by P. N. Elrod
“Enjoy it, you goddamn pink-eared mama’s boy. When I’m done with you, they won’t need a meat grinder to turn you into dog food.”
“You still expect New York will protect you after trying to bump Gordy? Forget that.”
Escott eased from the chair. He must have taken a few gut punches, for he moved carefully. Staying out of my line of fire, he disarmed everyone, taking his big Webley back from one of them. The lights flickered slightly but didn’t go out. The men looked up, uneasy.
“Goddamn short,” Bristow muttered.
“Myrna,” I said softly. “Her name is Myrna.”
“Who the hell is Myrna?”
“Resident revenant and guardian angel.” I addressed the air. “Thanks, doll. You did good.”
“Indeed. Extremely well done,” agreed Escott, having apparently lost his nervousness about her. “You two gentlemen join your friend on the floor. Lie facedown and clasp your hands at the small of your back. A little more speed, if you please. I have a grudge against the lot of you and shall shoot the slowest in a very undignified and disagreeable location. That’s better. Now lie perfectly still.”
They were lined up side by side, even the guy I’d hit. He was the only one who didn’t seem to mind being motionless.
“You’re gonna die buckwheats, you son of a bitch,” Bristow growled at me from the couch.
“Beg pardon?” Escott kept his eyes on the three floor goons.
“Nothing to do with Our Gang,” I said. “It’s killing a guy slow and ugly as a lesson to others.”
“Interesting nomenclature. One wonders at its origin. I hope you’ll take steps to change his mind about such an alarming course of action.”
“Oh, yeah.” Damn, it was a relief to have him talking normal again. “Hey, Ignance.”
You could almost see the steam coming out of Bristow’s ears. “Why you—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, buckwheats with a beer chaser. You have anything to drink tonight?”
“What’s it to you?”
“You’ll find out.”
Just then the office door opened. Anthony Brockhurst stood on the threshold in a dapper camel-hair coat, silk scarf, and topper. Marie Kennard was with him, clutching at her high fur collar and looking sullenangry. They saw Escott standing over the men on the floor and me with my gun aimed at Bristow. It must have been an impressive tableau.
Anthony’s eyes popped, and he fell away half a step. “I—I can see you’re busy. I’ll just come back later.”
Keeping my aim steady, I gave Anthony a look. “Oh, no, get your ass in here. You’re late.”
Marie let out a soft little moan of alarm and seemed about to bolt.
“You, too, sister. Inside.”
Just the sight of the gun, though it was pointed elsewhere, put me in charge of them. They were almost too petrified to obey. Anthony gallantly stood in front of her.
“Let her go; you don’t need her here,” he declared, chin and voice high.
“Both inside. Now. Shut the door.” They did exactly that. I made them stand well clear of Bristow and glanced at Escott. “What is this, bank night?”
“You didn’t exactly plan it this way,” he admitted.
And I couldn’t deal with more than one at a time. I’d have to cut down the opposition odds.
Then Bristow, fast for his bulk, boosted from the couch and slammed one meaty arm into Escott like a club. Softened by his earlier pummeling, Escott grunted and staggered, tripping over one of the goons. He failed at catching his balance but kept a grip on his Webley when he fell.
Marie screamed and ducked; Brockhurst grabbed her out of the way, pushing her down, throwing himself on top, which was sensible. Hog Bristow had a gun in his other hand and used it.
The first shot was for me. I dove to one side, slamming smack into my chair. I heard him fire again as I pitched headfirst toward the floor. The flash of agony ripped through my chest for an awful instant until my body ceased to be solid. Though quick enough to avoid a tangling crash, I’d still caught a bullet.
Bristow rumbled something indistinct, and Marie screamed again, a good, long, piercing one. I got moving.
“Shaddup!” Bristow ordered.
“Boss, let’s go,” said one of his boys urgently.
Marie shrieked.
