by P. N. Elrod
“What?”
“Your hypnosis. There are occasions when I could find it quite useful, like waiting in line at the bank. It would be most handy persuading those ahead of me to seek other queues for their business.”
“Don’t forget traffic tickets.” I’d been stopped a few times but always got the cops to forget whatever problem they had with me. It didn’t work for parking violations, but I avoided those.
“Indeed. Have you noticed what’s going on?” He indicated the top tier.
Bristow was on his feet, looming over a still-seated Gordy, face red and eyes blazing. The bodyguards looked ready to erupt.
“Yeah. ’Scuse me.”
Moving quick, I got up there. Gordy and his people saw me coming; so did Bristow’s guys. Their notice telegraphed to him. He threw a glance my way with enough glower packed in to confirm my influence had worn right off. He was too drunk now for a second attempt to work.
“Mr. Bristow—” I began.
“Can it, punk,” he snapped. “Get the hell out of here.”
Gordy remained in place, his expression even more hooded than usual; I didn’t know what he wanted done. I wanted there not to be trouble. “Siddown, Hog,” he said, barely audible over the music.
“Screw that.” Bristow turned full on him. “I’m telling you how things are gonna be, and you sit there like a pile of shit and don’t say nothin’. What’re you gonna do about it?”
“I will think things over.”
“You think faster—no—you don’t think, you just do what I say. That’s New York givin’ the orders. They don’t like how you’re doin’ things, so it’s me taking up the slack. You got no choice; you get outta my way, or you get run over.”
Gordy didn’t respond with so much as a blink. “Sorry you feel that way, Hog.”
“It ain’t me—it’s New York. You don’t like it, you just try talkin’ with them an’ see how far you get.”
“I’ll check first thing in the morning.”
“You’ll just do as you’re told. You hear me? Do you? Say something!” Bristow was louder than the band, and other patrons stared curiously. My hired help, a little more knowledgeable about the situation, seemed ready to duck under the nearest tables.
“It’s late, Hog,” Gordy said evenly. “Real late. It’s even later in New York. The bosses there don’t like this kind of interruption to their sleep. I’ll call in the morning and fix things. It’ll be made right, I promise.”
“My way. You do as you’re told.”
“Everything.”
Bristow didn’t seem the type to accept such an easy victory, but he couldn’t do much else with Gordy agreeing with him. Neither spoke for what seemed like a couple of hours; then Bristow jerked his chins, and his men slowly rose. Gordy’s remained seated, taking their cue from him.
“First thing,” Bristow repeated. “By noon I’m in charge, or you’re dead.” Gordy made no reply.
“Say something!”
I don’t know what Gordy might have said. The little lamp on the table suddenly flickered, forestalling his response. It was an instant’s distraction, throwing all of them. The light flared, dimmed, then exploded, glass flying.
Of all the rotten times for Myrna—
The two men closest to Bristow saw and knew it was nothing to sweat over, but the third one only heard something like a shot. His gun was out, and he went for Gordy.
Things blurred; I seemed to be the only man moving; the rest were statues. Before the others could react, I was on him, dragging on his arm with one hand and wresting the gun away with the other. When the world started rotating again, the would-be shooter was facedown on the floor, holding his arm and cursing.
“What the hell . . . ?” began Bristow, just becoming aware something had happened.
Another of his guys started to reach inside his coat, but I had his friend’s gun aimed at his belly. He changed his mind, showing it by holding his palms wide. The third one found himself surrounded by Gordy’s men.
“Everyone take it easy,” I said. We did just that until I was sure they would be sensible without the threat of me putting holes in them.
“Put that away,” said Bristow. He didn’t look quite as drunk as before.
“When you leave.”
“You don’t order me around, punk.”
“You’re in my place, Hog. I don’t allow this crap here.” I tried to capture his full attention, but despite the shift in his manner, there was still too much booze in the way. Fortunately, his remaining guards were stone sober. “Clean your pal off my floor, then take your boss home and put him to bed.”
