Escott used his pliers to pull out yet another jagged piece of shrapnel from the wall to expertly flip into the waste-basket standing in the middle of my office. He was able to work faster than I and had nearly cleared two walls of the stuff while I smoothed patching plaster into the holes. We both wore overalls and were generously coated with plaster dust, paint, and other remodeling souvenirs. The newly glazed windows were covered by blinds; the broken glass was swept away.
For the last two hours, since we'd arrived at Lady Crymsyn, I'd been telling him all that he'd missed for being in New York tracing a purloined pooch. It shouldn't have taken me so long, but he had questions, and that drew out the process. In exchange for being caught up, he'd offered to help me gradually restore order to the grenade-induced chaos.
"So I came back here," I said, "and found Gordy waiting in the lobby with a regular goon squad of muscle all set to charge San Juan Hill."
"May I take that to mean he understood the significance of the wreckage here?" Escott indicated the walls and holes in the floor, which was presently protected by a stained tarp. I'd bought a thick rag to hide the latter damage until it could be repaired.
"In spades. He didn't know what to think since there was no blood or bodies, but it got him moving. He figured if I came back I might need help, so he brought in plenty. I explained everything." That had taken some doing. In his own laconic way, Gordy had expressed a sincere desire to take Tony Upshaw apart with a dull boning knife and distribute the pieces up and down the Chicago River. I'd eventually convinced him how unnecessary it was since Tony no longer recalled his crime. In fact, he was back giving dance lessons at his studio, his conscience clean, his memory thoroughly scrubbed by yours truly. Before leaving him to wake in his car I'd thought of accounting for his bloodied clothes and bruises and decided against it. Everyone needs some mystery in his life.
"I hope you thanked Gordy for his concern."
"Yeah. I did." It cost me a few rounds of drinks at another bar, but well worth it for the goodwill among us all. Gordy was quietly relieved that I was unharmed, and pleased that Shivvey Coker was no longer running around. "He needed killing," he'd told me. I'd kept the more interesting news like the who and how of his death to just between ourselves. His men were content to drink their beers, used to the fact that-unlike their boss-they didn't need to know all that went on in the city.
"And what about Mr. Nevis?"
"He got back from his wilderness flight, then slept through the next twenty-four hours. Far as the cops know he's never been out of town."
"The police are still interested in him?"
"Not really. Not since I talked to Lieutenant Blair. Shivvey was the next boy they wanted to interview, both about Lena and the barbershop killings. All those guys were known to be his cronies, and suddenly he ups and leaves town without a trace. Pretty suspicious behavior."
"But would that not lead them to conjecture he might also be a victim of foul play?"
"Yeah, but I paid a trip to his hotel and did some packing. I made it look hurried. His car is gone, too. They'll draw the right conclusions."
"I hope you weren't seen."
"Gimme a break." No one could have spotted my very late-night entry into Coker's rooms. They'd been on the fourth floor, but I'd quelled my dislike of heights and floated up the side of the building to sieve in through the window. I'd gone through the place like a dose of salts, stuffing a couple of suitcases full of clothes and such papers and items as he might have taken along for an extended trip. I left behind what he might have left. Later, I got rid of it all at some charity places, making sure no one of them got more than a couple of things each.
Not a good feeling going through a dead man's effects. I kept looking over my shoulder as though expecting to see him hovering in midair with a hole in his chest and wearing an accusatory face. Stupid of me, since I'd not been the one to put it there. I chalked it up to nerves and just got the hell out, my fingers burning inside their gloves.
His car had required a little more effort, that is to say, Gordy's help. Pieces of it were now anonymously distributed in a dozen or more garages, parts shops, and wreckage yards throughout Cook County and beyond. It hadn't taken more than three hours for some mechanics to pull the thing apart, with other men stopping by to carry the pieces away. The whole process reminded me of ants stripping the body of a dead bug.
That's all there was to make a man disappear forever.
He'd left behind a reasonable hole, but it would soon fill up.
"The cops will keep hunting for him," I said. "On the books the Lena Ashley case will remain open, but Lieutenant Blair has privately made up his mind about Coker's guilt, same as Nevis and Rita."
"But you are certain Coker did not kill her?"
"I asked him straight-out while I had him under. I don't see how he could have lied, unless he was nuts or drunk, and I never got that off of him."
