by P. N. Elrod
“I don’t have to yell at you any more about this?” she asked.
“Not about this. Anything else, I’ll take my licks.”
She nodded, still looking at me with wary deliberation, hopefully getting over being mad.
Without thinking, I raised one hand and gently brushed the side of her face, half caress, half reassurance. Suddenly I wanted to tell her I loved her, but you don’t say such things in public. Touching her like this was the closest I could come.
Damned if she didn’t get it. Her eyes blazed up, and I felt like she’d just kissed me.
My little corner of the world shifted an inch in a direction with no name, settled into place, and suddenly felt right again. How long that would last I didn’t know, but I’d try to keep it that way come hell or high water.
“How are you?” she asked. There was a lot more to the words than their surface meaning.
“I’m fine, sweetheart. Believe it.”
She got that as well.
“And I’m fine, too,” put in Kroun, who had a ringside to our interplay.
Bobbi turned and smiled, which was usually enough to knock most men off their feet. “Aren’t you trying to be dead?”
His expression warmed as he flipped his charm switch on. “It turned out to be impractical.”
“Why are you here, Mr. Kroun?”
“Call me Gabe. Please.”
“I thought it was Whitey.”
“Not for ladies who try to stop my bleeding all over their floor. I’m just along for the ride. Your boyfriend needs a keeper.”
He should talk.
“Keeper?” she asked me.
“It’s business.”
That was the wrong thing to say, and I’d said it one time too many. Her lips tightened; the storm gathered again, frighteningly fast. Her voice was low, but every word had the force of a thunderclap. “I’ve had enough, Jack.”
I couldn’t pretend not to know what she was talking about. No placation I could think of would make things better. Not after the horrors of last night. She was the toughest woman I’d ever met, but had limits. “I know. And it’s over. I’m winding this circus up.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m turning the show over to Derner until Gordy’s on his feet. Tonight. After I leave here, we’re going to the Nightcrawler to fix things. Gabe said he’d help.” I shot him a look.
He kept his face on straight and shrugged agreement. “Figured I owed him.”
“No more ‘business’?” she asked.
“Just Lady Crymsyn, nothing else,” I said. “I’m a tavern keeper, not Al Capone.” I meant that as well.
“And if trouble comes up again?”
That was the tricky part. “If it’s to do with me and mine, I take care of it, but anything else can take a hike.”
She knew how the world worked and that I might not be able to prevent mob business from horning in on my life. But she also knew I’d give it my best to steer clear. To my vast relief, that turned out to be sufficient. She smiled. Not a big one, not the kind that was like a sunrise in my heart, but it did the job.
“You’re really okay?” she asked, one hand brushing my coat lapels and thus my scarred chest.
I had her meaning. After Bristow’s handiwork, I’d not gone near her out of fear of losing control and hurting, even killing her. He’d given me something far worse than a few surface scars. The damage inside my head, my soul…
Was healing.
In reply, I pulled her close and held her tight. She didn’t need to know why I’d been distant, only that it was past. “Yeah, baby,” I whispered. “I’m really okay.”
She abruptly relaxed and melted against me. It was a perfect moment, and those never last long enough. Had we been alone, it might have progressed to something even more perfect, but we were limited to a long hug in a hallway.
With people watching. I became aware of Kroun and the old janitor looking on. The latter sociably blew his nose, wiped his house-sized mustache, and adjusted thick glasses. Kroun wore an “ain’t that cute” smirk on his lean face.
Just inside Escott’s room stood Shoe Coldfield. He was scowling and stepped forward. The janitor quickly went back to his mop work.
Bobbi picked up on my shift of attention and self-consciously pulled away, patting her hair and smiling.
“Visiting hour’s about over,” growled Coldfield. He filled most of the doorway. I wouldn’t be getting through unless he allowed it. Then he noticed Kroun. “What the…”
“Shoe Coldfield, meet Gabriel Kroun,” I said.
