by P. N. Elrod
That was the kind of statement I’d heard often enough while on their side of the fence. We all knew what it meant. I got hit with more questions but shook my head and waved them off. “I’m just glad Roland’s going to be fine.” So I assumed from the circus; I’d had no chance to ask.
“Is it true you’ve sold your nightclub to the mob?”
That was a new one. “No. It’s just closed until my star act is back.”
Taking the cue, the Lamberts beamed. More flashbulbs died.
“What about your gangster friends?” asked another wiseacre.
“Don’t have any, sorry to disappoint you. Why don’t you come by the club when it’s open and see for yourself—first round’s on the house!”
That turned the tide. There’s nothing like an offer of free booze for distracting the Fourth Estate from the scent of a story. Faustine, a most canny woman, passed a big box of chocolates around the room, further distracting them and at the same time drawing attention back to herself.
“Jek iz Am-er-i-kan he-rrro, joost like my da’link huz-bendt. Jek doez not like the geng-sterz, they do not like heem. When they shoot, my brafe Rrrolandt throwz heemself een way! He savez Jek’s life, Jek rrrushes heem to hoz-peetle.”
Pencils scribbled more slowly than usual as their owners dug their way past Faustine’s accent. It seemed heavier tonight, whether from the excitement or by design. Faustine glowed as they peppered her with more questions.
“Yez, I am Amer-i-kan by the marry-ink of Rrrolandt, but I vish to be more Amer-i-kan and take tezt for eet. I loff thees con-drrry!”
That went over well.
The guy in the orange shirt loomed next to me, big teeth in a tanned face. “That’s right folks, you can call Faustine Petrova our own little Miss Russian America! You never saw a more patriotic dancer, and you’ll see more of them both when we make the movie! The name’s L-A-R-S-E-N, Lenny Larsen!” He passed out more cards. I pocketed mine and hoped never to see him again.
Faustine and Roland were clearly in on the details. I went along with them, figuring it had to do with Roland’s Hollywood comeback. He’d left some years ago—too much drinking got in the way of his career—but he was on the wagon and might be worth something at the box office again after this debacle.
I waved to let him know I was leaving, eased into the hall, and found myself next to a doctor. I asked him about Roland’s health.
“He’ll be able to go home in a few days,” he said. “We took out the slug. It’s just a question of watching for infection. So far, he’s clean.”
That was good. When I’d been in the army, more often than not it was the blood poisoning that took a man, not the bullet.
The bodyguard didn’t want to meet my eye. He looked forlorn. “You sure they’re safe, Boss? I mean, ya never know.”
“You’re right. Stick around, then. I want you to keep an eye on Charles Escott, too.”
“Who?”
“The guy in 305. He’s with Gordy’s outfit.” Damn, but I really was getting better at lying, and the name-dropping tipped things. “Look in on him, make sure things are copacetic, send up a flag if they ain’t. But I need your car.”
“Sure! No problem!” Happy as a puppy with a new bone, he dug out a key, told me what kind of car and where he was parked. I said I’d be at the Nightcrawler Club, then got clear.
Kroun was still holding up the wall and shook his head. “That’s quite a rash you got there.”
“What?”
“The crazy dame who jumped on you. You’re smeared with more war paint than she is.”
I got my handkerchief and rubbed my face. It came away covered with Faustine’s deep red lip color. “Jeez.”
“You said it. So…how do I get your job?”
THE only parking at the Nightcrawler was in the alley behind the club. There was a guy hanging around to shoo away anyone who didn’t belong. I eased into a spot. There wasn’t a lot of space; Kroun had to slide across to the driver’s side to get out, grimacing more than the effort required. After what he’d been through, I gave him credit for just being able to get into a car, period.
The man on watch at the back door nearly swallowed his cigarette when we climbed the steps. He’d apparently heard the news about Kroun’s demise. I asked if Derner was in, knowing he would be; he was always in. This was my way of letting the guard know it was business as usual.
Don’t think he bought it.
