"Didn't do what?" I asked, too flabbergasted to do more than gape.
"Was Raymond, cou' o'ly be him. O'ly one. Swear it."
"Who's Raymond?"
"Not my fault, but my fault. 'F I'd jus' been there!" He pushed me away and tried to stand, then winced and sat again. " 'S wrong. Hurts." He gingerly rubbed his chest, puzzled by the pain.
"Yeah, I know. Come on with me, we'll fix things." I got an arm around him and hauled him up. He groaned with the movement, but didn't fight as I guided him upstairs.
"No good," he said sorrowfully, his feet dragging. "No good at all."
We made it to his room, and I got him to the bed. He lay down flat, staring at the ceiling, and still mumbling nonsense. He wouldn't or couldn't answer any of my questions.
His tuxedo was well creased, same as his topcoat, like he'd been in them both too long. His tie was gone, and his shirt gaped open around the neck. He hadn't shaved since yesterday and the uncharacteristic stubble, along with his present crazed state of mind, put fifteen years on him.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he said again and again.
"It's all right," I told him. "It's all over now." Whatever it was.
I got his shoes off and pulled the bedspread across his body. He kept a carafe on the night table. I filled it in his bathroom, poured water in a glass, and managed to get him to drink most of it down. There was a storage closet in the hall. I rummaged and found a bucket, placing it next to the bed in case he woke up sick, which was very likely. Having survived a number of hangovers myself, I knew what a long trip it could be to the bathroom when your gut's unhappy and your legs aren't working.
"They proved it," he said earnestly. "You know they proved it." He was talking to the ceiling.
"What did they prove?"
"Tha' I din' do it."
"Do what?"
" 'S was Raymond. O'ly one."
"Charles? Charles, you hear me?"
"Mm?"
"You need to sleep now."
He shook his head over and over. "Bad stuff then. No dark sleep. No real..." He'd drifted off, mouth open, filling the air with the smell of stale booze.
I stared down at him and could not believe that he'd done this to himself. He was always sober and in perfect control. What the hell had happened to make him do this?
A few times in the past he'd pulled shenanigans like disguising himself, taking on completely different characters and acting them well enough to fool even Coldfield. This wasn't one of those times. Escott had gotten himself well and truly plastered, and there was no figuring the why of it until he woke up.
At least he wasn't having trouble with insomnia tonight.
I went downstairs and checked the street. He'd parked the Nash crooked, leaving the lights on. No surprise there, but I was astonished, not to mention thankful, that he'd not killed himself getting home. I just hoped he'd not killed anyone along the way. With the armor plating on that buggy, it'd be hard to tell if he'd run over some luckless pedestrian. The keys were still in it. I drove to the alley in back and put it in the garage, sieving into the house through the kitchen door. Going straight to the phone, I dialed Coldfield and told him what was going on.
"He's drunk? What do you mean, drunk?" he demanded.
"Just that. He's a lot more than three sheets to the wind."
"You sure?"
"It's no act." I'd listened to the sound of Escott's heartbeat, something he couldn't fake, so I knew for certain he was genuinely unconscious. "He's passed out in his room."
"Good God."
"He was babbling a lot. Kept calling me by your name and saying that he didn't do something, but he wouldn't say what. He said it was a bird named Raymond. What does that mean?"
There was a long silence on his end.
"Shoe? Who's Raymond?"
"It's-it's..."
"What?"
"Oh, sweet Jesus on the cross. I'm coming over."
"Then I'll-oh, hell." Catching a movement out of the corner of my eye, I snapped my head around.
Shep Shepperd stood in the hall doorway, still wearing his slightly too large overcoat-and aiming a gun at my midsection. Because of my hypnotic help he'd forgotten all about our first encounter and wasn't the least bit afraid of me.
"Don't get funny," he said in a very soft voice so the phone wouldn't catch it. "Say good-bye and hang up."
"Jack? What is it?" Coldfield hadn't heard anything, but he sounded very alert to the fact that something was amiss.
"No, angel. Don't you worry your pretty little noggin about it."
"What'sa matter? You got company?"
"Yes, yes, I know, sweetheart," I said in a tender, understanding tone. "But I gotta take care of something. I'll be all right, I promise. You just look after yourself when you get there, and I'll see you as soon as I can."
"Damn right you will," he growled ominously as I dropped the receiver into place.
I turned to face Shep, thinking I'd been wrong about Dalhauser, and Escott had been wrong about the gunman's target. That, or this guy was here to finish off the one witness to the shooting.