"Why not inform the police?"
"Because then they'd go back to questioning Rita and Nevis again, and I know for sure they're in the clear as well. Nothing would be served to keep pushing. All I can figure is Lena was into something over her head, or maybe she ran into some lunatic sadist. We'll never know. I suppose I could question every bookie in town that she had contact with. Sooner or later I might turn something up."
"There is an alternative."
"My ears are flapping, talk to me."
He paused in mid shrapnel-pull, frowning at the pocked wall and probably not seeing it. "I think it's a significant point about Mr. Coker that he persuaded Mr. Upshaw to do his dirty work for him. He wanted Booth Nevis out of the way, but delegated the task of actually throwing the grenades to another fellow. Suppose he did the same thing five years past to get rid of Lena Ashley?"
"Then he could truthfully say he hadn't killed her. When they're under they answer questions pretty literally. I should have thought of that."
"He might well have done the same in removing the previous owner of this place also. Modus operandi is a difficult habit to break-particularly when one is unaware of one's own pattern, or if it happens to work especially well."
"Huh. Guess I get to talk to Rita and Nevis again, though I don't think she had anything to do with it. Him neither for that matter, but I wanna cover the bases."
"Of course, one must be thorough. What if you're wrong about either of them?"
"I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," I said with the confidence of a man who knows there will be no bridge on his path. It was only an outside chance of Escott being right, after all, at least concerning them. Maybe Coker had fobbed the job off onto some other mug. Gris was still missing. Had he been around five years ago and up for hire? I'd talk it over with Gordy later.
"Hm." Escott wrestled with a deeply embedded piece and yanked it clear in a shower of plaster. "Oh, dear. There's a nasty mess."
"I'll fix it when I get there." I mashed patch into another hole and smoothed it. Leon Kell would have done a better job, but I had reason to keep the grenade incident from him and his work crew. The private party opening for Lady Crymsyn was only days away; I didn't want to spook them off.
"What about Miss Robillard? How is she doing?"
"Pretty well, as far as I can see."
"You're certain? She had a lengthy relationship with Mr. Coker, and then to be the one to kill him... it doesn't strike me that she would recover too quickly from such a shock."
"She'll be all right. She's a tough gal."
She'd been steady enough right after the shooting, but a day of thinking it over had eaten away at her, with predictable results. I'd spent several hours with her the next night, holding her while she sobbed her head off. When the worst of the wave of rage, grief, regret, and guilt subsided, I did a little hypnotic suggestion work, hoping it wouldn't backfire. I couldn't take away what she'd done, but I could make it easier for her to live with it, but had to word everything most carefully. Easing her guilt was one thing, but I couldn't go too far with that lest she come to think it was okay to shoot just anyone who annoyed her.
Helping her seemed to help me, as well. She was able to express what I could not, and the reassurances I gave to her echoed back to me and settled down inside somewhere. Whenever my shoulders started to hunch up from a bad memory I'd hear myself talking to her and listen.
"She sounds a most remarkable young woman."
"I invited her to the opening. I'll introduce you. She'd go for you in a big way."
"Really, now, you were going to introduce me to the model you're hiring to impersonate Lady Crymsyn."
"Her, too, why not?"
"I'm not the sort who can divide his attention in that manner."
"Go on, I've seen you juggling lots of things at one time."
"Things, yes, young ladies, no. I prefer to deal with them one at a time, if you don't mind. It cuts down on mistakes, and where women are concerned one requires a great deal of concentration to avoid making too many errors."
"Too many?"
"It has been my experience that they allow you only a certain number, the exact amount of which is known only to themselves. Once a fellow has exceeded that number he may as well go home to his pipe and paper."
Escott spent a lot of evenings home that way. You'd think with that English accent he'd have women by the truckload, because I'd watched him use it to good effect on them. Maybe he didn't want to get tied down. A lot of women would count that against a man.
He kept at his work, his hands moving while his mind obviously soared elsewhere. I respected that he could do that. "Interesting about you being able to give Mr. Nevis a migraine," he said thoughtfully.
"Spooked the hell out of me. I thought I'd given him a heart attack or something."
"It was most disturbing to see, I'm sure."
"I think it was because I pushed him too hard, and he'd been drinking beforehand."
