by P. N. Elrod
For now my spine was stretched tense on this cot, and between it and the canvas, protected by a layer of oilcloth, was a sufficient supply of my home earth to keep the daymares away. Without that piece of the grave with me I would spend the sunny hours being consumed by an endless pageant of inner horrors.
As though the ones I experienced while awake weren’t enough. In the car I managed to cut short my latest bout into hell. I’d felt a scream beginning to rise, and before it went full force I denied it breath and a voice box by vanishing.
The awful cold shuddering melted into soothing grayness, and I let myself float like that for a very long time. To vanish meant to physically heal, and I’d hoped it would work again, with a different kind of healing. One for my soul.
But no such luck. I returned to solidity weak and drained and shivering.
And helpless and terrified, don’t forget about those. My body and mind had both turned on me, and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about their betrayal.
I’d been so tired afterward I could not recall driving home, only coming back to myself while parked out front in my usual spot. While other guys could drop into bed and shut off their minds after something like that, there would be no sleep for me. Until the rising sun finally knocked me out I was in for a bout of Undead insomnia.
What I missed about being a normal man was the kind of sleep where you know that you are sleeping. When you drift through it, maybe skimming close to the surface of waking, then contentedly turning over to dive back in again. You have a sense of passing time, that you’re getting actual rest. My daylight drop into death left me very rested, but it’s not always satisfying.
Like now. I was still terrified, which would be exhausting to anyone, and the fear would be there when I woke again.
I lay on the cot. Waiting. Sensing the approach of the sun that would take my life away. Some part of me wanted utter oblivion, the kind from which you never awoke.
That would solve a whole lot of problems for me. All of them, in fact.
Out.
And return.
I’d felt it come and shut my eyes in time. They were open now. Another day had rushed over my unheeding head. The only way I could tell for sure was to glance at my watch. Yes, lots of hours were gone for good, with me not in any of them. Winding the watch, I made myself remember that the trembling fits were last night’s old news. Hadn’t Escott told me time would fix things? Time had passed, so I shut down the internal whining, then vanished and floated, rising through the floor to go solid in the dim, quiet kitchen. My hat was where I’d left it on the table so Escott would know I’d come home.
Damn, but I still felt cold despite the overcoat. “Charles?”
No reply, so he was probably already at the club. He was being a hell of a friend to look after his work and mine. I’d have to find some way to thank him. Bobbi would know what to recommend, besides putting him on the payroll. He was going to have a surprise pay packet come Friday. His own business might be suffering for all the time he’d been putting in helping with mine. He would help for free, but compensation was only being fair.
I went to bring in the mail, but the stack on the hall table told me Escott had been and gone. There was nothing for me, which was fine. I wasn’t up to writing chatty correspondence.
Back in the kitchen, I phoned the Nightcrawler office and got Derner. “How’d things go today?”
“Pretty much normal, no problems.”
“What about Kroun? He gone home yet?”
“Still in place.”
The phrasing gave me the idea Kroun or Mitchell might be in the room with him. “You treating him right?”
“Red carpet all the way.”
That was reassuring. “What about Hoyle? Any trouble?”
“Haven’t heard from him. If he’s gone, I donno where.”
“Find out. Keep it low and easy.” I wouldn’t feel comfortable until I knew where he’d landed. “What about Ruzzo? They behaving?”
“They turned up looking like they had a gas attack to go with their shiners. One of the boys thought they were trying to find Hoyle, but not for sure. They know they’re on the outs, but you want I should fire them, too? The hard way?”
That meant something fatal. Execution was the normal mob response for what Hoyle tried to do to me. “That’ll be up to Gordy when he’s back.” He’d probably get rid of them, but I couldn’t be bumping off all the guys in his gang who didn’t like me. There wouldn’t be a lot left.
I hung up and went to my second-floor room for a fast shower-bath and a change of clothes. Usually I preferred to sit and soak in a near-boiling tub, but didn’t have the time. Too bad, it might have warmed me up. A hurried soaping with the water slopping past the cellophane curtain would have to do.