The kitchen staff was too busy to pay notice, but a couple of mugs in the rear hall exchanged looks and quickly got out of the way.
Kroun grunted, putting in a note of disgust. Coming back from the dead clearly annoyed him.
We got a similar reception walking into Gordy’s office upstairs, but more of it. Derner was on one of three phones now on the big desk. He glanced over, then did one hell of a double take.
“I’ll call you back,” he said into the blower then hung up, missing the first attempt, knocking the phone over on the second. He stood up, eyes big as he threw me a “what the hell?” look. “Boss…?”
“Good news. Mr. Kroun’s back,” I announced cheerfully.
Kroun snorted and went past to drop himself into a deep, overstuffed leather couch. He kept his coat and hat on, cigar box balanced on one knee, telegraphing that this better not take long.
“Gee, that’s great,” said Derner, his voice faint. “What’s goin’ on?”
I gave him as much explanation as he needed to pull himself together, then tossed the ball to Kroun. Leaning back, ankles crossed and feet on a table, he issued a number of succinct orders, most of them to do with taking me off everyone’s execution list and putting forward Mitchell as the ringleader of all the trouble. Derner had gotten that from me the night before, so it was no surprise, but he wanted to know why.
“Tried to give himself a raise the hard way,” said Kroun. “He’s in the lake, right?”
“Yeah, sir. Couple of the boys took him over to the meat packers and—”
Kroun raised a hand. “No details.”
Couldn’t blame him for that. I didn’t like thinking what the cleaning crew had to do to distribute a man’s body into several fifty-gallon drums along with enough cement to keep it all on the lake bed.
“Get New York on the phone, and I’ll put the fix in,” he said. “This should be Mike’s job,” he added, aiming that at me.
“I think people are more scared of you,” I said.
He gave a grunt. “Good point.”
In ten minutes, regardless of whether the lines might be tapped, Kroun got me cleared of trouble with everyone else who mattered. He shot me a look as though to say, “Happy now?”
Relieved was the word.
Kroun got up, went to the desk, and just stood, looking down. Derner quickly relinquished the chair to him. Kroun switched on the desk radio, searched the phone book, and made a call. He kept his voice lower than the music and scribbled something on the inside of a matchbook. Derner and I exchanged looks; neither of us knew what was going on. I could figure it had to do with the kind of stuff Michael wanted to know about.
Hanging up, Kroun arranged to have someone pick up his carload of new clothes. He informed Derner that Broder and Michael would be staying on for a few more days and might be dropping in. Derner took it in stride. Entertaining the big bosses was easy enough. Booze, girls, gambling, and more booze usually did the job.
“We still got a problem about Alan Caine,” he said. “Should they know about it?”
“No,” said Kroun, moving back to the couch. “I’ll handle them.”
Caine’s murder had had the cops sniffing around the club. The latest news reported that Jewel Caine’s death had not been suicide after all. Small comfort to her family, if she’d had any. Derner had found out she didn’t.
“Okay,” I said. “Get something organized on services for her. She was friends with the girls here, make sure they show up and give her a good send-off. Tip the papers. Find people to say nice thing
s about her.”
“The cops will want to know why we’re paying.”
“An anonymous cash donation to the funeral home. I’m sure you can find one that understands what’s expected.”
He started with another objection. Kroun cleared his throat. Loudly. Derner nodded and went back to the desk to make phone calls.
“That’s the only good part of this job,” Kroun muttered. “I say frog, and they have to jump.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Why do you let him argue like that?”
“He brings up things I need to remember.” I had more to do before calling it quits for the night and told him as much.
“What else is there?”
I showed the leather address book, not quite taking it from my pocket. “This belonged to Alan Caine, I have to leave it in a spot where the cops can find it and solidly link Hoyle and Mitchell to the murders. Should take the heat off the club and send it Mitchell’s way. We can put a rumor out that he ran off to Havana after killing Hoyle—”
“Who?”
