A Song In The Dark (27 page)

When we reached her hotel, Bobbi leaned across the seat and kissed me good night. It was a nice, safe kiss, very sisterly.

“You wondering why not more?” she asked. She could always read me.

I didn't know how to answer that.

“There will be when it's the right time. You'll know when.”

After she left the big car and was in the lobby waiting for the elevator to take her up I gave in to a long shudder. No doubling over, no groans about remembered pain, no needing to vanish to head off the screaming. You could call it progress. But I hung on to the Nash's steering wheel so hard that it bent in my hands.

The fit gradually passed. I didn't hurt all over, just felt like I should.

Then I drove off quick. Headed for the Stockyards.

No hunger, yet I needed blood. Craved it. Had to have . . .

I'd stopped thinking and turned into an automaton.

When I came back to myself I was slumped against one of the high fences of a cattle pen, my arms looped over it, holding me up. Every part of my body was stretched and bloated. Even my eyelids felt swollen. It was hard work to blink.

I glanced at the pen's occupants, half-expecting to see a dead cow lying in the muck, but they were still on their feet.

Had I been careless coming in? This seemed to be the same spot from the night before. To cut down the odds of
being seen I always went to different locations. This craziness was out of hand.

Despite the excess of blood—my face was smeared with it—I began shivering from cold.

It's fear, you idiot. This is fear. Get that through your thick skull.

“Okay, I get it,” I said aloud to the head-demons. “Now lay off me.”

The glut made it easy to vanish and soar above the crossword-puzzle pattern of fencing. I had to go high, partially materialize, and look around since I couldn't remember where I'd left the car.

Dimly I recalled trying to pull myself away from gorging, but at the time there didn't seem much point. I was well and truly started, why not keep going so long as I was there?

Winced at the memory.

God, yes, when I lost control like that I had every right to be scared. I had to keep myself away from Bobbi.

The Nash was parked close by under a streetlamp, something I'd never normally do. The keys were in the ignition. It was just my good luck no one else had been by to find such a choice offering. I got in and checked the wheel. The damage wasn't too bad, more of a bend like a warped phonograph record than anything else. It would need to be replaced, but was otherwise fine for driving.

Where to drive to . . . ?

Escott's office, to clean up. I'd not been careful during my binge.

It was only a few minutes away. This time I took the keys when I got out.

On the other side of his office door the place was much too quiet and dark. Though there was plenty of light
filtering through the closed blinds—pitch-dark to anyone else—I wanted more and flipped switches on my way to the back.

Eerie feeling in the washroom as I bent over the sink and scrubbed my face with cold water. I'd come here after staggering away from the gory wreckage of Bristow's party. He'd been drunk, and his blood had turned me drunk and brainlessly foolish. That was the why behind my insanity then; what the hell was I doing to myself? That horror was
over
. If I kept up with this inner sickness, I'd only be finishing the job he'd started.

Sickness. I made myself use that word. It was the right one.

There wasn't a lot of difference between me and Alan Caine. For him it had been gambling. For me it was blood. And before that booze. Roland Lambert was the same. He'd traded his drinking for womanizing, which had hurt the one women he loved. If he went back to the bottle . . . a different kind of self-destruction.

But you could live without drinking, and if you absolutely had to, without women. There was no way I could live without blood.

Perhaps I could limit things and prevent myself from overdoing. I had lately begun siphoning it into bottles, keeping them in the icebox for emergencies. One a night was plenty. More than enough. I'd been able to dole things out like that before my change. A beer a day, then cut loose with a good rip on Saturday night, only I'd just not have any Saturday nights. I could do that.

Which still left the problem of Bobbi not being safe with me. In the throes of passion I could kill her.

And then Escott would have to kill me.

I'd make him promise to do it.

If not him, then Gordy. What are best friends for if not to trust them with the hardest favors for you?

Shaking cold water from my face, I dried off and told myself to shut the hell up before the dark possibilities chorusing through my head turned themselves into a grand opera.

I went back to the car, started it, and let it idle, not sure where to go. Escott liked driving his Nash around at night. For relaxation. Used to, anyway. His insomnia was pretty much gone now.

