A Song In The Dark (9 page)

“Understandable.”

“Any blood around my eyes?”

He hesitated, probably working out why I'd asked, then said, “I can't really tell.”

Just in case, I pulled out my handkerchief. It came away clean. Small favors. My hand trembled, though. Aftershocks from the earthquake. I stuffed the square of white silk back in my pocket.

“I knew a guy in the army,” I said, staring at the dead lamp. “Shell shock. He just couldn't stop shaking. Any sudden noise would set him off even worse. It was hell during a thunderstorm. They had to dope him to the eyeballs with morphine to stop his screaming, and he'd lie there tied to his bed twitching like a fish.”

“Well, you're not as badly off as that poor devil.”

“Maybe. Guess this will take a while.”

“More than just a couple of days, but you'll get through it. A bit more rest on your home earth—”

Had done me squat. “I should be through it now, Charles. It's finished. The bastard who worked me over is gone, he can't come at me again, it's never going to happen again . . .” But I got a flash in my mind of Hog Bristow's grinning face and his knife blade flashing, catching the light, and what came next, and another freezing wave churned my insides around so much I had to grip the table again, head bowed. “Oh, damn.”

Almost as a physical effort I pushed the shuddering away, then dropped weakly back in the shadowed plush of the booth.

“Intellectually,” Escott said, “you know the ordeal is over.
But your body and, certainly, your subconscious mind do not understand that yet. Your reactions are to do with survival instinct, the overwhelming need to escape. It tends to hang about long after the threat is gone. The symptoms
will
subside, given time.”

“I want it to stop now. I'll be fine, then right outta the blue it hammers me flat. Am I really nuts or just being self-indulgent and looking for sympathy?”

“The latter? Certainly not. You're nuts.” He said the so-American colloquialism with such matter-of-fact conviction I came that close to taking him seriously. Then I wanted to sock him one. Then I wanted to laugh.

“Maybe I'm just half-nuts. Should I see a head doctor about this?”

“The best thing for you would be a vacation. That's nearly the same as escape and might fool your internal watchdog. Go off someplace where it's quiet.”

“Then I think too much.”

“Don't we all.” He made it a statement, not a question, giving me a sideways look. He'd been through his own version of hell and survived. “That's why they invented this marvelous stuff.” He lifted his brandy snifter. “Have you tried mixing alcohol with your preferred beverage? You might begin with a really good vodka. It will likely not alter the taste, only thin things a bit, and there's the added advantage of no telltale smell on your breath—when you bother to breathe, that is.”

I'd already tried that ploy. It hadn't worked. “You wanna turn me into a drunkard?”

“If it will help, yes, of course, certainly.”

What threatened to be another shudder turned into a half-assed chuckle. Not much of it, but better than screaming.

He lounged in his end of the half-circle booth, failing to
keep a smug look in check. It was the first time in days he'd seen me give out with a smile. His pipe apparently finished, he tapped it empty in the ashtray and laid it aside to cool.

“I used to be a drunk,” I said.

His smile faded. He'd been down that road, too, knew how rough it could be. I'd never before mentioned my own irregular trips. The new ground must have surprised him. “Indeed?”

“Back in New York, after Maureen disappeared. I could only manage to do it part-time. The newspaper job didn't pay enough to buy a lot of drinks, so I'd have to wait for my day off to get in one good binge a week. Now look at me: I got a bar full of booze, and it isn't doing me a damn bit of good.”

“Quite ironic, that,” he agreed. “But perhaps just as well. The consequences of too much of a good thing are not pleasant, and one tends to offend one's friends while under the influence. I had Shoe Coldfield around to bludgeon sense into me once he was sufficiently annoyed by my being a drunken fool. I doubt there's anyone about who could do the same favor for you.”

“There's Barrett.”

“True, but he's far off in his Long Island fastness, happy with his dear lady. You'd have to delve yourself into an incredibly deep crevasse to warrant my asking him to come all the way out here to bash you between the ears for the salvation of your soul and restoration of sanity.”

