A Song In The Dark (10 page)

“Let's not overdo things.” He looked alarmed.

“Okay, but at least cake and ice cream and a few balloons. We deserve a little celebration.”

“Well . . . all right. Thank you.” Under the reticence he seemed pleased.

I actually felt normal, even cheerful, for having a purpose in life again. One that didn't involve mayhem and killing. It lasted nearly a whole minute.

The layout of the club's main room was such that from most any point in the horseshoe-shaped tiers of tables, you could see the entry and thus anyone coming in. That's how I spotted Evie, the little dancer who was so inexplicably sweet on Alan Caine. One of the waiters came up to guide her to a table, but she started talking to him, looking upset even at this distance. She still wore her overcoat, gloves, and hat,
and carried a big purse. Under all that I glimpsed spangles on her stockings and the flashy shoes she wore for her dance routine with Alan Caine.

“Now what?” I asked.

Escott followed my look. “Trouble?”

“I hope not. She's the chorus girl I told you about. The one that Hoyle was going to use for a football.”

“Hm. Then it's likely trouble, else she'd be at the Nightcrawler doing her show. Let's hope he didn't return to finish what you interrupted.”

“She seems to be okay.”

The waiter gave in to whatever Evie wanted, leading her up the long, carpeted stairs. He couldn't have known I was here and must have decided to turn the problem over to Escott.

Who must have got that, too. “For what we are about to receive . . .” Escott muttered out the side of his mouth.

“May we be truly thankful,” I also muttered, completing the blasphemous old battle prayer.

T
HE
waiter reached the booth. “Uh, Mr. Escott, this lady wants to see—oh.” He spotted me. “Didn't know you were here, Mr. Fleming.”

Escott and I stood as the little lady trotted up the last steps.

Her big-eyed gaze fell on me. “Jack Fleming?”

“Yeah. Something wrong?” I signed for the waiter to retreat.

She waited until he was out of earshot, then nodded vigorously.

“What?”

“They're going to kill Alan Caine,” she blurted in her Betty Boop voice. Apparently it wasn't an affectation after all.

“Who?”

“Those men.”

“What, they're back?”

“Not yet, but they will be. His life is in danger!”

“As in later tonight, but not just this minute?”

“Please, this isn't a joke! He needs help!”

Escott cleared his throat, giving me a look, the kind with a raised eyebrow in it.

“Just checking the urgency of the situation,” I told him, then turned back to her. “You're Evie . . . ah . . . ?”

“Montana. I'm Evie Montana, just like the state, it's my name.”

“Charles Escott,” he volunteered, taking her hand and adding in one of his polite little bows.

“Pleased, I'm sure,” she said, cute as a Kewpie doll.

“If the emergency is not immediate, perhaps you will sit and tell us all about it,” he suggested, motioning her into the booth.

She cocked her head. “You're English, aren't you, just like in England?”

“Once upon a time. Please . . . ?”

She took the hint and slipped in. Released from our gentlemanly duty, we sat opposite her. I leaned back in the middle of the half circle; Escott clasped his hands on the table in his best listening posture. “What is the problem, Miss Montana?”

“Well, Alan Caine is just the greatest singer ever, better than Caruso even, and he's just really too artistic and innocent and people take advantage of him and he gets into jams and he's in a jam now and these guys are gonna kill him if he doesn't pay what he owes and they really mean business.”

“I see,” he said. “And who are they exactly?”

“They're muscle for the Nightcrawler Club. They got gambling there and these cardsharps took advantage of Alan and he ran up a marker and they're gonna kill him if he doesn't pay off.”

“The cardsharps?”

“No, the
muscle
. They want him to pay the club.”

“So the money he owes is to the Nightcrawler, not Hoyle?” I asked.

“Who's Hoyle?” She turned her big eyes on me, blinking.

“That guy you jumped on earlier tonight.”

“He's the
muscle
trying to collect the
marker,
” she said, as though I should know already. “They got dozens of guys just like him, and they're all gonna kill Alan tonight if he doesn't pay off.”

“I get that. You're sure he doesn't owe personally to Hoyle?”

“He owes the
club
and that goon is their
muscle
and—”

“Okay-okay. I get that, too. So why'd you come to me?”

“Because you helped us earlier and because some of the other girls said you were all right because you dated one of the singers there once and they said you were all right because she was all right.”

“Not because you think I'm running things?”