There were still some long, lonesome hours ahead, though. Before things had gone so far off course I'd either spend them with Bobbi or put in extra work at Crymsyn or pound on my typewriter or just read. Life had been so much simpler a week back. I'd had my share of horrors and grief, but could live with them. The good old days. Not nearly enough of those.

Kroun's advice to find a place in the middle of nowhere and do nothing but fish was very appealing. The wild temptation to take off this very moment was almost overwhelming. What tore it away were my countless obligations to everyone I knew. Between them and the drive to have my own business I'd cemented myself into the pavement in front of Lady Crymsyn and couldn't leave. It was better than swinging from a meat hook, but I was still stuck just as firmly in place.

I pulled into the alley behind the club rather than my special parking spot. If Escott wanted to get Evie away later without being seen, that was the place to do it. Ghosting out, I passed through the locked door and walked through the dark and silent club.

Very
dark and silent. Myrna wasn't playing with the lights at all.

“Myrna? You there, baby?”

She must have tired herself out last night making that rose scent for me. It really had helped. For a time. I wanted to thank her, but how do you thank a ghost?

At least the lobby light was still on. She was very dependable about that one. Before going up to the office I got into the phone booth, dropped in a nickel, and dialed the Nightcrawler. Derner didn't answer, but someone got him for me.

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Have you heard about the trouble here tonight?”

“Yeah, the guys told me. They're mad as hell at Ruzzo—”

“That's great, but this snipe hunt for Ruzzo and Hoyle's been going on too damned long. Is
anyone
actually
looking?
”

He avoided sounding defensive. “They're doing what they can do. The boys are covering all the hotels, from flops to the fancy places, boardinghouses, bordellos, and rooms to let. There ain't a bed in this town they ain't looked into or under. If Ruzzo's in Chicago, we'll find 'em sooner or later. But if they've blown town or run off to the sticks . . . maybe not.”

“I want them even if they are in the sticks. Where does Hoyle hang around?”

“Here, usually.”

“Where else?”

“We looked in those places. He's letting himself be missing.”

I gave out a disgusted sigh.

“We got the word out you only want to talk with him, but since he's trying to shoot you, I guess he misunderstood.”

In some mobs “talk” meant beat a guy up, just not to the point of crippling him permanently. “Keep at it. Get me a
location. We are not dealing with the Harvard debate team here.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.”

“Boss? That special guest we got was back here, looking hot under the collar. Anything I should know?” Derner was yet on guard against listening wires. Good man.

“He's lost his traveling friend.”

“That's what he said in so many words. He's plenty bothered about something.”

“Let him work it out. Help him however he wants, and tell me if anything screwy happens. I'll be at my club until morning.”

“Got it. Any word on the other boss?” That would be Gordy.

“He's resting is all I know. They're taking care of him. Soft berth.”

“That's good to know. Should I pass that on?”

“Yeah.” It would be reassuring to a few that Gordy was still around. Certainly reassured me.

I rang off and was about to trudge up to the office when someone banged loud on Crymsyn's front door. What and who the hell now? Hoyle? But if it was a determined bad guy, he'd have shot the lock off, not knocked and given warning.

Standing to the side just in case, I yelled through the door, “We're closed!”

“Jack, it's me!”

Roland Lambert. He said he'd wanted to talk to me. Must be pretty damned important to get him back here at this hour in the cold. I unlocked and went outside rather than inviting him in. He didn't need to know Escott and I had company, and if we were both out in the wind, the business wouldn't take as long.

“What's the matter?” I asked. His green Hudson was parked right in front of the canopy. No passengers. “Is Faustine all right?”

“She's fine, probably asleep by now. I told her I'd forgotten something and had to come back. You often stay until very late, don't you?”

“Uhm . . .”

“Faustine's why I'm here, sport. It's about the shooting tonight.”

“Roland, I'm sorry. That's never going to happen again, I promise. I'm getting special locks for the doors, and people are looking for that bum. He's not coming back.”

“I'm delighted to hear it. Don't think I'm ungrateful the way you tackled him. It turned out well, and Faustine had a great time, but it was also terribly, terribly dangerous. She thinks it was a lark, something out of the movies.”

“I got that from her.”

“And we know better. Look, I've played my share of derring-do roles in films, and it is fun, but in real life, it's just
not
the done thing.”

“You going to leave?” I didn't see how they could afford it. Faustine was not cheap to keep, and they were making steady money working for me.

