The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  But first a stop at Lady Crymsyn. Escott should know this latest.

  I ghosted through the door, materialized, and found myself staring Strome square in the face.

  15

  HE was surprised enough for three, rocking back on his heels with a sharp yelp. I almost did the same, but the door was directly behind and wouldn’t allow the movement. Instinct took over. I struck out fast, popped him one, and he dropped.

  I stared down at him, considering my situation.

  Two dead guys in the room and an unconscious one out here in the hall.

  Who had seen me appear out of thin air.

  A simple problem to solve—if I could still hypnotize without risk of killing myself. No. Couldn’t chance it.

  Damnation.

  Well, first I had to get Strome out of here, then I’d deal with what he’d seen. I hauled him up on one shoulder and took the freight elevator. The area below was clear, though there were three flat trolleys piled high with paper-wrapped goods parked along the hall. People were talking around a corner, coming our way. I hurried toward the exit and pushed awkwardly through, Strome’s weight throwing my balance off. The cold air didn’t wake him.

  We were in an unused part of a blind alley. Not much sun could get in between the buildings, so the last snowfall, glazed over by a layer of sleet, was still in thick drifts. I braced Strome against a wall, scooped up some mostly clean snow, and rubbed it in his face.

  “Strome? Hey, c’mon!”

  His eyes flickered, then he came shooting awake, staggering and staring around, his hand automatically going for the gun in his shoulder rig.

  “What the…?” He focused on me.

  I glared right back. “Did you do it?”

  Confusion. Just what I wanted. “Do what? Where am I?”

  “Outside the Ruzzos’ hotel. Did you kill them?”

  “What? I—” He felt his jaw and froze. “Ruzzo’s dead?”

  “Since earlier today. Someone bashed their heads in Capone-style with a baseball bat. That’s why I popped you one. Was it you?”

  “No!” He was outraged and perhaps a little scared. I was scared myself.

  I was used to his stone face as the norm, but this reaction rang true. Besides, it took his mind off other matters. A clout strong enough to send you unconscious was usually enough to scramble your memory. You could lose the last half hour or the last month, or even the whole works of a lifetime. All I wanted gone were the last ten minutes. So far he wasn’t asking inconvenient questions. That was my job.

  “Why were you at the hotel then?” I asked.

  “Looking for Ruzzo. I got a line they were hiding there. Thought they might be hiding Hoyle, too.”

  “Sure you didn’t kill them?”

  “Never! I never went near ’em! No!”

  I took him off my suspect list for the moment; even if he’d changed clothes and washed, I’d have picked up the bloodsmell on him. Plenty of other crimes to check out, though. “Did you put a bomb in Gordy’s car?”

  His reaction to that one was also convincing. “A bomb? What the hell you talking about?”

  I told him, and he didn’t believe it. I stood back so he could get a look at me. “Believe it,” I said. “Kroun’s dead. I think Hoyle teamed with Mitchell, and I need to know which side of the fence you’re on.”

  “With you and Gordy!”

  “What about Mitchell?”

  “I hate that weasel-eyed son of a bitch. He ain’t stand-up. Never was.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “No.”

  “What about Hoyle? You know where Hoyle is now?”

  “Yeah…I got a line. Maybe.”

  “Maybe?”

  “If he wasn’t with Ruzzo, I was gonna check on it. Word’s out on that reward, but the guy I talked to don’t have the stones to go after him. I promised him a hundred for the news, but only if it was solid.”

  Interesting. “Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  Strome looked at me like I was being unfair. Which was true. He’d hardly had time to work up to it. “Listen, I was gonna call Derner, get some boys, and go in. Hoyle ain’t the sort to come quiet.”

  “Where is he, then?”

  “The garage where he keeps his car.”

  That made sense. Wish I’d thought of it.

  “You wanna check out Hoyle’s garage, Boss?” he asked.

  “Lead the way.”