"I should like to question him about it."
"He won't remember anything. They never do."
"Pity."
Escott had a healthy curiosity about my condition that went beyond reading all the folklore about vampires- which was mostly wrong.
"I wish you would reconsider having yourself checked out by a physician," he said. "It might prove to be most valuable to know the exact nature of your condition in scientific terms. You could always hypnotize the fellow into forgetting about it afterward."
"Okay. I will."
He stopped work to gape at me, for I always turned him down. "You will?"
"Yeah, but first you go out and buy a really good double-breasted suit and wear it to work regularly."
Escort's reply was brief, scaldingly acidic, and not to be repeated in polite company, but the language he chose made me grin.
I'd turn him into an American yet.
The next few nights flew by as I put my full energy into getting the club ready. Though it looked all right, there was an astonishing amount that needed doing, but miracles can happen if you invest enough cash in them. I had to spend more than planned, but knew that I'd get it back. It was all legit business expenses, each one duly recorded in the ledgers by Malone.
He was the best miracle of all, interviewing and hiring the staff, getting them uniforms, and training them as to how things would be done at Lady Crymsyn. Hesitant at first, he gained a tremendous confidence in a very short time, and just as well. I was relying heavily upon him to keep things running during the day, but he was honestly interested in redeeming my trust and worked beyond my expectations.
There was a brief crisis concerning the actress who was to play Lady Crymsyn. Finding a girl who looked the part was less difficult than finding one who also had the presence to get away with it. She had to live up to the promise in the Alex Adrian portrait. Not easy. Such a girl was finally located, then Malone had to find a costume-maker who could reproduce the red gown in time. A ten-dollar bonus for the seamstress worked toward that end.
Bobbi had taken over the direction of the entertainment, having booked a band, several other performers, and arranged their order of presentation. She'd reserved the top billing of the evening for herself, with my wholehearted blessing, as she had more than earned it. Things were on the level, too, since I was paying her just like the rest. It felt odd to be giving my girlfriend money; Bobbi was very touchy about certain kinds of gifts, cash being on the forbidden list. But this was work, and Malone was the one writing up the checks; all I needed to do was to sign them. We kept it all on a professional level. It worked.
The rest of the details piled up and were either dealt with or put on the bottom of the stack depending on their importance or practicality. There was still a problem about the damned cement mixer, so the basement would go unfinished. The performers would have to make do with the few finished rooms on the main floor off the stage.
"Why is it so important to you?" Bobbi asked me after I'd groused about it one time too many. "And this time the real reason."
I swallowed back my usual answer about wanting everything to be perfect. Damn, but some nights she was a regular mind reader with me. "Okay. It's about Lena. I figure if the place is completely redone down there, maybe she will finally be laid to rest."
"Then I don't blame you, but what happened to her is all over with. You don't think she's the ghost messing with the lights, do you?"
I'd told Bobbi all about the interesting electrical games I'd witnessed. She half believed me. "No, I never thought that. Whatever is behind that is different."
"So is there another ghost in your basement?"
"No. Strictly in my head. I get pictures there and I don't like a lot of them. Changing things with cement and paint and lightbulbs will get rid of one of them." The one being the sight of Lena Ashley's spine bones sticking up out of the remnants of her red dress. The confining walls that had imprisoned her in the darkness were gone, but I had to have their marks on the floor and walls obliterated, too. Even then I wasn't sure if I'd ever feel completely at ease in that corner, but then knowing its history, who would?
Bobbi kept telling me everything would be fine. By next week, when the grand public opening took place, it would all be ready just the way I'd envisioned. This week, I'd just have to live with it.
Friday night I shot awake to the sounds of early activity. People, lots of them, were moving about, talking, joking, all quite unaware of my nearby presence.
I was not in the usual alcove at home, but on a cot with a layer of my earth that I'd installed at Lady Crymsyn. Having taken seriously Escott's suggestion about turning a section under the tier seating into a sanctuary, I'd moved in all the necessities, put a lock on the inside of the door, and allowed myself to surrender to my daylight coma with hardly a qualm. Leon and his crew were no longer needing the area for storage, and the waiters and bartenders had other places for their supplies. This spot was all mine. It was not for use every day since it wasn't fireproof, but this time I decided to take the risk.
