The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  God help me.

  “Jack? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. There’s stuff going on in the club because of that goon, and-and I gotta go…it’s business.”

  I might as well have slapped her. She blinked, startled, then recovered, squared herself. “Okay,” she whispered. I left before she started to cry again.

  Faustine was still in the hall. “Vell?”

  “She’s better.”

  That got me a scowl. “Men!” She stalked toward the number three room, knocked, and went in. “Bob-bee, poor dar-link. Me you tell all about eet.” The door shut with a muffled whump, the closest she could get to a slam.

  Recognizing defeat, I fled to the end, where Roland now waited alone. “Where’s Charles?”

  “Something came up to call him away. How did it go?”

  Shrugged. “Women.”

  “Ah. Yes. Wonderful, aren’t they? Still, I wouldn’t have them any other way or they’d be like us, and that wouldn’t work at all. And we certainly can’t be like them.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Absolutely, sport. We’d look ridiculous in their little jimjams, now wouldn’t we? And I got the story of just how Faustine helped you with that crazed drunk with the gun. Now if I’d been there instead and done what she’d done, he’d have probably shot me on purpose. That’s why we can’t be like them.”

  Sounded right to me.

  “I do need to talk with you about that…”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t just now. Business.” Like four groggy bouncers on the men’s room floor.

  He swallowed back whatever annoyance was brewing. “Later, then, sport,” he promised.

  There was no way of going invisible with him watching, so I had to use the door in the ordinary way and walk through the main room. Poor Teddy was still winging it, filling in for Bobbi’s interrupted set. Jewel Caine should have been up there instead, reclaiming her career and going on to better things, sober and free of dragging anvils like her ex-husband. By God, if Hoyle was the one behind her death…

  “Hey, Jack!”

  Regulars hailed me from their tables. I dredged up a smile, waved, and kept going. No one remarked about my miraculous appearance on the dance floor, but I got stares. That’s when I realized I was less than perfectly turned out. My clothes were messed around, suit scuffed and dirty from rolling on the floor, shirttails hanging, a bloody streak where I’d been grazed (now healed), tie crooked, buttons torn off. I continued on like the display was in their imagination.

  The bouncers were gathered around the lobby bar, pale and holding ice-filled towels against their heads. Three had drinks, the fourth a Bromo-Seltzer, Wilton’s brand of Red Cross aid. Escott was also looking after them, and had a special glare ready for me as I came in. Like any of this was my fault.

  “They insist they will be all right,” he said.

  “But we’re gonna kill Ruzzo,” said Bromo-Seltzer. The others growled collective agreement.

  “After you’ve seen a doctor,” Escott added.

  Less growling, more grumbling.

  I got the story, and it was pretty much as I’d guessed. Ruzzo, both of them, had invaded, getting the drop on them all. Two men guarding the outside were marched in at gunpoint to join their pals, then the party was quietly moved to the men’s room, where they were bashed from behind. It had been accomplished very slick and quiet since neither Wilton or the check girl had noticed anything. Hell, not even Myrna had flickered so much as a single bulb. Was everyone on sleeping pills?

  “I’m not sure just when Mitchell made his entry,” Escott concluded.

  “And I donno if he’s working with Hoyle and Ruzzo,” I said. “It sure looked like it.” I gave him details about the fight and the outcome, but nothing on the reason behind it.

  “We’ll keep in mind that an alliance has perhaps taken place between them, though God knows why or how, but it might well have been chance. Now I’m going to take these fine fellows off to make sure their brains are still in place. There’s a doctor they know who—”

  “Yeah, I think I know the one. Thanks.”

  “And about Bobbi…” He took me to one side, voice lowering.

  “She’s better,” I said. “She tell you about Mitchell?”

  “Not much. Too upset. I was the shoulder to cry on until you were free to take over. But I got that Mitchell was an extraordinarily bad memory from her past, and it was a terrible shock to see him again. Also, she was afraid it would in some way destroy your relationship.”

