The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  The men who took away the acrimonious Jewel Caine returned, two of them resuming their posts, the third pausing to glare at the empty dance floor. Caine and the chorus line were backstage, getting ready for the night’s performance. The third guy shifted his glare toward me, but whatever bothered him was none of my doing, and he got a blank look in return. I was getting good at those.

  His name was Hoyle, and like the brothers Ruzzo, I was not anyone he liked. He’d resented my taking over for Gordy. Hoyle thought he should have been the one to pinch-hit, but his name never once cropped up. If I’d turned down the job, then Derner would have taken in the slack. Hoyle didn’t see it that way, and I heard he’d started blaming me for everything up to and including the Depression itself.

  Some people have too much time and not enough to do.

  After a minute Hoyle got tired of trying to intimidate me and moved on to the bar, snapping his fingers for a drink.

  Strome’s partner, Lowrey, emerged from a door with a PRIVATE sign on it and came down to us. He was shorter and wider, with a cast to one eye and few enemies. Live ones, that is.

  “Boss wants to see you, Mr. Fleming,” he said.

  I was surprised. “Gordy’s here?” He was supposed to be anyplace else, resting, healing from his gunshot wounds.

  “In the casino.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

  The two of them followed as I hurried though the door into the Nightcrawler’s illegal but extremely profitable gaming room. The lights were low, the place gloomy and strangely quiet, like an empty church. I spotted Gordy at the far end by the back exit, seated in one of the semiprivate alcoves favored by the cardplayers. He was fully dressed, and his girlfriend—nurse for the time being—was nowhere in sight.

  My escorts hung back as I went forward and slipped into a chair on the other side of his table and nearly echoed Alan Caine’s question. “What the hell are you doing here?” I kept my voice low, swallowing anger. Shouting didn’t work on Gordy.

  His skin was sallow, sagging, but his eyes were clear. I didn’t like that. His doctor had him on pain pills, and they tended to dull everything about him. Clear eyes meant he was hurting. “It’s business,” he said.

  “You can deal with things on the phone, and Derner and I do the rest. You’re still supposed to be in bed. Where’s Adelle?” She’d been looking after Gordy since the shooting.

  “She went to the stores to get some stuff, so me an’ Lowrey scrammed to here. I had to give her the slip for a couple hours. Makes me crazy, lying around and her playing nursemaid like I was sick.”

  Adelle Taylor, actress on stage, screen, and radio, and sometimes a headliner singing at my club and his, would throw a fit when she found out. I said as much to Gordy, who gave only the smallest of shrugs. He was a big man and didn’t have to move much to make a point. “I left her a note.”

  “She’ll come straight down here. Loaded for bear.”

  “I’ll be done by then.”

  “With what, exactly?”

  “You. Maybe.”

  “If you wanted to see me, I’d have come over, there’s no need to—”

  “Wasn’t my doing bringing you here. I’ve been stalling them. They wouldn’t stall no more.”

  “What? Who?”

  “New York. Bristow’s friends.”

  “You been running interference for me? In your condition?”

  “I’m better off than you were, kid.” Gordy knew my real age, which was about the same as his, but sometimes he seemed a lot older. When it came to mob business, he was decades my senior.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I got from the boys what happened to you. What Bristow did.”

  I felt my face go red. Mortification does that to me. “I told them to keep shut about it.”

  “They did, until I woke up enough to ask.”

  “Gordy, you don’t need to be bothering with this. Just go back to bed and get better. I’ll take care of things and no problem, okay?”

  He just looked at me, eyes sleepy-seeming, but still not dull. “You up to it?”

  “Of course I am. I appreciate what you’ve done, but—”

  He raised one hand, shutting me down. “Fleming, I know Bristow put you through something worse than hell. A man don’t get over that in a couple days, not even you.”

  “I’m fine, everything’s healed up. Really.”

  Another long look and a twitch of his lips. He was usually as poker-faced as they come.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “There’s a hammer about to fall on you. It should have happened days ago, but I put them off.”

  “New York?” Gordy’s bosses.

  “I got my orders. I’m supposed to kill you.”