I materialized behind Bristow, grabbing his gun hand, twisting it down, not being careful about my strength. He cursed in pain and plugged a hole in the floor before I wrenched the weapon away from him. I hoped to God the bullet didn’t crash through to the lobby below.
We danced around. I glimpsed Escott huddled to one side. Couldn’t tell how badly he’d been damaged. Enough not to participate. Someone hauled sharp at my arm, and Bristow broke free and turned.
“Get him!” he bellowed.
Two of Bristow’s men had recovered their feet and their guns. They leveled the latter at me.
Oh, shit.
The lights winked out. Now we were all invisible. At least until my eyes adjusted. I stopped being there. Fast.
Gunshots. Cluster of them. Impossible to tell how many. Surging toward the shooters, I tried to get behind them, but they were on the move.
“C’mon, boss!” one of them yelled.
“You kill that punk?”
“Out, boss! Now!”
They audibly bolted. I went solid again, kneeling by Escott. It was dim, but I could distinguish outlines and movement. “You hit?”
“No,” he gasped. “Ribs.” Bristow must have had an arm like a baseball bat.
“He’s dead,” said Marie Kennard, in a thin, funny voice. For a second I thought she’d misjudged Escott’s condition until realizing she meant Brockhurst. She tried crawling out from under him. He wasn’t moving.
I hurried over and pulled him off her. His head lolled as I checked for bullet holes. No bloodsmell, though. Marie scooted back against the wall, tucking her legs up close, a hand to her mouth.
“You killed him,” she whispered.
But I heard a strong heartbeat. “Easy, sister. He’s just fainted.”
“Wh-what?”
“Fainted,” I said more loudly. “Charles . . .”
He’d begun to sit up. “I’ll watch these two. Go after the—”
I whipped out the door. In the lobby another woman cut loose with a scream. Bristow shouted. They should have left by now. Must have been hampered by the mug I’d punched.
Quick down the stairs, but I missed the gang’s exit out the front and probably just as well; they’d have fired at me again. Disaster in this crowd, in this dark. Myrna had done her specialty number over the whole joint, God bless her.
Wilton had a flashlight and shone it around; people drifted toward him like moths. Focused on it, they missed my ghostlike passage through the door.
Cold wind thrashed at me as I re-formed under the entry canopy.
Bristow and his mob pelted toward a big car parked across the street, nearly getting run down by a panel truck. He waved his gun at the heedless driver, who blared his horn, brakes squealing. Two of the bodyguards half carried their boss and their faltering companion clear just in time.
I started forward, then had to pause or get hit myself. By the time I made it halfway across, the truck was gone and they’d loaded into the car. Bristow had the wheel.
He’d just got the engine started as I grabbed the door handle. He looked up, jaw falling as he recognized me, rage and disbelief in a dead heat on his face. I yanked the door open. Too hard. The hinges cracked and the thing came away in my hand.
Bristow glared at the impossibility. “Son of a bitch!”
Shot.
Goddammit—the thug next to him caught me in the same damned spot. I staggered away, dropping the door. The world faded. Another shot, but I was gone. The car motor roared, gears protested. I sluggishly moved toward the noise, trying to find the gaping opening where the door had been, but slammed against the metal side of the car instead. It was moving, tires screaming agai
nst the road.
Solid. Just long enough to get a bead.
Not solid. Hurtling after them, speeding low and fast, fighting the tumbling wind in the wake of their passage. I thought I felt the heat belching from the exhaust pipe; I was certain I felt the back bumper jouncing just ahead and streamed forward, reaching for it, searching out the trunk.
Something carried it abruptly away from my sense. He must have cut a turn. Sharp screech, skidding. I guessed a hard right, tried to follow, but trying to fix on anything, especially a fast-moving anything was damn near impossible. The hulking car was elsewhere. I’d have to go semitransparent.
And it cost time. Too much. When I materialized enough to see them, they were too far distant for me to catch up. Fully re-forming, I tried to get a plate number. Couldn’t.
They wouldn’t be too hard to trace. There weren’t a whole hell of a lot of cars running around Chicago with the driver’s door gone.
