by P. N. Elrod
But a fire-hot flare sizzled through his skull, obliterating everything. When that faded, it was too late for anything but blank terror. He was completely buried. Earth clogged his eyes and ears. No more singing from the wind, only silence like death, but worse because he was aware of it, of being dead.
Other, much more fragmented, scenes shot past. Some were good, most were not. They flashed and flitted too quick to grasp and study. Green land, deep water, a sky so solidly blue it hurt to look on; a room stinking of blood, his own laughter sounding too open and happy for that place; a tall man standing over him, swinging the buckle end of a belt, face blank, eyes crazy.
He taught me to kill. Why?
The horrors rose and ebbed, and, in the pauses between, the soft deep rush of wind through pine branches gradually returned, offering a temporary ease. That never lasted, and he wanted it to; but in the end, at the very end, he would begin to shift and struggle and push at the earth until it crumbled away from his face and harsh, cold air dragged him fully awake.
Gabe pitched off the smothering blankets, yelling. Without air in his lungs no sound came out. There was a moment’s absolute certainty that he was still buried, and then he drew breath, abruptly aware he was in Fleming’s guest room. Sunset had freed him from the steel grip of the monsters in his head.
Somewhat. They’d retreated only as far as the shadowed corners in his mind, grinning, waiting for their next chance to come at him again.
He leaned over the side of the bed and coughed. A glob of blood and tissue splattered the floor.
Damn it.
Another night to get through, alive or dead or whatever the hell it was for him now.
At least his head had stopped hurting.
FLEMING
I woke instantly, my mind sharper for being rested, the question about Kroun still there, if no closer to an answer. Pulling on last night’s clothes, I vanished and floated, going solid in the kitchen. The house was quiet, though I could hear Kroun stirring upstairs. He gave a groan and coughed wetly. I felt sorry for him, for not being able to heal faster. We needed a trip to the Stockyards to get him some stuff fresh from a vein. That would help.
The phone rang. It was probably Derner, following orders. I’d told him to call me only after a certain hour, keeping any mention of sunset out of the conversation. He just might be imaginative enough to put two and three together about my condition and didn’t need more clues than he already possessed. Like most of the mobsters I dealt with, he knew I was uncannily tough and had earned Gordy’s friendship, which was usually enough to keep them from asking awkward questions. Now more than ever, since I couldn’t hypnotize people anymore, I had to be careful.
I finally answered. “Yeah?”
“Boss?” Derner’s voice. Terse. Tense. He could pack a lot into a single word.
“Yeah. How’d things go today?”
“No hitches at this end. Everything went smooth on that job.”
I took him to mean the cleanup at Bobbi’s flat. Derner and I were both wary that the phones might be tapped. It was illegal, but that detail was not something J. Edgar was too particular about. So long as his name didn’t come into things, and his agents didn’t get caught, he’d turn a blind eye if it got him good headlines as a gangbuster. Thus ran the scuttlebutt I’d heard from others, especially Gordy. I wondered how he’d come to learn it.
“Anything else?” I asked Derner.
“There’s some guys here. They’re upset about their friend having car trouble.”
That would be muscle from Kroun’s New York mob, pissed about the bombing. “How bad is it?”
“Real bad. I told them what you said and that you’d talk to them here, but they went looking for you.”
New York would know about my nightclub, Lady Crymsyn. The muscle would be waiting there. The sign tacked on the front door with its TEMPORARILY CLOSED—BACK SOON! wouldn’t discourage them. “I’ll just talk to them and—”
“Those guys who blew in were hopping mad. They won’t be talking. No chance. You gotta disappear yourself. This is serious.”
“They serious about the big guy, too?” I meant Gordy.
“Just you for now. They heard he wasn’t involved, but you have to get out of town. I told them who was really behind it; but you were the boss at the time, so you get the blame.”