The staff had come in before sunset to ready things, and I could hear Malone directing them. The sound of his distinctive voice, which was calm yet carrying in the big room, told me that all was going well. So far. The doors would open in less than half an hour. Had I stayed home, I'd have used up much of that meager time between my waking and the club opening just getting dressed and driving over. As it is I needed only to dress, having bathed and shaved just before coming to the club in the predawn to retire for the day.
I had a new tuxedo hanging ready for me on a convenient nail, a paper cover protecting it from stray dust. Tucking it and my shoes under one arm, I went over to remove the padlock from the inside, but changed my mind. People were working in the bar area opposite. It would require too much explanation to account for my eccentric emergence from under the seats, so I vanished to float up through the various barriers until reaching the second-floor hall. From there I floated to my empty office and went solid.
Escott and I had done a decent job of repair. The walls were whole again, the paint fumes all but gone, and the floor holes neatly covered by the rug. I tore the tux clear of its wrappings and quickly dressed. Bobbi, knowing I would be here, knocked and walked in just as I began to struggle with the cuff links.
"I thought it was about time for you to wake up," she said.
One look at her and I forgot all about the opening. She was in a spectacular white gown studded with hundreds of rhinestones that floated on her shoulders and arms like silver stars. They tapered off the lower you went on her body, whose every delicious curve was revealed by the drape of fine cloth. Silver-and-white shoes with more rhinestones caressed her feet.
She took in my expression and smiled. The special one that always sent me to the moon and back. "Well, I guess Joe James knew his stuff if this little rag makes you look like that."
"Uh..."
She did a slow turn. "You like it?"
"Urn... ahh..."
"I guess that means yes."
"Uh." Oh, God, why did I have to waste my time opening this club tonight when I should be finding ways to get Bobbi out of that dress?
"Here, you need some help?"
"Yeah. Okay. Whatever you want, doll." Unable to think for the time being, I held my arm out so she could fix the links. Then she fussed with my collar and tie, and I thought the scent of her perfume would make my head explode. It took all my willpower to keep from dragging her down onto my desk right then and there to let her know how I felt.
"Your pants are a little tight here," she commented, her hand brushing dangerously close to a now highly sensitive and responsive area. I caught her wrists and raised them up, fiercely kissing them on the inside. The sweet pulsing of her blood teased, tempting me to linger.
"Don't make me any crazier than I am," I warned her. The white of the gown made me think of a wedding dress.
I wanted to propose to her again, even knowing that she would turn me down. It hurt to hold the question-plea?- inside, but giving it a voice would have spoiled the mood for her.
"I'm looking forward to seeing you after closing," she said. "You'll really be worked up then."
Or flattened into a state of exhaustion. "How are things downstairs?"
"Everything is going very well. I really like your Mr. Malone. He brought his little girl in today. He couldn't get a sitter for her for the afternoon. She's so precious. She sat up here and drew pictures of the building. This one's for you." Bobbi held up a pencil-and-crayon sketch on graph paper that seemed too good to have been done by a child of Norrie's age. It was very recognizably the front facade of Lady Crymsyn, right down to the diamond-shaped windowpanes in red. Off to the side stood three figures, more simply executed, all wearing smiles and waving.
"Customers?" I asked, pointed at them.
"That's you, her, and her father. She thinks he half owns the place."
"He works like he does. I'll have to give him a raise. The kid still here?" I wanted to say thank you.
"I took her home an hour ago. She's so sweet. I gave her a tour of the dressing rooms and did her nails up with polish. She was very impressed with the big girl stuff. Too bad he won't be able to marry again and give her a mother. She could use one." Bobbi knew all about Malone and had no illusions that he'd make the same mistake twice about marriage.
"Thought you didn't like kids."
"I like 'em fine-so long as they behave and they're someone else's. Hold still, your tie is crooked."
"Okay, okay, but hurry, I gotta get downstairs."
"Put your shoes on first."
"Oh. Jeez."
She watched with an indulgent expression. "Jack, stop a minute and listen to me."
I recognized that tone and did exactly that. "Yeah?"
"I've done countless opening shows, acts, reviews, you name it. I've never, never done one that was one hundred percent perfect. So take a deep breath-whether you need it or not-and remember that you're doing this for fun. You are to enjoy tonight, because you will only have this kind of opening once. It won't ever come again. Relax, enjoy, and have fun so you can give yourself a good memory about the next few hours. You got that?"