Shaving, as always, was a touch-and-nick adventure. I’d switched from a straight to a safety razor in the army, same as all the other guys, and once more blessed that change. If I still used the folding cut-throat device my older brothers had introduced me to, I’d probably have lopped my head off by now. Still, I made mistakes, but a quick vanishing fixed that.
What it did not fix were the long threads of scarring that covered what I could see of my chest and arms and certainly my back. I tried to avoid touching them; the white ridges along already pale skin always felt colder than the rest of my flesh. Those scars collected in my lifetime before my change had gradually gone away, even the one from the bullet that had killed me. But not these, no matter how many times I vanished. And I didn’t know why.
Most of my physical healing from the damage had taken place that same night. To replace my lost blood I’d fed from Bristow. He’d been dying; my feast had simply hurried the process. I’d gorged—shameless, mindless, desperate.
And enjoyed it.
It hurt to heal then. I had been unable to vanish, and it hurt a lot. Left me shaking like an epileptic. Maybe that was the origin of my fits, just as my out-of-control draining of Bristow was similar to how I’d fed from that cow last night. Though the ordeal was past, some part of me kept me there, like replaying a record over and over but with the sound down low so you don’t consciously notice that it’s repeating and driving you crazy. I had to find some way to switch it off.
I’d reluctantly talked to Escott about going to a head doctor, but how in hell could any of them help me with this problem?
Hey, Doc, I get blindsided by these shivering fits and drink blood until I’m sick. You got a pill for that?
I didn’t think so.
AND another less-than-perfect evening began with the discovery that the two street-side tires of my Buick were flat.
The problem didn’t register at first. I walked around my car, unlocked the door, and was about to open it when the impression of what was wrong met up with the memory of what was supposed to be right. The car was lower than it should be. I backed off and stared and couldn’t believe and stared and couldn’t believe; and then I got pissed and wanted to hit something, only that would have left a dent in my blameless vehicle.
I was certain Hoyle or Ruzzo had done it. A kid’s vicious prank.
It wasn’t anything that could be proved. Not ordinarily. If I confronted Ruzzo about it, they’d happily lie in my face. I had my own way around that. Our next talk was going to be very unpleasant—for them. They would also be paying for the new tires. Four, so they’d all match.
Then I’d probably beat the hell out of Ruzzo. For some guys logic or threats never work. You have to kick their asses to get your message to sink in.
I called Derner again and explained the situation.
“We got garages, don’t we?” I asked.
“Thirty-three, not counting the wrecking yards—”
“That’s good. Find one close to my house and send someone over. I want the tires on my Buick changed out to four new ones.” As long as the mob boys called me “boss” I might as well benefit from the position. “Have that done before tomorrow evening.”
“Right, Boss
.”
“And I need a car until mine’s fixed.”
“No problem,” said Derner. “You can use Gordy’s. Strome’ll drive you. He’s away now, but can be there in an hour.”
“Nah, I’ll cab over and wait at the Nightcrawler. In the meantime I want Ruzzo. Both of ’em. Hoyle, too.”
“I’ll send out the hounds.”
“They can cough up cash for replacement tires unless I take it out of their hides.”
Derner’s “yes” sounded oddly faint, and I wondered why before realizing my own poor choice of words. He’d seen me hanging skinned from that meat hook, after all.
Next I called the lobby phone of Lady Crymsyn. Wilton answered. I told him I’d be late on account of business and to open as usual. He said okay and no problem, unknowingly echoing Derner. At least some pieces of my life were still in place. Then I phoned for a cab.
I was still too mad to let the tire slashing go. Directing my driver to the Nightcrawler, I blew off steam to him. We both heartily agreed that crime was completely out of hand in this town and, united against the world by our mutual righteous outrage, were fast friends by the end of the ride. He got a dollar tip for my two-dollar ride, since by then I felt almost good. Maybe I didn’t need a head doctor, just a lot more taxi trips.
