The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  Opening was always a little sweat-making with them playing to an empty house. The worry was that it would remain empty for the evening, but usually within half an hour we’d have enough of a crowd to justify the endeavor. I sat well back in the shadows of my booth, watching, going over details in my head in case I missed anything.

  Once I finally admitted to myself that all was well I started chewing over Jewel Caine’s murder. Whatever reason someone had had to kill Alan Caine, I couldn’t think why they’d go after Jewel, too.

  Unless she’d seen them. She’d been smoking out in the alley. It was very possible. If the killer had left by that route—the fastest exit was the stage door—she could have been right there. She might have said or done something to set him off, or maybe it was enough for her to be in the wrong place just then. He’d have to shut her up as a witness; he lured or kidnapped her away, then staged the fake suicide. And as great good fortune would have it, the cops, or at least the papers, had fallen for the sham.

  I wasn’t going to leave it like that for her. The right person would take the rap for this. All I needed was five minutes with him.

  But was I up to doing hypnosis yet or in for another crippling migraine leading to a seizure? The constant chill that had plagued me last night was somewhat mitigated. I wasn’t shivering in my overcoat and hat. My day sleep had accomplished some healing after all, but did it extend that far? I wouldn’t know for sure unless I tried, and I wasn’t inclined to try.

  Escott had been backstage and now emerged from the side exit door on the left. He had a word with the bartender, got a brandy, then began the climb up to my table. Several couples had come in, and the tables were gradually filling up. It was early, but looked like we’d have a good crowd.

  “May I?” he asked, ever polite, even when there was no need.

  I waved him in on the opposite side, and he took a load off. “Charles, I know you’re curious about Kroun coming in, but you’ve been doing two jobs. It’s okay if you head home and rest.”

  “Rest? My dear fellow, gadding about here is rest for me. I always look forward to abandoning my office to enjoy this glad escape.” He lifted his snifter. “And a free drink.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure.” That was my way of being polite. “But where he’s concerned I think you should be invisible.”

  “That shan’t be a problem. I agree with you on the anonymity point. I’d rather not be anyone he knows.”

  “Did you look up more on him today?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  “And…?”

  “There is a remarkable lack of material on him. Now and then his name popped up in the New York papers in connection to certain acts of violence, but he’s avoided any arrest and prosecution. One day he’s the focus of someone’s official attention, the next they’ve never heard of him.”

  “He must bribe or threaten them away, then.” Another half dozen customers came in. Good. Kroun wasn’t one of them. Better.

  “What’s odd is that reporters seem to lose interest in him. Walter Winchell had the start of what promised to be a very juicy piece connecting him to a murder, then it simply never happened.”

  “You think he bribed Winchell? He’d have boasted about turning it down.”

  Escott shook his head. “You’d have to ask Winchell that. You’re former colleagues. Write him a letter.”

  I almost laughed. Sure I’d been a reporter, but so far down the journalistic totem pole as not even to exist when compared to Winchell. “Why don’t you write Helen Hayes, and ask if she’ll put you in her next play?”

  “Because I prefer Chicago over New York,” he replied.

  “Don’t tell me you know…”

  He bounced one eyebrow, very deadpan.

  “Ah, never mind.”

  The band went into a fanfare, and Teddy Parris launched onto the stage, taking charge of it as easily as an experienced trouper twice his years. He introduced himself, welcomed everyone, and promised them all a great evening. It was almost how I glad-handed people in the lobby, but without the whammy-work.

  He swung his way into “Christopher Columbus” with enthusiastic help from the band. It was a great song; people responded, clustering on the dance floor. During an instrumental interlude Teddy bounded from the stage, cut in on a couple in a comic way, and took the lady around some fast turns. He deftly handed her back to her date and continued to spin, making like he’d gone dizzy, artfully ending up at a table sitting on a guy’s lap. Wide-eyed Teddy tickled the guy’s chin, then mimed mortified horror and switched laps to flirt with the girlfriend instead. Fortunately they thought he was funny. I’d seen that gag not work in many a spectacular way.

