The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  “You sure? What’s going on?”

  Jeez, he was going to make me think he cared. Maybe he did. If I dropped out of sight, then he’d have to run things. “Expect me when you see me. Business as usual until then.”

  “Right, okay.” Not a lot of confidence there, for which I couldn’t blame him. “The cops have been by—it’s about Alan Caine. They want to talk to you.”

  This was tricky. The lines were likely tapped, and Derner knew it. He was a smart man, so this could be a way of feeding the cops misleading information. Fine by me; I could play with the best of them. “They’ll have to wait, I’ve got things to do tonight.”

  “They’re wondering about Jewel Caine, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The way they were going on, she didn’t kill herself like the papers said.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “Which means someone did her in as well.”

  “Maybe the same guy who bumped Caine?”

  “Whoever that is,” he said.

  Oh, Derner was doing genius stuff tonight. “My money’s on Hoyle. He’s crazy. Didn’t Caine owe him money?”

  “I wouldn’t know, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Okay, see if any of the boys have seen Hoyle. I wanna know what he’s been up to lately. If he’s the one, we send him over. I don’t want no trouble with the coppers.”

  “Right, Boss.”

  I hoped someone was listening in. “Another thing—see about making arrangements for Jewel Caine.”

  “What?” He sounded surprised.

  “Arrangements—a funeral. Anyone claimed her? She got family?”

  “Uh—”

  “Look into it. She was a good egg, we can do right by her.”

  “Well…uh…” Derner hesitated. He’d be thinking about the money it would cost. The night’s takings from just one of the slot machines in the Nightcrawler’s back room would pay for a nice service. If necessary, I’d point that out to him. “What about Alan Caine?”

  “See if he’s got family, then ship him out. Jewel wouldn’t want to share the billing.”

  I hung up, then dialed a number I’d scribbled in pencil on my shirt cuff the night before. There was a delay as I negotiated with a hotel switchboard operator, then Bobbi’s voice came on.

  “It’s me,” I said again, but my tone was a lot warmer. “You okay?”

  “Are you?” she countered.

  “I am now, sweetheart.”

  “Anything wrong?”

  “All the time,” I said cheerfully. “But I’m taking care of it.”

  Bobbi required a lot more convincing than Derner, and such convincing would require us to be in the same room so I could give her a hands-on demonstration. Hands, lips, skin to skin, I was more than ready to show her exactly how well I was doing. I was a little nervous about it, but it beat the previous mind-freezing terror I’d felt before. Escott’s version of a pep talk had sorted out a lot of things.

  I owed him, all right.

  And…Bobbi didn’t know about the fight yet, or she’d have—

  “I’m glad you’re better,” she said shortly. “Now what the hell happened to Charles?”

  Oh.

  Damn.

  Damn, damn, damn, damn.

  Given a choice, I’d rather have Coldfield come back and make me into a sparring dummy for a few hours instead of trying to explain things to her. “Uh, we had a disagreement that got out of hand.”

  “Disagreement?” Bobbi rarely shouted. As a singer, she thought it might damage her vocal cords, but this was an unequivocal shriek.

  I winced. “Look, it’s just something we got into, and it’s over now. We’re friends again.”

  “You put him in the HOSPITAL!”

  “I know that, but—”

  “You could have KILLED him!”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Bobbi made more loud and shrill observations about Escott’s condition and my responsibility for it. I tried a placating tone when I could get a word in, then noticed Kroun had put his head around the corner. He’d shaved and resumed his damaged clothes and had his palms over his ears, letting me know he could hear her end all too well. I refused to be embarrassed about it.

  “Let-her-talk,” he whispered, exaggerating each word so I could read his lips.

  I didn’t have any better ideas, and it was obvious that Bobbi had been boiling for some time, so I shut up. She was staying at the same hotel with Gordy and his girlfriend, being watched over by Shoe Coldfield. He must have let her know a thing or three.

  As before, I stood there and took it, and in some ways it hurt more than a physical beating. When she asked for the why of the matter, I fell back on the disagreement excuse.

