The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “You’d do it, though.”

  I sighed. “Yeah. I would.” I reached for my phone and dialed Dr. Clarson’s number.

  Bobbi answered.

  “It’s me,” I said. “How’s Gordy doing?”

  Her voice was very subdued. “Still the same. He should be better, Jack. After all this time? He should. But he’s not.”

  “He’ll get better.” But she was right. I’d seen guys shot in the war who either rallied early or gradually faded away after a long plateau of nothing happening, good or bad. “You know Gordy, he thinks things over without saying anything, then suddenly goes to work.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  An old war memory dredged up for me: being in one of the hospitals, seeing some of the wounded guys from my company. Remembering the ones who made it and why. “Do me a favor and talk to him.”

  “Talk to him? But he’s supposed to rest.”

  “He’s been resting. Maybe too much. You and Adelle talk to him, tell him what’s going on, act like he’s part of the conversation. Tell him about the weather, tell him stories, play the radio for him. He might be awake under his eyelids and just can’t talk back yet.” I knew what that was like.

  “Okay. We’ll do it.”

  “And you can tell him I’m taking care of things with Bristow.”

  “Oh, Jack, you got him?”

  I hated disappointing her. “Well, not yet. We had a setback, but I’ll be fixing things, then sending him back to New York.”

  “Even after he shot Gordy?”

  “His mistake. They won’t like him so much after I’m done.”

  “But will they not like him enough to keep him there?”

  “I’m hoping they’ll keep him there permanently.” Like under a highway or as part of a bridge. “Pass this on to Shoe if you see him, and tell him I said to go on with keeping Gordy under wraps. He’s safer there than anywhere else.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “But I don’t want to take any chances. If Strome or anyone else from the organization shows up that isn’t me, don’t let them in.”

  “Why?”

  “Loose ends.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Is Isham there?”

  “Yeah. Him and another couple guys. I’ll let them know, but you’re scaring me.”

  “Don’t be. I’m just being extra careful. Bristow might have had help I don’t know about.”

  “Like Strome?”

  “Yeah, but it’s long odds. I’m only saying keep the doors locked for now. Old maid stuff, y’know?”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yeah, honey. I’ve got some more stuff to do tonight. Can you get a ride home in case it runs late?”

  “Yes, but I think I’ll be staying. Adelle’s getting some sleep. Poor thing’s worn down to the bone. Can’t blame her.”

  “I’ll call to check in. If I’m not in the office, do you know the number for the lobby phone? I’ll have Wilton keep his ears open if it rings. And you can reach Charles at . . .”

  She wrote down the numbers I dictated. “Where will you be?”

  “Got some other business to clean up. Tell you later.”

  “Is it about Dugan?”

  “Yeah. We just convinced his friends he’s guilty, so that’s finally over. I had them listen to the records. It wasn’t fun, but they came around.”

  “They’re all right?”

  “Not happy, but breathing regular. I sent them home, too. Tell you later.”

  “Darn tootin’ you will.”

  We said bye and hung up. I told Escott about Gordy’s unchanged condition.

  “Talking to him might help at that,” he said thoughtfully.

  “It can’t hurt. C’mon, let’s get you some aspirin. I think Wilton keeps a bottle under the cash register.” I took the record off the player and slipped it in its sleeve and then into the flat box with its brother, but not into the safe. That I clanked shut and locked.

  “What are you doing with those?”

  I grinned. “Does Vivian Gladwell have a phonograph?”

  WE didn’t leave right away; I had to change clothes. There’d been a laundry delivery that afternoon, and along with fresh towels for the washrooms and bars, I had a clean suit and a half-dozen shirts stacked in one of the dressing rooms. After staring at the near-pristine suit for ten seconds, I decided not to risk it and hung it in the closet. That thing had cost nearly a hundred bucks—over a month’s pay for my last regular job as a reporter. Though I was making much more than that in profits now, I hated wasting money.

