able to wait, I got in my Buick, the cooled-off motor obligingly turning and catching on the first try. We’d not had any really bad weather lately, and it was still holding in the low thirties. Moderate for this time of year. That had been of great concern to Vivian Gladwell in her worry for Sarah. The girl’s wasted, sleeping face kept popping to mind as I backed from my parking spot. It was depressing, made me feel like I’d failed her by not completely removing Dugan as a threat. I’d done my best but would just have to try again.
For distraction I put the radio on loud and caught Fred Astaire in the middle of “The Way You Look Tonight.” We didn’t share the same key, but I sang along for the hell of it and wondered if I could get him and Johnny Green’s band to play at the club. They were famous and likely pretty busy, but it was worth a try. I’d ask Bobbi to look into it.
No one seemed to be in my wake on the short drive to the bank. They were either good at tailing or didn’t exist. The rearview mirror remained clear of anything troubling, though there was plenty of traffic. A disappointment, but not much of one. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten things wrong, but it always was better to err on the side of caution. I took a careful look around when I left the car to slip the money into the night deposit, but I was quite alone.
I was more cagey on the second leg of my trip, making a lot of turns and double-backs. A couple times I thought someone was following, but I shook them too easily for it to be anything but my imagination. After ten minutes of circling blocks and beating out stop signals, my guts gave a sharp twist as a reminder. My corner teeth were beginning to bud all on their own. Next would come the tunnel vision. After that, a strange, lightheaded kind of insanity.
Hitting the gas, I endeavored to outrun it.
In order to feed the country, the Stockyards had to run day and night, but some areas slowed down sufficiently to allow me to get in without drawing notice. My being able to vanish was a big help, allowing me to remain out of sight the whole time except for those few moments it took to feed. I knew the place so thoroughly by now that I could get around quite well in that state. It made things easier on the shoe leather, too. Less cleaning.
No such convenience tonight. I’d stretched too thin. Sure, I could still vanish, but coming back would mean another bout of sickness and having jelly for legs, not something I wanted to go through again. Playing ghost could wait until after I’d fed.
I had plenty of physical strength left, though; boosting over one of the fences was easy, and again when I found a pen full of prospects. Now all I had to worry about was keeping some cow from bowling me over on my ass. I’d done the milking plenty of times growing up on the old family farm; cattle could be skittish but were generally cooperative if you knew what you were doing.
Picking an animal in the small enclosure, I calmed it to my presence, knelt, and went in quick and clean on a leg vein, supping deeply. The lush red stuff filled me with vast warmth and reassurance. Weariness melted from my bones. Before my change, no food ever had this profound an effect. Drink came the closest. A shot of booze was remotely comparable, but that had dampened the senses; this brought energy and rejuvenation, pulsing life into a body with no beating heart. I drew on it, exulting in the primal joy of satiation.
Once again I speculated about taking away extra to store in the refrigerator at home. Escott and I had talked about it; he didn’t mind, even suggesting placing it in beer bottles so their amber glass hid the telltale color. The scare with Bobbi earlier resolved me to figure out something. Blood wouldn’t keep for long, but even if it lasted a few nights, my trips to the Yards would be cut by half. How much better to squelch around here only once a week instead of every second or third night.
It would also lower the chances of my being caught by one of the workers. That had happened a few times. I’d dealt with it, hypnotically convincing them they’d seen nothing and to go on with work. The encounters had put the hair up on the back of my neck and made me wonder if there had been others I’d not spotted.
That prickly feeling was on my neck again, but I was inclined to put it off as more imagination. Just thinking about a threat could bring out the heebie-jeebie sense. I’d been extra careful tonight.
Replete and restored, I pulled away, pinching the vein to slow the flow. The cow showed no great concern. It remained in place a moment, then abruptly snorted and moved off. Time I did the same.
On the other side of the fence. I fished out a handkerchief and swabbed my mouth for stains. God, that had tasted good. I felt ready for anything now.
Until I heard something toward my right, toward the street where I’d parked.
A narrow passway ran between the high enclosures, just wide enough for one animal at a time. Pelting down it at full speed was a man. It was a good assumption he’d seen something very disturbing. Like me.
I ran after. With the advantage of strength and speed, I closed up his lead. He didn’t make a sound when I caught his shoulders and hauled him around. Not wanting to hurt him, I went easy on the spin, backing him against the fence. Cattle on the other side milled, alarmed.
It took me a long second to recognize him because he was so completely out of place. He was taller than I remembered and a lot more animated, his pale face distorted by emotion, chiefly fear. But Dugan’s mouth was the same, with its built-in smile. He showed teeth in that instant, then I felt him bury a solid fist in my stomach accompanied by some short, sharp pops. His punch hurt. Continued to hurt. Far too much. Only after seeing the blood did I understand the meaning of the close-in pops and realize he’d shot me.
6
HE stared, wide-eyed, as my legs went out from under me. Gray mist clouded my sight. I fought it, grunting against the pain, reaching for him. He backed nimbly clear as I fully collapsed, shuddering into the mud.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Show me.”
Show him what? I had no breath for swearing but thought of several ripe words as I clawed at fence rails, trying to pull myself up again. The wounds were beginning to knit, but they burned like a fury, made movement difficult, thinking damn near impossible.
“Show,” he repeated impatiently. He kicked my hand, knocking it from the wood rail, then hooked his foot under my arm and flipped me on my back. I’d break his leg. Both legs. I’d break one now if he’d just let me . . .
He stood off exactly one pace too far, teeth showing, eyes bright, and aimed the gun at my chest. A revolver, small caliber, but large enough for the job.
“Wait—” I started.
“No.
” He fired. Twice.
My last view was his exultant face as the gray mist abruptly wrenched me clear of the razoring agony.
Release from the burden of a body was the ultimate blessing. Until you shed it, you’re unaware of just how truly heavy and awkward it is being encased within clumsy, vulnerable flesh. The ease of nothingness, the simple floating . . . Here was I truly safe from all harm, all physical ills. But emotions were harder to cast off. Especially anger. I owed that son of a bitch.
I went corporeal as soon as I was able, rolling disoriented in stinking slush.
The pain was gone. Vanishing gave complete healing, this one faster and less tiring since I’d just fed. The shock was more mental than physical. Recovery from that would come from beating the hell out of Dugan. Except he’d left. He’d sprinted for the fence, topped it, and was just dropping to its street side.
Pushing up, I stumbled a few futile paces after, then went invisible again, seeking an easier method to give chase.
I rose high over the pens. In a way, I could fly, not like a bat as in Stoker’s book, but by simply willing myself in any direction. Because of a profound hatred of heights, I rarely did this. If I wanted a view of the city, I’d take an elevator to the top of the Wrigley Building and look through a window the same as any other sane person. For the moment, I was too pissed to be terrified.
The wind buffeted my amorphous self; there was no cold or warmth to it, never was in this state, just the force of the flow. It wasn’t too bad; I could hold in place with a little effort. The effort increased when I partially materialized. The more solidity to enable me to see, the harder it was to stay up, the more I wanted to vanish again. That’s a lot to juggle while trying to float forty feet in thin air. Really, really thin air. This was taking too damned long.