“That figures.” Doesn’t matter what kind of job you’ve got, doctor, lawyer, Indian chief, when a disaster happens while you’re running the show, it’s your fault.
Derner said, “I can get you a ride out of town, money, too.”
“No need.”
“But—”
“It’s all right. I’ll deal with them.” There was the sound of footsteps from the hall; Kroun had come downstairs. If I explained the situation to him in the right way he might be open to helping me out of this jam. He couldn’t vanish, but was still able to make people change their minds to his way of thinking. If he wanted to stay dead to them, he could arrange it. “When the coast is clear, I’ll stop by and fill you in.”
Silence from Derner’s end. He must be getting used to how I worked. He’d been there the night I’d faced down Kroun and survived. Maybe he thought I could somehow talk my way out of this one as well.
“How many of them are there?” I asked.
“There’s two of us, pal.”
I jumped. The reply hadn’t come from the phone, but from directly behind me. A stranger’s soft voice. Something, probably a gun, prodded my lower spine, forestalling further motion on my part. People who interrupted calls in this manner always had guns. How long had he been here? Not long enough to have searched as far as the guest bedroom. Or maybe he had—and discovered what appeared to be Kroun’s dead body. Oh, hell.
“Say you’ll call him back.” The man’s tone was almost conversational and very confident.
“Boss…?” Derner sounded odd. He must have heard.
“I’ll call you back,” I said and dropped the receiver onto its hook.
The man said, “Good boy. Put your hands on the wall. High up.”
I did so, and he frisked me, making a fast, efficient job of it, finding nothing threatening. My gun was in the overcoat hanging over the kitchen chair, well out of reach.
“You Jack Fleming?” he asked.
“Yeah. You one of Whitey Kroun’s people?”
“No. Whitey was one of my people.”
Oh, hell, again. Kroun’s boss. Not that this should be a surprise. He sounded calm, but I sensed otherwise. Some of them could do that, hold a relaxed front, yet be flushed with rage. I was better at dealing with the ones who lost control and gave in to their emotions. This steadier type was a lot more unpredictable.
He went on. “Mitchell was also one of my people. So was Hog Bristow. They’re dead, and you’re not. You understand why I’m here?”
“You gonna buckwheats me?” I asked. My mouth went dry, just like that, at the word.
It was how the mob dealt with some of their enemies. Buckwheats meant a slow, hideous death, lots of blood, lots of screaming. I’d been through it and would not suffer again. I would kill to avoid it, no matter the consequences. Despite this internal promise, cold sweat flared over my skin, over the lines of scars Bristow had carved into me. My gut gave the kind of fast light flutter that presages vomiting. I leaned hard on my hands and took a deep breath, trying to stifle the nausea.
“That was Bristow’s hobby,” said the man. “I heard he did some knife work on you.”
“Yeah. He did.” The long icy threads left by his blade pulled tight on my flesh.
“And somehow you’re still walking? Whitey said as much, but I didn’t believe him.” The man spoke quickly yet with careful, educated articulation. He wasn’t any jumped-up street mug.
“He told you right.” God, I was sick. Dizzy sick. A wave of it went over me, cold as gutter slush. If I fell into one of those damned fits…no. Absolutely not. Too humiliating. Swallowing dry, I let out my breath and s
ucked air, tasting my fear. “Whitey decided I’d paid enough.”
“I get that. It’s paid. Whitey let you off for Bristow, but I can’t let you off for Whitey. How did you arrange the bomb?”
“Not me. Mitchell. He was behind it.”
“You got Mitchell to—”
“No, he was on his own!” My voice was high and harsh. I pulled it down, fighting my not-unreasonable panic. Jeez, when had I started trembling? “I didn’t know or I’d have stopped him. He wanted Kroun’s job. If it’d worked right, I’d have gone up as well. Mitchell got his for it.”
“So you say.” The pressure of the gun muzzle increased and I couldn’t help but flinch. “All the same, Whitey got blown to hell, and you didn’t, and that’s what matters to me.”
