by P. N. Elrod
Clarson indicated a hypodermic sitting ready in a glass dish on a table. “That. Meaty part of his arm. But only if he wakes up and would rather be out. He’ll be thirsty. He can have chips of ice, no water. Got an icebox the next room over and a pick. Get it from there. I’ll be back soon.” He dried his hands and left, just starting to unbutton his stained coat.
“I’ll watch the boss,” said Strome, his hard face still expressionless.
“Where’s Bristow?” I asked him.
“Huh?”
“Where’s he staying?”
He shrugged. “Columbia Hotel, last I heard. He won’t be there.”
“How do you know?”
“Just makes sense. You do a hit, you lie low until things die down.”
“What about him taking over at noon tomorrow?”
“He won’t come out. He’ll wait someplace.”
“Just how much did he have to drink tonight?”
“A lot.”
“I saw him and his boys leaving the club. He could barely talk. How could he have ordered a hit?”
Strome shrugged again. “Musta done that before he got drunk. Maybe one of his boys thought he should start the takeover early.”
“Which one?”
“Who knows? They don’t talk. All evening they don’t talk. Just Bristow. He talks all night, every night, says the same thing again and again ’til I’m ready to plug him myself. Gordy sits and listens to it, then finally tells Bristow, ‘No, it ain’t gonna happen,’ and Bristow goes nuts. His boys got him outta there, but maybe one of ’em comes back to finish things. Just ’cause Bristow says noon don’t mean he waits that long.”
“When will Bristow show himself?”
“Who knows? He don’t know if Gordy’s dead yet. ’Less he hears different, he’ll keep out of sight.”
“Then let’s give him what he wants.”
His face almost twisted from the thinking. “You mean say the boss got scragged? No. I ain’t gonna say it if it ain’t true.”
“Then Bristow won’t come out of hiding.”
“Don’t matter. Sooner or later, we get him.”
“Now you listen to me . . .”
“Jack.” Coldfield interrupted. “Take what he says as right. ’Cause it is.”
“I can smoke Bristow out this way. Beats turning over every hotel and flop in the city. Have him come to us.”
“By saying Gordy died? You won’t do him any favors with that game.”
“Why not?”
“Because once a boss steps down—even if it’s faked—he never gets back up again. Hell, I learned that in the play yard in grade school. So did you. Same thing would happen to Gordy.”
“What do we say, then? That’s he’s on vacation?”
“Sounds right to me. Big Al would take off out of town all the time; no one thought twice about it because he left Nitti in charge to hold his place for him.”
I didn’t like the sound of this. “Oh, no, you can’t be thinking—”
“No one crossed Nitti, because he was good at the job and had Al’s blessing. No one will cross you, either.”
“Oh, no, not me. I’m juggling too much right now.”
“Makes sense,” said Strome. “Better than your idea.”
Of course it made sense to him since I, and not he, would be Bristow’s next target.
“I’ll back you to the other boys. You wanna get Bristow removed, this is how you do it. You get out front, say you’re in charge, then wait.”
“Oh, hell.”
“You got some other stuff to back you up, too,” Coldfield reminded me. I was starting to regret that he knew about my supernatural extras. Thankfully, Strome didn’t inquire about what he meant; neither did Adelle. She followed all this with what looked like horrified interest.
“Jack, I don’t want you risking yourself,” she said. “Stay out of it. Have Gordy’s men take care of things.”
Strome looked like he wanted to tell her to butt out. Ladies and mob games weren’t supposed to mix. He must have remembered she was still his boss’s girlfriend. “We can take care of things better with Fleming running the show.”
“But—”
“He’s right,” I said. “If Gordy wants his spot back in one piece, I’ll have to step in. If it helps, I don’t like doing it one bit.”
“It doesn’t help! I don’t want him going back to that. If this Bristow man wants to take over, let him. Gordy and I can leave town.”
“Adelle, it doesn’t work that way, and you know it. Guys in Gordy’s business never retire.”