Coldfield didn’t move. “The guy in Gordy’s car. The car that blew to hell and gone.”
Kroun shrugged. “Hell doesn’t want me yet.”
They cautiously shook hands. I was glad for the distraction, not putting it past Coldfield to bust me one again just to make sure I knew my place. He stood aside to allow me in, then fixed his attention back on Kroun. Clearly he wanted more details, and Kroun would give him the same eyewash he spilled earlier. I passed up a second helping and went into Escott’s room, halting short just inside.
Damnation, he looked worse. He’d been bad last night, but this…
His bruises had had all day to mature. The idea of beating someone black-and-blue was no abstract concept on him. Much of his face was nearly as dark as Coldfield’s and the rest was a gray tone that put my hackles up. His eye was still sealed shut, but the open one blinked sluggishly at me.
“How are you?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
What the hell? “Charles, I—”
“No more bloody apologies.”
“What?” Was he drugged? Feverish?
“You’ve done that already. Accepted. Now—how are you?”
“You remembered last night?”
“This morning. You were inconsiderately early. How are—”
“I’m fine, just fine.”
“No more thoughts about pistols at dawn?”
I got his meaning. He was still worried that I’d try shooting myself again. I checked behind to make sure no one was hearing this and stepped closer. “No, Charles. No more. Word of honor, hand on my heart, I promise. On Bobbi’s life, I promise.”
He made no reply, and with his face so banged up I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. He grunted. “Some water, please?”
A tumbler with a glass straw was on the bedside table. His private accommodation came with a tiny washroom with a shower. I made use of its sink for fresh water, then held the tumbler for him until he drained most of it. This close it was too easy to pick up the sickroom smell. He wouldn’t be coming home anytime soon. “How are you?”
“Bloody awful. Can’t sleep in this place. I want my own bed. And a beer. Something dark and a little sweet. Cool, not cold.”
“Maybe Shoe can smuggle in a bucket for you.”
“He won’t. Stickler for hospital rules. I may have talked him into rye bread, though.”
“Rye bread?”
“I don’t understand why, but I’ve developed a craving for some. Fresh. A very thick slice. With lots of salted butter. But it’s no good without the beer.”
Okay, that was odd, but a hospital stay can make you crazy for the damnedest things.
“Jack…about Shoe…”
“We’re okay,” I said quickly, not wanting to talk about it.
“I don’t believe that.”
You couldn’t get anything by Escott, even when he was doped and wrapped like a mummy. “He’s a little sore at me. He wants to know why this happened. I can’t…I just can’t tell him.”
“Yes. It’s private. I’ve said it’s been resolved. He’s not one to back down.”
“I’ll stay out of his way.”
“Most wise.”
“Has Vivian been in?” I’d expected to see Escott’s girlfriend here. After we’d saved her daughter from some brutal kidnappers, he’d gotten very close with the widowed Vivian Gladwell. Because of her, he’d lately drifted int
o the state of wearing a sappy smile for no good reason.
“I’ve not told her.”
I was surprised at that. “You should.”
“Why?”
He had me there. “Don’t want to worry her, huh?”
“Precisely. And it would upset young Sarah to see me like this.”
Sarah was in her teens, but mentally would always be a child. Escott had come to dote on her as had most of the people who’d met her, me included. She was a sweet thing, forever unspoiled by the adversities of growing up.
“Did you at least phone them?”
“Yes. Said I’d be out of town for a few days on a case.”
It would take longer than that for his bruises to fade. I hoped there’d be no scarring under his bandages. My face went red again, and I had to work to keep from bumbling out with another inadequate apology.
He spared us both with a question. “Who’s that with you? I heard another voice.”
“Whitey Kroun.”
Escott gave me a good long stare with his working eye.
“He survived that bomb.”
More staring.
“Yeah. Surprised the hell out of me, too.”
“Would you mind very much catching me up on events?” He still whispered, yet managed to pack in an acerbic tone.