  “Why won’t you tell me?” she demanded.

  “Because it’s not important anymore, and I know that sounds like a load of bull, but it’s over now, it really is. I’ve apologized to him, and we’re copacetic again.”

  She made a low growling noise, thick with dissatisfaction. Her protective soft spot for Escott was the size of the Grand Canyon. Perhaps he could persuade her to calm down. It struck me then that everyone had assumed I was the bad guy in the matter. Granted, I was still on my feet and a lot faster and stronger than Escott, but he did throw the first punch. A lot of them. But I’d thrown the last and most effective, so I was the bully. Those were the hard-cheese rules; I’d just have to live with them.

  Kroun moved to the table to check the stuff I’d taken off his friend. He opened the cases, didn’t seem surprised by the syringe, looked in the wallet, and tossed it back. He went through the contents of the money clips. Each had five twenties on top, and the rest were fifties and C-notes. I lost track as he counted through them, but at least nine or ten grand was there. He pocketed the fortune without a blink.

  “Listen, Bobbi,” I said, “we’ll talk to Charles, and he’ll let you know he’s all right. We can visit Roland at the same time—and how is he doing?”

  That subject change got me another earful, but not nearly as harsh. She knew I wasn’t to blame for Roland’s wounding. Not too much, anyway.

  Kroun picked up the car keys, tossing them high and catching them one-handed, showing impatience. Nice to know that he was so well recovered, but I still had more peacemaking to conduct with Bobbi and put my back to him. She’d cooled down somewhat, hopefully to the point where she wouldn’t take my block off when we did get together. Kroun cleared his throat, coughed, and spat something into the sink. He ran water.

  “What’s that?” Bobbi asked.

  “My guest from the party you threw last night.”

  “I thought he’d be gone.”

  “We still have some loose ends to tie up. It’s going to take a while.”

  “The last visiting hour at the hospital starts at eight. I’ll be there, then coming back to this hotel again.”

  “I’ll go as fast as I can, but you know how it is.”

  “Yes, I certainly do.” Dry tone from her, very dry. Ouch.

  There was no way to end this one on her good side, so I offered a weak bye-I’ll-see-you-soon and hung up. I waited to see if the phone rang with a fresh emergency, but it kept quiet.

  “You ready?” Kroun asked. He’d wandered into the hall. He watched the prisoner, who still seemed to be out.

  “Not yet. I need a new shirt.”

  “Make it quick, I need one more than you do.”

  A hot bath and shave would have been great, but the most I had time for was a fast swipe with a wet towel, then jump into a fresh suit. Not my best one, nor the worst, but it went with the thickening chin stubble. Maniac killers lurking in dark alleys might think twice about taking a swing at me; I was less sure about the mugs at the Nightcrawler Club.

  When I came downstairs, the man was no longer tied to the banister post, and rope ends lay on the floor. What the…?

  Kroun was in the parlor, feet on the low table, reading a paper. “Don’t worry,” he sa
id, not looking up. “I just put him in the car is all.”

  “You—?”

  “Carried him out the door in front of God and everyone, yes, that’s what I did. No one’s made a commotion about it. You ready?”

  I couldn’t wait to get rid of him. Them.

  I went to the hall closet, shrugged on one of my old overcoats, then to the kitchen to get my hat, a spare house key from one of the drawers, and the gun from Escott’s coat. The roscoe the intruder brought was gone, so it figured that Kroun was armed, too. Double-armed, since he’d had a gun last night. He’d left the other effects on the table. I scooped them into a pocket, noting the bullet holes in the wall above the phone. Those would have to be patched before Escott came home.

  It hardly seemed worth the effort to lock the house, but I went through the motions. Kroun handed over the car keys and got in on the passenger side. After the barest hesitation, he slammed the door shut. I slipped behind the wheel, adjusting the mirror.

  “Where is he?” I asked. The backseat was empty of mobster.

  “Trunk,” said Kroun.

  “He’ll freeze.”

  “Only if we keep sitting here.”