“I want us to be different.”
“Me, too, but it isn’t in the books.”
“You’ll do it?” asked Strome.
“With much reluctance and the proviso that I really am in charge.”
“Huh?” This was news to him.
“What I say goes. The boys do the same for me as they would for Gordy.”
“I donno about that.”
“You don’t like it, then you take over and you be the sitting duck for Bristow’s shooters.”
His eyes flickered. He must have been hoping I’d not have thought of that possibility.
“It’s the only way. You want Bristow? That’s the price. I’m running the show—for real—for as long as Gordy takes to get well.”
Strome looked at his unconscious boss. “What if he don’t get well?”
“Worry about that only if it happens.”
“It could.”
“For God’s sake, shut up!” said Adelle, hovering protectively over Gordy as he slept. “Don’t say that; don’t think it!”
Strome looked annoyed. “I wanna know.”
He got some eye pressure from me. “Drop it.”
And he dropped it.
Coldfield knew what I’d done and failed to hide his amusement. “Damn, kid. You’ll do.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, suddenly tired. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
LADY Crymsyn’s ground floor was dark, but lights warmed the upper windows. My car was still in its space, gleaming from the persistent rain. The lot was empty now. Isham dropped me off at the curb, then drove back to the Belt. Strome was to watch Gordy and Isham to watch Strome. Hopefully nothing would happen. Adelle elected to stay with Gordy. There was no prying her away, and no one tried.
I didn’t bother unlocking and sieved inside. The place was quite, quite empty, except maybe for Myrna, but hell, even ghosts have to sleep sometime.
Upstairs I found Bobbi napping on the office couch with three overcoats tucked around her: her own, mine, and Escott’s. She looked so damn cute.
Dugan’s voice droned from the next room over. I’d heard it all the way up the stairs. He’d say something, then stop, often in mid-word, then start again. Escott was hard at it, transcribing everything into shorthand.
“I’m almost done,” he said when I walked in. I’d made enough noise walking up so as not to surprise him. “How’s Gordy?”
“Still out. Clarson says he’s holding his own. Shoe wasn’t happy, but he did the right thing.”
“Decent chap. Always has been. Both of them.”
“Where’s Lowrey and the other guy?”
“Left ages ago. Afraid they didn’t say where.”
“The Nightcrawler.” I’d allowed Strome one call to Lady Crymsyn to talk to them. They got assurance that Gordy was alive, it was business as usual, and that I’d be doing some special work for him tomorrow. They could draw whatever meaning they liked from that.
Escott put his pad of paper to one side. “What now?”
“We get Bobbi home.”
“She said she wanted to see Gordy.”
“You can drive her over tomorrow. Maybe. He’ll be at Clarson’s, and you wanna watch for tails.”
“Of course.”
“And I’m taking over for Gordy.”
Now he put down his pencil. He didn’t say anything for the longest time, then abruptly chuckled.
“He
y, there’s nothing funny about this! I could get punctured at any moment by one of those trigger-happy goons!”
“And you of all people would be able to survive it.”
“Yeah, yeah, but I don’t like tempting fate, she has a twisted sense of humor.”
“Indeed. You have at last gone to the top in Chicago. You are now a bona fide American mobster.”
I groaned. “Only ’til Gordy’s on his feet.”
“Will your official hat be a pearl gray fedora or a straw boater?”
“Wrong on both counts. A football helmet. We’ll toss grenades instead of pigskins.”
“What’s going on?” Bobbi came in, eyelids puffy from interrupted sleep, one side of her face marked with pillow creases. She still looked cute. “How’s Gordy? I want to see him.”
I told her what I’d told Escott, adding, “Not until tomorrow, though, and maybe not even then.”
“Why not?”
“Because visiting hours are over. The more activity at Doc Clarson’s office, the more attention it draws. Adelle’s looking after him. I told her to phone you.”
“But I could phone her . . . Oh, all right.” She correctly interpreted the look on my face.