  Maybe I could hit Bristow up for compensation. Literally. A few socks to his wide kisser wouldn’t improve his looks, but I’d feel better. While he lay groggy on the floor, I could see what the inside of his wallet looked like.

  Fresh shirt buttoned, tucked in, tie in place, and coat on my back—the holes weren’t too visible—I was ready to make a quick check of how the evening had progressed without my supervision. I emerged from the backstage area, nodded to the bartenders, and surveyed the crowd. They seemed cheerful, tapping in time to the music, talking, smoking, drinking, and watching the show. Not bad, especially since I’d missed doing my usual light “enjoy yourself” whammy on them at the door.

  Thankfully, the early debut of Roland and Faustine had gone without a hitch, according to the waiters. The dance duet had gotten in sufficient rehearsal to be a real audience-pleaser. They had enough professionalism—or desperation for a paycheck—to put aside their big fight and focus on the job. I’d heard of couples like that who could brawl better than cats and dogs before and after a show but still deliver a flawless performance in between.

  Escott and I walked in as the band struck up a tango. It was kind of old stuff, having had its heyday with Valentino, but the arrangement shifted back and forth between tango and swing rhythms, a contest to see which was better and both winning. One minute Roland and Faustine were smoldering eye to eye, the next they were up and spinning into a modified jitterbug. She wore a glittery silver gown with the hem high enough from the floor so as not to tangle her feet, and the shimmering skirt swirled dramatically with every turn. She had on heels but still managed to put in some ballet-style twirls. There was no toe dancing, but you could see the classical influence in her form. Roland moved gracefully, both supporting and showcasing her.

  “Damn,” I muttered to Escott, who had parked at the bar. “They’re good.”

  “Excellent sense of timing,” he agreed.

  Escott had washed his aspirin down with a ginger ale instead of gin and tonic. He probably wanted to be sharp later on.

  “I gotta play boss for a few minutes,” I said, gauging the music. The number was about to wind itself up.

  “Please proceed. It will give time for my medication to work.”

  The exhibition dance ended; Roland and Faustine made bows and collected a huge round of applause, which boosted my satisfaction. With this initial reception to judge by, they’d go over very well tomorrow night.

  It was time for the patrons to join them on the floor. I had the jump on other guys since I’d known it was coming and reached Faustine first.

  “How ’bout a quick turn?” I asked.

  She granted me a pleased smile. “But ov course. You enjoyed our daunce, yesss?”

  “Very much.” The band did a slow waltz. I was no Roland Lambert but could keep up with this beat without disgrace. Faustine was a delight in my arms, like dancing with air. “I wanted to thank you for coming in ahead of time.”

  “Eet vas our pleasure. Tomorrow vill even better be.”

  “Are you two working things out? I know it’s not my business, but I like my performers to be happy.”

  She stiffened only a little. “Yesss. Ve talk. He prostrate himself, as he should. I may forgive, but eez difficult.”

  “You can always talk to Bobbi if you need to, you know.”

  “Yesss, she is lovely-sweet to be zo nice in my troublings
. I like not to impose, but in this only another woman understands. She is vhere tonight?”

  “Looking after a friend who took sick.”

  “Nothing to be caught, I hope?” She looked alarmed. Bobbi was the same way about colds.

  “No, stomach problems.”

  “Hopeful I am there is quick recovery, then.”

  “Thanks.”

  Across the floor, Roland squired an older woman around. She was elegantly dressed, well into the dowager years. He guided her majestically over the floor, and she seemed to glow from his twinkling attention. Faustine noticed, and her chin went up, eyes glinting. “He is being good boy tonight, yesss. But I expect he must daunce wit’ the pretty ones, too.”

  “I think he’ll behave for a while, even with them.”

  She made a small humph sound. “Some men should not marry. Perhaps eet vas a mistake for me, but he is zo handsome, such the charm, and I do love. I know he loves me, but sometimes he forgets. We shall see.”

  I could make the situation better for them, but so long as she wasn’t throwing drinks in public, things were under control. It was better for them to work their marriage stuff out on their own.

