The Devil You Know (12 page)

I must have looked urgent and unreasonable. It was an accurate reflection of my internal state. He pointed and got out of the way. I hurried down another hall—dressing rooms, washrooms, storage—turned when it turned, and decided a door at the end with the
MANAGEMENT
sign on it might be the right place.

I didn’t bother knocking.

The mild-faced guy named Swann was genuinely startled when I blew in. For a long second it occurred to me that Izzy had gotten things wrong. We’d come to a legit operation and the manager was quite rightly calling the cops to deal with an unbalanced customer.

Then a bruiser who’d been lurking behind the door slammed something into the back of my knees, and down I went.

It must have been wood, because it hurt like hell. He should have aimed higher. If he’d caught me behind the ears I’d have been in real trouble. As he came around, perhaps to finish the job, I swung my near arm like a tennis player, but moving much, much faster than he could dodge, cracking the side of his knee.

He twisted, avoiding a break, but also dropped and tried to hit me again on the way down, flailing out with force. Nothing like a hickory baseball bat to take the starch out of a vampire. I caught it on the downswing, ripped it away, and smacked his head with my other hand. I was mad, but not stupid, using an openhanded slap. It stunned him silly, but no broken jaw or snapped neck resulted.

My legs weren’t cooperative, but I forced them to work and boost me upright. Using the bat as a cane helped.

I leaned on the desk, in pain, but not winded, and looked the manager in the eye. “Mr. Brogan, please. I don’t have an appointment.”

Swann’s eyes had gone big. He put a call through on the house phone and identified himself. He explained that there was an upset man called Taylor in the office and—

I grabbed the receiver. “Are you Brogan?” I asked.

“Who the hell are you?” demanded a man on the other end.

“Meet me and find out. My two friends better be healthy or we’re all going to have a bad night.”

“The hell with that, put Swanny on.”

I gave the phone back.

“I’ve never seen him before,” he said, eyeballing me. “He came in with two others. I know the woman, she’s a friend of that crime reporter, I don’t know the other man.” He nodded and spoke to me. “Has something happened to your friends?”

“I certainly hope not,” I said loudly enough for Brogan to catch.

“Yes, sir, I’ll look into it. Uh, no, sir. Mr. Thorp is, well, he’s on the floor. Mr. Taylor put him there.” He waited, but Brogan didn’t make a reply that I could hear. “Shall I bring him to you?”

A lengthy rumble from Brogan. He had a deep, rough tone that was not conducive to eavesdropping. I could have made out the words if I’d tried, but didn’t. My legs hurt and I had to keep half an eye on the man I’d knocked down.

His eyes were out of focus, but that could change in an instant. I’d seen enough boxing matches to know, and to judge by the amount of cauliflower scarring of his ears, the recumbent Mr. Thorp had been in the ring.

“He
said
he wasn’t armed.” Swann looked at me pleadingly.

Full well knowing what I was doing, I put the club on the desk and opened my coat wide. I turned the pockets out and let him see the only thing on my waist was the money belt holding up my pants. I pushed up my coat sleeves and lifted each pant leg to show no derringer was stuffed into either of my socks. I wondered how some guys could do that and not have the gun drop out
as they walked.

“He’s unarmed. Apparently.”

Enough was enough, I went around the desk, hung up the phone, grabbed Swann by the back of the neck, and hauled him toward the door. I sent him reeling out first just a gentle shove—in case there were any surprises in wait. While his back was turned I tried to fade out and in again so I could walk without limping, but it didn’t work. One of these days I’d have to figure out why wood was so detrimental to my kind.

He recovered, straightened his clothes, and with greatly affronted dignity, led the way to a stairwell. Halfway there we met reinforcements, four grim guys in overcoats, each fitting Mrs. Stannard’s definition of
certain
types.

Swann looked relieved and waited while the boys unnecessarily, and with more force than was needed, slapped me down for weapons. They seemed disappointed to not find any. One of them left, presumably to check on the dazed Mr. Thorp; the other three brought their gats out and aimed everything at me.

“Well?” I said. “We going to see Brogan?”

“In time.” Swann looked through my wallet. Anticipating problems, I’d left my driving license and the old press pass with my name on it in Barrett’s Studebaker. All that remained was cash, which Swann ignored, and the coat checks, which he took. He returned the wallet to me and politely excused himself.

The backs of my knees sparked discomfort. I stretched one leg, then the other, kneading each a little, assessing the damage. My left had taken the brunt of the blow, but I healed fast. A few more minutes and the ache would give ground to colorful bruising.

We continued to stand idle in the hall, which was strangely devoid of other people. The band continued to play, patrons out front continued to enjoy their night of dancing and drinks, oblivious to this backstage drama.

The fourth man returned with Thorp, who dragged one leg. He was unsteady but murderous. He’d reclaimed his club and tapped one end against the palm of his left hand while glaring at me. The slightest move from him and I would be gone, whether by running or vanishing if I was able; I didn’t care who saw. My head and that hunk of wood were
not
going to collide.

Where the hell was Barrett? Even if he didn’t know how to brawl, with his abilities he should be able to get clear of whatever had taken him from the dance floor. I checked around to see if he was creeping invisibly along to my rescue, not that I needed it. This was my means in to see the head man. For all I knew Barrett and Izzy could already be in his office having a chat about the weather on Long Island.