“Didn’t Bobbi say anything?”
“No.”
To be fair, Kroun had asked her to keep shut about himself. “Well, it went like this…”
I was hampered, since Kroun didn’t want others to know about the vampirism part. I had to respect that, even with Escott. In this case what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Leaving it out and keeping things simple, I told him what had happened to Mitchell, how Kroun had helped, and that a couple of his friends were champing to hustle him back to New York.
“Why does he not leave?” Escott asked.
“Says he’s still got business here. I’m supposed to keep an eye on him till he’s done.”
“Then perhaps you should encourage him to waste no time concluding his errand. By all accounts, the man is dangerous.”
“I’ll do what I can. He’s got his own mind.” And more. I’d glimpsed Kroun’s dark side and didn’t like it. Other than that, he seemed friendly, but why take chances?
“A small favor?” said Escott.
“Name it.”
“Please get everyone to go home. I think they may stay the whole hour, but this is as long as I can—”
“It’s done. Go to sleep.”
“Thank you.” He relaxed into his pillows, looking completely exhausted and a lot older than his years. It struck me afresh just how awful he looked.
My fault. And he’d wanted to know how I had been.
I resisted the urge to ask if he needed anything. He’d have mentioned it already, like the beer and rye bread. I backed out, shutting the door.
“What’s the matter?” Coldfield demanded. No doubt about it, I was on his shit list until further notice.
“He’s tired. He asked for us to go home. He needs rest.”
Bobbi touched Coldfield’s arm before he could object. “Jack’s right. Charles will be better tomorrow. You saw how he was fighting so hard to keep awake for us. We can come back in the morning.”
Her magic worked. Coldfield unbent for her and agreed to leave, but muttered about returning later. If he wanted to keep an eye on Escott through the night, he’d damn well do it, everyone out of the way, especially me.
Saying good-bye to Bobbi provided an excellent reason to kiss her, and I made the most of it. My God, but it felt good.
More than good. It felt right again.
“Will you be by the hotel later?” she asked. She was staying at one of Coldfield’s business investments while her flat was being scoured clean of violent death.
“Not tonight. I have to—”
“Tomorrow then.” That was final.
“I’ll have bells on.”
She started to say something, then shook her head. Kroun was within earshot. She gave me a last peck on the cheek, squeezed my hand, then went off with Coldfield, who had driven her over.
Kroun and I still didn’t have a car to get to the Nightcrawler. It seemed wise for the moment not to ask Coldfield for a lift. A cab then, unless…
The ongoing commotion outside Roland’s room brought something to mind. I’d called in mob muscle to bodyguard him; chances were someone would still be on duty. I wanted to look in anyway.
“Gabe? One more stop.”
“The movie star?”
“Five minutes. Gonna rustle us a car.”
He liked that idea and found a wall to hold up. He still had the box of cigars tucked under one arm. Gift, huh? Not for Gordy; they weren’t his brand.
Roland Lambert was a popular man tonight. I recognized newspapermen from their pencils and steno pads. Photographers also stood by, ready to record anything that a headline could make important. They glanced my way, took in my clothes and hobo beard, and dismissed me just that fast. Men who looked like me really were a dime a dozen in the street; I was just taller than most.
I’d spotted one of the bodyguards, didn’t remember his name, but knew his face, and he knew mine. I waved him over. He pushed through with no real effort.
“Yeah, Boss?”
“I’m calling off the watch on the actor.”
“You sure?” He looked troubled.
“Yeah, what’s the problem?”
He shrugged. “It’s just he’s a regular guy, y’know? Treats me like I’m some kind of big shot. And that Russian doll, what a lady…”
If I left him here any longer, he’d be ironing their sheets. “You get his autograph?”
“First thing. He was great about it, even thanked me for askin’. What a guy.”
“He’s a sweetheart, but I need you to—”
“Jek Flem-ink! My heeeeeerrrrrrrro!”