“Donno. He'd probably enjoy it.”

Jonathan Barrett and his reclusive girlfriend Emily were the only others like me that I knew of; we're a rare breed. He'd been the one who'd made Maureen, who, some decades later, made me before vanishing out of our lives forever. We'd both loved her. She was a sore spot between us, though
that was gradually healing. Barrett had been around since before the Revolutionary War, giving him a longer perspective on life, and he wasn't above rubbing that in when he thought I needed reminding. Though our case with him was long over, I knew Escott kept in touch. Sometimes the mail would have an embossed envelope with Barrett's distinctive old-fashioned handwriting on it. The fancy calligraphy was always made by a modern fountain pen, though, not a quill. He wasn't the type to stand fixed in the past.

I should take a lesson from him on that. An idea glimmered in the back of my mind about running off and visiting him and Emily for a week or so. It faded pretty quick. Until Gordy was on his feet I was stuck in Chicago; besides, I couldn't leave Bobbi in the lurch to run Crymsyn by herself.

Escott righted the little lamp; shards of bulb glass dropped from its miniature shade. He used a napkin to sweep the pieces into the ashtray. “You will recover, Jack. Just not tonight.”

“Tomorrow for sure, huh?”

“Of course.”

It was one hell of a lie, but heartening. I wanted to get through the rest of the evening without any more shakes. Laughing
had
helped. The back alleys in my head knew that, which was why I had Strome tuning the car radio to comedies. Even when I couldn't summon the energy to laugh at the jokes, the desire was there. I wanted more. Unless I could pick up a second broadcast for the West Coast, it was past time to try finding other shows. The best stuff was usually on too early, since I was dead to the world until sunset. I wished there was a way of getting recordings of favorites so I could hear them later. Recording machines were pretty large and cost a fortune, but I did have space upstairs and money in the bank. It would be a legit business
expense. Certainly Bobbi could find a use for it, maybe doing up sample records to send around to the local stations so they'd remember her name. The radio shows I wanted would use up a lot of record blanks, though, with only fifteen minutes for each side.

“And that's a lot of bucks to invest just so I can listen to
Fibber McGee and Molly
.”

Escott stared. “I beg your pardon?”

I realized he'd not been aboard my train of thought. “Nothing. I think I'm getting better.”

“If you say so.”

“You want another brandy? There should have been a waiter up here by now. We shorthanded?” I leaned forward for a look, but all the boys seemed to be at work.

“No, thank you. I told the fellow who tends this section that I did not want to be disturbed for the remainder of the evening unless I specifically signaled him. I had the idea that you might prefer some privacy once back from your errand with Strome. He was rather grim of visage when you two left.”

“I didn't know that you'd seen us.”

“Yes, I was just coming into the lobby as you went out front door, and it took a great deal of restraint on my part not to dash after to find out what was afoot.”

“Why didn't you?”

“You actually appeared to be concerned about something. I wasn't about to step into the middle of that. It was time you showed signs of life. Whatever the crisis, I thought it could only do you good to get out and deal with it. Perhaps slamming a few heads together would wake you up a bit.”

“You knew it'd be like that?”

“Given Strome's place in the organization, he would only
engage you in something really important, and given the nature of the organization itself, most crises tend to be of a violent nature. However, I would never have suspected Mr. Kroun's direct involvement. I understand he's rather high up in the ranks.”

“You know anything about him? Just in case he's not sensible and tries to surprise me with a bullet.”

Escott looked at his pipe as though considering another smoke. “But you hypnotized him.”

“If he was really set on rubbing me out, he could start having second thoughts after a good sleep.”

“Then you're the best judge of the chances. Weigh that against your perceptions of the man.”

“Go with the gut, huh?”

“Yes.”

I usually did, only lately I wasn't that trusting of my instincts. “I'm safe enough. I'm not too worried, just paranoid.”