“I'd really rather not. You're a grand fellow to work for, one of the best. It's just this is extremely disturbing to me.”

“I don't blame you. If anything happened to Bobbi . . .” I didn't want to finish that thought.

“Then we understand one another.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Well, there's not much you
can
do beyond what you've already said. I'm reassured, bu—”

They were getting smarter, more crafty at it. Instead of a
car roaring up the street to give warning to anyone paying attention, they'd all but coasted in.

Hoyle hung halfway out an open window; one Ruzzo drove, the other was busy keeping Hoyle from falling out. They drove up, sedate as any honest citizen, but when they crested the front of the club Hoyle cut loose with his semiauto.

I pushed Roland aside, but not quite in time. Bullets bit and banged around us. Roland caught one, yelped, and dropped like a stone.

A
FEW
seconds of mind-numbing panic, the taste of metal on my tongue, then I shoved the fear as far away as I could. As Ruzzo hit the gas to take them away I kicked open Crymsyn's door, grabbed Roland, and hauled him inside. His legs weren't working, and once on the black-and-white marble tiles he gasped out a sudden halt. Blood seemed to pour from him, the scent sharp and arresting.

Before I lost all sense I bellowed for Escott to get the hell down there and rushed to the bar for towels. I was in cold syrup; nothing I did seemed fast enough or smart enough or good enough. Escott was halfway down the stairs and stopped to gape for all of a second, then also rushed forward.

The lobby lights blazed on. I whirled; this was the perfect time for an ambush, but no one was there. Myrna, then. The lights went out, then on again. She'd done it for me once. Trying to help.

“Leave 'em on, goddammit!”

They stayed on.

“My God, how—?” Escott began.

“Hoyle. Trying for me again.”

“Bloody bastard.” He got Roland to lie flat while I ripped the man's trouser leg open to the knee and pressed a towel to the wound. The white cloth soon loaded up with blood despite the pressure I put on. God, if that was an artery . . .

“Hospital,” I said. “Now.”

“Is it safe outside?”

“Probably not.” I turned pressure duty over to him and shot through the passage, the main room, the backstage, moving silent and fast. I'd traded solidity for speed and regained it in the alley after bulling right through the club's walls. The Nash was still warmed up and easily roared to life. I hurtled it around two corners and braked just short of ramming the parked Hudson. I'd have used Roland's car, but the Nash was bulletproofed.

The street was empty of Hoyle and his crew, and just as well for Roland, or I might have gone after them. I bailed out, leaving the motor running.

Evie was in the lobby by then, visibly upset, asking questions in her little voice and not being too damned helpful. She was still in the vicuna coat. I told her to go out and open the back door of the brown car outside. If I'd said Nash, she might not have been able to pick it out.

“The brown car?”

“Go!”

She made a single yipping noise like a small pooch and fled outside.

“Roland?”

“Right here, sport. Remember my talk about doing this in films? Well, a make-believe bullet is much better.” He forced out a ghastly grin.

Escott had cut Roland's suspenders off with a folding knife and improvised a tourniquet, which seemed to help, but the stack of blood-soaked towels had grown. “Come on, let's get him to the car.”

“Yes, please hurry. This hurts like a bad review!”

I hoped joking meant he was going to be all right. When I'd been in the War—and this suddenly and unpleasantly reminded me of it—I'd seen guys cracking wise to the very end.

Opening a door on a brown car was evidently not one of Evie's talents. She'd overdone it and opened them all. What the hell, we could manage. I had Roland's shoulders, Escott his feet, and we somehow got him into the back. Escott slammed the door on his side, urged Evie into the passenger's, and came around to close mine on his way to the wheel.

“What the devil . . . ?” He stared at the warpage.

“Later,” I said. “Get this bucket moving.”

He got us moving.

Roland held on through the drive to the hospital, which was hair-raising enough to distract me from the fresh bloodsmell. I didn't think Escott planned it that way, he was just in an unholy hurry. He skidded to a halt, missed rear-ending an ambulance, and bolted inside the hospital. As a kid he'd worked at one or for a doctor, I couldn't recall which, and would be better at raising the troops. I told Evie twice to get out and open the door. She kept blinking and saying, “I don't like this, I don't
like
this.”

