A Song In The Dark (25 page)

I'd known some of the story. Didn't make it easier to take, though.

“So I got real busy with my work and rehearsals and couldn't sneak off with Mitch, and Gordy looked out for me and would come up with ways to keep him busy, sending him out of town to do stuff. That's how I finally figured out Mitch was only in it to have the boss's twist and a laugh on him. If he'd
really
loved me, he'd have found a way around all that and . . .” She drew and puffed out a deep breath. “And then . . . then one night
you
showed up.”

“Well, we know what happened after that.”

“Glory-hallelujah. When the dust settled and Gordy took over he sent Mitch to New York. He might have left anyway, but Gordy said Mitch had been bragging to the guys that with Morelli gone he'd be ‘inheriting' me. That was the word he used.”

“Nice guy.”

“That's why I was thrown so hard when I saw him. The look on his face was so . . . so damned
smug,
and I
knew
what was going through his head. He thinks he can—”

“Not going to happen, lady. You tell me what you want, and it's there on a silver platter or heading east on the next train. Unless you want to tell him yourself.” It was a genuine question, not a joke. Bobbi was sometimes touchy about her battles and tended to fight them herself.

She shook her head. “No! I don't want him anywhere
near
me. I wouldn't know what to say and he'd go all nasty and then I'd want to belt him and he'd hit back and . . .”

“Okay! It's solved. He's gone.”

Bobbi gave me a look of pure and powerful love and
launched up to hug me. It felt good. “Thank you. For this time, anyway. I got to handle stuff like this better. Something else is bound to crop up—”

“No, it's not. Nothing's left in that barrel of woe. It's empty and dry, and we'll bust it up for kindling and roast hot dogs over the fire.”

A strange light came to her face as she pulled back to look at me. “Oh, Jack, I do love you.”

I almost froze up at that, but miracle of miracles, did not. No shakes, no chill, only warmth. From her and for her. The other night I'd been terrified about getting close. Tonight . . . not so much. I welcomed the familiar heat of her touch, and soon felt the pressure above my corner teeth that would cause them to descend . . .

And decisively extricated myself before anything bad happened. I didn't have the warning symptoms of an approaching seizure, but did recognize the roiling within that proceeded a bout of gluttony in the Stockyards. No matter how tender my feelings toward her, she was . . . was
food.

God help me.

“Jack? What's wrong?”

“Nothing. There's stuff going on in the club because of that goon, and-and I gotta go . . . it's business.”

I might as well have slapped her. She blinked, startled, then recovered, squared herself. “Okay,” she whispered. I left before she started to cry again.

Faustine was still in the hall. “Vell?”

“She's better.”

That got me a scowl. “Men!” She stalked toward the number three room, knocked, and went in. “Bob-bee, poor dar-link. Me you tell all about eet.” The door shut with a muffled
whump,
the closest she could get to a slam.

Recognizing defeat, I fled to the end, where Roland now waited alone. “Where's Charles?”

“Something came up to call him away. How did it go?”

Shrugged. “Women.”

“Ah. Yes. Wonderful, aren't they? Still, I wouldn't have them any other way or they'd be like us, and that wouldn't work at all. And we certainly can't be like them.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Absolutely, sport. We'd look ridiculous in their little jimjams, now wouldn't we? And I got the story of just
how
Faustine helped you with that crazed drunk with the gun. Now if I'd been there instead and done what she'd done, he'd have probably shot me on purpose.
That's
why we can't be like them.”

Sounded right to me.

“I do need to talk with you about that . . .”

“I'm sorry, but I can't just now. Business.” Like four groggy bouncers on the men's room floor.

He swallowed back whatever annoyance was brewing. “Later, then, sport,” he promised.

There was no way of going invisible with him watching, so I had to use the door in the ordinary way and walk through the main room. Poor Teddy was still winging it, filling in for Bobbi's interrupted set. Jewel Caine should have been up there instead, reclaiming her career and going on to better things, sober and free of dragging anvils like her ex-husband. By God, if Hoyle was the one behind her death . . .

“Hey, Jack!”