"Who sent you?" I asked. "Ike LaCelle?"
He showed no obvious reaction. When he was in charge of things, Shep was quite a different man from the terrified goof who'd fled from me before.
"Or is it Gil Dalhauser?" I was already lining things up on how to take him, but he backed away a step and gestured with the gun.
"Get your coat," he said.
"Why?"
"Going for a ride."
"A ride to where?"
"To see someone."
"Who?"
"Get your coat and find out."
I could have given him the evil eye, but that might take time, and it was likely his prizefighter partner was waiting for us. Neither of them needed to find out about my helpless partner upstairs. The front door was open-I'd forgotten to lock it-and I could hear a car's engine chugging nearby. Weighing up the options-and there weren't many I wanted to bother with-I decided to go along with them. Coldfield was on his way and would keep a watch on Escott.
With any luck, I could deal with whoever was behind the shooting and find out the why of it.
I shrugged into my old topcoat, jammed on a hat, and let Shep usher me outside. He shut the door, doing a quick check of the street. No one was around, but he kept the gun close to his body so its outline was less visible. He made me get in the backseat. Ace, the prizefighter, was in the front passenger side of the Buick. He also had no memory of our initial encounter and, poker-faced, covered me with his own revolver while Shep drove. I wondered if Ace missed his machine gun very much.
Hunching down against the door so Shep wouldn't notice any problem with the rearview mirror, I paid attention to our route. They didn't seem worried about me seeing anything, giving me to think this might be one of those rides made famous by the Chicago gangs. If so, then the man behind it all had no fear of Gordy's edict.
If it was a man. For a fleeting moment I seriously considered Adelle Taylor as being the brain running things. I'd faced a hellishly effective female gangster not so long back; I had a right to be paranoid about it. Additional thought cured me of my lunatic suspicions. Most of them, anyway. Adelle had no motive to kill Escott-at least none of which I was aware-so I dismissed her from the lineup. For the time being.
The drive was long, taking us into one of the city's many seedy sections. The road paralleled some train tracks, and with every mile the area around got more dismal and deserted. Closed factories, warehouses with broken windows, deserted businesses, it was an industrial zone with no industry; any that had been there had been sucked dry by the Depression, leaving only their bones behind as poor shelter for vagrants. There were few cars around, and all of them were going in the opposite direction from us.
Then even the buildings thinned out in the flat landscape, giving way to weed-choked empty lots protected by peeling no-trespass signs. Just one structure loomed ahead, a big three-story job protected by a tall, netted fence with barbed wire along the top attached to struts that slanted outward. The warning signs posted to tell people to keep out were many and large.
Shep took us around to the front entry, going unchallenged past a small gate kiosk and the guard inside it. His only acknowledgment was to wave once as we went by. As soon as we were in, he emerged to close the gate behind us.
On one end of the vast yard were oversized gas pumps, on the other a railroad siding where freight cars could be unloaded. In between, dozens of trucks were parked in orderly lines, patiently awaiting their drivers to return to take them on their rounds throughout the city. They were all coal trucks belonging to the business Gil Dalhauser supervised for the mob.
Shep drove to the big building, which was the repair garage. One of the huge doors yawned wide; he took us right in. Only a few service lights were on, leaving the rest of the cavernous interior thick with black shadows. Several trucks were in various stages of disassembly, their guts revealed, the stink of their greasy insides tainting the cold air.
We stopped and Shep cut the motor. Silence flooded in.
"Out," he said, opening his door.
I got out along with the fighter, and they guided me to some metal stairs.
"Up," Shep ordered.
Up I went, but they did not follow.
A tall man waited at the landing two flights above. Gil Dalhauser, with his hands in his pockets. I finished the climb and joined him on a metal catwalk where he stood by the rail, silhouetted against a wide bank of windows. He made a hell of a vulnerable target, but that along with his hands being out of sight gave me to understand he wanted to talk, not shoot.
"Good evening, Fleming," he said. No lights were on up there, but you could see the whole of the garage and the most of the yard, depending which way you faced. He was in a position to cover both.
"Depends. What's this about?"
He made no reply, only looked out at the trucks standing in silence below, then turned toward the windows. The pale glow from the night sky washed color from his face and turned his blue eyes transparent.
"What a truly awful place this is," he murmured in a soft, hollow voice. It did not travel far past me. The dusty air around us seemed to swallow sound. "Do you see it?"