  “Yeah? So?” I’d been half-expecting that for days. If Gordy thought I’d get upset at the idea of him having to kill me, he’d have a long wait to see it. Besides, he knew what I was. Maybe he would have to do his job. It could be arranged. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d died.

  “I put ’em off, did some talking, bought some time, but stalled them too much. Another guy’s doing the job. I gotta stand aside while he deals with you or get rubbed out, too.”

  If my heart had been working, it would have stopped. “Another like Bristow?”

  “No. Smarter.”

  It wouldn’t take much. Bristow had been dumb as an empty box. Maybe this guy would be sober for longer than five minutes, and I could evil-eye whammy him into changing his mind.

  “He’s the one who sent Bristow in the first place. One of the big shots. Name’s Whitey Kroun.”

  The big boss himself. One of them, anyway. “Why should he come here? He couldn’t phone?”

  “He had enough of you over the phone.”

  I supposed he had. Our conversations during the turmoil following the murder attempt on Gordy had been brief and curdling, and I’d not made any friends. Kroun didn’t know me from Adam and was already allergic. He’d been one of the brains who, in a fit of idiocy, sent Hog Bristow to shake things up in their holdings here. The idea was to make Gordy turn over the Chicago operation to Bristow, only that didn’t happen. Of course, it was clearly all my fault.

  “Kroun…he doesn’t much like me.”

  Gordy almost smiled. “You should try harder to make more friends.”

  “Not with my smart-ass mouth. Listen, I’ll face the music, get the heat off you, off us both, but you gotta get home and let Adelle spoil you for a couple more weeks.” Gordy was doing a decent job of hiding it, but was visibly weak to my eyes. And ears. His heartbeat was up, and a sheen of sweat was on his forehead. He’d gotten out of bed too soon, pushed himself too much, and there was no need. “When’s Kroun due in?”

  “He’s here now. Waiting upstairs. My office.”

  Oh, great, fine, wonderful. “Got any advice?”

  “Don’t get killed.”

  Huh. Easy for him to say. “What’s he like?”

  “Scary.”

  He got a double take from me. Gordy using a word like that? “In what way?”

  He shook his head. “Just tell him the truth. Play straight with him.”

  Strome came forward. “Boss?”

  Gordy and I looked his way at the same time. I’d gotten used to answering to the title at Crymsyn and again from being in charge of Gordy’s mob. The first time Strome had addressed me as such I nearly told him to stop, but held back. It was a show of respect, for the office if not also for me, and however much I hated to think of how I’d won both, I accepted the dubious honor. Once I completely stepped down he could go back to calling me “Mr. Fleming,” or “Fleming” or, like a few others in the organization, “that creep son of a bitch.”

  None of them called me “Jack,” and I was glad of it.

  I was conscious of my face shutting down, slamming into the deadpan frown Gordy’s kind of job demanded, and replied for both of us. “Yeah?”

  “Mitchell’s here.” He jerked his chin at the b
ack exit, where a man stood in the doorway.

  Who the hell was Mitchell? He seemed almost familiar, but wasn’t local. I knew most of the boys here by sight, and he matched their type. He stood motionless, hands in his coat pockets, giving me the hard eye, shifting his hostile gaze for a long moment to Gordy—no love lost there, I thought—then back to me. Not the genial sort, but few of them are.

  Gordy motioned him over, moving just his fingers. Saving his strength, I hoped.

  Mitchell came close. Hands still in his pockets. If he’d had a gun in each one, I would not have been surprised. He would be from New York and represented the big guys, the serious hoods who gave Gordy his orders.

  Strome did the honors. “Mitchell…Mr. Fleming.”

  “You kiddin’?” Mitchell asked no one in particular. My apparent youth must have been working against me again. On the other hand, it was often a good thing to be underestimated. He stared like I was a bizarre zoo specimen.

  Strome, stony-faced, reiterated, “This is Jack Fleming—the guy who took care of Hog Bristow.”

  “New York?” I asked. Just to be sure.