Perhaps playing to the hilt the devil-may-care suave, Roland grinned, “That's all right, my dear, you're in the
best
of company on that opinion.”

“Huh?” She saw his smile and responded with a little laugh, the kind people with no sense of humor give when
they know you've made a joke, but they don't get it, they're just being polite.

“Open the damn door!” I snapped at her, in no mood to be a gentleman. A couple of orderlies with a stretcher were on their way over, double-quick. She barely made it in time. Thankfully, Escott took her arm and kept her clear while I helped ease Roland out. The men took over, loaded up, and swept him toward the hospital's receiving area.

“I don't
like
this!” she cried.

This was the time for the deep-night predators to venture forth, but they would be elsewhere in the city, creeping through the cheap, run-down jungles where the desperation was greater, the victims more plentiful. I was where the victims ended up if they were lucky enough to survive. The waiting room was crowded.

I'd phoned Derner first and told him what happened and to send someone to Bobbi's hotel, then I phoned Bobbi to tell her what had happened. She was stunned for only a few moments, though.

“You need me to help with Faustine?” she asked.

“I was hoping.”

“Of course I will. I'll be dressed again when you get here.”

“I've already sent a car to pick you up. The driver will take you anyplace you want.”

“One of Gordy's?” She sounded weary.

“ 'Fraid so. I have to be here. With a gunshot wound they bring the cops and . . . uhhh . . . I'm thinking you know all that.”

“A lot too well. I'll get Faustine and be there as soon as we can.”

“I'll see you then.”

“Be safe, sweetheart.”

None safer. From bullets. Insanity and rage and fear were other matters entirely.

About ten minutes later several large guys with big coats and mashed noses walked in and not for emergency treatment. They spotted me and came over. “Derner sent us,” one of them told me.

“Thoughtful of him,” murmured Escott. He sat with an arm around the supremely unhappy, but heavy-eyed Evie. She was tucked up on her chair, the tan coat covering her like a blanket with just part of her face showing. None of the mugs seemed to recognize her.

“Fine,” I said. “Spread out, on your toes, and if you see Hoyle try to make it look like self-defense, there's cops here.”

The man smiled. “Cops.” Apparently he was unimpressed. Where had Derner found this bunch? They were tougher-looking than the bouncers had been, and came across as made men. No matter, so long as they were on my side.

“No shooting civilians,” I added.

He grunted. Disappointed, maybe. He jerked his head at the other guys, and they trundled away. Everyone got out of their path except the nurses.

And a cop.

My favorite cop was Lieutenant Blair, but he must have had the night off. This new guy was Sergeant Something who flashed his badge too fast. Escott patted Evie's shoulder and spoke low to her. She didn't move. Asleep, I hoped.

The sergeant got a statement from me about the shooting. I used to be a lousy liar but had since improved my skills. I can lie to strangers better than to friends, and this
guy heard one of my best efforts. He got the facts as I knew them, but I pretended ignorance of the identity of the shooters.

“You're pretty calm about it, Mr. Fleming,” he noted.

“It's late, I'm tired, and I'm worried about my friend. Call it shell shock.”

“Don't you want to get the guys that shot him? They could come after you next.”

“I think they were after me in the first place, and Roland just happened to be in the way.” There, an absolutely true statement.

“Why would anyone want to shoot you?”

“You know how this town is. I opened a great club, there's other guys jealous, they want to take me down a notch, even scare me out of business.”

“Has it worked?”

“Hell, yes. I'm closing until further notice. Nobody else is gonna get hurt.”

This last was caught by a guy whose job I recognized as easily as the mugs who'd walked in. I used to dress just like him. He scribbled in a notebook and threw a question at me, but the cop shooed him off like an out-of-season horsefly. I knew what that was like. No nostalgia stirred in me to go back to the simple life of being a reporter. You ask so many questions and then one day you get more answers than you really want.

The cop finished with me and skipped talking with Escott, who hadn't exactly put himself forward. I'd said Escott hadn't seen anything and had only helped with the wounded.

When the cop cleared off the reporter moved in.

“It's just a shooting,” I said to him. “What's the big beef about it?”

“A shooting at Lady Crymsyn.” He grinned. “You are headline material for me. After that ‘Jane Poe' case—”

“That's yesterday's fish wrapper. This is nothing. I donno who did it. I just want my friend to be okay.”