"Yeah, I see."
"I don't think so. Come over here and look at it. Just stop a moment and really study what's before you. It's completely different in the daytime. There's hundreds of men about, all the shouting and truck noise and phones ringing, but for a few hours in the night it's like this... utterly deserted. So dirty and dark, cold and quiet... like the grave. Now... do you see it?" He sounded like he'd made this observation before, and enjoyed saying it so he could watch how it affected his audience.
He was giving me the creeps. "Why'd you bring me here?"
"Because it's discreet, and you can see people from a distance when they approach." He stared unblinking out the windows. "And it serves to make a point."
"Which is?"
"You are quite alone, and vulnerable."
I didn't think he meant that in its more obvious sense. "What is it you want?"
"To tell you that you should take Escott's shooting as a serious warning."
"What do you know about it?
"Enough to say you should both leave town for good. Vanish."
I paused over that one.
He glanced at me. "Oh, yes, I know your friend somehow survived the shooting. He was seen today, quite hale and hearty, nosing around where he shouldn't. If you don't get him out tonight, he will be dead before dawn. That's a guarantee. They won't stop until he's dead. Until both of you are dead."
"Why both of us now and not last night?"
"I'm not sure. I think last night you weren't seen as a threat. If Escott hadn't survived, you'd probably be free and clear, but I suppose he thinks Escott's been talking to you."
"Who's after him, and why? Why kill us?"
He frowned. "Escott's not told you?"
"He doesn't know himself." Though from his condition when he'd come home, I could figure Escott may have found out.
Dalhauser chuckled softly in his throat. "Now, isn't that ironic?"
"Why is he a target?"
"I've no idea. I was hoping you'd be able to tell me."
"Come on."
He turned those expressionless eyes on me. "I really don't know why. I only know that he's been marked, and his adversary is determined past all limits of caution."
"Why the warning, then?"
"Self-interest. I'm doing what I can to comply with Gordy's order about you two."
"Why don't you tell Gordy what's going on? Have him step in and stop things."
"Because this goes beyond his influence. The mobs in this town leave you alone as a favor to him or because he controls them. But not everyone is under his control or cares about doing him any favors. Not everyone is smart enough to listen."
"Ike LaCelle, for instance?"
No surprise from him at my mention of the name.
"Ike's a flamboyant starstruck pimp, but don't underestimate him. Below the surface flashiness he's also a smart, tough, fast-thinking son of a bitch."
"But he can overstep himself?"
Dalhauser nodded agreeably. "If he thinks the risk is acceptable. Like that dose he slipped you last night."
"He told you about it?"
"He laughed for hours thinking he'd one-upped you. Only you didn't get as sick as he'd hoped. I've told him also not to underestimate you. And you may believe it or not, but I've tried talking him out of this course of action."
"Have you, now?"
"For my own ends, of course. If he gets himself into real trouble, I'm going to feel it in the pocket sooner or later.
Gordy's hands-off is still in effect for me, though I'd not shed a tear if Escott got rubbed out. But I'm a cautious man; Ike is not."
"What's Ike's beef with Charles? You must have some idea."
"He didn't confide anything of it to me, and I have asked many times. What I know for certain is that he is determined to kill you both. While I won't actively participate, I won't stop him, either. Outside of my business interests, none of this is really any matter to me, but when I see a train wreck about to take place, it seems only prudent to let the engineers know there's trouble ahead. There's no telling where the damage could go or how far before-"
"Does this have to do with Archy putting the moves on Bobbi?"
He looked puzzled.
"Because if that's it, then it's all over and done. Archy's not interested in her anymore."
"Yes, I heard, and I'd like to know how you managed that. But I think you're on the wrong track there."
"Where's LaCelle?"
"He could be anyplace. I'd tell you if I could."
"What's his plan? Another shooting?"
He shrugged. "Maybe. Only this time he will make sure of his target. So... are you going to be smart and leave or stay and die? I won't find out for some time. I'm taking a little trip to a card game in Cicero to have a solid alibi for the next few days."
"I'm staying."
His mouth tightened slightly at the corners. "You're really not afraid, are you?"
"Not for myself, no."
"Interesting man. I can see why Gordy respects you."
"You got a way of contacting LaCelle?"
"Since I don't know where he is, I can only pass along word and hope it reaches him. Why?"
"You've warned me, you can warn LaCelle in turn. I could scrag him for what he almost did to my partner, but I won't if I don't have to. I don't like killing very much."