They shrank in the distance and turned again. Out of sight. They’d be back for more, though, after a little regrouping.
I walked back to Crymsyn, overcoat collar turned up against the wind, pissed and wanting to punch things. Most of it wore off by the time I’d covered the blocks back. It surprised me how far we’d gone in what seemed such a brief time.
Very tiring it was, too. I was healed but drained. Passing under a streetlight, I found the only visible damage was to my clothes. Holes there, some bloodstains. Alarming to the uninitiated. Anger-making for me. I’d paid hard-earned bucks for this overcoat. Maybe a reweaving job . . . if only that was my biggest problem.
Damnation to Bristow. I’d have to find him quick. There was no doubt in my mind he would try to make good on his buckwheats promise. He might arrange the same for Escott just for the hell of it. I’d have to go back to the Nightcrawler and think up a brilliant song and dance for Kroun, start things over again, and try clearing this mess before it got worse.
Someone had apparently noticed the discarded car door lying in the street and thoughtfully moved it. Now it was propped against a shop building, left in plain view should the rest of the vehicle’s owner return to claim it.
But I couldn’t expect Bristow to oblige.
Lady Crymsyn’s lights were back on again. Heartening sight: business almost as usual, no cops or sirens. Maybe the customers startled by Bristow’s exit had chosen to leave rather than make a scene. I’d ask Wilton later. Not wanting to deal with comment from the staff, I ghosted in and didn’t go solid until making the upstairs landing.
I pushed the office door open. Escott had kept the party going. Brockhurst, recovered from his ignominious faint, was huddled on the couch with Marie. He tried to stand up and face me, but she dragged at him.
“No, Anthony! Please!” she pleaded.
He was white around the gills, so he let himself be persuaded. Good. I was tempted to sock him one. He didn’t deserve it, but he was handy, and life ain’t fair.
Escott was just to my left, standing—sitting, rather, since he’d pulled my desk chair over—guard. He had his big Webley ready, which was enough gun to scare anyone sensible. It worked great on our guests, though he didn’t have it aimed directly at either of them. Neither seemed to notice.
“Hallo,” he said, giving me a once-over. He raised an eyebrow. “Been to the wars, have you?”
“Just the one and not for long.”
“Long enough. You are in a state.”
The holes and bloodstains looked worse in full light. The big one with the singe marks was right in front. A second hole with less blood was inches from it and slightly lower. Bristow and his pals had done some damn fine shooting. Lucky me.
Our guests goggled at the destruction.
“Are you all right?” Brockhurst ventured.
“Just peachy.”
“That blood . . . You’re hurt?”
“Yeah, in fact, they killed me. At least twice.”
He put on an affronted face. Marie seemed ready to slug me. Good. They were busy being mad, which was better than thinking about the craziness in front of them. I peeled out of the damaged overcoat and left it on the desk, not without some regret. Maybe the laundry had delivered more fresh shirts earlier today, and—
“What happened?” asked Escott.
I gave a longing look at the open liquor cabinet and wished I could still have a shot of booze. From the glasses that had been used, all three of them had indulged.
“Jack?”
“Yeah. Bristow got away. I ain’t betting money he won’t come back. He’ll be loaded for bear. Elephant, maybe. A whole damn herd.”
“Perhaps we should remove from this place.”
“You for certain. Disappear yourself to a hotel for tonight.”
“At the first opportunity.”
“Or better, go over to Vivian’s.”
He considered that one for a whole two seconds. “Normally I would not impose, but in this case I’m sure she won’t mind.”
“What is going on?” Marie demanded, her voice cracking. “Who were those men? Let us go!”
“When I’m ready,” I said. I went to the cabinet, poured doubles into three fresh glasses and shared them around. Since I couldn’t have a drink, I’d get my comfort vicariously. No one protested or turned down the offered hospitality, especially Brockhurst, who downed his in one practiced gulp.
