by P. N. Elrod
“Relax, dammit.”
I shut the door and sauntered toward the Studie’s back fender. Watching, Kroun stayed put, but took his hand from his pocket. His shoulders eased down.
The two men got out of their unmarked car, standing in place long enough to give us plenty of time to recall and sweat over our most recent sins. Even an innocent person has that reaction when getting the eye from a cop. They do it to people on purpose. I’ve seen it. It goes together with the fact that a cop can say “come with me,” and you have to go. I usually didn’t have a problem with that so long as it wasn’t aimed my way.
I remembered the driver from last night; he’d asked a lot of questions about Roland Lambert’s shooting. Sergeant something-or-other. He must not have been happy with my distracted answers, and it was a cinch he didn’t believe any of Roland’s malarkey.
“Hello, Sergeant…uh…” I tried, but just couldn’t pull his name from my mental hat. He was a tough-looking son of a bitch; I usually remembered that type out of self-preservation.
“Merrifield,” he provided, apparently unoffended. “I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Fleming.”
I rated a “mister”? Maybe that was to put me off guard, but the way they’d rolled in so fast was not reassuring. They must have been parked up the block on the lookout for any activity at the club. “No problem, what about?”
“How about we go inside?”
If there was a mug waiting to ambush me in the club, he might get nervous and shoot everyone. “Out here’s fine.”
Merrifield didn’t like that answer but wasn’t going to press. His partner eyeballed Kroun, who had somehow toned his personal magnetism down to show only a poker-bland face. “Who’s your pal?”
“Old friend from out of town.”
“What’s his business?”
“Just visiting. What’s it to you?”
“You got a lot of junk in the back, what is that stuff?”
“His luggage, see the suitcases? C’mon, Sergeant, what’s the deal? You got some real questions, I’ll be glad to answer ’em.” I hoped he didn’t want to look in the trunk. I doubly hoped the guy stashed there kept quiet. Maybe he’d heard me and knew there were cops at hand. In his line of work, they were the common enemy.
Merrifield wanted the story behind Roland Lambert’s shooting. Again. I gave him everything I knew except the names of the shooters. “I didn’t see them, they went by too fast.”
“And why were they shooting at you?”
He got a reprise of last night’s song and dance of useless information. “I wish I could help you, but that’s all there is. I’m just glad nothing worse happened.”
“Actually, it did.”
I felt a sharp internal jab of fear, thinking some new catastrophe had surfaced, but Merrifield only wanted more about Alan Caine’s murder. That was a relief, just not much of one. He knew I’d been at the Nightcrawler, where Caine was last seen alive. I confirmed that and again told him Caine had skipped out on the second show. The backstage talk was he’d claimed sickness and left, which I repeated.
“The guy was a real ass,” I said. “Anyone could have gunned him down.”
“He was strangled.”
“Damn papers never get anything right.” One of them had indeed swapped the facts, claiming Caine was shot and his ex-wife Jewel was strangled.
“Then what is the right story?”
“You’re asking the wrong guy.” I wanted to put him straight about Jewel’s not killing herself, but you can’t say something like that and not have to explain the why and how of it.
“Where were you when Northside Gordy’s car blew up?” he asked.
“In my club minding my own business.”
“What are you doing being such good pals with a mug like Gordy?”
“You know, my granny asks me that every Sunday after church. I’m still trying to figure it out.”
Merrifield was the patient sort. Usually my lip would have me in more trouble by now. “We know you’ve been running the show for him lately. You were at the Nightcrawler for Caine’s swan song, and you were sniffing around that little dancer he was cozy with. Then Gordy’s car blows up, Lambert’s shot, your limey Sherlock pal lands in the hospital, and two mugs associated with the Northside gang have their heads bashed in…shall I go on?”
“What mugs?” I thought I sounded convincing.
“You know them. We’ve talked to people, and the one connection they’ve given for all of it is you, Fleming…you’re up to your eyebrows and sinking. Either you’re doing this for Gordy or covering up for him while he does the dirty work. He’ll hang you out to dry when he’s done, too. Don’t think he won’t. Where is he?”