“The guy who rigged the bomb. The clothes I burned…that was his blood…remember?”
“Who killed him?” he asked.
“Doesn’t matter, I just make sure the cops blame Mitchell. He’d have bumped Hoyle anyway to cut a loose end about the car bombing. No one’s found the body yet, but it’s only a matter of time. This book on him might suggest to the cops that Hoyle killed Caine for gambling debts.” It was thin at best, but better than nothing.
“Did you kill Hoyle?” Kroun’s voice was conversational.
“No.” I had the impression he wouldn’t care if I had, he just wanted the facts straight.
“And this Hoyle is dead?”
“Yeah.” Thoroughly. What was bothering Kroun? Did he have any reason to doubt my word on it?
“He’s not going to surprise you the way I did?”
That was straight out of left field and right between the eyes. “Uh.”
“You never know,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Damn. The possibility never occurred to me. There had been no blood exchange, no chance that he’d rise again. I’d drunk from Hoyle only after he was dead. There was also no way that Kroun could know what I had done. Even Escott didn’t know, no one ever would.
For a bare instant I’d been thrown off-balance, but decided Kroun was just stirring things up for the hell of it. He was damned good at that. He had a point, though.
“What do you know?” I asked.
“Enough to not take anything for granted.”
“But what do you know?”
“I’m only trying to get you to think, kid. You’ve been lucky and done okay for yourself, but one of these nights it’ll catch up to you.”
I thought of Bristow. “It already has.”
“If we’re here, there can be others.” He cast a glance at Derner. The radio was still on, masking our low voices. “You think you’d have run into more like us by now? Not if they’re more careful than you. You didn’t get my score because you weren’t even looking.”
Another good point, but I couldn’t agree with him on the rest. I’d always kept my eyes open at the Stockyards on the chance of spotting another member of the club. Nothing had come of it yet. “Why think that about Hoyle?”
“Why not?”
No arguing with that. “Okay, I’ll be more paranoid.”
“The only way to live,” he said. He went on. “So how does that book connect Hoyle to Mitchell?”
“Mostly it connects Hoyle to Alan Caine, who owed money to Mitchell. The cops can ask stoolies all over town and get the same story of Hoyle and Mitchell having a falling-out over who knows what. Derner will see to it.”
He shook his head. “Needs more. Gotta cover the ‘who knows what’ part.”
“I’m listening.”
“Caine gambled. You need markers. With the right dates. Mitchell’s name on some, Hoyle’s name on others, and Caine’s signature on them all to clinch it.”
I got him. “Plant ’em where they’ll be found.”
“So the cops figure Hoyle killed the Caines, one for not paying his debts, the other to shut up a witness. This shorts Mitchell out of his marker money. Mitchell kills Hoyle for shorting him. It’s not what happened, but it’s reasonable. Cops like reasonable, don’t they?”
“Son of a bitch.”
“Glad you agree.”
Derner earned his keep that night. He contacted a specialist and had the guy in the office thirty minutes later. Samples of Caine’s writing came from the address book, and we kept it simple. On various types of plain paper and using different pens the forger wrote several IOUs, signed Caine’s name, collected a fee, and left. I don’t think he said ten words and never once asked a question, the perfect mob employee.
Hat over his face, Kroun stretched on the couch and pretended to nap until it was done. “Ready to go?” he asked, standing.
I’d hoped he would stay at the club waiting for his clothes to arrive while I finished things. Despite orders to babysit him, I didn’t want company. “This won’t take long,” I said.
“Good.”
He left the cigars on the table and strode out. I had to follow.
DERNER had called in additional help for this last errand. As I rolled to a slow stop up the street from a battered parking garage, another car turned the corner and pulled in behind me. Kroun went alert, maybe thinking it was cops again, but I told him it was okay, and we got out into the icy air.
Strome, the stone-faced guy who’d been my lieutenant since I’d taken over for Gordy, got out and stood ghost-quiet. He had shot Hoyle the night before, thinking to save my life, and I couldn’t fault him for that. Of course, given the right circumstances, he’d shoot me without a second thought; it was just another job to him.