“There’s nothing you can do for him, honey. I promise. Let Adelle get some rest, let Gordy heal up. He’s in good hands and will be much safer if we stay clear of him.”
“What about the guy who shot him?”
“That’s being taken care of.”
“By you?”
Damn, she was far too perceptive. “Yeah. I’m running Gordy’s operation. For as short a time as possible. But that’s going to include finding Bristow.”
It looked like she had a few objections to launch, then she sighed and shook her head. “Great. I’m back to being a gangster’s moll. What ever will I tell Mother?”
“That the pay is the same.”
“You’re the one going after Bristow? No one else?”
“Have to. Gotta shut him down fast. You don’t want him taking over Gordy’s job. He’d turn the Nightcrawler into a crib house in half a week. Or less.” I’d gotten that information from Strome.
In addition to earning his nickname by slaughtering hogs and later men, Bristow had worked his way up in the New York vice rackets. He was a good man at organizing pimps and their stables, and turning a profit. Apparently he had dreams of establishing more houses in Chicago, an attempt to bring back the glory days of the old Levee when you couldn’t spit anywhere between Clark Street and Wabash Avenue without hitting a brothel. There’d been some reform since then, so his attempt to turn back the clock would spark more trouble than it was worth. Why didn’t New York realize that?
Bobbi did some teeth grinding but eventually shrugged. “How you going to do it?”
“I’ll figure something out.” My general plan was find Bristow, then send some of Gordy’s torpedoes in to do the honors. That was how such things were usually accomplished. Then I had only to see to the daily running of everything else, keeping it steady until his return. I refused to consider anything else. Gordy had to come back.
“What about Dugan? You’re busy with him, remember.”
“Let him stew. He kept poor Mrs. Gladwell hanging for two weeks. Do him good to learn what it’s like.”
“And this club?”
“I can handle both, but I wouldn’t turn down any offered help.” I sounded hopeful.
She snorted. “Only because it helps Gordy. And I still wanna see him.”
“Soon as we can. Let’s get you home.”
“Not yet, there’s one more thing . . . Charles and I discovered it on the recording.”
“Discovered what?”
“It’s really weird.”
“If Dugan said it, then I’m not surprised.”
“Charles, would you play it?”
He nodded and worked the machine. The needle eased into the groove; the fuzz of static came through the speaker. Dugan talked about being civilized, then there was the sound of thumps, a fist against flesh, and me disagreeing with him.
A moment of silence, then not too distinctly a woman’s voice faintly emerged from the background static and said, “Hit him again. I don’t like him.”
“What . . . ?” I began. Bobbi and Escott sharply waved me to be quiet.
Dugan groaned. “That was . . . completely unnecessary.”
“Was so,” the woman declared.
Dance music from the band, Adelle’s muffled voice came through, picked up by the all-hearing microphone. More close to it a clunk and click of a door shutting—which was me locking the office—then some random thumps and scrapings when I’d hauled Dugan up for that last attempt to hypnotize him. My own voice was odd to me; I didn’t care much for it, especially the kind of intense whispering I had to do when trying to put him under.
But on top of it, the woman said. “That don’t work with his type. Bust him inna chops.”
Dugan told me to take my hands off him, then yelped; there was a crash when he landed on the couch.
The woman laughed. “That’ll show him!”
Escott raised the needle, then one of his eyebrows.
Bobbi looked at me expectantly.
“Who was that?” I asked. “There wasn’t anyone else in the room.”
“Perhaps there was,” said Escott.
I got who he meant and shook my head. “Oh, no. Nononononono . . . that’s not possible.”
“When one has eliminated the impossible”—he glanced at Bobbi—“and we have, then whatever remains—and we’re very well aware that it is rather improbable—must be the truth.”
I kept shaking my head. “No.”
“Why not, Jack?” Bobbi asked.
Because I don’t want it to be, that’s why. “It just can’t.”
Escott played the piece again.
“Bust him inna chops,” the woman urged, barely above the static but understandable.