“Taking a vacation. I heard he’s got a girlfriend keeping him busy.”
“I’ll bet he has. Why have you got a bounty out for Hurley Gilbert Dugan?”
He caught me by surprise. Only the guys in the mob were supposed to know about that. The cops had plenty of stoolies, though. “I was just doing my part as a concerned citizen by putting up a reward. Dugan kidnapped that poor girl, murdered those people—don’t you think he should be off the street? Anyway, I withdrew it.”
“Why? Is he dead?”
“Not that I know, but I wouldn’t be sorry if he was.”
“If he is, we’ll talk to you about it first.”
“I can’t help you. He’s probably dusted out of town for Timbuktu by now. Sweat those mugs who helped him out. They still locked up, or did a fancy lawyer spring them so they could disappear, too?”
Merrifield looked ready to shove my nose to a different part of my face. “Who’s this bird again?” He jerked his chin in Kroun’s direction.
“An old buddy from the army. We used to loaf in a bar and play footsie under the table, but don’t tell his wife.”
Kroun shrugged modestly at the other cop. “What can I say, he’s crazy about me.”
“Oh, yeah, real cute,” said Merrifield. “I’ve had enough. Fleming, you and him get in the car. You can hold hands on the way to the station.”
“You charging me with something?”
“No, I’m throwing a tea party so you can give me all the gossip. Come on.” He took my arm, and I stifled the urge to pull away, or he’d say it was resisting arrest. I’d spend the night in the tank with the drunks. If I was lucky. “Garza…” he called to his partner.
But Garza was busy talking with Kroun. Listening, rather. Listening hard. Kroun had him fixed in place and was speaking low and intense. The wind carried away his words. Garza’s face was blank, his jaw beginning to sag.
It was creepy seeing the process from the outside, and I wondered if I’d looked like that when doing my evil-eye parlor trick.
I had learned fast to rely on it, respect its power over others, and finally to fear it. Use it again, and the internal explosion would punch my ticket fast enough. But I’d gotten on without the talent for thirty-six years prior to my death and return; I could do all right in the future.
So long as I avoided situations like this, dammit.
“Garza!” snapped Merrifield. He still had my arm and drew me around as he turned.
Kroun kept up the patter for a few more words, probably telling Garza to stay put, then swung his gaze on Merrifield.
It was the reverse of a searchlight. Instead of a bright beam blinding you, it was like getting sucked into a hell pit of pure darkness. You were just as blind and falling, to boot.
I felt the dizzying tug like a physical force. That was wrong. I should have been immune to the influence of another vampire. If he’d thrown that directly at me, I’d have gone under the same as any human. I stepped back and to the side, as though to get clear of his range of fire.
Merrifield stopped in his tracks, not moving as Kroun stalked closer.
God, his eyes were unnerving. I’d seen them like that the night before when he’d taken aim at Mitchell, ready to kill. Kroun’s soul was gone, well and truly gone.
&n
bsp; In the vacated space I glimpsed something looking out from inside that made my flesh crawl. Sit in a pitch-black room, hear a noise, and ask “Who’s there?” and of course there’s no answer. What was behind Kroun’s eyes was the thing that stands quiet and unseen just a few inches in front of you, aware of your growing fear, not answering your question.
Waiting.
It looked at me, blinked, and suddenly Kroun was back. Just that quick.
I’d not imagined it. I wanted to think so, but it had been there, and I was certain he was unaware of what was inside him.
Was it just him, or were we all like that?
Merrifield got back in his car, not saying anything or even seeming to notice me. Garza followed. The motor caught and rumbled, coughing when Merrifield shifted gears and backed out of the lot. Another metallic cough, and they drove off, blending with the rest of the traffic.
“Nice friends you’ve got,” said Kroun.
“What’d you tell him?” I asked, voice faint.
“Didn’t you hear?”
“Wind in my ears.” Which was partly true. It had kicked up a lot and was colder than before. I’d been too spooked to hear. Was still spooked.