Escott had a pointed look for me, and I understood him. If hypnosis became necessary later, I was shooting myself in the foot giving these two booze now.
“You okay?” I asked him.
“I should like a gallon of liniment, a few aspirin, and some sleep.”
“How much damage did they do?”
“No broken ribs, though the one I cracked before is protesting the maltreatment. Much of the rest of my person has been thoroughly tenderized.”
I wanted to ask if he could have talked his way out of being hurt altogether but figured Bristow would have had his boys roughhousing him just for the hell of it. They’d get their payback, but I should have anticipated something like this. All my smart-ass talk to Kroun was supposed to make me Bristow’s new target, not anyone else.
Escott must have read my face. “Really, Jack, this was not your fault. Had I too quickly given in and told them what I wanted them to know, they’d never have believed it. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Bristow has all the intelligence of a box of bricks. I discerned that he draws conclusions from a person’s emotional reactions, not from what is actually said. That’s how he understood we were insulting him without his having the least idea what the insult was about. Abstractions make less sense to him than hieroglyphs do to us. We see the pictures and know they mean something. He sees only a wall.”
“Where’d all that come from?” This was new stuff from him.
He sketched a brief smile. “Vivian and I had a fascinating conversation about the workings and processes of human thought. Perception is a very subjective experience. She’s interested in understanding how her daughter’s mind works, the better to help the girl—”
“Oh, God,” said Marie Kennard. She seemed less angry and frightened now, shifting toward impatience.
“It’s all right,” said Anthony, misinterpreting. “I won’t let them hurt you.” He took her hand.
“No wonder Gilbert got on so well with him, they talk exactly alike.”
Escott looked insulted. “Young lady, I am not a compulsive liar.”
“Let’s not get into that,” I said. “Brockhurst, did you bring the letters?”
His expression wavered an instant, a dredged-up reaction from the instructions I’d given him last night. “I have them here.” He patted his inside pocket.
“Hand them over.”
He did so. I put them on my perforated coat. They made quite a stack. Like the others I collected from Dugan, these were addressed to people of such influence and position as to make life miserable for my friends.
“That’s all of them? You’re sure?” I dipped back
toward head pain again, to be certain he told the truth, and it got a little way past his drink.
“All of them,” he whispered.
“Why are you helping them?” Marie asked him.
He blinked, coming out of it, unaware he’d even been in. “I have to. It will help Gilbert.” His voice, but my words from last night.
“How? You said that before. How will this help him?”
“I can’t explain yet, but I will later.”
“It is later.” She glared at me. “You got what you want, now let us go.”
I wasn’t holding the gun on them, but couldn’t fault her assumption that they were prisoners. “Was it your idea to come up here with him?” I hadn’t allowed for the possibility that any of his friends would tag along.
“Yes. I want to know why he’s doing this, giving these to you. We can always write more.”
“I know, but you won’t. Where are the others in your band of merrymakers ? They downstairs?”
She didn’t answer.
“Brockhurst?”
“They’re not here,” he said. Truthfully.
“That’s good. We’ve got enough guests at this party.”
“Let us go,” she repeated.
“In a minute. I want to talk to you about your friend Gilbert and that ten grand he says we want.” I jerked my head Escott’s way to include him.
“What about it?”
“Deal’s off. We don’t want your money. In fact, we never wanted it. That was all Gilbert’s idea. He was trying to shake you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Last night? In the car? Anthony drove you away from the club. During the ride, Gilbert told you how he bought us off the kidnapping case with the threat of these letters and a bribe to sweeten things. He said Escott was the brains and I was the crazy-mad muscle that roughed him up some.”
She stared. “How do you know that? Anthony, did you tell him?”
“Yeah, yeah, he told me all about it. Well, sister, you need to hear the truth about poor, abused, misunderstood Gilbert.”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
“Charles, are those records still in the safe?”
He nodded. “Miss Smythe wasn’t up to dealing with the copying business today. However, I did transcribe the rest of it this afternoon. Only in shorthand, though.”