  Strome was plenty shaken to judge by the backward glances coming my way as I followed him from the alley. I must have been giving him the creeps. Not my problem. He took us to where he’d parked his car, and we got in. I thought about phoning Lady Crymsyn. Escott would be in by now, but there was no telling how long Hoyle might stay in this garage or if he was even still around. If he had brains, he’d be putting distance between himself and the murders.

  If he really had brains, he’d have never crossed me from the start.

  “Ruzzo’s murder,” I said. “If Hoyle didn’t do it, who else would?”

  “Anybody who met them.”

  “Seriously. What about Mitchell?”

  “Yeah, he could do it. Donno why he would. You just covering the bases, Boss?”

  Considering how the murders had been accomplished, his choice of phrase was unfortunate. “Yeah. Can you think of any reason why Mitchell would want to kill me?” So far as I knew, Strome was unaware of the run-in I’d had with Mitchell at Crymsyn.

  “He’d only do it if Kroun told him to.”

  “That’s what I thought. Kroun must have been the real target from the first, but they rigged things to take me, too. The trigger was on the passenger door. It was meant to go off when he had company. Derner said Hoyle knows explosives.”

  “Yeah, learned ’em in a mining camp out West. So Mitchell got him to make one? But why should Mitchell kill his boss?”

  “With Kroun gone, Mitchell moves into his spot with New York, while Chicago gets the blame for the death. He’s keeping his own backyard clean doing it here. Sound reasonable to you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ruzzo becomes inconvenient to Hoyle for some reason, and they die. What you bet maybe Hoyle becomes inconvenient to Mitchell?”

  “Because he don’t want Hoyle to talk about the bomb?”

  “All he has to do to get away with bumping Hoyle is say it was payback for Kroun’s death.”

  “Smart stuff, Boss.”

  “Would it fool New York?”

  He shrugged. “Depends whether they want to believe him or not. Could be Kroun’s got pals back there who don’t like him much, and they have Mitchell here to bump him. We get the blame. You will, anyway. Far as New York goes, they don’t know you and don’t want you.”

  “The feeling’s mutual, I’m sure. We gotta find out one way or another from Hoyle.”

  “Not easy. I might have a chance to talk with him, but otherwise he’ll start shooting. He’s got a grudge on for you, and I never heard of him holding back ever on one of those.”

  “He’ll just have to take his chances. I’m not feeling too damned kindhearted toward him, either.”

  The area Strome drove to was one of those little pockets of the city where the deep-night creeps could make themselves very much at home. During the day it was a place of cheap shops and small factories with obscure names turning out God-knows-what for who-knows-why. The grimy building fronts indicated business wasn’t good, but struggling along. At noon the workers could descend upon the corner bar at the end of the street for a quick beer, sop up the sports scores, and lay bets down for the next event with their friendly local bookie. It was very likely part of Gordy’s operation, and if I troubled to walk down there and give my name, I’d have his same level of respect.

  Or be shot at. Territorial concerns were ongoing and strong in this town.

  Strome parked the car and pointed. At the other end of the block from the bar was a low, one-storied structure. It looked like it had started out to be one
thing, then changed to another halfway through, then no one finished the job. Brick and mortar with blackened windows, the roof was sheet tin that cracked and rattled as the wind passed over it. Part of one wall had been cut wide enough for cars to roll inside. There was no real driveway into it, someone had simply smashed the curb down and hauled off the rubble, so the change from street level was fairly abrupt. A faded sign next to it offered rates and a number to call.

  We crossed the street, looking both ways a lot.

  No watchman seemed to be on duty; the place was purely to park a car under shelter and good luck to you if it was still there in the morning. Actually, they just might be very safe there. Organized thieves would know better than to go after anything belonging to the mobs, and wiseguy stink was all over this block.

  Nothing much to see, about twenty cars parked nose to the wall, ten to a side, all berths full. No lights. There was a string of bulbs hanging from a wire running down the middle length of the building, but a thrifty landlord had switched off the juice.

  The racket from the stage-thunder tin roof was first nerve-racking, then annoying. The pops and bangs were irregular, and if anything else made a noise, I might not hear it.