  Mitchell’s gaze flicked in Gordy’s direction. “It’s time.” He said it like an executioner might. One who enjoyed his work.

  Gordy started to get up, but I stopped him. “It’s okay, I’ll see to this on my own.”

  “You sure?”

  “Go home. Look after yourself, would ya? I gotta see a man about a hog.”

  Easing from the table, I followed Strome to the back hallway, with Mitchell right behind us. Strome looked over his shoulder at me as though trying to figure out a tough problem. I was unafraid when I should have been puking my guts out. It seemed to bother him. I could still feel fear, but not just now. For the last few nights I’d been working at not feeling much of anything if I could help it. That’s why pretty-boy Caine had been so unsuccessful at trying to embarrass me. After what I’d been through, his guff was less than a kiddie game.

  We had to pass close to the backstage area to get to the stairs leading to Gordy’s office. There was some kind of ruckus going on. The bulk of the gathered crowd of chorus girls, kitchen help, stagehands, and tough guys blocked the view, but I did hear a thump and grunt. The sounds of a basic beating going on, nothing I’d not heard before.

  “Now what?” asked Strome. He pushed his way through. At the sight of one of Gordy’s lieutenants, looking pissed, most of the people melted off, finding better things to do. A few mugs hung around, including Ruzzo. Both of them. Recovered from the alley dusting, they hadn’t noticed me yet.

  The hall was more spacious than normal since it served the stage. Dressing rooms opened to it, their doors wide, including the one for the star, Alan Caine. He was pressed against the wall next to it, held in place by Hoyle. His forearm was braced on Caine’s chest; his other arm was free and swinging. He landed what was apparently another punch into Caine’s breadbasket. Caine oofed as all his breath left him, but couldn’t double over.

  “Hey—what gives?” Strome demanded.

  Hoyle barely noticed him. “He owes money.”

  “So collect after the show, we need him tonight.”

  “This is just a warm-up, so he knows it’s serious.” Hoyle started to back off, but I heard a quick march of little trotting steps, and, tricked out in her brief dance costume, Evie the chorus girl burst out of nowhere and jumped onto his back.

  “Leave him alone—oh!”

  That’s as much as she got out before he threw her off. She landed on her perfectly padded duff, stockinged legs all over, and still full of fight. She rolled and grabbed one of his ankles and pulled, throwing off Hoyle’s balance. He staggered, threw a hand on the wall to recover, then hauled back his other foot to kick her.

  I don’t know how I got into it so fast. I wasn’t aware of moving. No decision to take action went through my brain, suddenly I was just there and throwing the punch that took him down. Almost as part of the same movement I bent and lifted Evie, quickly passing her to a startled Strome. Only then did I stop to look around and wonder what the hell…?

  Hoyle was quicker on the uptake, realizing a new player had crashed his game. He got up and shook his head like a boxer, fixing his gaze on me. “You—? This ain’t your business.”

  “We don’t hit ladies around here,” I said.

  “Lady? You calling that piece of—”

  He didn’t finish. My fist derailed his train of thought, knocking him sideways and down like hammering a nail the wrong way. I was holding back, and it was hard going. Something thick and black and vile in me was just short of exploding, and I didn’t know where it’d come from. Instinct told me it would be a very bad idea to let it get out.

  I flinched when Strome dropped a hand on my shoulder. He flinched in turn when he caught my look, but didn’t back off. “Is the show over?” he asked.

  Hoyle was on the floor with a bloody nose and likely to stay there for a while. Ruzzo (the elder) bent over him, checking for permanent damage; Ruzzo (the younger) gave me the eye, hand in his pocket where he kept some heavy and no doubt lethal object in place of the gun I’d taken away. Alan Caine had wisely removed himself from the field of combat and stood next to Mitchell, who almost looked curious about the proceedings. Evie, white of face, stared at me. Feeling perverse, I winked at her.

  “Yeah, show’s over,” I said.

  Caine stepped forward. “Then someone remove him.” He indicated Hoyle. “If that fool has damaged my throat, I’ll see him in jail. And then I’m suing this place for every penny it’s got. To hell with that, I’m suing anyway.”