Dalhauser's brows twitched as he took that in. I could see he thought I looked too young and guileless to be a killer.
"Tell him I want to talk. He can pick the time and place; I'll come unarmed."
"Talk?" He looked at me like I was the biggest fool in the world. "You'd only make it easier for him to bump you."
I knew I could survive most any trap Ike cared to set up. Probably. If he decided to come after me with wood instead of lead, then I was out of luck. "He plans to bump me no matter what, right? At least this way I can find out why."
He shook his head. "I'll put a word out. But it may not get to him in time."
"You know when he's planning to do something?"
"Just that it will be late tonight. He may have people watching your house by now."
"Waiting for me to come back?"
"Yes. You're really not leaving?" When I didn't answer he moved past me and started down the stairs. "Then I wish you luck. It's been nice knowing you."
"That's it?" I asked, annoyed.
He paused, not turning around. "You've been warned, you choose to ignore it, so I'd say, yes, that is very much it."
Dalhauser continued down to the garage floor, then on outside. A motor started up, and from the window I saw him driving toward the gate, raising a thin cloud of dust that quickly settled.
I half expected Shep to follow and leave me stranded, but he and his friend waited and drove me back, neither of them sparing a word in my direction the whole trip.
As we neared the house I asked, "You two going to see Ike LaCelle later?"
They exchanged looks and did not reply. I'd figured these birds to be working both sides of the fence or simply available for whoever might be hiring.
"Good. Tell him Jack Fleming wants to talk with him before the shooting starts. He might hear something to his advantage." It was a sweet phrase lawyers liked to use before they started charging you for services rendered, and seemed appropriate here. "You got that?"
"I got it, punk," said Shep, unimpressed.
He dropped me at the corner, so I had to walk half a block, but it was just as well. I spotted an unfamiliar car with two men inside watching the house. Being direct always appealed to me, so I just went up to the driver's side and opened the door.
The element of surprise is always a good thing to have working for you. That and enough light. They could see me well enough to succumb, and less than a minute later they were hanging on my every word. I asked if there were any others spying on the house. They were the whole show. I gave them the same message I'd given Shep and stood out of the way so they could drive off to find their boss.
Maybe I should have gone with them, but there was a big Nash parked just behind my car out front, meaning that Coldfield was here, which was a huge relief. He'd be in six kinds of fits wondering what was going on after so long a wait. I wanted to talk with him and make sure Escott was all right. For all I knew, LaCelle might have hopscotched his own boys and come in through the back.
Making noise as I cautiously walked in, I called to Coldfield, holding myself ready to vanish at the first sign of gunfire. He yelled an answer that he was upstairs. He sounded impatient and irritated-that is, normal. I went up and found him in Escott's room sitting by a lamp with a newspaper in hand.
He tossed the paper aside and rose to face me. "What the hell's going on? Where've you been? That phone call-"
He made no effort to hush his voice, but none of it disturbed Escott. He was exactly as I'd left him, soddenly asleep and snoring. The room's air had a decided tinge of his alcohol-soaked breath to it.
"Gil Dalhauser sent some muscle over to pick me up," I said. "That's what interrupted things during my call. Seems he wanted to talk, but without drawing attention to it. Apparently Ike LaCelle is behind the attempt on Charles, but Dalhauser couldn't say why." I crossed to a window and opened it a few inches. The draft coming in was cold, but helped to disperse the sour sickroom smell.
"How could he not know why?"
"It wasn't for lack of trying. Ike wouldn't tell him."
"Then you tell me what you know."
I looked at Escott. "I will, but I want to find out what's in his head. Come on, and I'll make some coffee that could float a horseshoe."
"You can drink coffee?"
"Nah. These nights all I can do is smell it, but we're going to get him up and sober and find out just what set him off."
Coldfield followed me to the kitchen, where I had to play hide and seek trying to find things, since cooking was not something I did anymore. Once in a while I made a sandwich for Escott when I was in a kindly mood, but that was pretty much the limit. The coffeepot was easy enough, being too large to conceal itself for long, but cups and spoons took longer. After locating the necessities, I made the concoction triple strength. While the stuff brewed, I told Coldfield all about my trip to the truck yard, finishing up with the orders I'd given LaCelle's watchdog lackeys.
"You mean you just let them go?" He was outraged. "You outta your mind to do that."
"Glad you think so. LaCelle might think the same and be curious enough to set up a meeting."