  The far end wall had been likewise cut open for a wide entry, but one of the berths was empty. I thought that might have been Hoyle’s space and he’d long cleared out, but there was his car right next to it. I remembered the color from when he’d run the shooting gallery in front of my club. Good news at last. I hoped he’d be close to his transportation.

  Right against the wall next to the entry were cement stairs leading down. The steel door at the bottom had a serious-looking bolt-type lock. Strome said Hoyle might be hiding out down there. I don’t know how Strome thought he’d be able to talk his way in. When I gently tried the knob, it turned, but the door remained fast shut.

  Strome produced a skeleton key and got the lock open, then shot me a sideways look. “Better let me go in first.”

  “I’m boss. It’s my job. You watch my back and come if I yell. Get up top and keep your eyes open, he might not be in, and I don’t want him surprising me.”

  He didn’t much like that, but went up the stairs. As soon as he was out of sight, so was I. The gap at the bottom of the door was more than wide enough, sparing me from having to sieve through the bricks. I hated that.

  I very slowly re-formed on the other side.

  The pessimist in me expected to find pitch-darkness, but light there was, electric, its source at the other end of a cellar that was as wide and long as the building above. It strongly reminded me of Lady Crymsyn’s basement before we changed everything. This one didn’t look like any amount of new paint and lights would ever chase away the shadows.

  The rough ceiling was low and, from where I stood, only a bare inch above my head. A long passage flanked by walls and support columns led the way to what might be a partitioned-off room; there was a blanket hanging across the opening. I breathed to get a scent of the place; the thin vapor hung miserably in the air. Cozy. The smell was of damp cement, oil, gasoline, with a strong hint of urine and sewer stink.

  No bloodsmell. Encouraging. Quite a huge relief, too. I’d been mentally sweating about what might be down there.

  Breathe in, sort out the flavors…

  And there…very faint…human sweat.

  It acquires a truly distinctive tang after reaching a certain age. This sample wasn’t quite to the level of workhouse bum, that would take another couple weeks; so someone else was using the place for shelter. A dump like this was for emergencies only. Hoyle’s circumstances must have qualified.

  I also picked up cigarette smoke and…perfume?

  The crazy thought that Hoyle had gotten lonely and hired some company to help pass the time danced through my head. Then a far more insane idea cropped up: Evie Montana.

  If he’d killed Alan Caine, too…oh, hell. Had to get down to the end, see if she was still alive.

  I’d been right about the noisy tin ceiling; it almost covered a humming sound coming from the direction of the light. Partially transparent, I moved cautiously forward for several yards, floating silent over the uneven floor. Coming to rest just short of the source of the light, I went solid, hugging the wall, and listened.

  And son of a bitch, he was behind me.

  Began to turn, began going transparent again.

  “Hold it!” Hoyle’s voice boomed in the confined space.

  I halted the turn and the change. If he shot me, it wouldn’t kill, but it’d hurt like hell. Hoyle thought he was in charge, but that could be a valuable advantage.

  Half-turned, I glimpsed his revolver aimed square on me, and the muzzle was for at least a .32. Of course, from my angle it gave the illusion of being much larger. He was ten or twelve feet away. He could hit me if he wanted to, and he was right on the edge for it.

  “Hands up! Stay right like that.”

  No problem. I raised my arms up and out, mostly out.

  “How the hell did you get in?” he asked.

  I thought his first question would be how the hell had I made myself float around half-invisible. The light was pretty bad in the alcove, though. He’d seen me come in, but perhaps only as a shape in the darkness, and could have missed the real fun. He might not even know it was me. One way to find out.

  “I bought tickets. There’s a bunch more of us on the way to take in the show.”

  “Fleming?”

  “Yeah.” I went semi again, expecting him to shoot. Counted to five. Nothing. Wanted to see his face. Solidified, I turned a little more.

  “I said hold still!”

  I cooperated.

  “Out there. March.”

