by P. N. Elrod
“Yeah?” I said.
He put the glasses in their case and looked me up and down. “You understand how we do things?”
“I’m wise.”
“We’ll see. You look after Whitey, and when I ask about what he does, you will tell me.”
“No problem.” Look after? That was a funny way of saying it, like Kroun needed a keeper.
“Lie or leave anything out, I’ll know about it.”
Threats were easy to drop, but I had the feeling he was giving me a legitimate warning. “Okay. But tell me why you’re so anxious to know what he’s up to.”
“You like him? Think he’s a friend?”
“I like him. The jury’s still out on the other.” I didn’t mind Kroun knowing that.
“Smart of you. It’s okay to like him, but don’t trust him even if he tells you the Pope’s Catholic.”
“Why?”
“He came here to kill you, and you have to ask?”
Good point.
“It takes a certain kind of man for such work. He’s one of them.”
“You, too. You were ready to pull the trigger on me.”
“Yes, that’s true.” He tilted his head. “But I would have felt really, really bad about it.”
“You’d have felt bad?”
“For a long time. Yeah.”
He’d had me fooled.
“Whitey doesn’t have a conscience, he never did. He’s amusing, can be very charming in fact, but killing is no more to him than driving a car is to you.”
“You’re worried he’ll kill someone while he’s here?”
“I don’t want him stirring up trouble.”
“Who’s he after?”
“I wouldn’t know. You get a hint of it, you call me.”
If he knew, he’d probably tell me, and my job would be easier, but that wasn’t going to happen. Admitting his ignorance would be weakness, and he’d never show that to the hired help. I hated games. “Where you staying?”
“Whitey’s hotel. Derner has the number. This is important, Mr. Fleming. Important.” He looked almost comically intense.
Kroun had him on edge, and it would be stupid to dismiss that. I nodded.
“What I hear from the crowd at the Nightcrawler is you have scruples,” he said. “You don’t like it when people die.”
“I’m old-fashioned that way.”
“Good. You watch him, keep him out of trouble, keep him from making trouble. Do whatever it takes.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That—despite what I said about you being the first to get the blame—I guarantee there will be no reprisals.”
What the hell? I went cold inside. “Oh, now, just a damn minute—”
“You don’t know him or you wouldn’t balk.” Michael sent me a long, level stare. He was smart enough to see past my third-best clothes and chin stubble, reading that I was a cut above the usual mugs in his line. For all that, he’d still misjudged me, and I resented it.
This smelled to high heaven. It could well be another version of what I’d just avoided: Kroun gets bumped—preferably by someone expendable like myself—then they bump me. “Fill me in.”
“Get him to tell you. He seems to like you. He just might. As I said, do whatever it takes to keep him in line. If his stay here is quiet, you won’t have to do a thing. When he’s ready to leave, Broder and I will go with him.”
Sounded great, except for going against Kroun’s plan to retire. If he wanted Michael to know, he’d have mentioned it by now. It wasn’t my place to bring it up.
“This is business, Mr. Fleming,” Michael added, with a meaning to the phrase that was familiar.
I’d heard it from Gordy enough times to get the message loud and clear. Great, someone else to be on guard against. What the hell, it couldn’t hurt to pretend to go along with him.
Well. Actually, it could.
“We’re done,” Michael pronounced. He should have told me not to repeat this conversation to Kroun, but hadn’t. Did that mean he trusted me to keep shut, or he didn’t care if Kroun knew?
Damn, I hate games.
Kroun snorted, eased off the barstool, and pulled on his new coat and hat.
“What the hell is that?” asked Mike, gaze fixed on the fedora.
Kroun took it off, checking it carefully. “Looks like a hat. What are you seeing?”
“It’s black.”
“Charcoal gray,” Kroun corrected, putting it on.
“You always get white.”
“People change. I have mentioned that, I know I just did.” He must have noticed my expression. “Right?”
I shrugged, wanting to stay clear. “Who wears white in the winter?”
Mike seemed puzzled. “Whitey does, always has. It’s how he got the nickname.”
“I thought it was from the—uh—” I made a vague gesture on the side of my head.
“A white hat,” said Mike. “Always. Since he was a kid.”
How far did these two go back?
“It’s the end of an era,” Kroun pronounced. “C’mon, Fleming, close the store.”
The clothing talk reminded me of something. “Minute. I’ll be right back.” I started toward the curving hall.
Broder got in my way.
I looked at Michael.
“What is it?” he asked.
It is infuriating to have to get permission to walk around in one’s own place. I really missed my hypnosis, for then I’d have had the two of them out in the street dancing a fox-trot till dawn.
Pain like red hot railroad spikes in both eyes, followed by my brain exploding…but maybe worth it.
“Business,” I said, deadpan.
Michael waved dismissively, and Broder made a slow nod. He wasn’t moving, so I had to go around him.
In his low rumble—not directed at me—he said, “He’ll be fine.”
It’s amazing what you can infer when your mind’s working right. Michael must have signaled to him to follow me, and Broder had refused. He wasn’t about to take a second trip into the main room. It was creepily dark in there. I’d not bothered with the lights, nor taken a flashlight, and couldn’t blame him for hanging back.