He glanced once at Kroun and left it at that; apparently Derner had filled him in. Strome gave me a hard look, though. “You okay, Boss?”
That surprised me. “Yeah.”
He nodded, just the once. Granted, the last time he’d seen me—sprayed with Hoyle’s blood and brains—I’d fallen into a seizure, and it had left one hell of an impression.
Best to change the subject. “That girl who was down there…” Hoyle had kidnapped a little cutie who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time during a murder. She’d been in need of a rescue. It was just her hard luck Strome and I were the ones to do it. “Did he hurt her?”
Strome understood what I meant. “She didn’t say, but I don’t think so.”
“How is she?”
He considered, then shrugged. “Blubbed a little, then made me buy her supper and take her home. Guess she’s okay. Dames.” Clearly he found women to be a vast, if not-too-troubling, mystery.
“Let’s wind this up,” I said, taking the lead.
The garage had a tin roof that bucked and banged in the wind. The place was mob-owned; chances favored the vehicles inside were, too. Hoyle had chosen it as an emergency bolt-hole to hide from the world, and it had almost worked. The whole area was empty of foot traffic, and cars passed it by. The surrounding small factories and shops were closed tight. Every city had deserted pockets like this. They look dangerous and lonely after dark, but are often safer than a bank vault simply because no one’s around to make trouble.
We crowded down a short flight of concrete steps to the basement entry, and Strome handed me a set of keys. On our last visit he’d picked the lock to get in.
From the doorway you could see a light on at the far end of an otherwise black basement. I’d not expected that. It was as though Hoyle were waiting for me to return.
Strome hung back to watch the street. I was highly aware of the bloodsmell tainting the freezing air and tried not to take any in as I entered. There was decay in it and the strong odor of something else unpleasant. Kroun followed, looking around and frowning. He’d caught the scent, too.
Ducking to avoid the low ceiling, I trudged the length of the
basement to the curtained-off room at the end. Harsh illumination came from a mechanic’s light hung on a nail. The too-bright bulb hurt my eyes and made the shadows just that much blacker. I cast around, trying not to be nervous about it, but no one was hiding anywhere. It felt like we had company, Hoyle’s ghost perhaps. If that was the case, he wouldn’t be a nice one like Myrna.
I told myself to shut the hell up.
One of the mystery smells was from an electric heater I’d left running. It had burned itself out. The rest was from Hoyle when his bowels and bladder had given way in death. He wouldn’t be coming back. The smell of his advancing decay confirmed it. He lay facedown, a hole in the back of his skull. There should have been more blood, but I’d—
“You waiting to sell tickets?” Kroun asked. The top of his hat brushed the low ceiling. He hunched to avoid problems.
There was an old cot against one wall. I shoved the book under the thin pillow.
“Fingerprints,” said Kroun.
Damn. He was right. I’d been careful about wearing gloves so only Alan Caine’s prints were on the brown leather, but it wouldn’t sit right if Hoyle’s were absent.
Hoyle’s left arm was flung wide. It’d have to do.
Even with gloves on I didn’t want to touch him, but it was unavoidable. His arm was heavy and stiff as I lifted it. Rigor would have worn off by now; this was a result of the cold seeping down from outside. If he stayed here, he could freeze right through.
I pressed his fingers to the book and the IOUs, hoping something would stick. He’d not washed since going on the run. I got a few greasy smears no one could miss. Good enough. I left the book on the floor, dropping it so the papers would spill out, sufficiently obvious to catch attention.
Then I backed away, grateful Hoyle’s face had been hidden. Dying was bad enough, but to peg out in a dank, deserted basement where only your killer knew where to find you…
“C’mon, Jack.” Kroun’s voice jarred the silence. His tone was different. Was this his version of concern?
“Yeah, okay.” I followed him out, leaving the light on. No need to look back; that tableau would be in my head for a long, long time.