There was no not-getting it with her. "Did I ever tell you you're the greatest?"
"Yes, and don't ever stop."
"Mr. Fleming, I didn't see you come in." Malone looked very dapper in his tuxedo. All that distinguished him from the arriving crowd were the white gloves he wore. The bruises on his face hadn't completely faded, but the self-possessed demeanor he'd assumed for the evening made them less noticeable.
"I snuck in. How we doing?"
Bobbi, who had come downstairs with me, patted my arm once, then went off to see to backstage things. The lobby doors were wide-open, lights blazed inside and out, and early arrivals were starting to outnumber the wait staff.
"Everything is going very well," he said, sounding similar enough in tone to Bobbi to make me think they'd rehearsed together for my benefit. "Leon told me to tell you that the cement mixer finally arrived. He put it downstairs."
"A milestone," I grumbled.
"Mm?"
"It's about time. Now they can finish that floor." I started calculating how long it would take for the cement to cure so the crew could build the dressing rooms. Even paying them extra for working the weekend and evenings, I couldn't see how they could get it all done by next Friday...
Made myself stop. Bobbi would have pinched me good for my getting distracted by things out of my control. I was supposed to enjoy tonight, not worry about tomorrow's labors.
"What was that?" I asked.
Malone repeated, "Lady Crymsyn is here as well."
I blinked in the direction he indicated. "Great. I see the dress got done in time."
"Indeed, and the young lady inside it is doing an excellent job." He drew me over to a delicate-looking delight of a girl with straight brows and striking hazel eyes. Her thick dark hair was swept up in a style identical to the Lady Crymsyn portrait, and she filled every inch of the blazing red costume as though it had been designed for her, not the other way around. "Miss LaBelle, this is Mr. Jack Fleming, the owner of the club. Mr. Fleming, Sherry LaBelle."
"Charmed, I'm sure," she said, her bewitching smile uncannily like the one in the picture. I had to firmly remind myself that I was not exactly available as I took her hand and gave it a brief, polite shake. In no way would I attempt to kiss it. Escott could get away with those kinds of suave Continental manners, but not this Cincinnati-born mug. I'd just slobber on her knuckles or fall over or worse.
"Everything under control?" I asked, to linger a bit longer.
"Oh, yes. You've a wonderful place here. I almost feel like I am Lady Crymsyn." She motioned toward the portrait that loomed behind her.
"You do acting the rest of the time? When you're not doing this?" Good grief, I hadn't been this tongue-tied since being in short pants.
"I try. Work is a bit thin, but it always is, so I do all that I can."
"And you can come back again next week?"
"Yes, I'd be happy to."
Malone gently led me away as a fresh group of patrons came up to meet "Lady Crymsyn." The women complimented her dress, the men reacted about the same as I to the rest of the package. Sherry LaBelle gave them all her gracious attention and answered their questions about the club as though she owned it.
"It's just as well she is able to return," Malone said. "It would be a terrible mess otherwise. We'd have to find someone who not only looked right, but she'd have to fit the dress as well."
I was glad he had such practical matters well in hand. Once out of the hypnotizing presence of Miss LaBelle I found myself better able to assume my own role as grand host. For this all I had to do was stand in the lobby and meet and greet dozens of familiar faces and the people with them. Not hard, not hard at all.
Many of them I'd met at the Nightcrawler, all come over to sample the potential delights of my place. Both clubs were alike in swank, but mine did not offer gambling in the back rooms. Gordy and I wouldn't be in any serious kind of competition for customers.
Gordy himself finally came through the double doors, filling most of the space. On his arm was the radio actress Adelle Taylor, looking very edible in a cream-and-rose gown that set off her pale skin and black hair. Behind them marched a slow parade consisting of large-shouldered guys with grim faces, (Gordy's bodyguards) and another, more ordinary, couple (Gordy's lawyer and his wife). I welcomed them all, collecting pecks on the cheek from the ladies and handshakes from the men. The bodyguards held apart from this, keeping their hands free should they deem it necessary to draw forth the guns that threw off the hang of their suits.
