The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “Don’t you want no supper, Mist’ Strome?” Isham drawled innocently. “Do you a pow’ful heap o’ good to keep yo’ strenth up, thas a fact.”

  “Knock it off,” I muttered out the side of my mouth, but I couldn’t avoid smirking. Isham winked once at me and leaned against the building so we could pass. “Shoe coming over?”

  “Later on.” His Southern accent had instantly dried up. “Doesn’t want to draw notice here, y’know?”

  “Make sure he calls Escott at my club, you keep them both posted about the patient.”

  “You got it.”

  Strome held silent all the way back to the Nightcrawler Club, which was quite a drive. The side streets were clogged with cars, the larger thoroughfares had even more cars, plus the traffic signals—all against me—horse-drawn wagons, and suicidal pedestrians. We arrived ten minutes late, but that’s what I’d calculated as the perfect time. Late stragglers would be there, and the others would have worked into a grumbling restlessness, wondering when the hell things would start.

  We went in by the back way again, this alley in far better repair, up a short flight of concrete loading dock stairs to a busy, steam-filled kitchen. Lately Gordy had been offering steaks and the trimmings on a very short, limited menu, but it seemed to be going over well. All he needed was one man out front as a food shill. His job was to sit in a central spot and be served up a slab of meat wider than my hand to tempt a dozen other patrons to do the same. It always smelled good, which accounted for most of the orders.

  The profit margin was enormous since Gordy had a deal going with a meat-packer union boss. The boss got into the club whenever he wanted, no cover, no paying for shows, as many guests as he chose to bring along, and the first round of drinks free. His meals were free, too, and in return, Gordy got an unlimited supply of beef without having to pay.

  Sweet stuff, and I could get in on it, but I didn’t want the bother of a kitchen at my place just yet, if ever. Cooked food smells were nauseating to me. My customers would just have to make do at the diner down the street for the time being.

  Through the kitchen, a hall, the back stairs. The band out front boomed away on a frantic number. It was still a little early in the evening to force that kind of speedup on the dance floor. I had to remind myself this wasn’t my club; I was just here to keep the muscle in line, not interfere with the show talent.

  The upper landing, then left to Gordy’s office. Its door was wide open, and a dozen guys were outside, watching my progress. Lots of hats and eyes and grim expressions. I knew many by now, all of them by sight, and was on amicable terms with most, which didn’t mean anything. In the rackets a guy could be your lifelong best friend but still order you killed or even do the killing if it was deemed necessary. The unpredictable Dion O’Banion was executed in his own flower shop while shaking hands with a guy, the hit approved by two of his closest bootlegging partners, Johnny Torrio and Al Capone. Business was business.

  This bunch looked worried and watchful. Once I went inside, I got why. At least another dozen boys were waiting, and none of them were my best friends and never would be. They either had a gripe against me, or we’d traded fists at one time, or they didn’t like my looks or resented that I got special treatment from their boss. Despite the high-tone suits and dapper hats, it looked like a convention of junkyard dogs, even the handsome ones. I couldn’t hear any actually snarling, but you could feel it strong in the air like the hum a radio gives warming up with the sound on full.

  It was much as I’d anticipated.

  I crossed the room, Strome a good three steps behind. So much for backing me. If anyone took a shot, he was in the best position to see . . . and duck from the line of fire.

  Lowrey and a man named Derner sat at Gordy’s desk; he was one of the more sensible lieutenants. I might be able to rely on him, but he’d go along with the majority. He was speaking into the phone, his gaze on me.

  “He just walked in,” he said. The room was quiet enough so everyone heard. Derner held the earpiece out. “It’s New York. They wanna talk to you.”

  “I wanna talk to them, but in a minute.”

  “But—”

  “In a minute.”

  Derner pulled his sagging jaw back into place, hastily mumbled into the mouthpiece, and hung up. He vacated Gordy’s chair and got out of my way, but I had no intention of sitting there. Nearly thirty guys so tough you could ice skate on them were just looking for me to get stupid. Leaving that chair empty for the time being sent them a message about my intent but also left things open for misinterpretation. Instead of showing respect for Gordy, they might think I didn’t have the guts to sit in his place. Those were the ones I had to watch for, and they all seemed to be in the front circle.