He lifted the needle, put it on its rest, then pulled a box of matches from his breast pocket.
“No,” I said firmly. “That’s not Myrna.”
The lights went out.
11
ESCOTT scraped a match to life. His expression was several miles past sardonic. Apparently this wasn’t the first time the lights had failed.
“Now see what you did?” said Bobbi. “You hurt her feelings.” A candle stood ready in an ashtray on one of the machines. She handed it to Escott, who obligingly lighted it. “I thought you liked Myrna.”
“I do! But that couldn’t be—”
“Shh! Don’t you dare say another word.”
“Charles?”
He blew out the match, dropping it next to the candle, and lifted his palm to my desperate appeal for sanity. “Believe or not as you wish, but the recording cannot lie. All we can do is try to correctly interpret what is on it. We’ve listened to it over and over. The voice is not a randomly picked up radio signal. No one else—corporeally speaking—was in the room with you, nor was anyone nearby performing ventriloquism or shouting up the heating pipes. The voice on this record was specifically reacting to what you were doing, ergo its originator was . . . well, I’m not sure ‘watching’ is the correct word. The originator was certainly aware of your actions.”
“Couldn’t it just be some kind of crazy static or an echo? Some scratches on the record?”
They shook their heads in unison.
“But it’s not all that clear.”
“Clear enough,” said Bobbi. “I thought you’d be happy about this.”
“Happy?”
“For proof of Myrna being here.”
“We get proof every time she plays with the lights! Doesn’t mean I wanna—”
“Jack,” Escott said evenly. “Before you get yourself in worse trouble with our resident revenant, I strongly suggest you shut the hell up.”
I suddenly noticed the room was on the chilly side. For me to pick up on that meant it had to be freezing. However, neither Bobbi
nor Escott commented on the temperature drop. No sign of goose bumps or shivering showed from them. This must be how it felt when I invisibly clung to some hapless person. I used to think it was funny.
Bobbi addressed the air above her head. “He’ll come around, Myrna. He’s just tired and upset about some other stuff that happened tonight. Don’t take it personal.”
We waited, but the lights didn’t return.
“I wanna go home,” I said. “It’s late. Even for me. And that means really late.”
Bobbi gave a sympathetic smile. “You’re right. You sleep on it, then we’ll listen again tomorrow and see what you think.”
I didn’t want to think about anything for the next few weeks, much less tomorrow, not about Dugan, Bristow, and in particular Myrna the ghost. To tell the truth, she scared me more than the other two and all their friends and cousins combined. Until now she’d been interesting, amusing, but safe. Now she had a voice and an opinion.
“Best to lock the recording away,” said Escott after a moment. “We’ve a full day ahead.”
Bobbi brought out a flat cardboard box. She carefully lifted the record from the turntable and slipped it inside a paper sleeve, then into the box. “Open your safe, would you, Jack?”
That woke me up a little from my nonthinking, but not by much; it took longer than usual to twirl through the combination.
“There’s just enough room if you move that stuff over.”
I shoved tonight’s money envelope and receipts out of the way. For a fleeting moment I considered making the bank run on our way out. Nah. It could wait.
Bobbi slid the box into the safe at an angle. I returned the money and clanged the door shut, spinning the combination, then locking its “desk drawer” facade into place. That had been what Dugan tried picking open with his burgling tools. Those were safely separated from him, hidden in a closet in the Gladwell house.
But I was determined not to think about him or anything else until tomorrow night at sunset.
And maybe not even then.
NOT that I remembered sleeping, but I did feel better upon waking.
It had been one hell of a long night, and chances were the day had been the same. I’d prepared for it, bathing and shaving before retiring to my sanctuary, dressed except for my coat. That I’d hung over the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen a couple of yards above. I didn’t want to go to bed with it on, not so much to spare it from wrinkles but me from imagining that I’d look too much like a dead guy laid out ready for his casket. Why else would you lie down fully dressed in your best clothes? Of course, no one was around to see, but I just didn’t like the idea of it.
