by P. N. Elrod
And as before it was me, myself, and I.
Gulping air I didn’t need, I wheezed and puffed like a living man and labored through the worst as it slowly passed. At least I’d not given in to the urge to scream. Knowing that there were people downstairs who could hear and come running might have tipped things. I must not be too crazy then, not wanting them to see me like this. Crazy enough, though.
Scared, too. Scared sick.
The radio had warmed up, and dance music filled the room. I didn’t know the name of the song, but seized on it, listening closely to the melody, following the rise and fall of the notes. The knots in my muscles eased, and eventually I was able to pull together enough to stand up again as though nothing had happened.
Then I swiped at my damp eyes and came away bloody. Damn.
In the washroom across the hall I scrubbed off the red evidence of my latest fit, convulsion, seizure—I didn’t know what to call it. Once it had a name it might gain more power. The one I’d had earlier at the Nightcrawler had been far more mild, but this kind of bloodshed…
There was too much in me. My eyes might still be flushed from feeding; maybe that’s what Strome had noticed. Too much, and it had simply seeped out under the strain.
I took care not to look at the empty mirror over the sink. Since my big change well over a year ago, I had grown mostly used to not reflecting. This avoidance was in case I did see something. Me. Like when I’d really been out of my mind that night when everything changed. I’d seen me smiling ruefully and shaking my head over myself. Not anything I wanted to repeat. Too creepy.
Back in the office I ran a damp hand through my hair, grimacing to take the starch out of my too-tight jaw.
“So…when’s this gonna stop?” I’d asked the general air, which never offered an answer.
But the lamp on my big desk abruptly dimmed out and came on again. It flared brighter than it should have for the wattage, then settled into normal.
I untensed from my initial startlement. “Hello, Myrna.”
Of course, someone downstairs might have been working the light panel for the stage, and the load on the circuits could account for what had just occurred, but I knew better. The club’s ghost was here somewhere, as invisible to me as I was to others after going incorporeal. Maybe she’d seen the whole sorry show.
I read that ghosts tend to haunt the places where they died. Myrna’s regular stamping ground was behind the lobby bar. About five years back when the place was under different, much wilder, management the poor girl caught some grenade shrapnel in the throat and bled to death. The floor tiles there had a dark stain marking the spot. It was pointless trying to replace them, the new ones stained up just the same. Even in death, Myrna still seemed to like tending bar, frequently shifting bottles around for a joke. She also liked Wilton, but lately she preferred hanging around me. Maybe she knew what I’d been through and was worried, like my other friends. But I didn’t feel as though I had to put up a front for Myrna.
The lamp flickered, almost too fast and subtle to notice.
“I really look that bad, honey?”
Steady burning.
“Yeah. It stinks, don’t it—doesn’t it? Aw, hell. Look what they’re doing to me. I’m talking like ’em even on my own time.”
She was on the ball tonight for responding. Usually she wasn’t so overtly active. I took a breath to say something more, then forgot what it was. A strong scent of roses was suddenly in the air. Instant distraction.
For a second I thought it might be Bobbi’s favorite perfume; she favored something like it, but this was different in a way I couldn’t pin down. It also made gooseflesh flare over me like I’d not felt since I was a kid listening to ghost stories by a campfire. There was a reason for that feeling, and she was right here with me.
Roses. A message from the dead. I’d said things stank; she fixed it.
I rubbed my arms, working out the tightness. Who could be afraid of roses?
“Trying to tell me something, sweetheart?”
Silence, steady lights, the smell of roses in a room with no flowers.
Silence…? But I’d turned the radio on, had been listening to the music. The volume was all the way down now. When had that happened? I turned it up again, just enough to hear the chatter of a sales pitch for something I’d never buy.
Myrna was branching out. How far would that go? Hopefully she’d remain harmless. She’d always been a good egg, even helped me and Escott out of a jam once. I had nothing to worry about from Myrna. Myself was someone else again.