  He dropped to one knee, gave the lady the red carnation from his lapel, then made a fast exit, cartwheeling back to the dance floor, managing not to hit anyone. Up onstage again, he was in perfect time to resume singing, but breathless, so he made a business out of that, mopping his brow and purposely wheezing out the words. He miraculously recovered enough to deliver a strong finish. It went over well, with laughs and applause.

  “You’ll have to start paying him more if he keeps on like that,” Escott observed.

  “Don’t give him ideas.”

  Teddy’s set continued through several more lively songs, and he used his long, expressive face to play up the humorous delivery, sometimes adding in comments, but he included a plaintive love song to prove he had a voice. The women ate it up.

  Escott pulled out his pipe and tobacco pouch and prepared a smoke. He didn’t seem to be in a contemplative mood. It was strangely very much like any other evening.

  “Thought you preferred cigarettes,” I said.

  “Used to. Vivian prefers the smell of pipe tobacco.”

  Ho-ho. “So how’s the date for Saturday? You sounded pretty happy about it.”

  “Yes, Bobbi and I had an additional planning session when I drove her in tonight. All is progressing extremely well.” Escott looked kind of odd. Pleased and bemused and nervous at the same time, but it didn’t seem like a bad feeling to have. It cheered me up seeing him like that. “Vivian gladly accepted your invitation, and Sarah is looking forward to going out to a grown-ups’ event. She doesn’t know you’re the one who actually rescued her, but has picked up from her mother that you’re a cross between the Lone Ranger and Gangbusters. She may want your autograph.”

  “Son of a—” I broke off, almost laughing. “What a kid.”

  “You know she plays the piano?”

  That hauled me short. “But I thought she wasn’t…”

  He shrugged. “Well, gifts of talent and intellectual development do not necessarily walk hand in hand. She doesn’t read music, but she can play whatever she’s heard. She’s quite amazing.”

  “Huh. Who’d a thought it?”

  “Actually, Vivian did. She read somewhere that doctors had determined Albert Einstein to be so backward that they recommend institutionalization. His parents got him a violin instead. Vivian encourages Sarah in a similar direction. Seems to give the girl comfort, too.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  He lifted a hand. “She has nightmares about her kidnapping. Has to have the lights on all the time. Doesn’t like to be alone.”

  That sounded uncomfortably familiar.

  “Vivian told her that day or night, whenever she felt frightened or sad, she was to go to the parlor and play the piano and she would feel better. It seems to work.”

  “You dropping a hint?”

  “I believe you already understand the merits of music in healing a damaged spirit. You have the radio on nearly all the time.”

  “That’s just to keep me from thinking too much.”

  “Exactly.”

  Teddy made his big finish and took his bows, then began Roland and Faustine’s introduction. The tone of the band changed dramatically, the drums coming in strong.

  “I can’t make music,” I said. “Can’t carry a tune in a bag, and Ma gave up trying to te
ach me piano when the rest of the family said my practice would lead to a hanging.”

  “What do you mean?” His pipe went out. He gave it an irritated look.

  “If I kept trying to play, one of them was going to kill me. That last lesson was a relief to everybody, especially myself.”

  “And here you sit, owner of a nightclub full of song.”

  The lights went out so Roland and Faustine could take their places. Clearly Bobbi had changed the ordering of the show again, leaving out the anniversary duet with Teddy. Perhaps none of the couples here tonight were celebrating. The music built upon itself, horns and drums filling the space right to the walls, thundering into the tango.

  “I don’t paint but can appreciate art. You saying I need to hang around here more?”

  “Yes, of course. The rest of the time you could indulge in expanding your record collection. I would strongly suggest acquiring some of the pieces from the Baroque period. They have a most soothing effect on the nerves.”

  I knew that stuff; it all sounded alike to me. “Fats Waller is more my style.”

  He relit the pipe. “Whatever does the job.”