This bird had not searched the place thoroughly, else he’d have found Kroun upstairs, dead to the world, and this would be a different conversation. Where the hell was Kroun, anyway? If he’d just walk in…“You know I didn’t kill him. It was—”
“Not my concern.”
Screw it. I wasn’t going to beg for a chance to explain.
“I came to do a job,” he said. “That’s all.”
I stared hard at the black phone. “One thing,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Who else is on your list?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t want others to pay for what you think I’ve done.” The muzzle shifted and now rested hard against the back of my head. It felt good. It’s a bad night in hell when the prospect of a bullet in the skull seems to be the easy way to get clear of problems. No bullet, lead or even wood, could slow me for long, but I did think about that kind of total oblivion for a few seconds. I wouldn’t go there, though. Not ever again. I’d play the cards I’d been dealt and see the game through…with a moderate amount of cheating. “So when you’re finished here—”
“You’re it, pal,” said the man. “No one else.”
But I couldn’t trust him.
I let myself vanish. I’d been fighting the urge to do so, and now I went out like a light, but only for the barest second, long enough to shift and return with death’s own grasp on his arm. The gun went off. Twice. Right next to my ear. I barely noticed, twisting and slugging hard, anger blurring my senses. He grunted and sagged but got a strong left in with his free hand. Tough guy. But my second punch took him out, and he suddenly weighed a ton. I let him drop, dragging the gun clear of his grip, and stifling the itch to kick him for good measure.
He said there were two of them. I vanished again before the second guy could come running. My hearing was diminished, but I’d know if anyone was close. Nothing stirred. I rushed through the downstairs quicker than wind—no one else around—then went solid to check on the fallen.
He was taller than average, with a hard-packed build under the expensive coat. Considering his high level of confidence, he was younger than I’d expected, not far into his thirties. Despite the winter, his skin was tanned and healthy, and he might have given Roland Lambert a good run for his money for film-star looks. Jobs in the gangs tended to age a man, but this bird seemed immune. Myself, I felt about a hundred years old, give or take a week.
The back door was unlocked. Damnation. I’d brick the thing over, but the bastards would probably just drop down the chimney like Santa. I turned the bolt (for all the good that would do) as Kroun came in, but I saw him as a corner-of-the-eye movement. I was startled enough to swing the gun on him.
He froze in place, genuinely alarmed, palms spread. “Easy there, it’s me.”
As if that was reassuring.
Kroun wore only socks, skivvies, and had dragged on his bloodied shirt in lieu of a bathrobe. He frowned at the man on the floor. “Cripes.”
“Friend of yours?” I asked.
“Unfortunately for you, yes.”
I put the gun on the table, within easy reach. “He was shooting up the place. I had to clock him.”
Kroun took that in along with the holes in the wall. “Well, you both made a good job of it.” There was no longer a rasp in his voice. The day’s rest must have fixed that, but he didn’t look happy. “Is he broken?”
“Not permanently. Now what?”
“‘Now what’ what?”
“He’s after me because of you. I’d have to kill him to stop him and then someone else will follow and someone else, and I’ve got enough goddamned dead guys on my hands.”
He gave me a funny look. “You all right?”
“No, I’m—” I shut down, getting control. I still felt the gun’s muzzle kissing the back of my head and couldn’t believe I’d found that a comforting thing, even for a second. Shoving away the memory, the anger at myself and the circumstances, and taking a breath, I began again. “I am not all right. I got mugs like him breaking into my place to kill me. There’s at least one other waiting somewhere else for his chance, and I’m damned sick of it. If you’ve got any influence over these bastards, get rid of them. I want them off my back for good.”
He just looked at me, pupils dilated and unreadable, but his mouth went tight. He didn’t like being ordered around, but then who does? “I can’t do that,” he said.
“You’re the only one who can.”