I stared without interest at the paper mess on the desk, the mechanical pencil for ledger entries right where I’d dropped it the night before. That stuff used to be important; Lady Crymsyn was my own business, a source of pleasure and pride. Now it all seemed so damned futile.
Pacing around once, I inspected the walls, then peered through the window blinds at the dark street below. Because of the thickness of the bulletproof glass, the world without had a sick green tint to it and was slightly warped. I had the feeling it would look like that to me no matter what window I might use, maybe with no windows at all.
Enough of that crap. I needed a change quick before I swamped myself in more of the same and brought on another paralyzing bout of bad memory. The radio wasn’t enough.
Vanishing, I sank right into the floor. Not a particularly pleasant feeling; but it doesn’t last, and I’d known worse. In a second or three I sensed myself clear of solid construction, flowing forward to and then through a wall. Though muffled, there was a change in the level of sound. Teddy Parris was singing. From the direction of his voice I was above him in the lighting grid over the stage. I went back to the wall again, following it until bumping into another wall, then eased straight down. It was just like swimming underwater with your eyes closed, and this pond was very familiar. I knew exactly how to get to my corner booth on the topmost tier of the main room.
But it was occupied, dammit. This seat was my usual spot to watch over things, and the staff always kept it reserved unless there was a really big crowd. No chance of that in midweek, so what was going on?
I brushed close to count how many. Just the one, but he was a paying customer and entitled. I guess. Nose out of joint, I’d just have to settle for the next booth over.
Then Charles Escott said, “Hello, Jack. Won’t you sit down?”
The voice and precise British accent were unmistakable. If I’d had solidity, I might have snorted.
I lowered into the booth on the opposite side of the round table and slowly took on form. From the grayness emerged the soft light from the table’s tiny lamp. Its glow fell on the lean features of my sometime partner in business, strife, and well-intentioned crime. Shadows lent a sardonic cast to his expression, but they didn’t have to work too hard to bring it out. Escott’s bony face and big beak of a nose were the kind that could easily shape themselves into a villainous look. Years back when he’d been on the stage in a Canadian repertory company, young as he’d been, he was always given the lead in Richard III. I’d have paid money to see that.
“How’d you know it was me and not Myrna?” I asked, once I could draw air again. It was fragrant from his pipe smoke. Cigarettes were his habit when on the move. Pipes were for his office or at home—unless he had a problem that needed to be thought through. Instead of the usual gin and tonic, there was a brandy in front of him. Must be one a hell of a problem.
“I didn’t, but the odds favored you.” Escott had developed a wary respect for Myrna. He’d annoyed her once, and she’d plunged the whole club into darkness, then the room got arctic cold, but only for him. After that he was always careful to be extra polite to her.
“She’s in my office. Made my lamp flicker.”
“I’d wondered where she’d gotten to,” he said. “It’s been quiet, no lights playing up. How are you?”
Of course I was ready to attach all kinds of meanings to the innocuous social inquiry. But if anyone had a r
ight to be irrational…“I’m fine.”
“Why the unseen arrival?”
“I didn’t want to distract from Teddy’s number.” Nor did I want the whole room to see me going up to my table. Some of the regular customers might follow and want to chat with the friendly owner, and I’d have to pretend to be cheerful. Not in the mood for that just now.
The place was much less than half-full, not bad for the middle-of-the-week slump with sleet coming down, but illogically discouraging. It was the same as for any other club in town, and by Thursday things would pick up again. Come the weekend we’d be packed. Business wasn’t on its last legs just because I’d not been at the front door as usual to greet people. Until a week ago I was always there, shaking hands, fixing my gaze on customers, and telling them they would have a good time, and so they did. But I couldn’t trust myself yet to look happy and sincere, nor could I trust the hypnosis to so casual a use if it meant an instant killer migraine. Safer to keep a lid on it until I was in better shape.