The one I was ready to belly-shoot woke up quick and did as ordered. This didn’t go well with Bristow, but he couldn’t figure how to fix it. He made noises, snarled a final order at Gordy to do as he was told, and backed away. His men got the fallen to his feet, and they unsteadily departed, working their way to the stairs and down, hands inside their coats. Nearly the whole place saw the parade, and even if my customers didn’t have the full story, they were able to recognize trouble on the hoof and get nervous. Once Bristow was out of sight, people visibly sagged and resumed talking. I expected many would wait a few minutes, then leave. It must have showed when I looked at Gordy.
He gave a small shrug. “Sorry for the trouble.”
I shoved the gun in my pocket where its weight messed up the hang of my coat. With the table light gone, we were in a shadowy patch, giving me a small hope that few had seen the finer details of the incident. “What now?”
“I call New York. Tell ’em their boy is annoying people.”
“Then what? That noon deadline—”
“I’ll think of something.”
Which was Gordy’s way of telling me to butt out. Fine, so long as whatever he thought of didn’t take place on my doorstep. No need to ask if he understood that. Since Lady Crymsyn was supposedly neutral territory, he’d be careful to respect it. I got the impression he was highly embarrassed about Bristow’s behavior. Drunks in clubs were normal, a familiar difficulty easily handled, but edgy guys like Bristow and his pals had too many added complications.
“You need anything?” I asked, so he’d know there were no hard feelings.
“A phone.”
“My office or the lobby booth.”
He looked at Strome. “Lobby. Call the other boys. Meeting tonight at the Nightcrawler. They go there and wait for me.”
“What about Bristow?” Strome asked.
“We’re mostly safe ’til noon, but we keep our heads down.”
He nodded and left.
I said, “You want me along, too?”
Gordy made one slow shake of his head. “Thanks, but we’re covered. You don’t need to be in this mess.”
Very true. Better to stay clear and let Gordy fix the problem. I had more than enough to keep me busy. Annoyed with the weight of the gun, I gave it to him to look after, wished him good luck, and followed Bristow’s route down. Escott was still parked at the bar on that side.
“Negotiations fail?” he inquired, keeping a bland face. He’d have seen everything.
“You’re a mind reader.”
“Bad timing with that light.”
“Myrna was trying to be helpful, I think.”
He took that in and chose not to comment. “I heard Mr. Bristow’s rumblings of dire threats against Gordy and all his relations as Bristow and his men made their departure. It does not bode well. I say, you’re rather more pale than usual.”
“No kidding.”
“And your shoulders are up about your ears. Relax, old man, before you frighten the whole room. After all this time, you should be used to such rows between rivals.”
“Don’t mean I like ’em.”
“No, of course not.”
Until now I’d not realized just how stiff my neck and shoulders had gotten. I told Escott what I’d heard. “Hope to God we don’t have another damned war.”
“Bristow’s forc
ing the situation. Very foolish of him. One must wonder why.”
“He got drunk, got pushy, then couldn’t back down.”
“Perhaps. Or his position is so secure he’s confident of his success.”
“Either way or whatever else, Gordy’s not letting him take over.”
“Then a war is inevitable.”
More likely it would be a carefully accomplished, well-concealed execution. Though there were still spectacular exceptions, a lot of the truly violent mob games were more often than not played on the quiet. It was bad for business to leave bloody corpses all over the city sidewalks.
“So long as they include us out.”
He went with me to the lobby, which was thankfully clear of Bristow and his friends. The check girl was on watch, shaking her head to indicate Bobbi and Faustine were still in conference.
“I’d really like a drink,” I announced to no one in particular. Before my change, I’d have had several by now. At times like this I really missed the booze.
“Yes, sir,” said Wilton. He was ready to serve up anything.
I waved his offer down. “I’d like one. I could use one. Doesn’t mean I’ll have one.”
“A typical night at Lady Crymsyn,” said Escott.