  Lowrey glanced at Strome, then me. “Who’s watching the boss?”

  “A friend. He’s in safe hands.”

  “Whose?”

  “Wise up.” There was no way I’d let that information drop here with all these ears. For all I knew, Bristow could have already recruited half of them with promises of better pay and positions when he took over. Which wouldn’t happen if I could help it.

  I parked my duff on the edge of the desk, recalling that Escott had adopted a similar posture. Just how close had he been to imitating me? I kept my hands out of my pockets, though; it spoiled the lines of the suit, which were smooth. Whoever had eyes to see would know I wasn’t packing anything more lethal than a handkerchief and loose change. Strome told me to carry heat, and I did have a gun. I had a couple of guns, picked up here and there on various cases with Escott, but left them at home or locked in my office safe. These guys wouldn’t be impressed by firepower. It was too common, too easily used, too easily betrayed. On the other hand, they’d take me for an idiot, going unarmed.

  “Here’s the deal,” I said, loud so the boys in the back didn’t have to work to listen. “Gordy’s been plugged, but he’s all right. He told me to keep things running until he gets back.”

  “How do we know that?”

  “Because Bristow ain’t standing here, and most of you are still breathing. If Bristow gets in, he will clean house. Those two go hand in hand.”

  “If Gordy’s all right, why don’t he call?” This from a big guy named Ruzzo. He wasn’t the one to worry about, that would be his younger brother, also big. They were both called Ruzzo by everyone, with no additional name to distinguish one from the other; one man, two bodies, and two bad tempers if they thought anyone was shorting them on money or deference.

  “I didn’t ask why,” I said. “That’s how he wants it.”

  “He’s dead,” said Ruzzo the younger. “Like I thought.”

  “Like I thought,” echoed his brother.

  Fair fighting was for the boxing ring, and sometimes not then. With no warning and moving faster than they could think—not difficult—I darted from the desk, gut-punching each once, left, right. Not quite hard enough to rupture internal organs, but folding them down. Neither would be moving right away. I strolled back to the desk, shooting my cuffs.

  Several of the guys blinked and maybe remembered why Gordy gave me special consideration, even though I wasn’t on the payroll.

  “Gordy says I’m in charge ’til he returns. If you’re wondering about changes, I’m not making any. Everyone keeps doing what they do same as usual. Any problem with that?”

  A gaunt man two steps from me pulled his gun from a shoulder holster with the same casual movement as lighting a cigarette. He was a heartbeat from shooting, but I slapped my hand over his, forcing it down, squeezing hard to break fingers. He got a fist in the jaw with my other hand and dropped. I plucked the gun free of his lax grip and, very purposefully, gave it to Strome. A message to him, too. He met my gaze steady for an instant. He was unreadable but didn’t try shooting me, despite the offered opportunity. Whether it was because he knew better than to try or was genuinely supporting me, I couldn’t tell. He shoved the gun into his belt.

  “Eve
rything runs the same,” I continued, “except for you guys who are going to find me Ignance Bristow. He’s the one who did the shooting or arranged to have it done. He was only supposed to talk Gordy into handing over the business. It didn’t happen. Now I wanna talk to him. After I’m done, Gordy’s gonna want to talk to him.”

  “He won’t let us bring him in,” someone said.

  “You don’t have to bring. You just find. Find him and tell me where he is. I’ll take it from there. Make damn sure you’re right, ’cause I don’t have time to waste on no goose chases. When you’re sure, you call here.”

  “We get paid extra for this?”

  “Extra? Okay, who’s the wiseass?”

  General laughter. Not a lot, but a good sign.

  “This ain’t a hit, this is hide-and-seek. But—the guy who finds Bristow gets a grand as a bonus. You can buy your girlfriend something nice and something nicer for the wife so she don’t mind you being out late.”