  Taking the hint, I started the motor. I’d driven a Studebaker once before when working on a case, and afterward read magazine ads with close interest. The car was supposed to have a setup so that when stopped on a hill you didn’t have to dance with the clutch, gas, and brake pedals to keep from rolling backward before it went into gear. As we were in a flat area, there was no opportunity to test things, but it was a sweet ride all the same. I hoped the guy in the trunk had air and not exhaust fumes to eat.

  “Which hotel?” I asked Kroun.

  “Hotel?”

  “Where your stuff is.”

  “Skip that, take me to a men’s store. A good one.”

  What the hell? “You’re going buy stuff? It’ll take all night.”

  “Not if it’s a good store.”

  “Longer than getting the stuff at your hotel.”

  “Just find a place and give me ten minutes.”

  Son of a bitch. I wasn’t interested in arguing, though, so I drove a few miles and pulled up to a clear stretch of curb. There were plenty to spare for a change since this part of the Loop didn’t do much evening business.

  Kroun got out, moving easily. During the day his bum leg had healed. He reached the store’s door just as some guy inside locked it. Fine, like it or not, we would swing by his hotel instead.

  When Kroun rapped the glass, the man shook his head and made an exaggerated shrug of apology. He probably didn’t like the looks of this scruffy customer. He suddenly froze in place. For a second I thought Kroun had done an evil-eye whammy. The guy glanced over his shoulder then stared at Kroun or rather at something in his hand. Not a gun. Kroun had pulled out one of the money clips and waved several of the C-notes temptingly back and forth. A second guy joined the first and also froze, but only for a moment. The power of raw cash galvanized them, God bless America.

  The door magically unlocked, and Kroun walked in like he owned the place. For all intents and purposes, he did. I marked the time to see if he’d make his ten minutes, then quit the car, going around to the trunk. The other key on the ring opened it.

  There weren’t a lot of pedestrians, and they were in a hurry to get out of the cold wind whipping around the buildings. Privacy secured, I lifted the trunk lid to check on the guy. He was curled on his side facing away from me, hands tied behind him, not looking any too comfortable. He stirred a little, his movements groggy and uncertain.

  I adjusted his gag so nothing covered his nose. He jerked at the touch. “Easy does it, pal. You breathing okay?”

  He mumphed something, pissed. Couldn’t blame him.

  “Glad to hear it. Want to tell me where your partner is?”

  The next mumph I interpreted as cussing rather than anything cooperative.

  “I’m betting he’s at my nightclub. Want to put something on that?”

  More cussing, and he started fighting against the ropes.

  I slammed the lid quick as a group of office girls scurried past; a few of them giggled as I tipped my hat at them, nonchalant as Fred Astaire pretending to be a bum.

  Someone had pulled the store’s shades down for the night, but the lights remained on. I strolled slow up and down the walk to stay limber and kept my ears open for noises from the car trunk. If the guy drew attention, I’d have to clock him again. He didn’t, so I walked and checked my watch.

  This was ridiculous, of course. The other night I’d tried to make myself permanently dead, and when that hadn’t worked out, I’d planned for a second, more extreme effort that would have succeeded. Right now I should have been on a slab in a morgue, not standing in freezing wind outside a store waiting while some lunatic bought himself a suit.

  And yet, here I was…and, strangely, it was all right.

  Which had to make me the lunatic.

  I’d read stories about suicides, and knew of some who had gone through with it, and at the time the thought was what a waste, felt a little sadness, and that was pretty much it. Not until I saw the blind fury on Escott’s face did I consider its harsh effect on other people concerned, the ones close to the victim. There was no understanding or forgiveness for my actions, no shred of sympathy, as I’d expected. He’d accused me of being a selfish bastard for doing that to Bobbi, to him, to everyone who gave a tinker’s damn about me. He was right. It wasn’t only about my pain. It was the pain my hurting myself would give them. Better to just spit in their eyes and walk away with no explanation. Only I hadn’t had the guts to do that—or the guts to ask for help.