No mistaking that accent. The crowd parted, and Faustine Petrova enthusiastically flung herself at me.
I love Bobbi, but there’s much to enjoy about a jubilant Russian ballerina jumping on you and using her lips all over your face like a machine gun.
5
TO keep from toppling, I had to grab Faustine bodily. Staggering back, I hit a wall, but she didn’t seem to notice, rattling on in Russian between the loud wet smooches she planted all over. I found out firsthand why the front of one’s head is called a kisser.
Wow. Something began coming loose inside. I had no need to breathe, yet desperately sucked air, but it wouldn’t stay in. For a second I didn’t understand what was going on. I thought it was a bad cough or some strange hiccups, then it was both at once. The strangest damned choking noise clawed its way out of my throat.
Laughter. I was laughing.
Hadn’t done that in a while.
Faustine laughed as well, a very full one, happy.
I couldn’t stop. It felt good.
We were lunatics, much too loud for a hospital, but for a few moments we just had to cut loose. I hugged her, and I laughed.
Making a mwah-mwah noise she kissed each of my stubbled cheeks in turn then yelled, “Godt blezz Am-er-i-ka!”
Flashbulbs exploded, blinding, disorienting. Faustine posed with both arms around me, a big smile showing all her white teeth, except when she planted another kiss. Right on my mouth. My lucky night. This inspired hoots of encouragement from the audience and some applause.
In the back of my mind, I knew the cameras could have mirrors in their works, which meant no catching of my image on film. That could be trouble somewhere down the line, but I couldn’t bring myself to worry about it. It just wasn’t important right now.
She pressed me forward into the crowd. It was easier not to resist. A few strangers thumped me on the back, others shook my hand, an eager young nurse tried kissing me, too, and managed to bruise my ear in passing. Apparently they were willing to ignore my scruffy exterior so long as Faustine liked me.
What the he
ll had they been told?
Just inside the room stood a tall, round-bodied guy in a pale blue tropical suit and a melon orange shirt that had to have been custom-made because I’d never seen anything like it before. He grinned and grabbed my hand, pumping away as though I’d just flown over the South Pole.
“Hiya, hiya, name’s Lenny Larsen! I wanna talk with you about a movie script!”
“Sure, first thing tomorrow!” I said, matching his hearty good cheer. It worked, and I got my hand back, albeit with his business card pressed to my palm. Faustine pushed us farther into the so-called sick room.
Roland looked just like his pictures in the paper, but more so. Cameras loved his handsome face, and he was sharply turned out despite the pajamas and hospital trappings. His thickly bandaged leg was elevated by a sling, wires, and a pulley device, the rest of him lounged comfortably against half a dozen pillows. Along with more well-wishers he was surrounded by a greenhouse of flowers and a shop’s worth of fancy chocolates in ribboned boxes. Except for the pale cast to his skin, he seemed to be having a great time and smiled broadly.
“Jack! Welcome to the party. Toss me my wife back, would you?”
At no urging from me, Faustine flew to his side, managing to make it look effortless despite the people in the way. The Lamberts had already suffered some rough patches in their new marriage, but all seemed forgotten. She leaned in and kissed his forehead, then thoughtfully brushed at the red lip color she’d left behind. “My poor da’link,” she murmured. “Doz et hurt steel?”
“Just a twinge when I laugh, m’dear.”
The members of the press made notes.
I knew what was coming; there was no stopping it. Better to play along, then get out.
Roland introduced me as the man who’d saved his life.
More pictures. I wished them luck in the darkroom.
Floods of questions. They wanted to know who was gunning for Roland Lambert, did I have any leads, had the cops caught the shooters, was I in the mob…that one made me twitch.
I held my hand up, mouth open to make a statement, which brought a temporary hush. “Sorry, folks, I am just as puzzled as you, but I know that Chicago’s finest—” Some goof in the back, who probably covered local crime, snorted loudly. “That Chicago’s finest are on the job and will no doubt make an arrest.”