  We watched the dancers, though I was sure Escott was keeping at least one eye on me and my reaction to the show. He didn’t have to; I was worried enough for both of us.

  “Any new problems, past or pending?” He was talking about my fits again. Great timing. Keep me distracted as the music reached its apex and the lights changed for the bloodred finale.

  Shutting my eyes, I leaned on the table, head low. Bracing. Just in case. “Not tonight. Knock wood.”

  “Hm. Sounds hopeful.”

  Closing my eyes made it work. Not long after, a roaring burst of applause told me it was safe to look again. I held up a nontrembling hand. “Maybe there’s something to it.”

  “Then congratulations. Every step forward is for the better.” He’d finished his smoke and tapped the dottle into the ashtray. Only then did I notice a shiny leather pouch that had his initials stamped on it in gold.

  “That’s new,” I said.

  He smiled a little self-consciously. “A gift from Vivian.”

  “Well-well, quite a girl you got there.” I was going to razz him some more, but Teddy reappeared to introduce Bobbi. She took center stage and seemed to glow all on her own. It hurt to look at her.

  Roland and Faustine melted into another exposition dance to complement her opening song. There was a spotlight on Bobbi and a traveling spot on them. The effect was great. While some club owners might object to Bobbi’s constant changing of the bill, I welcomed it. She kept the place out of the doldrums of repetition. The regular customers liked it, and the performers stayed interested.

  End of number, lights up, bows, plenty of applause, graceful shift as Roland and Faustine broke away to take new partners. This time an impatient guy, still in his hat and overcoat, got to Faustine first, and he wasn’t half-bad squiring her around the floor.

  Bobbi sang, others danced, and the rest were caught up in her voice as she did a plaintive but not overly sentimental version of “Pennies from Heaven.” The arrangement had one of the trumpets doing something that sounded reminiscent of falling water, which was echoed in places by a clarinet. I’d not heard that part before. They must have come up with it during daytime rehearsal.

  Faustine’s partner maneuvered them close to the stage until they were just below Bobbi, then he held in place, not doing much of anything but looking up at her. Smiling.

  What the hell…?

  I abruptly recognized Mitchell.

  He was waiting for Bobbi to see him. The lights would be in her eyes; maybe there was still time to head him off. I suddenly vanished and shot right over the heads of everyone between, going solid just as suddenly on the dance floor only steps from Mitchell. I didn’t care who saw.

  But I was too late. Mitchell sidled close enough so she caught the movement and looked his way. Grinning, he waved up at her. She didn’t react, singing on, then did a kind of slow double take and froze in sheer horror. I thought she would dislike a reminder of the bad old days, but didn’t expect this. It required a hell of a lot to get Bobbi to miss a line, and she did just that, dropping several words and stumbling through the start of the chorus. She pretended to have a throat problem, pulling away from the microphone, hand to her mouth as though to cough. The band continued. Singers forgetting words were part of the job.

  Mitchell just kept grinning.

  I clapped a hand on his shoulder from behind, grabbed his right arm so he wouldn’t go for his gun, and turned him before he quite knew what happened. His baffled surprise turned into a snarl when he saw my face, but I chivvied him along as quick as any of the bouncers. I’m a lot stronger than I look, and where the hell were they?

  “Lay off, pretty boy!” Mitchell started.

  I clocked him smartly, rapping his skull with my knuckles as though knocking to get in. As mad as I was the force was the same as if I’d blackjacked him. His legs ceased to hold him so well, and I had to take his weight to keep him moving.

  By now we were a spectacle. The joker running the traveling spot picked us out from the crowd on the dance floor and followed, much to everyone’s amusement. A few applauded, thinking this was part of the show. So far no one was screaming in reaction to my magical appearance out of thin air.

  I veered to the right, going toward the door that led to the backstage area. It had the closest exit. I glanced over my shoulder at the stage.

