A Song In The Dark (11 page)

“
Quite
a place,” repeated Kroun. “What's she pull for you?”

There is a certain level of business where such inquiries are not considered offensive. “Last night, sixty-three dollars.”

That got me a stony look, then comprehension as he realized I was talking net, not gross. “I mean outside of the booze sales.”

“That's it.”

“He don't have tables, Mr. Kroun,” Strome explained.

“No tables? What about slots?”

“Nope.”

“That's crazy.” He turned on me. “You could pull in a hundred times that a night in a back room. You got the space for it.”

“I do,” I agreed. “But Gordy's better at keeping track of those kind of earnings than me. I thought it'd be best for everyone just not to compete.”

Kroun's eyes narrowed with additional understanding. “Smart operator.”

I didn't correct his assumption that I wanted to avoid cutting into Gordy's profits. It sounded better than the real reason, a desire to avoid legal trouble. To guys like Kroun the law was only a minor nuisance, not a major threat. He'd think I was chicken, too, but there is also a certain level and kind of business where such an assessment of character can contribute to one's survival. I'd gotten along pretty well in the past when people underestimated me.

Mitchell nodded toward the entry where Escott and Evie had gone. “Wasn't that the little trick you got in a fight over at the Nightcrawler?”

“I just kept her out of harm's way is all.” A change of subject would be good about now. I decided to play the card Strome had given me earlier. “You used to work here in town, didn't you, Mitchell?”

His eyes hardly gave a flicker. “A while ago, yeah.”

“Why'd you leave?”

“The weather stinks.”

“Stinks just as bad in New York.”

“Oh, yeah? I never noticed.”

Kroun made a snorting noise. “Mitchell likes to work easy and get paid well for it. He found that in New York.”

“Why you interested?” Mitchell asked.

I was chancing a fall on my face, but thought the risk would pay off. “Because you remember me from before you left.”

He hooked a small smile. “Guess I do.”

Bingo.

“What do you remember?” asked Kroun.

Mitchell's smile edged close to contempt. “That Fleming was some kind of half-assed threadbare reporter sniffing around Slick Morelli's operation, looking into stuff he shouldn't. Next thing you know Fred Sanderson's dead, Georgie Reamer's in jail for it, then Morelli's dead, Lebredo's dead, Frank Paco's in the booby hatch, Gordy's in charge—and
this
guy who was in the middle of it comes up smelling like a rose.”

Kroun held silent for a moment. “That's pretty interesting. What about it, Fleming?”

I shook my head. “I don't know nothing about any of it. I was looking for a newspaper job here and heard there was some war brewing between those guys. Checked into it, thinking I could land a sweet place with the
Trib
if I wrote a good piece on it. That's how I met Gordy, but he steered me out of the way before it went rough. When things settled down after the ruckus I did a couple of favors to help Gordy, and that's all. We been friends since.”

“Must have been some kind of favors to be able to afford this kind of club.”

“I earned the club on my own. I got lucky at the track and hauled in a pile of cash. Gordy helped me with finding a good location and getting set up with suppliers, but that's all. He's been a good friend and stand-up. I'm returning the favor by helping him out now.”

“And you don't expect anything out of it?”

“I'm getting plenty: a nice quiet town to run my business. We can all use some of that.”

Kroun murmured agreement. “Quiet is what we want. Things are always changing, though.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You gotta expect change. It's the way things are. Lot of the guys thought it was the end of the world when we had Repeal—Bristow was one of 'em—but it was just temporary. There's still plenty of tax-free booze being delivered. We're keeping an eye open all the time for new stuff to do. As soon as they make a vice illegal, we find a way to get rich by supplying it.”

“Yeah, but those government guys are getting smarter at stopping up the chinks.”

“It won't last. There's always a way to get around the rules. Like right now. Couple guys I know practically got the FBI in their pocket, or J. Edgar Hoover, anyway. They think they own the world, but it won't last.”

“Why, is he onto 'em?”