“I—” He bit off the reply, then looked at the fallen man again. “If I do that, they’ll know I’m alive. I don’t want them to know I’m alive.”
“Hypnotize them not to remember you.”
“It won’t last.”
“Long enough to buy you a head start.”
“Hell, kid, you’re not asking much. You know what I went through to get dead?”
“Yeah, actually I do.”
That got me a double take.
“Welcome to the club,” I added.
“Cripes,” he muttered again. “All that for nothing?”
“It’s how the world works.”
His next remark was back-alley foul.
“You’ll be a hero for surviving it—and you can tell them who’s really responsible. That lets Gordy off the hook.”
“And you, too.”
“What’s the big deal? Fix this mess, then take a vacation. Retire if that’s what you want.”
Kroun stared like I’d gone around the bend. Retirement in his line of work nearly always involved a funeral.
“You’ll have to do the fixing anyway,” I went on. “Odds are they’re already wise to there being no body in that car, and they’ve been asking questions. My way they go home alive. Your way, they either get killed or kill other people, making an even bigger mess, and—”
He held a hand up, forestalling further persuasion. “Yeah-yeah, okay, enough already. I’ll put the fix in. But you are going to owe me.”
I worked hard not to show too much relief. He’d made a choice I could live with. I’d worry about the debt later.
“But not like this,” he added.
“Like what?”
He gestured at himself. “Looks are everything in this game.”
What?
“You want me to play? Get me cleaned up first.”
He had to be kidding.
“Use your noodle. I’m not going anywhere fast looking like a train wreck.”
I got my mental gearbox shifted. Finally. He did look pretty ridiculous. He must have clothes back at his hotel or wherever he’d stayed before the explosion. We could go there and pick them up.
“What about him?” I pointed to Handsome Hank on the floor.
“You got rope, don’t you?” Kroun turned and went upstairs.
3
I had rope, or rather Escott did, stowed in the basement. I helped myself to the whole coil and trussed up the guy after searching him. He had a wallet filled with twenties, a pocketknife, a fountain pen, three money clips holding wads of cash I didn’t bother to count, wire-rimmed glasses in a hard leather case, keys, and a map of Chicago with the locations of this house and my club neatly circled. No identification, though, not surprising for his s
ort.
In another case, larger than the one for his glasses, I found a clean syringe and four small, unlabeled vials. Their dark amber glass effectively hid the color of the liquid contents.
I gave the guy a second glance. So, did he go in for morphine or cocaine? Maybe he had diabetes; he didn’t look like a doper, but some people were good at hiding their secrets. I should know. The lack of a label on the vials gave me the idea that the stuff hadn’t come from any corner drugstore.
Everything went on the kitchen table next to my hat. I blindfolded and gagged him with a couple of the dish towels and dragged him into the hall. In case he felt frisky when he woke, I tied him fast to the newel post at the foot of the stairs.
In the parlor, I edged open the front curtain and saw an unfamiliar Studebaker parked where I usually left my Buick. Some people have a lot of nerve.
The street seemed clear, but that didn’t mean anything; might as well see if he’d brought friends. I unlocked the front and got the mail and papers, tossing things on the hall floor, then went outside to look at the car, offering an easily bushwhacked target. No one took the bait. Damn. I still had plenty of rope left, too.
The car’s registration was to a rental garage by the train station. The paperwork bore an illegible signature. My prisoner and his absent pal must have been confident about getting in and out of town without trouble. Had they planned to disappear my body or just didn’t think the cops were up to tracing a connection between us? Probably the latter. A lot of these guys were either stupid or brazen depending on how smart they thought they were. Unless someone in Gordy’s mob squawked—and no one would—they’d do their job and walk away clean, simple as that. Maybe New York expected Gordy to do the mopping up for them. He’d have done so; those were the rules.
I phoned Derner, who picked up halfway through the first ring. He sounded a whole lot more tense.
“It’s me,” I said. “Everything’s okay, and I’ll be in later tonight.”