  So, I had indeed been a selfish, cowardly bastard.

  Wincing, I silently added in stupid at the beginning of the list. I should have it printed for a sign and nail it to the wall over my bed. The idea would be to do my best to disagree with it each night when I woke up.

  Would Escott remember my hospital visit? Would he believe me when I told him I was better? What I’d done had left scars on us both. It had changed things. For good or for bad, the change would always be there.

  We’d just have to deal with it. The deed was done, and I’d have to live with the consequences.

  That—or spit in his eye.

  I shook my head. No. I wouldn’t be traveling that road. He’d once crawled out of his own private abyss. I could do the same.

  In nine minutes, Kroun emerged, looking a new man entirely in a sharp dark suit and polished shoes. When I first met him, he had a way of filling a room all by himself. People noticed it; men stood up straighter, and women leaned closer when he walked past. It had faded with the explosion and shooting, but that quality was back in spades. The hired help must have responded, for he was getting royal treatment.

  He buttoned up a heavy wool overcoat and pulled on leather gloves. One of the shop guys clipped the tag from a charcoal gray fedora and handed it over with a slight bow and broad smile. They moved out of the way for three guys rushing past with arms full of boxes. I obligingly held the car door as they took turns shoving everything into the backseat. Last to go in were two suitcases wedged on top, blocking the window.

  Kroun politely thanked everyone, tipped them each a twenty, which was twice what they earned in a week, and got in the car. They enthusiastically thanked him, adding invitations to come back whenever he liked, day or night.

  I got in and turned the motor over. He checked his new silver wristwatch. “Ten minutes, if this thing is right.”

  It looked too expensive ever to be wrong.

  “Now that’s how you buy stuff,” he said, satisfied.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Let them do the work. They know the territory.”

  “What about mirrors?” Those were the main reason I got clothes only after a store was closed. It was easier than hypnotizing the whole staff—which was no longer an option anyway. I just slipped in, picked what I wanted, and left money in the manager’s
office along with the tags. Unlawful entry I was good at, but I wasn’t a thief.

  “I just stripped and had them dress me from the skin out. Ben Franklins make it go fast. How do I look?”

  He was in blacks and charcoals, with a faint pinstripe on the suit, his white shirt nearly glowing in contrast to a midnight blue silk tie. “Like a mob undertaker.”

  Kroun settled the fedora at a rakish angle. “Let’s go arrange some services, then.”

  “The other guy’s probably waiting at my club.”

  He gestured for me to proceed.

  There was traffic, as always, so it took some time to get there. If the man in the trunk hadn’t tried to knock me off, I’d have felt sorry for him.

  Not long for him now, though. I circled Lady Crymsyn’s block, alert to lurking toughs. Neither of us spotted the prisoner’s buddy.

  “Think he’s inside?” I asked.

  “Count on it,” said Kroun.

  No point in asking why his bunch was so allergic to an ordinary invited entry after a polite knock; he wouldn’t understand the question.

  I pulled into my reserved spot in the parking lot next to the club. Damn, this Studie drove smooth, but I wasn’t ready to give up my Buick yet. It had gone into the shop for new tires, then some eager beaver decided to put in some extra work. I’d made it clear to Derner—who only thought he was doing me a favor—that I didn’t want solid-rubber tires, armor plating, and bulletproof glass added on. It was a Buick, for God’s sake.

  Just as I set the hand brake another car suddenly bounced into the lot and stopped directly behind us, blocking our escape.

  Kroun and I went alert at the same instant. I didn’t want to be trapped and piled out on my side, turning to face the threat. Kroun mirrored me, hand dipping to his overcoat pocket. I resisted the urge to go for my own gun, having the luxury of vanishing if need be.

  Then I saw the kind of antenna on the other car and recognized the driver. “Nothing to worry,” I called across the car roof to Kroun. “It’s just the cops. Relax.”

  He muttered so that only I’d be able to hear. “Relax? You kidding?”

  “Nothing to worry,” I repeated.

  “Body in the trunk,” he reminded.