There was enough glow coming from the high, diamond-shaped windows for my eyes. One thing I noticed right away: every chair and table was in place. There was no sign of what caused the big crashing noise that had chased Broder out.
“Myrna…you’re the pip,” I said at a conversational level.
No response. Maybe she was tuckered out from all the fun.
I crossed the dance floor, hopped onto the stage, and passed through the wings to the dressing area. There I did flip a light switch, as it was quite black with no windows, and went into one of the rooms.
Some of my clothes lay on the floor where I’d dropped them. That night, the damage Bristow had done to me wasn’t healing and seemed to be getting worse. I’d come here hurting and afraid and had tried to wash it off my soul in one of the showers. When that hadn’t worked, I’d tried to kill myself.
I snagged things up quick and piled them on a chair. Bloodsmell floated up, rusty and stale. That came mostly from my overcoat. It would need a good cleaning—if I could bring myself to wear—
No, definitely not. A dead man’s blood was all over it, invisible against the dark fabric. I’d not killed him, but had drunk deeply from his twitching corpse.
Yeah. I’d done that.
Not something one can forget, not anything I wanted to remember, but there it was: insanity.
I was ashamed. Ashamed I’d lost control, crossed a line. If I was lucky, I would wince over that one for decades to come and learn from it.
If unlucky, I might do it again.
Face flaming, I rifled the pockets and found an address book, a plain thing in thin brown leather. It had belonged to the late Alan Caine. I’d taken it from his hotel apartment on the night of his murder on the off chance that it might prove useful in finding his kill
er. The problem had resolved itself, but now I had an idea for using the book to get the cops out of my hair. Derner could help, and it wouldn’t cost a nickel in bribes.
Halting in midturn for the door, I realized I couldn’t leave this stuff. If the cops ever decided to search the place…no…such complications I did not need. I spread the overcoat flat, threw all of the clothing on it, then rolled it into a bundle, ready for dumping.
I hurried out, bundle under one arm and the book in my pocket.
“What have you got there?” Michael wanted to know.
“Laundry.”
“That was your business?”
“Yeah. I’m short on clean shirts.”
He snorted. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Car keys,” Broder said, his hooded gaze traveling between me and Kroun, not knowing which of us had chauffeured.
I handed them over. It never occurred to me to argue about who was to drive. He stood by the front door, making it plain we were all to exit first.
The leather case with the syringe remained on the bar. I got it and quietly passed it to Michael. He shot me a sharp look, but I wore my blandest “I don’t give a damn” face. He shoved the case deep in his coat pocket and moved on. If Kroun noticed, he didn’t show it.
I locked the front door. As we walked toward the parking lot, the outside lights winked on and off. The others saw and looked back; I kept going.
“It’s just a short,” I said to no one in particular.
At the Studebaker, Michael turned and smiled. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Fleming. I’m very happy I didn’t have to kill you. Tonight.”
Some guys enjoy being cute. Michael and Broder quickly got in the car first, locking the doors. They moved fast, as though rehearsed.
“What’s this?” Kroun asked, pitching his voice to go through the rolled-up windows.
One hand cupped to his ear, Michael mouthed an unconvincing “What?” and met our irritation with a good-natured, innocent smile. Broder started the motor, shifted, and backed out.
“He’s stranding us?” I stared as Michael did the kind of playful bye-bye wave usually reserved for small kids.
“That’s what it looks like.” Kroun just shook his head. “Payback for the money I took off him. Michael’s a big one for payback.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Huh. He’s got my new stuff,” he added.
“He said he was at your hotel.”
“I heard. I’ll pick it up later. Where to now? This hospital?”
“Yeah. There’s an el stop just up the street. It’ll take us. Cabs don’t like this area much when the club’s closed.”
I turned, walking into the wind. My hat tried to fly off, so I carried it. Kroun jammed his on tight and kept his head down. He muttered unkindly about the cold and folded his coat lapels over his chest, turning up the collar. Maybe he felt it more than I. That slug in his brain might make a lot of things different for him.
“So,” I said, “is the Pope Catholic?”
“Mike doesn’t know things have changed. I’m not the man I was. He wouldn’t understand that, even if I gave him the whole story—which I’m not.”
“Doesn’t anyone know about you?”
“Hell, no. Just you and your girl. There’s no need for it to go any further. I survived the car exploding. The exact how of it stays with us.”
“What about the other stuff? You heard everything. Michael as much as said I should kill you if you got out of line.”
“You can try.”
“Don’t give me that. He was serious.”
“Yeah. He was.”
“Well? Why?”
Kroun shrugged. “I couldn’t say.”
“You could have asked. And gotten an answer. Why didn’t you?”
“Because I learned more by letting him run off at the lip. If Michael makes a real nuisance of himself, I’ll deal with him. You stay out of it.”
What constituted being a real nuisance? Apparently the threat of getting killed wasn’t enough for Kroun. Of course, he was already dead—Undead—and it might have changed his perspective on that point. Mine had certainly shifted considerably since my demise.
I tried another angle. “Who’s this guy you want to see?”
“The old bastard,” he said, with a finality that meant there would be no further elaboration.