  I assumed he meant go to the end of the line where the light was and ducked under the hanging blanket. Since he didn’t fire when I did that, I must have called it right.

  He had more space than my walled-up sanctuary, but that was all the nice you could say about it. A mechanic’s light hung from a nail, casting harsh shadows. There were bits of debris on the floor, empty tin cans, a lot of beer bottles. In one far area were some relatively clean boxes with warning and danger signs painted all over them. Next to those, spools of wire and less identifiable things, and tools. I knew just enough about bomb-making to be uneasy.

  More prosaically, a pile of blankets lay on an aged army cot, and close to it stood an electric heater, the source of the humming sound. Home sweet hideout. Evie Montana, still wearing Alan Caine’s tan coat, was tied up on the cot, a rag stuffed in her mouth, a blindfold on. Her body was tensed head to toe, listening.

  I paused in the middle, feeling the ceiling pressing hard, and started to face him.

  “No, you stay just like that.” Hoyle was close behind, but not too close. I could still spin and take the gun away much faster than he could react, but he’d talk more if he thought he was the boss.

  “Okay, you got me. Gonna bash my brains in like you did for Ruzzo?” That was one danger that was real for me, I was exceptionally vulnerable to any weapon made from wood. So long as he had only a gun, I was fairly safe.

  “What do you know about it?” he snarled.

  “I found what you left of them not long back. Then I talked with some guys, and they said where you kept your heap. Just call me Sherlock Junior. Why’d you do it?”

  “Maybe they had it coming.”

  “That’s all?”

  “An’ they knew some things they shouldn’t.”

  “Like about the bomb Mitchell had you put on Gordy’s car?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “I figured it out. You’re going to have to buy Gordy a new car, you know.”

  “Stupid punk. Think you’re so damned funny, think the sun rises and sets on your ass?”

  “Not quite.” No point sharing the irony of that with him.

  “Well, there’s some of us who know how things really work around here, and punks like you don’t know squat.”

  “Why don’t you te
ll me, then?”

  He fired the gun. The bang was deafening.

  I flinched, but was unharmed. The bullet bit a hole in the wall in front of me, above and to the right. I’d fired three into the ground next to his head, this was just returning the favor. We were lucky the mortar was soft and the bricks crumbly. A ricochet would have made this room a hell of a lot smaller, fast.

  “How do you like it?” he asked.

  “I’m gonna faint in a few days if there’s much more excitement.”

  Another shot. I’d expected it, so I didn’t flinch as much. My ears rang. I swallowed, trying to clear them.

  “And that?”

  “Hoyle, this wall’s getting pretty boring. Even looking at your mug would make a change.” I started to turn, but he told me to stay put again, his voice going up. Bad sign. He was the boss of the room, but he was nervous. “What’s the matter? You think I can still follow through on what I said about killing you the other night? You’ve got the gun.”

  “I know how you work. I heard the boys talk. They say you can just look at someone and get them to do what you want.”

  “That’s right. That’s how I grew up to be president of these United States. I talked everyone into voting for me.”

  “Shuddup!”

  Quiet now. Creepy to hear his breathing so near. Surprising it was that I could hear anything after the gunfire boom. I waited until he seemed more settled. “You got me. Now what?”

  “I kill you.”

  “Not a good idea. Gordy’s on the mend—”

  “Gordy’s on the outs! You can’t hide behind him no more.”

  “I never did. I was only saying that you bumping Ruzzo is one thing, but bumping me…very bad idea. Too many people will go after you for that one.”

  “Yeah, and if I don’t take you out, you’ll still be after me.”

  “Not necessarily. Depends on what information you can give about Mitchell’s plans.”

  “I don’t know nothing.”

  “He told you plenty. That’s how he was able to talk you into the bomb. He wanted Kroun removed and thought you’d be the best bet. Am I right? Then he sees to it you’re protected from payback…” A new thought popped into my head. “Of course this place ain’t his idea—it’s yours. You’re hiding from him.”