The outer bar was open, but the Nightcrawler’s main room was still being readied for the evening show. I sent someone up to tell Derner I was here, then settled in at one of the tables, breaking one of the rules for surviving in the mob: sitting with my back to the door. If I’d had vulnerable company along, I wouldn’t have made such a slip, but while on my own I really didn’t give a damn. The mugs watching the front were on my side. Sort of. They’d spot trouble and deal with it. I kept my coat and hat on. For some reason I just could not shake the cold tonight. All in my head, probably. Everything else was, so why not?
Without being asked, a girl brought a glass of water to me and inquired if I wanted anything stronger. I said no and shooed her off with a neutral smile. More waitresses in short spangly skirts hurried to and fro and traded talk loudly across the breadth of the room. I had waiters for my place. In the early days I hired on a few girls to come in on the busier nights. They had red velvet skirts to match the décor and were cute as bugs. Many of the male customers liked their looks as well, taking them to be part of the after-hours entertainment. Some of the girls followed through on it, and made a hell of a lot more money in the parking lot than they did collecting tips in the club.
On one hand I didn’t mind, but out of self-preservation had to cut them loose. If something went wrong, it would reflect on the club and me. Gordy could take that sort of heat from the local vice squad; I just didn’t want the grief. Bobbi was still trying to figure out what to do with the leftover costumes.
The Nightcrawler’s talent trickled in. They weren’t supposed to use the front, but did anyway, leggy dancers heading backstage, musicians setting up, everyone busier than me and consumed by their own concerns. I liked that.
Whitey Kroun walked in. People paused to look up; I felt the draw, which is why I turned to see who’d arrived. Even here he filled the place. Some types were like that: actors, singers, politicians. Bobbi had that electric quality, but she only threw the switch when working because it sometimes left her tired out afterward. Kroun’s seemed to be going all the time, and if he was aware of it, he didn’t let on.
He took off his hat, brushed a hand through his hair. He used the gesture as a means to look around, spotted me lounging, and sketched a casual wave. I returned it, half-expecting him to come over, but he continued on through the casino door. Only then did I notice Mitchell in his wake like a plain-Jane pilot fish.
He gave me a look.
Make that more of a glare.
It must have been inspired by my stay-away-from-Bobbi message of the night before. He seemed the type to stew about things. On one hand Mitchell was only doing his job. A good lieutenant is supposed to make life miserable for anyone who could potentially annoy his boss. But I was getting bored with this one. If he didn’t leave for New York soon, I’d be inclined to inspire a sudden interest in ice fishing so he’d go away for the rest of the winter.
I just looked back, again not blinking, not giving a damn about his obvious dislike of me. He finally got bored and went elsewhere. I returned to watching the club’s opening routine. It was much the same as my place, but with more money.
Jewel Caine, the obstreperous ex-wife of this week’s star performer unexpectedly appeared, beelined to a booth with a view of the stage, and hunched down in its depths. Under her black coat, which she unbuttoned, she was all in blue from hat to stockings. It suited her better than the previous night’s green. One of the casino bouncers passing through finally noticed her while she jerkily plucked off her gloves. It was no business of mine, but I signed for him to lay off.
She pulled out cigarettes and grimly smoked, watching the stage with needle-sharp eyes. A woman with a mission, I thought, trying unsuccessfully to read her mind. Sometimes you can tell what’s in a person’s head by his or her carriage. Now that she wasn’t screaming threats she showed some good looks. Hoping she might be in a reasonable mood, I picked up my glass of water and ambled over. I was still boss. Maybe if I found out what her plan was, I could head off trouble, breakage, and hospital bills.
“Mrs. Caine?”
“Who wants to know?”
“My name’s Jack Fleming.”
“So how do you know me?”
“I’m associated with this club.”
Her chin went up. “You gonna throw me out?”