“I told him you couldn’t help with his case, and he should go looking for a guy named Hoyle since he did all the killings. That was the one who helped Mitch, right?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t like thinking of Hoyle. I get that way about people who are shot right in front of me. The aftermath of his death had been even worse, and I wasn’t going to think about that either.
Kroun lifted his hat and brushed a hand along the left side of his head, grimacing.
“You okay?” I said.
“Huh?”
“Does it give you a headache? What you did to them?”
“The eye-to-eye gag? As much as anything else. I can’t take aspirin for it, either.”
“Crush the pills up and mix them with blood.”
“Really?” He seemed perfectly normal, wholly unaware of his quiet passenger. Not much I could do about it. He wouldn’t believe me if I mentioned what I’d seen.
“Couldn’t hurt to try.”
He settled his hat into place. “C’mon, let’s get this over with.”
The front of the club was dark, but lights showed through the windows. My sign about being temporarily closed was still in place, barely. The wind and damp were having their way with the cardboard, and it would tear free before the night was out. Standing so I wouldn’t be framed in the opening, I cautiously opened the door, letting it swing inward.
“Not too smart of him,” Kroun observed. “He should have relocked it after breaking in.”
“That’s my doing. We left so fast the other night I forgot.”
“Huh. Hope you said good-bye to all your booze, it’ll be gone by now.”
Maybe.
“Why would he put the lights on?” Kroun asked. “He might as well have a brass band announce he’s here.”
“That’s Myrna.”
“Who’s she? Cleaning lady? You got someone in there?”
“No nothing like that.” I doubted Kroun was ready to meet the club’s resident ghost. Myrna had been a bartender killed during a gang war some years back. She liked to play with the lights. The fact that the place was blazing like New Year’s Eve was meant as a warning to me.
“You first,” said Kroun, gesturing, very polite.
“Why me?”
“You got the vanishing trick. Check the place out. Find him.”
“You know who he is?”
“I think so. The guy in the trunk usually travels with a mug named Broder. Muscle. He’s big and a lot faster than you’d think—”
“I’m glad to hear it, but I’m not going rounds with him.”
“You might if you surprise him the wrong way.”
“I’m not surprising him at all. The only reason they want to kill me is because they think you’re dead. He knows you, just go in and tell him to lay off.”
“Oh.” He seemed nonplussed about the reminder. “Yeah. I’ll do that then.”
I held back, and he went first, calling Broder’s name and identifying himself. After a few long minutes he returned.
“Copacetic.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
I wasn’t so confident, but followed him in.
Broder was damn near as big as Gordy and didn’t look nearly as friendly and gregarious. I’d have tagged him for a wrestler, but he lacked the thick paunch around the middle most of them had. Football, then, and his teammates would nickname him “Bulldozer.” He looked more maneuverable and a lot harder to knock over. He regarded me with hooded, unfriendly brown eyes.
“Broder,” said Kroun, “this is Jack Fleming, the guy you’re not going to kill after all.”
Broder grunted; his voice box must have originally been dug out of the ground somewhere and replanted in him, the tone was that deep. He didn’t offer to shake hands, and I was glad of it.
“Okay, that was nice,” said Kroun, who could see this was as chummy as we’d ever get. “Fleming, if you’d bring in the last member of the party, we can finish this up.”
At the mention of the other guy, I was sure Broder growled. It was so low it might have been the rumble of a diesel engine from two streets over.
The light behind the bar flickered. Myrna was letting me know she was on watch. Kroun and Broder both looked at it.
“You should change that bulb,” Kroun said.
“I’ll make a note,” I said, and went outside.
The wind had a nasty bite. I rarely noticed the cold, which meant it must be a really bad night for regular folks. Because of it, I expected the man in the trunk to be half-frozen and in need of a blanket and something hot to drink.
I expected, but didn’t count on it, and drew my gun as I lifted the lid.