“You're running things? What things? They said
this
was your club. If you're running things at the Nightcrawler . . .” She started to get up, but Escott caught her hand.

“It's all right,” he assured. “I'm sure Mr. Fleming can sort this out for you.”

I said, “Shouldn't be a problem. If he owes money, he has to pay the marker, but no one's going to kill him for it.”

“But that big goon was
hitting
him!”

“The big goon won't be back. I'll make a call and put in the fix for you. If Caine's dead, he can't pay off his marker, so he's safe enough.”

“It's not just them, it's that witch of an ex-wife, too. She keeps calling him and threatening him and it gets him all upset and then he goes into the casino to try to win what he owes her and then they take advantage of him and
then—” Her voice rose shrill, threatening to compete with the band.

I put my hand up like a traffic cop. “Slow down, Evie.”

She stopped altogether, looking like I'd just slapped her. She made a peculiar
sup-sup
noise, then her face suddenly screwed up. She plowed blindly in her handbag and pulled out a handkerchief just in time for the waterworks.

Escott was better at holding hands and saying “there-there” than I was, so I gritted my teeth and sat out the next few minutes until he got her calmed. Sympathy came easier to him; he'd never met Alan Caine.

“Don't you believe me?” she asked. “He's in real
danger
. I thought you might help. I thought you could make them leave him alone.”

“I said I'd fix it.”

“But I
heard
them and they were saying awful things about him and they got no right to do that. They're all just so
mean
.”

Likely they were blowing off steam about Caine and his singular lack of personal charm. “I'll make a call and take care of it. Caine will be fine, just keep him sober and—”

“Oh, but he
never
drinks! He just gargles with a little brandy and hot water to keep his vocal cords loose.”

From what he'd been breathing on me earlier tonight he kept them loose enough to flap on a windless day.

“It prevents colds, too,” she brightly added.

“Aren't you supposed to be dancing in the show?”

“This was more
important
, because he doesn't know just how much danger he's in, and I could lose my job, but I thought you could help him because . . .”

After repeating everything in full she eventually ran down. No wonder Caine drank.

“I'll take care of it,” I said. “You can go back to the club and don't worry about anything.”

“You will? You really, really
will?
”

Escott stood so I could get out. “Baby-sit?” I muttered.

He gave a good-sport smile and nodded.

I made my way down, going to my office in the usual manner, no vanishing. A few regulars noticed and waved, inviting me over to their various tables. I smiled automatically, mimed a mock-helpless shrug to show I was busy, and moved on. Given a choice I would rather go with Strome to face Kroun down again than pretend to be jovial to the customers.

A quick call to the Nightcrawler's office soon put me in touch with Derner.

“Back at the desk again?” I asked him.

“Pretty much. Anything wrong?” Derner was a man who expected phone calls to have trouble on the other end of the line.

I ascertained that Evie Montana had the basic facts correct and got how much Alan Caine owed the club. It was a lot, but nothing he couldn't afford on what they had to be paying him. I found out how much that was, too.

“Okay, ban him from the casino and let him know what he owes is coming out of his wages.”

Derner laughed once. “He ain't gonna like that much.”

“Tell him it's pay up this way or get another working-over.”

“He won't like that much, either, but I'll make him listen.”

“Who booked him in, anyway?”

“His agency. They never mentioned he was walking sandpaper, though. He's outta New York like Kroun.”

“They hooked up in some way?”

“You kiddin'? Kroun wouldn't stand for that kinda crap. By the way, congrats on getting out alive.”

“Thanks. Where's Kroun now?”

“He left not long back, with Strome driving. Gordy said treat him good, so he gets the fancy car till he goes home.”

Having Strome playing chauffeur was also a good way to keep tabs on Kroun. “When will that be?”

There was a shrug in Derner's tone. “Who knows. He's the big boss. Comes and goes, it's his business an' no one else's. He can't stay away from New York for too long, though. Has to be busy like the rest of us.”

“Did Strome tell you about our run-in with Hoyle?”

“Yeah. Congrats on that, too. None of those guys has showed here.”

“If they do, they're on the outs. Especially Hoyle and Ruzzo.”

“No loss with that bunch.”

“Did Gordy go home, I hope?”

“Yeah. He left after he got word you were still walking. Lowrey took him home.”

“Great. If he calls tomorrow, fill him in on Hoyle, but don't bother him tonight.”

“No problem.”

If it would only continue to be so, I thought, hanging up. The mob's idea of no problems and mine were usually two different animals.