  Another laugh.

  I pointed to the men on the floor. “Get these mugs outta here and set’em straight. If you got work to do, go do it. The rest of you spread out and look for Bristow. Find him tonight, and I’ll put another grand on top of the first.”

  “That’s just for locating him? We don’t do nothin’ else?”

  “Easy money,” I said.

  They all seemed to agree; I never saw a room clear so fast without a lunch whistle sounding first. They left behind the Ruzzos and the gaunt gunslinger. At a look from me, Strome called a few guys over for cleaning duty, dragging the bodies out.

  The phone rang.

  “That’ll be New York again,” said Derner.

  “Who am I talking to at the other end?”

  “Guy called Kroun.”

  I thought I’d heard of him. Gordy talked about lots of people, lots of names. “Who’s he?”

  “The fella who sent Bristow here.”

  Great.

  12

  “THIS is Fleming.”

  “And who the hell are you?” Ordinary voice, Hell’s Kitchen accent. Definitely aggressive.

  “Filling in for Gordy tonight. You Kroun?”

  “Yeah. Where’s Hog?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What’s this about him shooting Gordy? He wouldn’t do that.”

  “Well, Kroun, you’re in for a disappointment. Bristow was crazy drunk last night and plenty mad. He had a lapse in judgment. Gordy got away and put himself where he can stay healthy.”

  “How you know all that?”

  “I was there, saw everything. What the hell were you thinking, sending that brainless thug out here to take over from Gordy?”

  Derner gave me a sharp look. Questioning the New York bosses was something you only did once.

  “Hog says he can do a better job.” Kroun sounded like he was simmering just short of boilover.

  “All he wants is a place to get drunk every night.”

  “The money’s not like it was. Hog can do better.”

  “Check the paper, there’s a depression on. Gordy’s doing damn well and a damn sight better than Bristow would. He keeps his head clear and has a brain inside it—”

  “Aw, go buy a violin. So you’re filling in? What’re you going to do about this?”

  “That’s up to Bristow. He will be found.” I hoped I wasn’t talking too fast for this guy. “How he’s found is his choice. He can be dead or alive. His choice.”

  “You bury him, you put yourself in the same box. He’s got friends here.”

  “Then he should go back to ’em. I’m the only friend he’s got here. Listen very carefully, Kroun. If I don’t talk to him, one of the other boys will, and it’ll be with a gun. They’re plenty sore about what he did to Gordy.”

  “I don’t hear no proof that Hog did anything. You think I’m just gonna take your word for it?”

  “Your favorite son will be explaining himself soon enough. If he lives that long.”

  “What d’ya mean by that?”

  “Just listen: I’m the one man here with enough sense to keep him alive. If he should happen to call home to say hello, you pass that on. Every guy in this town wants to nail him to a wall. I’m the one man here who won’t kill him. I know what’s at stake.” Not strictly true, but Kroun wouldn’t be asking for a list.

  “Hog won’t believe that.”

  “Then he’s dumber than he looks. Gordy has to have told him I don’t care one way or another about how you guys run your business. It’s none of mine, and I want to keep clear of it. But Hog comes in like a binging sailor, rocking boats, upsetting things—that’s bad for everyone’s business.”

  “So?”

  “If you can talk him into being smart, I can clean up the mess he made and see to it he’s happy with the deal.”

  “What d’ya mean by that? What deal?”

  “Have him talk to me, and he’ll find out. If he doesn’t wise up, then you can’t blame anyone but him for whatever happens. I don’t like assholes coming into my town thinking they can kick my friends around and not catch one on the chin for it like a man. That kind ain’t worth the powder to blow ’em to hell, and you and I both know it. If Bristow thinks he’s got big enough balls to take on Chicago, he’s got to prove it to me first. You got that straight?”

  Silence on the line.

  “I said, do you got that?”

  “Oh, yeah. And Hog’s gonna get every word.” His voice was shaky. Mad as hell kind of shaky.

  “Good. Now I have things to do.” I hung up.