"He'll set up a shooting gallery."
"I've survived those before."
"But Charles is in no shape for any of that."
"Then let's go get him into shape."
I got the pot and a cup and carried both upstairs.
Between the two of us we stripped Escott down to his skivvies and carried him to the bathtub. I pulled the curtain partway around to minimize splashing and opened the tap wide for a cold shower. He was sound asleep for a full minute before the icy water finally got to him, and he started fighting it. First trying to push it away, then sputtering and cursing. Coldfield held his feet, I held his shoulders, keeping him in place until he seemed more conscious than unconscious.
Escott's skin was a nice shade of blue and violently puckered with gooseflesh when I took pity and shut off the flow. He shivered like an earthquake and readily accepted the cup when I put it under his nose. He tried to take it but couldn't get his hands to work right. I held it, and he slurped some in, making an unhappy noise as it burned his tongue.
"He won't be able to keep that down," Coldfield observed.
"Which is why he's in the tub and I'm out here," I said. Sure enough, the coffee made a sudden reappearance. I turned the cold water on again and flushed everything clear.
Escott squinted blearily at me. "Damn your eyes."
"You know who I am?"
"Damn your-oh!" He leaned forward, coughing. I kept the water running, but twisted the tap on for the hot.
He eventually stopped shivering. I cut the water and offered another cup of coffee. He drank it down, then lay back in the water spray and groaned.
"You awake now?" I asked, drying off with a towel.
"Yes, unfortunately."
"Sick?"
"Please don't say that word."
I poured more coffee.
"This is wretched stuff," he complained.
"Sue me. Drink."
He choked more down.
"You need any help getting dressed?"
"I want to sleep."
"What a change. You can sleep later. In case you haven't noticed, we've got company."
Coldfield waved at him from the door. "Hi, Charles. You look like hell."
Escott glared at him, then dropped his gaze, his shoulders slumping. "Nothing changes."
"Oh, yes, it does. Are you gonna pull yourself together and get off your ass or do I have to come over and kick it for you? Maybe you've forgotten, but you told me a long while back to do exactly that the next time you got stupid. This sure looks to be one of those times."
"Very well," he said wearily. "Leave the coffee. Let me work on this."
I thought he would still need help, but Coldfield signed for me to come along. He was right. Escott had had enough self-induced humiliation for one evening; he didn't need us around to help him pull on his socks.
We tramped down to the kitchen. Coldfield expressed regret at not snagging a cup for himself.
"I can go up for the pot," I offered.
"No, give the man some privacy to recover. I'll make do." He found a shallow pot, put some water in it, and set it on the stove to heat.
I sat at the kitchen table and watched as he raised the flame on the gas ring to its highest level. Yellow tongues licked up the sides of the pot.
"You've seen him like this before, haven't you?" I asked.
"Too many times to count."
"When? Back when you were actors?"
He shook his head. "Later. It's a long story." He pawed through a drawer and found a tea strainer, setting it next to a coffee cup. "He used to get drunk all the time because of something that happened in Ontario about a dozen years ago."
"You think it's related to what's happened to him now? The shooting?"
"I don't see how it could be."
"Something set him off. Tell me. It's time I heard."
"That's up to Charles."
"Not anymore. Not after the shooting and what he's done to himself today. Not after the way you reacted when I asked about 'Raymond.' Who is he, and why does Charles keep saying he didn't do something? What's he talking about?"
"It's not up to me to tell."
"Charles can't and probably won't, so you're the only one left. Is it connected to Ike LaCelle?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I read over those files Charles got from his office. LaCelle didn't catch anyone's notice until some ten years back. It's not impossible he's involved."
I resisted prodding him again, though the wait was making me crazy. He was working his way around to finally talking; he only just needed to get used to the idea.
The water started to steam. He waited for it to boil, cut the heat, then dropped in a big spoonful of coffee and stirred it around a minute. He poured it into a cup through the tea strainer. From where I was, it smelled good, but it would have a hellish kick for drinking.
Coldfield sat opposite me and grimaced. "I really don't see how his shooting could have anything to do with what happened back then, but the only times he ever got this kind of stinking drunk was when he thought too much about it. He hasn't been like this for years, though."
"Then something today must have brought it all back to him. Come on, tell me what's going on that I should know about."
He put his hands around the cup as though to warm them, staring down into the coffee, and heaved a long-drawn, defeated sigh. "All right."