  Strome said, “You. Put a lid on it.”

  “How dare you talk to me that way—I’m the one who pays you.”

  “Caine”—this from Mitchell, who apparently knew him—“shuddup and go to work before you get a spanking.”

  Caine’s attention shifted quickly, and he grinned. “You’d like that wouldn’t you?” He stole the idea from me and winked, too.

  Mitchell’s eyes sparked murder, but before he could respond, Evie rushed in and took Caine’s arm, pulling strongly.

  “Come on, Alan. Don’t waste your time on them. The show’s gonna start soon…”

  He laughed like a jackass, but she was insistent and succeeded in getting him into his dressing room where she could fuss to her heart’s content.

  She glanced once at me before going in. “Thanks, Mister.”

  What the hell did she see in that guy besides the pretty face?

  Then I caught a whiff of something that froze me out of distracting speculations. Bloodsmell. It was all over my knuckles, Hoyle’s blood. Now that there was time to notice, the living scent of it flared through me, abrupt and too harsh to tolerate. I wasn’t hungry; it was the memory of a different place strewn with bodies and awash with their blood and mine that made such a strong reaction.

  It took a moment, and in that time I was oblivious to everything else, which was damned careless.

  It took only a moment, and these were the wrong circumstances to let my mind wander.

  Blinking hard, I wrenched back to the present, hoping no one had noticed.

  There was a washroom on the left. I pushed my way in and shut the door. Cold, cold water straight from the cold, cold lake. Sluice that over the stained skin, scrub and scrub with the harsh green soap and hope its chemical stink would win out over the bloodsmell.

  I suppressed a groan, feeling my corner teeth emerging. I wasn’t hungry, dammit. Not hungry.

  A shudder went through my whole body, and for a second I felt falling-down sick, but kept to my feet by hanging on to the washbasin. Something was wrong inside me, and I didn’t know what.

  I stared at the empty mirror, trying to hold steady. This had happened before. The last time I’d been in the throes of shock and quite insane. Another me had been there then, a me who had been visible in the mirror. He’d been ironically amused by the whole business.

  He wasn’t here tonight. I ha
d to deal with this alone.

  Another tremor started, turning my skin to ice, but I fought it off, panting, though I had no need to breathe. When I got control again I slapped cold water on my face, hardly feeling it for the inner chill. The runoff in the basin was pink.

  I was sweating blood. Bad. Very bad.

  Knock on the door. Strome’s voice. “Mr. Fleming?”

  “Yeah, yeah, gimme a minute.”

  Teeth receding. Good. Water running clear. Better. The fit passing off, leaving me shaken and trying not to shake. I dried and swallowed back the fear, trying and for the most part succeeding in shutting down the emotions. For me more than for anyone else, I couldn’t let them see me scared.

  The hall was clear, the lights down, and the band out front playing to the now-open club. How long had I been in there? Just Strome and Mitchell were left, the latter looking impatient.

  “Trying to put it off?” he asked.

  That didn’t warrant a reply.

  Strome went ahead of us. Mitchell kept close to my heels. We marched through the kitchen, stopping work for a moment as awareness of our presence rippled through the place. The noise picked up again as we reached the back hall, and I trudged upstairs, taking it slow. They seemed steeper than I remembered.

  More mugs lounged about the upper floor. I walked the gauntlet. Did everyone in Chicago know about this? I nodded to a few, gathering dark looks or grim curiosity in return. Some respected me, others were like Hoyle and resented the punk kid clumping around in Gordy’s big shoes.

  Oddly enough, the attention revived a strange kind of confidence inside that I’d not felt in a long, long time. I speculated on whether this surge was what happened at the last moment for some prisoners as they took those final steps to the guillotine.

  Probably not.

  2

  GORDY’S office was several times larger than mine and filled with lush furnishings in black leather and chrome. He liked lots of cushioning on stuff sturdy enough to hold his big frame. In contrast to the streamliner-inspired couch and chairs were several wall paintings of soothing landscapes. The vivid greens, blues, and browns were like suddenly discovering a park in the middle of a concrete sea.