“Nothing like that. He can't sneeze without they give him the say-so, and they think it's great, but they're going to have problems soon. The guy's forty-two, has ulcers, and is crazy-obsessed about commies. If the Russians don't bump him, he'll do himself in chasing his own tail and trying to nab headlines about it. I don't give him more than another year at the job before he drops stone dead.
Then
I'll start to worry. That damn FDR will put in some stand-up guy who knows what he's doing and can keep his nose clean. When that happens we'll have to start running for cover.”

“How do they have Hoover in their pocket?”

Kroun shook his head, amused. “You don't wanna know. The key to owning anyone is knowing what a man wants most and knowing what he most wants to keep hidden. A
man with small wants who doesn't give a damn what people think of him is usually free. Of course, that guy is not generally in a position where we need to own him, but there's a few out there. They're the ones to look out for.”

And what secrets do you want most hidden?
I thought. God knows I didn't want people hearing about mine, especially the current ones that were eating holes in my brain like acid.

“That canary out front in the pictures,” said Mitchell, whose mind was clearly on other things, “when does she sing?”

“You mean Miss Smythe?” I asked.

“That's the one. Bobbi.”

I didn't like the way he said her name. “Later. The second show.”

“We're old friends. I'd like to go back and say hello to her.”

He got a long look from me, and I didn't blink.

“What?” he asked, coming up with a puzzled front like he wasn't getting my message. “She don't take visitors?”

“That's right.”

“C'mon, she won't mind a friend.”

I didn't like the way he said that, either. Oily and unpleasant, yet with the smile. I wanted to knock it from his mug along with his front teeth. On this, I knew I could absolutely trust my instincts. “She'll mind.”

“You go ask her, give her my name. She'll tell you different.” He waited.

I still wasn't blinking. And had gone corpse-quiet.

He chose to ignore it. “What's
your
problem?”

“Mitch,” said Kroun, who watched the exchange. “Lay off. She's just a skirt. There's plenty more back on Broadway you can say hello to instead.”

Mitchell seemed to verge on a reply, thought better of it, and subsided. There was a “We'll see about this later” glint in his eye for me, though. I wasn't worried. They'd be on their way back to New York soon, end of problem. Maybe I wouldn't have to burden Bobbi with this ghost from her past.

Strome, who'd been silent all this time, let out a soft sigh that only I heard. I interpreted it as relief. I got the impression he was worried I'd do something stupid. It had been close. My second choice after punching Mitchell's face to pulp would have been hypnosis, but that would have risked another skull-splitter for me. After talking with Escott I'd gotten the firm idea that this suddenly excessive head pain was also connected to Bristow's torture, and it seemed pretty sound. I could hope the symptoms would go away after a while, but for now was stuck without one of my edges.

On the other hand, this was my club with my rules running. I had a right to refuse service to anyone, which included allowing undesirable types to bother my girlfriend.

When I started paying attention again, I noticed Kroun studying me, his own face unreadable. “Another drink, Mr. Kroun?”

He made no reply, just looked around again at the people, the band, even the lights above. “Quite a place.” he echoed his comment yet again. “I like the chairs.”

“Chairs?” I hoped he wasn't trying to drive a point home, because I was missing it.

“Yes. These are really nice chairs. Some places never get that right, but when it comes down to it, you have to offer people a place to park themselves. Really
nice
chairs. Nice. Chairs.”

Maybe he was drunk. Mine might not be the first
whiskey he'd had tonight. “Thanks. Took a lot of hard work to haul together.”

Mitchell flashed an interesting expression. Made me think he thought his boss was being an idiot. It only lasted an instant.

“But all these chairs and no gaming tables,” Kroun continued, unaware. “Seems like too much effort for no real payoff.”

“It's plenty for me. I keep my vices simple.”

“Like not drinking yourself?”

For social cover I had a glass of ice water in front of me, my usual, and all the waiters knew it. I'd not sipped any. “Well, you know how it is, the boss has gotta stay awake. You guys enjoy yourselves, though.”