A spotlight pinning him to the stage, Teddy sang smoothly through his number in good voice. I contrasted him with Alan Caine. Teddy didn’t have Caine’s onstage experience, but he sure beat him for offstage personality. Caine might draw in the patrons, but he wasn’t worth the trouble. Gordy’s outfit, being much larger and grander in scale than mine, could handle that kind of problem child.
“What happened earlier?” asked Escott. Though not on staff, he liked to come over and help out. Maybe it reminded him of his theater days. He’d been here since before opening tonight and must have seen my exit with Strome. “You’ve had adventures.”
“What is it? My tie give it away?” I could feel it was on crooked.
“That and a few dozen other clues. Mr. Strome walking in and you two going missing for several hours led me to think that Dugan might have been found.”
“No such luck.”
While Teddy sang, I told Escott almost all of it, from the talk with Kroun to Hoyle’s murder attempt, leaving out the falling-down nightmare of a headache, the Stockyard gorging, and its sequel in my office. He made no comment afterward, for by then Bobbi came shimmering onstage for the duet, and we watched her instead. She wore a glittery silver gown that clung tight till it reached her hips, then flared wide. She said it was perfect for dancing. Teddy took her hand, and they made a couple fast turns, enough to raise the hem daringly to her knees. Dandy view.
Seeing her, even at a distance, warmed me in a deep and gentle and basic way, like a flame on a cold night. She could make me forget, for a time, what it was like to be alone in the dark inside my head.
The band swung into the introduction for “The Way You Look Tonight,” getting a smattering of anticipatory applause that faded when the singing started. She and Teddy sparked off each other in such a way that it seemed as though they’d fallen in love for real and hadn’t quite figured it out yet. I knew better, but the audience ate it up. The applause came not only from the customers, but the waiters as well. They adored her.
Instead of taking their bows, she and Teddy remained onstage. For a second I wondered if anything had gone wrong with Roland and Faustine’s exhibition dancing. Bobbi leaned toward the microphone and made an announcement, naming some couple celebrating their anniversary, so I eased back in my seat. One of the stage crew swooped the spotlight around until it rested on the right party, and everyone clapped. Bobbi and Teddy began a second duet, this time of “The Anniversary Song.” During an instrumental part Teddy squired her around the stage in a very staid waltz, looking so serious that it bordered on parody. The celebrants in the audience got teased from their chairs by friends and took to the dance floor. Before the end, it was filled with other sentimentally minded couples. In all, a very successful moment.
Bobbi left the stage, and Teddy continued with another of his love songs, which wasn’t part of the regular program.
“Where’s Roland and Faustine?” I asked. They’d arrived at their usual time. I’d unlocked the door for them myself before heading toward my office to work on the books. Then Strome came in and…
“Backstage, I believe,” said Escott. “There’s nothing amiss. They’ll be waiting for the dancers to clear so they can start.”
Teddy and the band gave out another three minutes of crooning, then ended with a big flourish, the lights coming up. Everyone looked pleased as they wandered to their tables and put the waiters to work. The musicians changed their sheet music during the pause. Waiters circulated, snagging empty glasses, replacing them with fresh drinks. All normal. I eased back again. For someone who seemed to think his business was damned futile I was showing too much nervous concern. Escott certainly must have picked up on it, but made no remark. He finished his pipe and tapped the bowl into the thick glass ashtray between us.
“Well. About Hoyle,” he said. “That’s a remarkably nasty business. Very sudden.”
“Nah, he’s been building up to it. I just wasn’t paying attention. You ever deal with him?”
“Rather less than you. Strome will be your best source of information on him, should you need it. Or Gordy.”
Who was on the bench for the moment. “I won’t bother him with this. My job is to hold the fort and try not to break anything. God, I can’t believe he turned up there tonight. He looked like hell.”
“He must have been worried for you.”
“He’s worrying me. If he’d just rest up like he’s told he’d be back in a week.”
“I think you should inform him of tonight’s near calamity.”