“Where is he?”
“Not far away. It’s my private business. I don’t want you along.”
“My hands are tied. I keep tabs on you or get in a bad spot.”
“Yeah-yeah.”
Kroun could give me the slip easy enough, which we both knew. He seemed disinclined to run off just yet, though.
There was a drugstore open near the el platform. He turned into it. I followed to get out of the wind. We must have looked like suspicious characters, what with Kroun being dressed so sharp and me so ratty. The clerk behind the cash register straightened, his hand going out of sight under the counter.
Kroun ignored his apprehension and pointed to the goods behind the glass. “Cigars, please,” he said. He pulled a ten from one of the money clips. “The del Mundos will do. The whole box. Thanks. Keep the change.”
He put the box under one arm, leaving the guy to gape after him.
“A seven-dollar tip?” I asked as we took the stairs up to the platform.
“I can afford it.”
“Thought you didn’t smoke.” The other night he’d expressed surprise that I indulged. My habit was infrequent and mostly for show; I could only puff, not inhale. Maybe I should try cigars.
“I don’t. They’re a gift. You’ll find out soon enough. Now when’s the next damn train due?”
* * *
THE hospital was busier than the previous night, though things were slowing down. A different nurse was on duty at the front, and she gave me directions to Escott’s room, along with that of Roland Lambert.
Her eyes sparkled at the mention of his name. “You’re his friend?”
“One of them.”
“Are you in the movies, too?”
Behind me Kroun stifled a snort, turning it into a throat-clearing noise.
“Only when I buy a ticket.”
“I got his autograph,” she said. “He was so nice about it.”
“Yeah, he’s a smooth one.” In another day he’d be running the place. I led off down a hall, then toward an elevator. The lights were brighter here; I crushed my bundled clothes into a smaller wad.
“Laundry, huh?” said Kroun. “Like hell. I can smell the blood. Whose is it?”
“Hoyle’s. I was standing too close when he bought it.”
“Ain’t life sweet? You’re not sentimentally attached to that stuff, are you?”
The elevator doors parted, we got in, and I asked the operator where the hospital’s incinerator might be. He didn’t like my looks and wanted to know why.
“My cousin’s got mumps, and I’m supposed to burn his clothes.” I offered the bundle to him.
He dropped back against the wall and held his breath. No grown man wants to deal with mumps. He kept his distance and took us to the basement, no stops.
Kroun grunted amused approval when the doors slid shut behind us, then got distracted by our surroundings. He looked around the nondescript area as though we were in an art museum and not some man-made concrete cave. Further directions from a passing janitor got me to where I needed to be.
Hospital incinerators are pretty impressive in terms of size and noise, but the door was oddly small. I had to use a long steel poker to push my bundle through the little opening, shoving the clothes deep into the roaring fire. I watched, fixed in place as the blaze attacked and began to eat the fragile fabric, then I slammed the door shut.
Until then I’d no idea just how heavy the bundle had been. I instantly felt better.
“You did more than just burn evidence,” Kroun said when we were back up in the hospital’s public area looking for the
right corridor.
“Getting rid of a bad memory.”
“That easy, huh? What do you do about keeping the good ones?”
I shrugged. “Pictures, I guess. Keep a diary.”
“What about regaining good ones you’ve forgotten?”
This was a screwy subject, but I was getting used to his being screwy. His fussing with that handkerchief while important stuff was being discussed was a good dodge to gain thinking time. Only I had the suspicion his main concern had indeed been the handkerchief. “Talk over old times with family.”
“Huh.” He gave that one more consideration than it deserved, keeping quiet for the trip up to Escott’s floor.
His room was at the opposite end of the hall from some kind of commotion. A lot of people were gathered around one of the doors: doctors, nurses, curious visitors carrying flowers and candy boxes. There was a party mood in the air, and I was sure it had to do with Roland. For a man who’d come close to bleeding to death, he knew how to land on his feet.
The atmosphere was considerably more subdued at the other end. The only activity was one old bushy-haired janitor arthritically pushing a mop around. He wore a hearing aid that must have been switched off and paid no mind as we approached Escott’s door, but someone else was alert. Bobbi was just within the room, keeping an eye on the hall. She spotted me and came hurtling. I almost braced for a well-deserved smack from her purse, but instead she nearly knocked me over with a hug.
That was nice, really nice. Then she pulled abruptly away, her face like a thunderstorm. “You—you…”
I put my hands up, offering full and humble surrender.
“You…”
Damn, she had a cute scowl. Even when really serious, she was stunning with her big hazel eyes, platinum blond hair, and a face that always made my stilled heart leap. By some strange miracle, she loved me. How had I forgotten that? My death would have ripped her apart. Escott had called me a selfish, unthinking bastard. Guilty as charged. Again.
I still couldn’t tell her what had been behind the fight.
“Jack?” Her storm clouds wavered. Maybe she’d expected more from me than hangdog silence.
“I’m sorry, baby. I mean that. It’s my fault he’s here, and I’m sorry as hell. Won’t happen again.” I was sincere. She had my number and could always see right through me. Anything less than total honesty she’d throw right back.