  Bobbi made it to the end of the chorus, but her tone was wrong for the mood she’d set, her face fixed, eyes staring at nothing, like a mannequin. She threw a jerky signal to the band leader, and he muttered a song title to his people. The music shifted and changed key. Out of sequence, Bobbi hastily introduced Teddy Parris, calling him up again. He must have been ready in the wings, for he bounced forward and took over as though this was business as usual. The spotlight shifted to him, so Bobbi’s hasty departure went mostly unseen.

  Mitchell and I blew through the door. Just within was a wide service area with the alley entry at the end and a smaller hall to the right leading to the dressing rooms. To the left were the basement stairs. I wanted to bounce Mitchell down them, but instead slammed him against the backstage wall, my forearm under his chin, his feet dangling free. He recovered enough to put up some fight, so I rattled him again, taking a lot of satisfaction from the rotten-melon thump his head made on impact. The wall was brick.

  Then Escott got between us and pushed me back, shouting my name. It was just enough to keep me from a third try, which would have probably killed Mitchell. He slithered to the floor. Escott shot me a loud “What the devil is going on?”

  I wasn’t in a mood to explain. “Go check on Bobbi. This creep…”

  Escott instantly got the idea she’d been threatened in some way, but didn’t leave. “Jack…?”

  “It’ll be all right. I promise not to kill him.” Not here, anyway.

  “Who is he?”

  “I’ll tell ya later, go to Bobbi!”

  He went.

  Where were the damn bouncers? But they were on the lookout for mugs like Hoyle and Ruzzo, not Whitey Kroun’s top lieutenant.

  Mitchell had a thick skull and had roused himself back to alertness. The first thing he did was reach inside his coat for his gun.

  Only I’d taken it off him. It weighed down my coat pocket.

  Some guys can’t handle being without their heat, but he wasn’t one of them. He shot to his feet and went after me, fists flying. Very bad move. I got inside his first punch, taking it on the flank under my arm, and gave him two sharp ones in the breadbasket left and right. Mitchell gagged and dropped and spent the next few moments trying to get air back in his lungs.

  He was vulnerable as he ever would be. I thought of hypnotizing him, my first choice for solving the problem he’d become. It wouldn’t take much to give him both barrels in the face and see to it he forgot Bobbi ever existed. But even thinking about
the attempt seemed to make a steel band tighten around my head. In my current state I’d either send him insane, send myself off into another damned fit, or both.

  However, my second choice—beating the crap out of him—was entirely acceptable. I impatiently paced side to side, waiting for him to get up so I could knock him over again.

  “What’s your beef?” he gasped, staying down. “I only wanted to say hello.”

  “Try again, and you’ll do it without teeth. She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “Huh. Ask her, wise guy. Think she rolled and spread ’em just for you? She’ll wanna—”

  I hauled him up and threw him across the room.

  He hit the brick wall on that side hard but didn’t quite lose enough balance; he staggered and kept his feet. “You’re gonna pay, you stupid—”

  I was too fast for him to see the move and too angry to stop. Not knowing quite how, I got hold of one arm and yanked the wrong way. For that I had an earsplitting howl in response, followed by some truly foul cursing.

  “Ya busted my arm!” he informed me.

  “Dislocated,” I said. I sounded calm as a doctor diagnosing a cold. How could I be this furious and speak so softly?

  He tried another swing with his undamaged arm. I stepped back out of range plus a few steps. I’d promised Escott there’d be no killing. Mitchell was making it hard to remember.

  That’s when the alley door swung inward. One of the bouncers, I thought, finally reacting to the commotion inside.

  Except he wasn’t a bouncer. Rawboned and face red from the cold, Hoyle shouldered past Mitchell, raising the gun in his fist until the muzzle was level with my eyes. Hoyle’s gleamed with unholy delight. He had me square.

  “Kill ’im!” Mitchell yelled.

  Hoyle seemed barely aware of him. “Payback,” he said to me, grinning. He still looked worse for wear from the pounding I’d given him. “Outside, Fleming. Now.”