  An eager-looking business type cut in on me the moment the waltz shifted to a rumba. Faustine would have her hands full with him, but he’d behave. The waiters had been told to keep watch in case any guys got fresh with her. She had a high sign to give should things get awkward. This was a class place, not one of those dime-a-dance warehouses. Though not happy about dealing with mobsters, my staff could handle the regular sort of customer.

  I went back to Escott. “How about a drive over to the Gladwell house?”

  “I already telephoned and told Vivian we were on the way,” he said, face carefully neutral.

  And I thought that business type was a fast worker.

  ESCOTT got in his car, and I got in mine, and we didn’t look over our shoulders more than a dozen times after leaving the club. My job was to trail him and watch the rearview mirror to make sure it stayed clear. We figured if anyone—meaning Bristow—followed us, they would be more interested in my car.

  Escott had a talent for throwing a shadow and lost me in ten minutes, and I knew where he was headed. He wound that big Nash around corners like it was a bicycle. I barely kept even with him, lost sight of him twice, then gave up and let him bull ahead. If Escott shook me, then he was safe. I was less safe but better able to handle trouble.

  To make sure I was fully restored for whatever lay ahead, I took the long way around to get to the Stockyards, parking in a different spot from last night. Made wary by Dugan, I vanished while still in the car and ghosted across the street, not going solid again until far inside the cover of the cattle pens. Even then I had a good, careful look around to make sure I was alone and unobserved.

  I hoped to settle things soon with Dugan, else I might always feel like someone was watching as I fed. Not exactly good for the digestion.

  Business finished, I returned the same way and sped out, not stopping until I found an all-night drugstore. Its bright lights made me wince, but no matter, so long as the phone worked. I wedged into the narrow booth, unfolded the door into place for privacy, and dialed the Nightcrawler Club.

  “Derner.” He’d picked up before the first ring had finished.

  “This is Fleming—”

  “What the hell have you been doing?” he demanded.

  I suppose he had a right to be worried. Not for me, but his own hide. If I didn’t hold things together for Gordy, we were all up shit creek. “What have you been told I’ve been doing?”

  “Kroun’s heard from Bristow. They ain’t happy. Said you tried to kill him.”

  “He was the one trying to plug me. Twice. He must have left that part out.”

  “You got hit?”

  “He missed me, so I might forgive him. Where is he?”

  “Kroun didn’t say. On the move, probably.”

  “Think he’ll come by the club?”

  “There’s a laugh.”

  “Can you get him there? Tonight?”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Call Kroun. Tell him Gordy didn’t make it and Bristow is free to take over. Tell him you don’t care who runs things, that you can be a big help getting the other guys to cooperate. Tell him you can get me to the club so Bristow can—”

  Derner audibly sputtered. “You’re crazy! I can’t feed them that crap! You know what they’d do to me?”

  “I’ll make it square for you later. The important thing is to put Bristow in a place where I can talk with him, and it’s got to be tonight.”

  “You gonna kill him?”

  “Of course not. I’m gonna be smarter than him, which ain’t too hard. You just make sure you sell Kroun on the news.”

  “What about Gordy?”

  “What about him?”

  “They said he was dead. Is he?”

  “You got told wrong. I saw him tonight, and he’s still breathing. So long as he keeps breathing, you and everyone else stays copasetic.”

  “But—”

  “Can it. Who do you want running things? Gordy or Bristow?”

  “Gordy.”

  “Same here, so gimmie a hand on this.”

  He mumbled a reply. He’d cooperate.

  “Great. Just get Bristow to the club and keep him happy. Cooperate with him, make him believe you. I’ll check in later. See to it you’re the one answering the phone. Now . . . where’s Lowrey?”

  “He went home.”

  “What, not out on the big hunt for Bristow?”

  “Not with his missus.” By his tone Derner gave me to think Mrs. Lowrey had more in common with Marie Dressler than Greta Garbo. A henpecked mobster. What would they think of next?