“Your friend being the famous Roland Lambert, star of stage and screen. Why's he tripping the floor in your place if he's such a big star?”

“He's just doing a favor for a pal. Thought it'd be a lark. He and his wife are cut-ups like that, always having fun.” It was a better story than the truth about trying to make ends meet. I shoveled a lot of bull at the Fifth Estate and made Roland an altruistic hero who'd saved my life at the risk of his own. The reporter, apparently not good enough yet to have thought up the angle himself, went away happy. If he could write it fast enough, he might make the afternoon edition.

Bobbi and Faustine turned up next with their driver, who turned out to be Strome. He hung off to one side and smoked a cigar to fill the time while I did my best to calm Faustine down and give her the same story I'd passed to the cop.

I also advised her not to mention the shooting incident she'd been involved in earlier.

“Vhy ever nodt?” She was startled enough to stop demanding to see Roland.

“I'm shutting the club down for now, but if they catch wind of any more fishiness, they could keep it that way.”

“Budt de show musst go on!”

“So we all keep quiet about it.”

“About vhat, doll-ink? Poof! I forgedt whole tink. Now vhere iss my poor Roland? I musst see heem. I musst see dok-tor.”

Eventually we all saw Roland, from a distance. His leg was bandaged and elevated in some kind of pulley contraption, and he was too groggy to say anything. Only Faustine was allowed in with him.

The doctor was optimistic. There was a lot of damage, and the bullet cracked, but hadn't broken, one of the leg bones, but if there was no infection, he would get well soon enough. I saw to it at least one of the mashed-nosed guys was to be within call at all times. Bobbi explained to Faustine that they were there to look after them and left it at that.

We were all told to go home, but Faustine refused to leave, and Bobbi said she'd stay to keep her company. I knew better than to talk her out of it.

She gave me a look, though. “Jack, I know this isn't your fault.”

“Oh, yes it is.”

“Shh! I just want to know when you get the guy who did it.”

“So you can slug him, too?”

“So I know when it's safe to come back to the club.”

“You'll be the first. I got eyes and ears out. We'll find him.”

“
They'll
find him. You're not one of them, remember?”

“I'm trying, doll. I'm trying.”

Escott announced he was taking Evie somewhere safe. He'd found a suitable hotel to go to ground.

“You got proof you're a Mr. and Mrs.?” I asked.

“I fear none is required for this establishment. I only hope Vivian never opens an inquiry into this.”

“It's in a good cause. Call at the club if you need anything.”

“You'll be asleep.”

“I meant the Nightcrawler. Derner knows who you are.”

“Oh, dear God.”

“What?”

“Does this mean I'm your gangland lieutenant?” He said it with an “f” again. Someday I'd ask him if that's how it was spelled in England.

“Let's just keep it ‘baby-sitter to dancers' and leave it at that.”

“And what happened to my steering wheel?”

“I . . . had another . . . another damned fit.”

“A fit.” He went still, waiting for more.

But I shut down, shaking my head. “I'll get you a new one.”

“You bloody well better,” he finally said, then went to rouse Evie from her nap. She protested but went along with him. I had two of the mugs follow to see them off.

After a run by Crymsyn to check things (normal) and Escott's office (also normal) I had Strome drop me a block from Escott's house, telling him I'd walk from there, that I needed the fresh air to clear my head.

“Pick me up tomorrow around . . . oh, just come after dark.” I couldn't remember the time for sunset. Dawn was my main concern. I kept track of that.

“It's freezing,” he said. “You noticed? You shouldn't walk.”

“Yeah, but I don't mind.” The chill that had plagued me before was either gone or I'd just gotten used to it. Waiting until his taillights were a memory, I vanished, speeding along the sidewalk until I figured to be in sight of the
house. I went solid and had a good look around the neighborhood, front and back.

Nothing. Dammit.

I'd been hoping, really, really
hoping
that since the club and the office came up empty, Hoyle would catch a case of the dumbs from Ruzzo and be lying in wait for me here.

Too bad. Pounding their heads together would have improved my mood a lot.

I ghosted inside the house, went through it for intruders (none), ran a bath, used it, shaved, put on fresh clothes for tomorrow, and dropped invisibly into my basement sanctuary.