“Jesus, I hope not.”
ESCOTT and I were in my office making a practical start on my plans for Gilbert Dugan when Bobbi and Faustine finally emerged from the ladies’ lair. The check girl came to tell me, but by the time I made it down again, Faustine was gone.
“Where is she?” I asked Bobbi. She looked tired.
“I put her in a cab and sent her back to her hotel. No shopping tomorrow. We’d only end up in a hardware store buying axes or shotguns or something. Where’s Roland?”
“In dressing room three the last I saw.”
“I wanna murder that son of a bitch. Do you know what he’s done to her?”
“Tell me all about it, but not here.” I took her to the main room and an isolated table, disappointing Wilton and the girl. They’d just have to speculate.
Bobbi gave me an earful, none of it too original, the gist being that when Roland went on the wagon, he substituted women for drinking. To him, they were even more addictive than booze. “He just can’t keep his pants buttoned,” she said. Several times.
“Faustine didn’t know that about him?”
“She thought he’d change for her. She thought marriage would make a difference. Poor kid.”
This didn’t sound like a curable problem, no matter how many times I slapped a whammy on Roland. “She gonna divorce him?”
“Not with her religion she won’t. There’s the other thing, too. She wants to be an American. She pretty much admitted it was one of the reasons she married him. She loves him and all, but . . .” Bobbi trailed off with a drawn-out growling sound, replete with disgust. “Men,” she said in conclusion.
I remained diplomatically quiet. Now was not the time to remind her I was a member of the opposing party. “I had a talk with Roland. He’s going to behave himself for the time being if he wants to keep their job here.”
“You’re letting them stay on?”
“Why not?”
“It’s pretty generous of you.”
I shrugged. “Everyone needs to work. I recommended plenty of groveling, apologies, and that he not beg for forgiveness.”
She clouded over. “He should. Why didn’t you?”
“First he needs to say he’s sorry a lot. Asking to be forgiven lets him off the hook. To forgive is to forget. He needs a dose of responsibility along with the kick in the pants.”
After thinking it through, her face cleared. “You’re pretty damned smart.”
“I read it in a magazine.”
“Which one?”
“The kind you find in a dentist’s office. Years ago.” The story had ended with the forgiven two-timing husband running off with his secretary and his wife drowning herself. None of it had been too satisfying. After that I decided to stick to mysteries and stories like those in Weird Tales, where the bad guys generally got what they had coming. “You okay?”
“After listening to all her stuff about Roland, I feel like a punching bag. Poor Faustine. She doesn’t have any friends here. Looks like I’m elected.”
“You can’t expect her to be pals with Adelle.”
“God, no. Remember when I didn’t think it’d be a good idea for you to get in the middle of this? I’ve changed my mind.”
“No problem.”
“Can you talk to Faustine tomorrow night?”
“If there’s time. Something’s come up.”
“With Gordy?” She glanced toward the third tier where Gordy was still parked.
Flanked by two of his men, he sat well away from his table, back firmly against the wall. Though the exploded lightbulb had been replaced, he was in shadow. Apparently he was taking Bristow’s threats seriously. There was no sign of Strome, in here or at the lobby phone.
“Nothing like that,” I said. “Gordy’s got some business going, but he’s taking care of it. This is to do with me. The brains behind the Gladwell kidnapping is getting cute.”
“That society guy, Dugan?”
“Yeah.” I told her everything. It took a while, but she was a patient listener, and it provided a distraction from the triangle crisis. She went a little sick-looking when I told her about getting shot. She didn’t interrupt, only put her hands over mine.
“That explains why you changed suits,” she said when I’d finished. “Are you all right?”
“Mostly. I’ll be fine once I turn Dugan inside out a few times.”
“What does he want from you?”
I shrugged. “Charles and I worried that one to death. We’ll know tomorrow night at seven. Between now and then I need the both of you to do me a favor.”
“Name it, sweetheart.”