  “Okay, where’s he live?”

  “What for?”

  “I got a job going; you’ll hear about it later.”

  That didn’t seem to satisfy him, but he gave me an address. I scrawled it on the back cover of the booth’s phone book and tore it away. “There’s one more thing . . . call off the hunt for Bristow. Tell the boys thanks and go home. Don’t mention Gordy one way or another.”

  “They’re gonna be sore. They’ll think you took the reward.”

  “Give ’em each fifty bucks as a consolation prize.”

  “B-but that’s nearly fifteen hundred! For doing nothing!”

  “It’s five hundred less than you’d have paid out before, and this way everyone gets something. Gordy will approve.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Do I have to come down there? Just do it!”

  AFTER fishing a map from my glove box, I looked up Lowrey’s street and drove over. He and I had some talking to do.

  It was a surprise to learn he was a family man. He had a narrow house in a crowded neighborhood, filled with a wife and several kids to judge by the amount of toys scattered around the small, muddy yard. As it was late and a school night, they were all in bed. I found this out by a silent invasion of their home, floating from room to room, ghostlike, which roused a couple of dogs. They gave sharp barks of alarm upon sensing me and rushed around sniffing like crazy and whining. This woke Mrs. Lowrey but not the mister. She grumbled at him for not getting up to look for burglars, going to see for herself.

  I materialized at their front door and knocked. The dogs barked frantically. She told them to shut up, and I heard her slow approach.

  “Who is it?” she called over the din.

  “I’m here from Derner. Gotta see Lowrey.” The idea of simply appearing in their bedroom did not appeal to me. I’d have to hypnotize her, which would happen only after I scared her half to death. Terrorizing housewives, even if they were married to gangsters, just wasn’t a nice thing to do.

  “Who are you?”

  “It’s business,” I hedged. “Club business. Gordy.”

  That was enough for her to cautiously unlock and crack the door. It was on a chain. If anyone really wante
d to break in, a halfway decent kick would do it.

  “Yes? I don’t know you.” She had a fierce eye, peering sideways through the opening. One of the dogs forced his muzzle through and snorted mightily, growling.

  “No, ma’am. I’m new. Derner sent me with a message for Lowrey.”

  Nodding like that was something familiar, she undid the chain. The dogs, a couple of big mongrels, charged up, wanting to see who the hell I was, and after one good sniff retreated, tails tucked.

  “He’s asleep. I’ll get him.” She stared at the dogs.

  “Just show me where; Derner’s waiting. This won’t take a minute.” I hoped.

  A tired-looking woman in a sagging bathrobe, married to a gangland bodyguard, she understood not to ask questions or cause delays. For all she knew, I might have been sent here to kill her husband. It was all part of the job. She pointed, frowning. “Through there.”

  “Thank you.”

  I went in, flipping on the overhead light and closing the door. Up the hall I heard a drowsy kid ask his mom what was wrong. She told him to never mind and go back to sleep. Couldn’t tell if she was scared or not.

  Lowrey was sprawled in bed, down to a yellowed singlet and the start of a beard. I got him awake just enough to put him under again, and primed to answer questions.

  “Who shot Gordy?” I asked, still trying to figure out which of his eyes to focus on. Either one seemed to work well enough for my kind of work. “Did you see him? Who?”

  “Donno. Dark. Hadda be Bristow.”

  He was the logical suspect, but I wanted to cover all the bases. “Who’s next in line after Gordy to run things?”

  “Bristow,” he mumbled.

  “If Bristow ain’t in the picture, who else?”

  “Dunno. Fleming. He could do it.”

  Me? Holy moley. Who the hell did they think I was? “But Fleming helped save Gordy.”

  “He coulda got that English gumshoe to do it for him. He pretends to help Gordy, then Gordy croaks, then he—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I got the picture. Well, forget it, powder puff, Fleming ain’t playing that game.”

  “Okay,” he said obligingly.

  “Anyone else want Gordy’s job?”