  “No! No, nothing like that. We’re fine. I listened, she talked, it’s fine, all fine now.”

  He seemed about to say something to the contrary.

  “Faustine’s with her, she’ll be all right,” I insisted.

  “She can’t be candid about everything. It’s good she has another woman to confide to about you, but your condition is a significant influence on matters. Keeping that a secret rather precludes a full lifting of the burden.”

  “Oh.” Not good. The way she looked when I walked out…

  “But—” he continued. “You should know that she seems to think you’re worth all the trouble and bother. There’s no accounting for women and their taste in men.”

  Yeah, maybe. But Bobbi was miserable, and it really was all my fault.

  ESCOTT took the four guys away in his Nash, and a few law-abiding citizens of Chicago still ignorant of Lady Crymsyn’s unplanned renovation into a shooting gallery came in to enjoy themselves. By then I’d tucked my clothes more or less back into order, hiding rips and bloodstains by buttoning the coat. I glad-handed a few people, told them they’d have a great time—leaving out the whammy—and was about to go back to see Bobbi when another guest walked in.

  Whitey Kroun took one gander at me and frowned. I returned the favor.

  “What the hell happened to you?” he demanded. Nothing like an experienced eye to recognize the aftereffects of mayhem.

  “That idiot lieutenant of yours,” I snapped.

  “Oh, yeah? Explain.”

  I threw a look past him to make sure Mitchell wasn’t in his wake along with Hoyle and Ruzzo. No one like that, just a lot of women (and men) picking up on Kroun’s magnetism and like the check girl perhaps mistaking him for a movie star. “My office. This way.”

  We climbed the stairs, I ushered him in. The radio was on, but low. By now I couldn’t remember if I’d left it that way or not. Kroun took his hat off, brushing his hand over the streak in his hair, and sat on the couch. He pitched the hat by its brim toward the desk, and it landed square on top of the papers. “So what gives with Mitchell?”

  “He came by tonight and bothered my girlfriend.”

  Kroun waited for more. “That’s it?” he finally asked.

  “It was enough. He pulled his little reunion stunt smack in the middle of a show, threw her into hysterics…I had to drag him backstage.” I told the rest, sparing no punches, ending it by putting Mitchell’s gun on the desk next to the hat. “If he comes back for this, I’ll ram it down his throat.”

  “You think he’s working with Hoyle?”

  “I donno, but it was pretty damned coincidental of them showing up at the same time. Hoyle tried to kill me—with Mitchell urging him on—got within a breath of shooting an innocent lady, and his pals Ruzzo lambasted four of Gordy’s best. If they are working together, then you should tell me why.”

  “You think I’d know that?”

  “He’s your boy. Where’s he been all day?”

  “Out.” Kroun’s eyes were hotting up.

  “This isn’t just me with a gripe. It’s about Gordy, too, because of his men being here. If you know what Mitchell might be up to—”

  “I don’t know a damned thing!”

  “Then you should find out. If he was doing a job for you or someone else or for himself, he’s been made.”

  “What kind of job? Killing you? Hoyle tried to do that the other night all on his own, he doesn’t need Mitchell.�
�

  “Then take me out of the picture. What else would he need Mitchell for? What else would Mitchell need Hoyle and Ruzzo for? The four of them wouldn’t be hopping into the same bed just to knock me off. Something’s brewing.”

  “Until tonight Mitchell had no reason to kill you. Now he might go with Hoyle just to help out.”

  “Not going to happen. They’ve crawled out of whatever hole they’ve been hiding in, and someone’s gonna spot ’em and pass the word to me. You better hope Mitchell isn’t there when I go in.”

  Kroun leaned forward. “You listen to me, kid, you don’t take any action about Mitchell. He’s my department. You got away with bumping Bristow because of special circumstances, but do anything to Mitchell, and nothing will save you. You will disappear the same as Bristow: dismembered and in the lake.”