“It’s covered.”
“Hoyle and five others made a sincere effort to kill you. You may well be nearly bulletproof, but it would be unwise to so lightly shrug off such an assault.”
“I’m not. Hoyle’s been seriously discouraged. He’ll be too busy licking his wounds tonight to do anything else. If he’s stupid and hangs around town, I’ll have him brought in for a more severe talk to keep him out of trouble. I’ll send him on a long vacation, maybe his whole crew.”
“Havana again?”
“I don’t feel that kindly.” I quirked my mouth, remembering some of the words to “Minnie the Moocher.” “What do you think of Sweden? Some place really cold so he can cool off.”
“There’s always the lake,” he said casually. “Very cold down there.”
Every once in a while Escott scared me. It wasn’t a joke. He had a dark streak in him and definite opinions on what to do with troublemakers. But maybe there was more going on here. Maybe he wanted to see how I’d react. “I just want the guy away. When Gordy’s back he can deal with this kind of bother. He’s good at it. I’ll turn the whole mess over to him and forget about it.”
“One may hope for as much.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s come to my attention through Bobbi that Gordy’s lady friend is urging him to find another type of business.”
If Gordy left, my temporary position could become permanent. My still very full belly tensed at that horror. I made myself ease down. Adelle Taylor had a lot of influence over Gordy, but not in certain areas. “Gordy won’t leave. This kind of work is what he’s all about.”
Escott made a noncommittal grunt and sipped his brandy. “I wish you good luck then. None of this can be too terribly easy for you.”
“Actually, it is. Derner does all the day-to-day stuff and keeps the Nightcrawler running smooth, Strome sees to the rest. Mostly I’m a convenient figurehead—or target—and now I’ve got Kroun’s approval. Sort of. It would have been fine if Hoyle hadn’t put his foot in. There won’t be a repeat with him, but others might want to try.”
“Hm.” He managed to put a lot of meaning into that.
“You think I should have killed him to discourage future challenges.”
“It’s the way their world spins ’round. Do you see Gordy as some sort of gangland Robin Hood? That he never killed anyone to keep his position secure?”
“Of course not. I know the
score with him. But there’s guys out there lots worse than Gordy. You and I’ve both met ’em.”
And I let it hang in the air. That was one Escott couldn’t dispute.
The lights faded, and the general conversation noise died down. The band started in on a low, dramatic fanfare, growing louder as the darkness increased. The drums and horns came in strong like a thunderstorm. For a few seconds the whole place went pitch-black, then wham, a spotlight picked out Roland and Faustine magically on the dance floor, still as statues, poised for their first step. Their timing was perfect as the music launched into a sultry tango, carrying them along. At first it seemed too dated, until the rhythm shifted to swing, but they went on with the South American–style dancing, holding eye to eye, body to body, and generally steaming up the place.
It shouldn’t have worked, but it did. More than half the heat came from their own kind of electricity. They were recently married, and passions were high, but they’d already crashed into some rocks, one of them right here at the club. Roland loved Faustine, but had a hard time keeping his pants buttoned around other women, like Adelle Taylor. She was his ex-wife from a decade back. From what I’d heard through the walls of their impromptu backstage reunion, the renewed attraction was very mutual. But since Adelle was with Gordy, it was just a bad idea from every angle for her ever to be alone with Roland again.
Not wanting a future problem—like him ending up with broken legs—I’d had a talk with him, so he was behaving himself, and apparently Faustine was slowly and cautiously forgiving him. As long as they kept the fights away from the customers and did their act without any hitch, I was satisfied.
Then the music shifted to a darker, more intense mood, and the white spot flared red. Faustine’s white gown took on that color, her skin, too; she looked like a diabolic temptress. Roland’s black tuxedo blended with the background shadows and his white shirtfront, cuffs, and gloves also went blood red. It was a new addition in their routine, and the effect raised a collective gasp from the audience.