Mitchell smirked. “He wants to get us drunk like Gordy did with Bristow. Thinks we'll talk.” His tone was meant to bait. Kroun would know what he was up to and be watching my reaction.

Strome shifted in place, anticipating trouble.

I pretended amusement and confided to Kroun, “That's a cute kid you got there. Lemme know when he's outta short pants, and I'll find him a job.”

Mitchell didn't take it well. If his boss hadn't laughed, he might have tried a swing at me. He'd get just the one shot.

“Relax, Mitch, we're off the clock,” said Kroun. “Let the man run his bar. We'll be going now.”

“But we ain't seen the show,” said Mitchell.

“So?”

Under Kroun's dark stare, he subsided again, dropping into silence like it was a foxhole.

Doing a good impersonation of civilized gentlemen, we
rose and strolled to the lobby. Kroun thanked me for my hospitality, and I walked them outside. We stood under the canopy while Strome went to get the Caddy. The sleet had stopped, but the streets were still wet, the wind bitter. For a moment it was eerily similar to the night of Gordy's shooting, and I couldn't help but look around, anticipating another hidden gunman.

“What is it?” Kroun asked, picking up on my nerves. His eyes were sharp. No sign of whiskey in them at all.

“Just feeling the cold.”

He nodded, removing his hat to brush a hand through his hair. It seemed to be an unconscious gesture, always on the left side where that streak was. “Yeah, you'd think those bandages would keep you warmer.”

He got a look from me. Was he playing games or just showing a weird sense of humor?

“Ease off on yourself, kid,” he said sotto voce so Mitchell couldn't hear.

“What d'you mean?”

“I mean I know what kind of hell Bristow put you through.”

“Oh, he skinned you alive, too?” I was jumpy enough to give him lip. Not smart. He just stared. Nothing hostile in it, but I wasn't about to ascribe anything like sympathy to the man. Guys like him were born without or had it burned from them early by life in general.

He leaned slightly, talking close to my ear. “I know what he was and what he could do.”

“And you sent him.”

“Yeah. I did that. It was supposed to be between him and Gordy alone, and somehow you got in the middle. But you survived. That makes you the stronger. Then you put Bristow exactly where he belongs.”

“Yeah,” I echoed. “I did that.”

“So . . . ease off on yourself.” He straightened and settled his hat firmly against the wind. “He was a bastard, but you beat him.”

A pep talk from a killer? Some of it skated close to being almost apologetic. And how did he know about what was in my head?

On the other hand, he thought we were friends. Maybe this was how he was with them. He couldn't have had many the way he put my back hairs on high. I didn't get a chance to find out; Strome drove up, Kroun and Mitchell got in, doors slammed, and off they went.

Lady Crymsyn was officially closed for the night. Except for my Buick, the adjoining parking lot was empty, everyone gone home or off to unwind themselves at places that kept even later hours. The neon sign above the red street canopy was dark, but lights showed within. Of course, that didn't mean anything with Myrna in residence. Sometimes she'd have them blazing, including the neon; other nights she would only leave a small one on behind the lobby bar. She was the most consistent with it, wanting it lit nearly all the time.

I stood under the shadow of the canopy, not quite smoking a cigarette. My lungs refused to tolerate inhaling the stuff, so I puffed for something to do and watched the occasional car drive past. Chicago was too big to ever completely sleep. Someone was always up and around.

Humankind was roughly divided into daytime folk, night people, night owls, and the creeps of the deep night. Most of the latter, unless gainfully employed or with some other reasonable excuse for being out during the truly
godforsaken hours, lived down to their name. If not for my job I could be counted as one of them—two jobs, to include the help I gave Escott when he needed it. Three, to include Gordy.

It was coming up on the beginning of the deep night. Lonely time for me since everyone was usually asleep. I was uncomfortable standing out here, not from the cold, but being by myself and out of range of some kind of distraction. No radio, no band playing loud, happy music, just the wind in my ears and the infrequent passing car. This was me testing the demons in my head; I was trying to get better at not thinking, not remembering.