“Which is an excellent means for maintaining good health. As for Mr. Kroun, I am familiar with the name, which has occasionally appeared in the press. Even allowing for exaggeration, he is not a fellow one wishes to cross. There have been a number of New York mob deaths connected to him, but the links were so tenuous as to make prosecution impossible. By that we can infer he is clever at avoiding legal action and entirely capable of either ordering a murder or committing it himself.”

“I can believe it. He knows how to get people to move without putting out much effort. To the right types he can be pretty intimidating. Had the damnedest eyes. Nightmare eyes.”

“Didn't care for him?”

I shrugged. “Even Gordy said he was scary. I might think so, too, if I was still on that side of breathing, but I got him
under control, and he agreed with me on the important stuff.”

“You pique my interest. A man defined by such a word by a man like Gordy must be a rarity.”

“I should hope so. We don't need more of 'em wandering around.”

Down on the dance floor a new song started up, and this time a woman cut in to dance with Faustine, which startled her at first. She was gracious about it, though, and did her job. I wondered who would lead. Roland, with another lady, seemed amused. Would he have that grin if a man cut in on him for a turn? Show business was wonderfully educational.

“How'd you know I'd be here?” I asked, meaning this, my favorite booth.

“You may be in the throes of a difficult mending, but you are a man of habit. Sooner or later you'd show yourself in this haunted gallery. It struck me as the best place to waylay you for an account of your impromptu jaunt.”

“Not my office?”

“No. You would logically go there first, but might not be in a receptive mood for talk. When you were ready to deal with people you'd emerge.”

“Optimist. You hung around here all evening instead of going to see Vivian?”

“She's busy. A bridge gathering for one of her charity organizations. In between play they plot out fund-raising strategies.”

“She's finally going out again?”

“It's at her home. She's not up to venturing forth just yet.”

Vivian Gladwell had been his most recent client. During the two weeks when he helped her get through the kidnapping and recovery of her daughter they'd grown very close
indeed. A rich society widow and a gumshoe calling himself a private agent—I'd seen worse mismatches going up the aisle and thriving. Besides, it was about time he settled down. Maybe he could sell me his house. I roomed in his basement and was kind of used to the place.

“A hen party,” he said, staring down at the dancers, perhaps watching Faustine and her partner.

“Huh?”

“Vivian's bridge night. Ladies only. Otherwise, I might be there. It's important to her, her first social occasion since the notoriety of the kidnapping. She's been a bit nervous about it, hoping her friends will have ignored the yellow press headlines and turn up as usual.”

“What's this? You feeling left out?”

“There's no room for me in what promises to be a gossipy gaggle of hats, gowns, cucumber sandwiches, and tea.”

This didn't sound good. If I read him right, Escott was actually moping. “Tell you what. Ask Vivian out this Saturday. Bring her here. We'll give her a red-carpet good time. Find out her favorite songs, and I'll ask Bobbi and Teddy to sing 'em all.”

“I could never persuade her to leave Sarah home alone. The poor child's still not over her ordeal.”

I could fully sympathize and then some. Sarah was the daughter who'd been kidnapped. Sweet sixteen in body, only around nine or ten in mind and would remain that way for life. She'd survived the wringer, though, which made her a tough cookie in my book.

“Bring Sarah,” I said. “After all they've been through I bet they could do with a night out.”

“But the reporters . . .”

“Haven't come by as much, have they?” The kidnap case
had been pretty sensational, but now it was the day before yesterday's news.

“Only a few of the more stubborn ones.”

“I can shoo them else-place and no problem. What d'ya say? It'd help me, too. Get my mind off myself.”

“Very well. But . . . I'll put it to Vivian as being your own special invitation.”

“Why? Is she cooling off with you?”

“If I've interpreted that correctly, then I don't think so, but a nightclub like this is well outside their routine. The idea wants getting used to for them.”

“You worry too much. They'll have a good time. I'll even have a birthday cake for Sarah.”

“It won't be her birthday.”

“What kid's gonna turn down a surprise party where she can make a wish and blow out candles? We'll have funny hats and horns and give her a rhinestone crown.”