Regulars hailed me from their tables. I dredged up a smile, waved, and kept going. No one remarked about my miraculous appearance on the dance floor, but I got stares.
That's when I realized I was less than perfectly turned out. My clothes were messed around, suit scuffed and dirty from rolling on the floor, shirttails hanging, a bloody streak where I'd been grazed (now healed), tie crooked, buttons torn off. I continued on like the display was in their imagination.

The bouncers were gathered around the lobby bar, pale and holding ice-filled towels against their heads. Three had drinks, the fourth a Bromo-Seltzer, Wilton's brand of Red Cross aid. Escott was also looking after them, and had a special glare ready for me as I came in. Like any of this was my fault.

“They insist they will be all right,” he said.

“But we're gonna kill Ruzzo,” said Bromo-Seltzer. The others growled collective agreement.

“After you've seen a doctor,” Escott added.

Less growling, more grumbling.

I got the story, and it was pretty much as I'd guessed. Ruzzo, both of them, had invaded, getting the drop on them all. Two men guarding the outside were marched in at gunpoint to join their pals, then the party was quietly moved to the men's room, where they were bashed from behind. It had been accomplished very slick and quiet since neither Wilton or the check girl had noticed anything. Hell, not even Myrna had flickered so much as a single bulb. Was everyone on sleeping pills?

“I'm not sure just when Mitchell made his entry,” Escott concluded.

“And I donno if he's working with Hoyle and Ruzzo,” I said. “It sure looked like it.” I gave him details about the fight and the outcome, but nothing on the reason behind it.

“We'll keep in mind that an alliance has perhaps taken place between them, though God knows why or how, but it might well have been chance. Now I'm going to take these
fine fellows off to make sure their brains are still in place. There's a doctor they know who—”

“Yeah, I think I know the one. Thanks.”

“And about Bobbi . . .” He took me to one side, voice lowering.

“She's better,” I said. “She tell you about Mitchell?”

“Not much. Too upset. I was the shoulder to cry on until you were free to take over. But I got that Mitchell was an extraordinarily bad memory from her past, and it was a terrible shock to see him again. Also, she was afraid it would in some way destroy your relationship.”

“No! No, nothing like that. We're fine. I listened, she talked, it's fine, all fine now.”

He seemed about to say something to the contrary.

“Faustine's with her, she'll be all right,” I insisted.

“She can't be candid about everything. It's good she has another woman to confide to about you, but your condition is a significant influence on matters. Keeping
that
a secret rather precludes a full lifting of the burden.”

“Oh.” Not good. The way she looked when I walked out . . .

“But—” he continued. “You should know that she seems to think you're worth all the trouble and bother. There's no accounting for women and their taste in men.”

Yeah, maybe. But Bobbi was miserable, and it really was all my fault.

Escott took the four guys away in his Nash, and a few law-abiding citizens of Chicago still ignorant of Lady Crymsyn's unplanned renovation into a shooting gallery came in to enjoy themselves. By then I'd tucked my clothes more or less back into order, hiding rips and bloodstains by buttoning
the coat. I glad-handed a few people, told them they'd have a great time—leaving out the whammy—and was about to go back to see Bobbi when another guest walked in.

Whitey Kroun took one gander at me and frowned. I returned the favor.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demanded. Nothing like an experienced eye to recognize the aftereffects of mayhem.

“That idiot lieutenant of yours,” I snapped.

“Oh, yeah? Explain.”

I threw a look past him to make sure Mitchell wasn't in his wake along with Hoyle and Ruzzo. No one like that, just a lot of women (and men) picking up on Kroun's magnetism and like the check girl perhaps mistaking him for a movie star. “My office. This way.”

We climbed the stairs, I ushered him in. The radio was on, but low. By now I couldn't remember if I'd left it that way or not. Kroun took his hat off, brushing his hand over the streak in his hair, and sat on the couch. He pitched the hat by its brim toward the desk, and it landed square on top of the papers. “So what gives with Mitchell?”

“He came by tonight and bothered my girlfriend.”