  Well, that would do the trick of killing me for good. Death, the ultimate solver for all my problems. “Okay, I got that. But you get this—your boy was warned off from seeing my girl and came in regardless. He got his ass kicked because he deserved it. So long as he stays away from her I won’t have to repeat the performance. That’s all I’m concerned with. If Hoyle’s a separate thing, then I’ll take care of it separately. But if Mitchell’s cooking up something with him—”

  “You bring him to me, and I will deal with it.”

  The silence stretched. For a long moment I was tempted again to influence Kroun over to my side, find out for sure if he was truly ignorant about Mitchell’s actions. Again, just thinking about it made me ache. I knew I didn’t want to risk that stab-in-the-eye agony; I might not be able to vanish fast enough.

  “Well?” he asked.

  “No problem. In the meantime you might want to locate your boy and find out where he’s been keeping himself.”

  Another silence. Kroun almost seemed to be waiting for something. Finally, he nodded. “Fair enough. You just remember we each have our own corners.”

  “I’ll remember. How long’s Mitchell been with you?”

  “Couple years.”

  “You friends?”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I have friends. I look out for them.”

  “Like Gordy.”

  “Yeah.”

  Kroun grunted. “I need to talk with him. Face-to-face. Derner doesn’t know where he is, hasn’t got a number. Said you’d know.”

  “He’s safe. Resting.” And healing, I hoped.

  “Take me to see him, then.”

  I was tired of getting the kid-brother treatment. “What’s with Gordy that you can’t settle it with me?”

  “It’s about you. You want more, you put me and Gordy in the same room.”

  That set up a whole new batch of speculations, most of which I was sure I wouldn’t care to know anything about. I could guess it had to do with me taking over for Gordy permanently. Or not. “Not” was fine with me, so long as Gordy was the one back in charge.

  I reached for the phone and dialed Coldfield’s club office. It rang a lot, then someone picked up the receiver. “The boss there? It’s Fleming.”

  COLDFIELD agreed to allow Kroun a visit, but not until tomorrow. Apparently Dr. Clarson put his foot down after seeing the condition of his overtired patient. He’d barred all visitors, and the phone was off the hook. I asked if Gordy was better, but Coldfield had no information, only that the patient was safe and quiet. I passed the meager news to Kroun. He nodded, but wasn’t pleased by the delay.

  “I’ll be by tomorrow, then,” he said.

  “Come just after opening, and I’ll get you there.”

  “Why not earlier?”

  “Because it’s what the doctor ordered.” That lie came easy.

  Kroun picked his hat up along with Mitchell’s gun and walked out. It was only after he’d gone that I realized he’d made no comment at all about the Caine murders, and the papers were still on the desk, big as life with headlines and pictures. I thought Kroun had come over in the first place to talk about them. Mitchell’s behavior could have knocked that out of his head, seeing’s how it was closer to home. But Kroun might have turned up to see my reaction to Mitchell’s threat and Hoyle’s shooting.

  Damn it all, I should have tried hypnosis no matter what it did to me. Too late now.

  LADY Crymsyn’s second show was nearly over by the time I worked up enough spirit to leave the office. I was drawn out by the sound of Bobbi’s glad voice. She was back onstage, confidence firmly restored along with her smile as she belted her closing song. She was amazing. Not one sign of what she’d gone through showed. It was as though it had never happened, and that was unsettling.

  I watched from the entry, just out of sight from the patrons in the main room, not wanting to distract her. The damage was covered up, I thought, and covered very well, but still there under the surface. Escott would say to be patient and let time do the healing, but I’d hurt her and would continue to hurt her. No way out of that.

  Some small commotion in the lobby got my attention for a moment. By now the front entry was closed to new customers, but someone wanted in, banging on the door. I heard Escott’s muffled voice and the doorman’s response. I went back down the passage in time to see Escott hurry across the lobby toward the stairs, his arm around a huddled-over female in a too-large coat.

  The female was Evie Montana.