I named it, going into detail. “It should work, but you know more about that stuff than I do. Will it?”
Her eyes were bright. Really, really bright. “Jack, that has got to be the craziest thing I’ve ever heard of—and yes, of course it’ll work!”
“You know how to hook things up? Have you got enough time to do all that?”
“I’ll call a guy I know to help. He’ll have the equipment we need. Between him, me, and Charles, we can have everything ready for you in a couple of hours.”
It sure felt good to grin again.
I wasn’t as skilled at carpentry as Escott, but made up for the lack by carrying tools and other things up to my office for him. This I accomplished by sinking straight through the floors to the basement and back. It was work and didn’t feel good, but neither of us wanted people noticing extra activity on the chance that Dugan might learn about it. We’d spotted his cousin Anthony and his friends, but there might be others lurking around we didn’t know about.
Escott got busy drilling holes in the walls, writing out measurements, and muttering to himself a lot. I was used to it from the times he worked on the house, and stayed out of his way so he could concentrate.
Bobbi came in to watch, and he paused to consult with her. They had a mild debate about drilling holes in a side table. She was against it, but I said it was okay. I could always buy another one.
If some parts of the evening were rough, the remainder was nearly business as usual without additional floor shows, impromptu fast draws, or the lights going funny. I stopped to visit customers, smiled to everyone, and fended off questions about the tough guys they’d seen leaving.
“Just a misunderstanding; you know how it is,” I’d say, which seemed to work since no one wanted to admit otherwise.
Adelle closed with her usual song; the band played “Good Night, Sweetheart” to a nearly empty room. Strome had returned since the last time I looked and was talking with his boss. If I’d not been occupied with my own troubles, I’d have tried to listen, but instead I went backstage.
Roland was gone. No telling when he’d taken a powder,
but it was convenient. I knocked on Adelle’s door, which was half open. She said to come in.
As with Roland, I lingered out of range of her dressing table mirror.
“Hi, Adelle. Good show tonight.”
An elegant woman with dark hair, milky skin, and an understated manner when not performing, she turned at my voice, a touch startled. Maybe she’d been expecting Roland or Bobbi. “Hello, Jack. Thank you.”
I gave her a moment to say more, thinking she’d ask about the water-throwing, glass-breaking blowup that had interrupted her set, but she didn’t, which told me a lot I already knew. “You handled the disturbance very well.”
“What distur—oh, that. I was hoping you’d forget it. I certainly wish I could. Dropped a whole stanza. What an embarrassment. It won’t happen again.”
“I know,” I said amiably.
And about two minutes later I left, absolutely certain of that fact.
By the time Gordy came down from his perch to collect her, she was in a great mood. They said good night to me, and off they went in his bulletproof car. Adelle was wholly focused on him.
Two down, one to go in my brand-new triangle-busting business.
AT dawn I went to bed; at dusk I was back from the dead again, having no conscious memory of the short winter day’s passage. I was rested and ready to start the night and wasted no time getting to my club. The parking lot had only one other car in it, Escott’s big Nash, slotted in next to my reserved spot, meaning he and Bobbi were already there, which wasn’t part of their normal routine. If Dugan saw and objected, he could take it up with me at seven. I let myself in and trotted up to the office.
“What do you think?” Bobbi asked brightly. She was at the desk, fresh-faced in one of her severely cut business outfits; Escott lounged on the couch. He was in his usual banker’s clothing, not a speck of sawdust marring the sober lines of his dark suit.
I looked around the room and didn’t see anything different except for a bunch of hothouse-grown flowers in a vase on the side table. Usually it only held an ashtray. “What’s with those?”
“Disguise stuff,” she said, glancing impishly at Escott, who nodded satisfied agreement. He had his pipe fired up; the place was thick with the fragrant tobacco. I checked the flowers more closely. They were packed tight with lots of green leaves mixed in, the better to hide my surprise for Dugan. The vase held no water and never would since it had no bottom.