And it looked like a new one just strolled in my front door. As I came down the stairs a threesome in dark overcoats entered the lobby. One of the men removed his hat and ran a hand through iron gray hair with a distinctive streak of silver-white on the left side.

Ah, shit. Now what?

Whitey Kroun spotted me almost in the same instant and sketched a wave and smile. Mitchell and Strome were with him but in an odd way were almost invisible. Kroun
seemed to fill the room as though he was the only one with a right to be there and telegraphed it clear to the corners. Some of the people lingering at the bar for the next show glanced up from conversations as if he'd called them by name.

I wiped off what must have been a “Hell, what are they doing here?” look and assumed my friendly host face, coming the rest of the way down the stairs.

“Good evening again, Mr. Kroun.” I managed to sound sincerely welcoming, but there was something about the man that set the skin to rippling on the back of my neck.

Kroun took in the chrome-trimmed, black-and-white marble lobby, impressed. “Fleming,” he said as a greeting. “You look like hell. How's the damage?”

“My doc says I'm still healing.”

“And after just a couple hours. That's pretty good.”

Had he heard about my fun and games with Hoyle? I couldn't tell from Strome's expression whether or not he'd mentioned the incident. Not that any of it mattered, but Kroun's curiosity reminded me that I was supposed to be walking wounded. I'd better act accordingly.

“Quite a place you got here,” Kroun said, very approving.

“Thank you.” It could be a mixed blessing when a guy in the mobs liked something of yours. They were in a position to take it from you. “May I offer you a table?”

“Sure.”

The hatcheck girl hovered within view, but none of them handed over their coats. Maybe they wouldn't stay long, then. So far the lights held steady, indication that Myrna—if she was around—didn't see trouble ahead. She messed with them when she got upset about something.

Mitchell did a double take on the display easel for Bobbi, fairly gaping.

It hit me smack between the eyes that he'd remember her from when he worked for Morelli. I felt a cold twisting inside again. Bobbi did not need to stroll down memory lane to the bad old days without first getting a fair warning, but I didn't know how to tip her off without broadcasting it to these guys. Play it by ear and hope for the best, then.

I led the way through the short, curving passage to the main room and a second-tier table looked after by the most experienced waiter. He appeared out of nowhere, took orders, vanished, and returned with a trayful almost before my guests were settled in. He'd correctly read the discreet signal I'd given. There would be no check for this party.

Glancing up, I noticed Escott watching us with interest. He knew Strome and would identify Kroun easily enough. That white streak was hard to miss. But beyond that, Escott had a hell of a memory for names and faces, especially the ones in the mobs. I suspected there was more in his head about the Chicago wiseguys than the FBI files.

“Gentlemen,” I said, “Excuse me a sec—club business.” I withdrew as the waiter handed out glasses, and went up to the third tier, remembering to move slow and stiff.

“Anything afoot?” Escott asked.

“I don't think so. Kroun probably just wants to check me out some more. We're friends now, after all.” I was starting to regret that suggestion.

“Did ya put in the fix for Alan?” asked Evie, anxious. “Did ya?”

“All done. So long as Caine pays his marker, no one gets hurt.”

She let out a little squeal and jumped up to hug me, planting a kiss on my jawline, which was as high as she could reach without a footstool and me helping. “Thank you! Thank you!”

Well, this was nice, but attracting attention. I was supposed to be feeling tender around the middle and with difficulty gradually unpeeled her. “Glad to help, but maybe you should get back to the Nightcrawler while you still have a job there.”

“I won't make it in time for the second show. The El doesn't run—”

“You certainly will,” said Escott. “I'll give you a lift.”

I almost raised an eyebrow, but didn't quite have the trick of it the way he did.

He still caught it, though. “Just being polite, old man,” he said dryly.

That was good to hear. After Vivian, Evie didn't seem to be his type, though she was cute. He guided her downstairs, and I went back to take a seat at Kroun's table, him on my left, Strome on my right, Mitchell opposite. The band went on break just then, marking the end of the first show. Some of the patrons got up to leave, a few new ones trickled in to replace them, and the rest stayed put, which was good.

I looked around for Bobbi, but when performing she tended to stay backstage even when on break, seeing to God-knows-what details and her own costume changes. I wanted her busy with that tonight.

Kroun had finished his small whiskey, Mitchell was still working on his, and Strome sipped a short beer.