  12

  EVEN after all this time, when I should have been used to it, Escott still had the ability to make my jaw drop. How he could have left with four of Gordy’s goons and returned with Betty Boop I could not imagine.

  He glanced over his shoulder as I dogged him to the office. “Oh, good,” was all he said, and continued on. Evie wore her dancing shoes and spangled stockings from last night’s show. Her long overcoat seemed several sizes too big until I realized it was a man’s coat. Not only that, it was a tan-colored vicuna, and had belonged to Alan Caine.

  Jeez, what now?

  Escott guided her to the couch, made her sit, then went to the liquor cabinet, poured her something, and made her drink. I kicked the office door shut and stood in front of it.

  “What gives?” I asked.

  “She said she saw the murder.”

  “I didn’t see! I heard it!” she choked out, then fell into tears.

  I’d had enough of those for one night and left Escott to deal with the deluge. My only help was to go to the washroom across the hall and bring back a roll of toilet paper. She traded her drink for the roll and began pulling off yards at a time, blowing her nose between bouts of howling.

  It took a while before she settled down enough to answer questions. Escott filled in things up to a point. Evie left the Nightcrawler Club in a hurry, rented a flop someplace, and hid there, trying to think what to do. Eventually she remembered Escott had been a nice man. She’d been hanging around outside Lady Crymsyn for hours hoping to spot him. When he’d returned from driving the muscle to the doctor’s, she made her move.

  “Poor child’s half-frozen,” he added. “I doubt she’s had anything to eat, either.”

  “We’ll get her an eight-course dinner with music if she’ll just tell what happened.”

  Evie did more carrying on, but I figured out she was enjoying the attention and barked her name, loudly. That hauled her up short.

  “What?” she asked, sounding hurt.

  “You tell us. What did you see?”

  “I didn’t see. I heard.”

  “Okay, what did you hear?”

  It came tumbling out almost too fast to follow. She’d gone with Alan Caine to his dressing room as she usually did between shows. They liked to spend time together…talking. They were shy about people knowing anything, though, so when someone knocked at the door, Caine bundled Evie into the closet. That always made her giggle, but she was real quiet when he called his visitor in. Caine pretended to be alone; it was their secret.

  Caine said, “Hello, you. Come back for more? I think I can—”

  Then he stopped talking and
made a funny sound. Then there were some vague, thrashing noises. None went on for long, but they were odd. Evie couldn’t see any of it since the closet was fast shut, and she knew how mad Caine would be if she left before he said so.

  The dressing-room door opened and closed, so it was plain that the visitor was gone. Caine didn’t call to her, though. Finally, after a long, long time, maybe a couple minutes, she ventured to peek out.

  She didn’t like what she saw. Nearly fainted from it. Survival instinct overcame her fond feelings for Caine, and she knew she’d have to leave and quick. Not knowing who had done the deed, she could trust no one. She didn’t dare go back for her own coat, and lit out wearing Caine’s instead, using the stage door and running as fast as she could in her dancing heels.

  “Did you see anything in the alley?” I asked. “Anyone?”

  “No.”

  “What about Jewel Caine?”

  Evie seized on the name. “That witch! She did it. I know she did!”

  “She didn’t,” I said.

  “You don’t know her! She hates him.”

  “She didn’t do it.”

  “She did! I’ll make her tell!”

  “Fine, we’ll go talk to her. Where does she live?”

  “I don’t know. You go do that, call the cops, I don’t care, I just wanna get out of town and go home!”

  Unless Evie was a remarkable natural actress, she truly was ignorant about Jewel. Escott signed to me to step into the hall for a conference.

  “There’s only one way to remove all doubt here,” he said. “Will the drink she had unduly interfere with your work? I wasn’t thinking when I gave that to her.”

  I quelled a sudden flare of nausea. “I…uh…I can’t.”

  “What?”

  “You heard. No hypnosis.” Damnation. I’d hoped to somehow avoid having to say anything about this to him.

  “Why ever not?”

  I worked very hard not to yell. “Because I just can’t. It hurts.”