  Strome didn’t move or speak. Same for Lowrey, who looked out-and-out appalled for a second before covering it up.

  Derner opened and shut his mouth a few times and finally said, “Where you want the funeral?”

  “Mine or Bristow’s?” I grinned.

  “Both. What the hell were you thinking, kid? Talking to Kroun like that?”

  “If I rolled on my back and pissed myself, would he have respected me?”

  “I guess not, but Kroun—”

  “Is probably calling Bristow right now and passing on my message just the way I want. I’ll wait here for him to phone. Of course, if any of the boys finds him first, then I change my plans. I hope you got two grand in petty cash lying around.” With the amount of gambling going on in the private casino downstairs, that’s probably what they used for coffee and donut change.

  “That’s the boss’s money you’re throwing around, remember.”

  Just what I wanted to hear: guys in Gordy’s organization talking like he could walk in any minute. “Gordy won’t mind.”

  “Two grand? That’s a lot, considering there’s no hit on.”

  I was fairly confident that no one would collect. Bristow would call first. Not because he was smart but for a chance to let me know what he thought of me. After he was done spitting dust, I’d arrange a meeting with him and do my evil-eye “deal.” In the meantime, the hunt for him kept a lot of dangerous, jittery guys chasing around and focused on something else besides me. Of course, if one of the boys accidentally killed him, that would change things, but I was optimistic about Bristow’s ability to survive, even with a bounty on his head. His bodyguards would keep him safe if they knew what was good for them. “I think insurance people call it a finder’s fee. Gordy can take it off his taxes.”

  “Taxes?” Derner spoke like it was an unfamiliar foreign word.

  “Never mind. Anyone deliver a paper here today? I wanna read the news.”

  Strome found this morning’s papers. I sprawled on Gordy’s wide leather sofa and looked over the headlines. The others took the hint and parked themselves at the other end of the room to wait for Bristow’s call.

  The kidnapping case had faded from the front page, replaced by a milk-fund scandal, union troubles in Detroit, and the latest load of woe from China. The Japanese were murdering them. The Chinese were in desperate need of pilots and people to teach them to fly, but not having much luck. The officers wanting to learn we
re from the upper crust of a very caste-bound society and took criticism from lower-rank tutors rather badly. If you gave your noble-born student a poor grade, you could have your head chopped off. Along with the war, they were losing flying teachers by the bushel basket. Though many outside the country were sympathetic, there weren’t a lot of American or British fliers interested in taking their place.

  I dug out the funny pages, finding them much more entertaining than usual. Having been walking on the edge for too long, I craved inanity. Strome, Lowrey, and Derner didn’t hide their annoyance at my enjoyment, but damn it, the laughs felt good.

  The crossword looked interesting, so I went to the desk—only then did I sit in the chair—and played at filling in the squares for a while. The phone rang a few times, but it was ordinary club business that Derner handled quickly to keep the line clear.

  Halfway through the puzzle it hit me: I’d faced down those toughs and hadn’t once resorted to the evil eye. Hadn’t even thought of it. I was faster and stronger than any of them and had used that, but it was different, seemed more square for some reason. And no headache from the effort.

  But all the rest was me, not supernatural influence. For all the guff and gab I’d thrown out, I’d been rock steady and still was; it felt good, even. This ordinary kind of smoke and mirrors stuff agreed with me.

  Well, well, Mrs. Fleming’s youngest was doing all right for himself.

  When I’d had enough of self-congratulation, I decided to check the inside headlines for that morning’s latest about the Gladwell kidnapping. Escott had mentioned no new developments over his boiled egg supper, but then he’d slept in late and might not have read anything. Neither of us had listened to the radio, either. I shifted newsprint around on Gordy’s desk.

  The kidnapping had been relegated to page two, and I expected a much-truncated story rehashing everything, but there was fresh information after all. The first was Dugan’s mysterious failure to appear in court. His lawyer gave excuses, requesting a postponement. The judge rescheduled things for tomorrow and sternly lectured the lawyer about the importance of not wasting the court’s time.