Swann returned, wearing an overcoat and hat. He handed over my own hat and coat and told me to put them on.

“What gives?”

“Mr. Brogan prefers to interview you and your companions off the premises,” he said. “It’s more discreet.”

Well, put that way . . . what a crock of hooey. They’d take me to some private place where questions would be asked and any accompanying screams wouldn’t accidentally disturb people. Chances were good Barrett and Izzy would get to watch. Or worse. Forget Brogan, then. He could wait. “Where are my friends?”

“Already on their way. Regrettably, the young lady was upset, and the gentleman had to be subdued, but no permanent harm has been done.”

“What do you mean by ‘subdued’?”

“He will want an ice bag and an aspirin. I am terribly sorry.” He did look contrite, I had to hand him that. “If anyone’s laid a finger on that girl . . .”

Swann raised his hands, as though the mere suggestion sickened him. “Good God, no. We made a poor start, Mr. Taylor, for which I apologize. These very zealous gentlemen are only doing their jobs, as am I. Mr. Brogan will speak to you, but it must be under his terms. I hope you will understand.”

I absolutely understood what was really in store, but had to look like I was buying his snake oil. Swann wanted cooperation to get me to wherever it was. Once I knew my friends were all right I could come back later and deal with Fleish Brogan.

“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Let’s go, none of us is getting any younger.”

Thorp grunted agreement, smiling.

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

Swann led the way out a side door,
and I was shoved into the back of a sedan. He drove without speed for about ten minutes, no one saying a word the whole time. That suited me. The two bruisers on either side had indulged in raw onions as part of their evening meal, and I didn’t want to draw breath to speak if I could help it. Thorp had the front passenger side and looked over the seat at me, clearly contemplating payback to judge by his expression.

Jeeze, with some people it just isn’t worth it to go easy.

The sedan pulled into an alley, stopping behind a paneled delivery van. “Brogan Trucking” and a phone number were painted on the rear doors. Swann got out first and let himself into the service entrance of an unfamiliar building.

By the time I was clear of the car and inside, he was out of sight. We filed down a narrow hall with feeble lighting. There was a layer of dust on the floor, indicating neglect or desertion. So far as I could tell with this herd of elephants surrounding me, the place was empty and had been for some time. I didn’t figure out what kind of place until we passed a long abandoned laundry cart full of unwashed towels. Stamped on the side of the cart was the name
Pendlebury
.

Desmond Clapsaddle had mentioned it: the hotel where some enemy of Brogan’s had taken a fatal dive.

These guys were in for a hell of a surprise if they tried to throw me out a window.

I almost made a move then and there, but checked it. Better to see if my friends were at the end of this expedition before I started something.

The parade stopped, and Thorp pushed me into an empty storage room, slamming the metal door shut. The damned thing had a heavy bolt lock on the outside, and he slid it home.

I
hate
dark places of any kind, large or small. I hastily slapped the wall for a light switch, found one, and calmed down when a overhead sprang to life.

Three armed gorillas with onion breath were no great concern, but a pitch black room . . .I had to stop being such a sissy.

The bruisers shuffled around until just one remained in the hall to make sure I didn’t go anywhere. Usually there’s some talk, someone complaining about this or that, but they were a quiet crew. I took that to mean they were accustomed to working together and had done this kind of thing many times. The bolt on the outside told me they used this place to keep people on ice.

It had been stripped clean of anything helpful to a prisoner wanting escape. The shelves were bare and dusty. Two items remained in the farthest corner: a roll of toilet paper and a bucket. I ventured to look inside. The desiccated remains of used paper and human waste lay within. Not good. How many others had been here before me? I didn’t want to know.

“Hey! Where’s Brogan?” I pitched my voice loud enough to get through the metal. The other guy didn’t answer. I yelled, banged on the door a few times, swore, and kicked it to express frustration, giving him the proper reaction for this kind of situation.

He still didn’t respond.

There was enough space at the threshold, just a crack, to make my invisible exit easy if slow, providing I could vanish. My legs were close to normal again. I gave it a try and was successful, diving low to find the opening.

After threading free, I made a reconnoiter up and down the hall, ascertaining my guard was on his own, which was his bad luck when I went solid. It was over so fast he didn’t have time to look surprised before he was kissing dust. Dragging him into the storeroom, I checked him for weapons, finding a pocket knife and a .45 semi-auto. I preferred a revolver, but could adopt. I checked to see how many rounds, made sure one was in the chamber, and that the safety was off.

I slid the door’s bolt home and went hunting.

Even when muffled by the walls, the constant noise of the city outside hampered my ability to hear what was going on in the building. All I got were footsteps and vague murmurs, and I couldn’t tell how far away they were, just a general direction.

I followed. It was hard to be quiet. The deeper I went, the more debris on the floor. Wide stretches of plaster had fallen from the walls, exposing the lath underneath. I couldn’t tell if the damage had been caused by vandals or from age and neglect.

The place had been deserted for some time, but someone had paid the light bill and kept it locked up well enough to keep out the bums. Or the bums knew better than to break in.

It was an old hotel, with narrow halls leading to small, dreary rooms. Halfway along each hall were two washrooms (gents on the left, ladies on the right) to serve the long departed guests. Some of the plumbing and fixtures were torn out and on the floor, or missing altogether. I tried a spigot; the water was off.