“I hope not. All right if I sit with you?”
She thought it over, giving me a hard up and down, then nodded. “What do you mean by ‘associated’?”
I took my hat off, put it to one side, and slipped in opposite. “I know the owner. I’m helping manage the place for the time being.”
She made no reply but stubbed the old cigarette and went on to the next, her fingertips yellow from chain-smoking. There were matches on the table. I had one lighted by the time she needed it. She leaned forward and puffed her smoke to life. “So you manage the place. What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. I just noticed last evening you seemed to have a stack of grievances against your ex-husband—”
“More of a mountain. He owes me a lot of alimony, that’s the main one. It’s pulling teeth with tweezers to get him to cough up anything, but I really need it, the landlord’s leaning on me, and I owe for groceries. It’s not like I’m wasting anything…” She shut herself down, mouth twisted with disgust. “Christ, but don’t I sound pathetic.”
“If he’s holding out, you’ve a right to be upset. What about getting him into court?”
“That costs money. I can’t feed myself, much less some lawyer.” She sucked in a draft from her cigarette and politely vented it to one side. “Look, kid, maybe you want to help, but I’ve been over all the angles, and unless Alan pays up, I’m on the street in the morning. But then he’d enjoy that, the son of a bitch.”
I raised a hand and a waitress came over. They knew about my temporary rise in rank. Fast service for the boss was part of the job. “What will you have, Mrs. Caine?”
Surprisingly, she wanted only water and a twist of lemon. From her behavior last night I took her to be a hard drinker. The waitress came back quick with a glass and a bowl of peanuts. Jewel attacked them, but one at a time, yellow fingers delicate. I wondered if she’d eaten lately. She didn’t look starved, but you didn’t have to look it to be hungry. I was acquainted with that a little too well.
“Thanks, kid,” she said, lifting her glass.
“Just call me Jack.”
“Yeah. I’ve seen you around. Heard you run that red club with the funny name.”
“Lady Crymsyn.”
“Any jobs open? Or has Alan gotten to you, too?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s a big draw. Bigger than me
, now. He won’t sing at any club that’s given me work. They always go with the money, and I get bupkis. He sees to it.”
“What can you do?”
“Just about anything. I can sing, but I’ll wait tables, clean the damn toilets if I have to.”
“How good a singer are you?”
“I do all right with wistful throaty stuff, nothing fast.” She tapped ash off. “These things spoiled my voice, put a limit on my range, but I can’t seem to kick ’em. I’ve got plenty of songs I can get away with that aren’t a strain on the cords, and I’m good with mood pieces. I can make a rock cry.”
That told me she knew her stuff. “I’m booked for acts this week, but maybe can give you a short set to do.”
Jewel stared, hovering between disbelief and hope. “You sure? For real?”
“That jackass is never gonna sing at my place. It’s only a short set. It won’t pay much.”
“Kid, I’m making nothing now, I’ll take it.”
“Can you start tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but—”
“I’ll notify my booking manager.” I got my wallet and gave her a business card for the club. “Go over tomorrow around three with your music and work things out. You’ll talk to Bobbi Smythe. You know her?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Your landlord? A loan, then.” I had forty bucks and gave it to her. “Interest-free. You need more?”
“Christ, kid, that’s two month’s rent!”
“It’s okay, I’ll take it out of Caine’s salary. He must owe you more than that, though.”
“A few thousand.”
“I’ll set something up at this end. So long as he sings here, you’ll get your alimony. It won’t be permanent, all he has to do is leave for someplace else, but maybe you’ll have enough to get on your feet?”
“Hell, yes.” She seemed very taken aback. “Why you doin’ this?”
I shrugged. “It gets my mind off my own troubles.”
“Must be some troubles.”
I didn’t want to talk about what churned my guts. “How’d you two get together?”
She snorted. “Ten years back I was the big star and he was…well, you’ve seen him. He’s a knockout. He still is.”