Good thing, too. He came out swinging. He’d gotten free of the ropes and had a tire iron in one hand and a long screwdriver in the other. I jumped back as he lashed hard with the iron in a lethal backhand. He missed breaking my knee by a gnat’s whisker.
“Hey!” I yelled, which didn’t do a damn bit of good. He boiled out, staggered for balance, then went for me, mad as spit. I moved a lot faster to get clear. He was too far gone to notice the gun. When he did see it, he made a determined swipe with the screwdriver.
Damn. I couldn’t tell if he was nuts for real or gambling I wouldn’t shoot. A gun’s only good if you intend to use it.
He had me there. Time to cheat. I pocketed the revolver, ducked around the bulk of the car, and vanished. Almost immediately I reversed, knowing he’d been right after me.
Yeah. He was just there, probably realizing I wasn’t where I should have been. He hesitated a second, which was all I needed to get behind him. Reappearing, I put him in a full nelson. He was no shrimp, but I had a supernatural edge in strength. I aimed sideways toward the building and launched us against it—only I vanished an instant before impact. Momentum did the rest.
He hit it pretty hard, to judge by the thump and grunt. I went solid. He’d lost the screwdriver and was wheezing, having had his breath knocked out. I dipped in before he could recover and plucked the tire iron away. He started for me again, but his energy was gone. I sidestepped like a matador and grabbed the back of his coat collar as he passed, hauling him around so he fell forward across the hood of the car.
“Settle down, pal, we’re just going to talk,” I said, catching and twisting one arm behind him.
“Go to hell,” he puffed, struggling.
I pushed until his face was mashed against the metal and lifted his arm a few notches. Any more would break or dislocate it depending on where I put the pressure. He still struggled. “I’ve already been there, thanks to you and Hog Bristow.”
At that name, and the emphasis I placed on it, he paused.
“We talk,” I said quietly. “And maybe have a drink. You wanna get out of the cold?”
He though
t it over, then nodded. I let him up easy, ready for another round. He rubbed his arm instead, his gaze sharp. “This is your club.”
That was a quick recovery. He knew how to land on his feet. “Broder’s waiting for you.”
His eyes flickered. How did I know the name? Then he figured it out. “Where is he?”
“In the bar. Great guy. I want him to meet my sister.”
That got me the kind of glare I was used to; nobody likes a wiseacre. “Is he all right?”
“Just peachy,” I said, mimicking Kroun. “C’mon and see for yourself.”
I tossed the iron and screwdriver in the trunk, slammed the lid, and walked toward the front of the club. The man followed, alert to trouble. His hand went to the inside of his coat, a familiar gesture for those used to a shoulder rig. He’d certainly know his gun was gone; it was an unconscious habit, like looking at your wrist whether the watch is there or not.
I opened the door to Lady Crymsyn and motioned him in. He gave me a fierce once-over. In the brighter light, his eyes were a very startling blue, like honest-to-God sapphires. I’d have to keep him away from Bobbi. She had a weakness for blue-eyed guys. Those peepers and the film-star looks could keel her over.
He stepped in and halted. The club’s décor was impressive: black and white marble, chrome trim, a high ceiling, and enough red to justify the name. Over the entry to the main room hung the larger-than-life portrait of Lady Crymsyn herself. She didn’t really exist, but a lot of men wanted her phone number all the same.
My new guest was focused elsewhere, gaping and suddenly white-faced at the sight of a nonchalant Kroun standing next to the bar. “Gabriel,” he whispered. “Son of a bitch.”
“You keep my mother out of this, Michael,” said Kroun, without humor.
I glanced speculatively at Broder. If his first name was Raphael, we could move this to a church soup kitchen and have a quick prayer service.
He glared back, and I thought better about asking.
4
THIS bunch did not indulge in a tearful reunion over Kroun’s miraculous return from the grave. Not that I expected anything in even distant view of the maudlin, but maybe at least a handshake traded between acquaintances. Michael had been willing to kill me over Kroun, after all, but that business must have been more to do with restoration of mob honor than revenge for the mobster himself.