Kroun waited for more. “That's it?” he finally asked.

“It was enough. He pulled his little reunion stunt smack in the middle of a show, threw her into hysterics . . . I had to drag him backstage.” I told the rest, sparing no punches, ending it by putting Mitchell's gun on the desk next to the hat. “If he comes back for this, I'll ram it down his throat.”

“You think he's working with Hoyle?”

“I donno, but it was pretty damned coincidental of them showing up at the same time. Hoyle tried to kill me—with Mitchell urging him on—got within a breath of shooting an innocent lady, and his pals Ruzzo lambasted four of
Gordy's best. If they are working together, then you should tell me why.”

“You think I'd know that?”

“He's your boy. Where's he been all day?”

“Out.” Kroun's eyes were hotting up.

“This isn't just me with a gripe. It's about Gordy, too, because of his men being here. If you know what Mitchell might be up to—”

“I don't know a damned thing!”

“Then you should find out. If he was doing a job for you or someone else or for himself, he's been made.”

“What kind of job? Killing you? Hoyle tried to do that the other night all on his own, he doesn't need Mitchell.”

“Then take me out of the picture. What else would he need Mitchell for? What else would Mitchell need Hoyle and Ruzzo for? The four of them wouldn't be hopping into the same bed just to knock
me
off. Something's brewing.”

“Until tonight Mitchell had no reason to kill you. Now he might go with Hoyle just to help out.”

“Not going to happen. They've crawled out of whatever hole they've been hiding in, and someone's gonna spot 'em and pass the word to me. You better hope Mitchell isn't there when I go in.”

Kroun leaned forward. “You listen to me, kid, you don't take any action about Mitchell. He's my department. You got away with bumping Bristow because of special circumstances, but do anything to Mitchell, and nothing will save you. You will disappear the same as Bristow: dismembered and in the lake.”

Well, that would do the trick of killing me for good. Death, the ultimate solver for all my problems. “Okay, I got that. But you get this—your boy was warned off from seeing my girl and came in regardless. He got his ass kicked
because he deserved it. So long as he stays away from her I won't have to repeat the performance. That's all I'm concerned with. If Hoyle's a separate thing, then I'll take care of it separately. But if Mitchell's cooking up something
with
him—”

“You bring him to me, and
I
will deal with it.”

The silence stretched. For a long moment I was tempted again to influence Kroun over to my side, find out for sure if he was truly ignorant about Mitchell's actions. Again, just thinking about it made me ache. I knew I didn't want to risk that stab-in-the-eye agony; I might not be able to vanish fast enough.

“Well?” he asked.

“No problem. In the meantime you might want to locate your boy and find out where he's been keeping himself.”

Another silence. Kroun almost seemed to be waiting for something. Finally, he nodded. “Fair enough. You just remember we each have our own corners.”

“I'll remember. How long's Mitchell been with you?”

“Couple years.”

“You friends?”

“What's it to you?”

“I have friends. I look out for them.”

“Like Gordy.”

“Yeah.”

Kroun grunted. “I need to talk with him. Face-to-face. Derner doesn't know where he is, hasn't got a number. Said you'd know.”

“He safe. Resting.” And healing, I hoped.

“Take me to see him, then.”

I was tired of getting the kid-brother treatment. “What's with Gordy that you can't settle it with me?”

“It's about you. You want more, you put me and Gordy in the same room.”

That set up a whole new batch of speculations, most of which I was sure I wouldn't care to know anything about. I could guess it had to do with me taking over for Gordy permanently. Or not. “Not” was fine with me, so long as Gordy was the one back in charge.

I reached for the phone and dialed Coldfield's club office. It rang a lot, then someone picked up the receiver. “The boss there? It's Fleming.”

Coldfield agreed to allow Kroun a visit, but not until tomorrow. Apparently Dr. Clarson put his foot down after seeing the condition of his overtired patient. He'd barred all visitors, and the phone was off the hook. I asked if Gordy was better, but Coldfield had no information, only that the patient was safe and quiet. I passed the meager news to Kroun. He nodded, but wasn't pleased by the delay.