"Kid, it looks like you've done it after all," Gordy said, pumping my hand and almost smiling. For him this was really being effusive, but he relaxed a lot when in Adelle's company.
"I hope so." It meant a lot to hear him say that.
"You'll get used to it."
"Maybe." I thought about what Bobbi had said about this kind of night happening only once. She was absolutely right. Better for me that I savor every moment of it and enjoy. "I'll make a point to do so. I hope this isn't taking anything away from your place."
"It can run itself for one night," he said. "And you're located far enough away so I don't have to worry much."
That was a relief. I'd known it to be true, but it was good to have it confirmed.
" 'Sides," he continued. "Wouldn't be right for me to miss your opening. I feel like a godfather to this place."
That comment inspired a double take from me. I sincerely hoped Gordy wouldn't like my club too much. Ah, nuts. He was kidding. Yeah, he had to be kidding.
Malone turned up just then to escort Gordy and his party to their specially reserved table. I'd drop by on them all later and hope that the mantle of confident host would be firmly in place on me by then.
More arrivals, more smiles, more handshakes, more of a lot of good things. Everyone appeared to be in a light mood and highly impressed with the joint. I felt a return of that fullness of feeling that was pure pride of ownership. It even lasted through the arrival of Booth Nevis. Rita Robillard, his date for the evening, held his arm with one hand and a small bunch of flowers in the other. She wore black again, a long gown with skirts composed of layers of silky stuff that swirled around her ankles like smoke as she walked. This wasn't the time or place, but I couldn't help wondering if she'd left her underwear home again. Happy as that prospect might be, there would be no wild dancing on the tables here. Not tonight, anyway.
"How are you?" I asked her.
"I'm aces," she chirped, looking happy. "This is some joint, Jack. It was nothing like this when Welsh was in charge."
"Wait'll you see the rest."
"I'm going to give her a small tour," said Nevis. "If that's okay."
"Just the public areas, if you don't mind. The dressing rooms are pretty full right now."
Rita shot him a tense, pleading look. "Booth."
He nodded at her. "Uh, Fleming, Rita would like to, well, that place in the basement..."
"What about it?" I was missing something.
Rita held up the flowers. "I just wanna, you know, put these there. For Lena from me and Booth. You know."
I leaned forward to peck her cheek. "Of course. I'll have Malone show you through. Take all the time you want."
"So Malone worked out for you here?" asked Nevis.
"He's doing a great job."
"I should hire him back, but I think you're paying him more. He's a good worker. Very honest."
And wasted as a bartender at Nevis's club. I kept my thoughts to myself, and called Malone over to see to things. Nevis was talking to him in a friendly way as they went into the main room. Jeez, Nevis was talking. After that polishing job he'd done on Coker, it was entirely possible he could persuade Malone into going back.
No, that was not going to happen. Nevis might win Malone over, but I'd still have the last word. I'd use hypnosis to keep him on my payroll. Nothing quite like fighting dirty, especially when the competition doesn't know about it.
Time to play host again. The next wave brought in Tony Upshaw and half a dozen leggy women, with Ruth Woodring holding his arm in a casually possessive manner. They were all dancers if I could judge anything by their collective look. Perhaps Miss Woodring was combining business with pleasure by showing off the best students from her studio. I had the feeling that Upshaw would be twirling each one of them over the floor tonight.
"Jack, you darling man," she said, forsaking Upshaw's arm to latch on to mine. She seemed to have forgotten that she'd been mad at me for all but openly accusing her precious Tony of murder. "I hope you'll forgive me and let me in."
She hadn't forgotten, then. "Nothing to forgive. I was a louse, but it's all over now." It seemed wise to play the gallant with her in the interests of peace.
"Oh, you are a darling. Tony explained to me that you had only the best of intentions."
"The only thing to pack on the road to hell." She seemed confused, trying to work out if that was a barb or not, so I softened things with a smile. "You're looking quite lovely tonight, Miss Woodring. I'm glad you're here. You will make the place beautiful."
She relaxed, but was somewhat nonplussed by the sincerity of the compliment. "Why, thank you. I needed to give this an airing." She was dressed head to foot in some pleated gold gown that was vaguely Egyptian in design. It ended just at her shoulders, which were decked in a wide elaborate thing that looked like a cross between a flat collar and a necklace. It had a lot of beads, glass, and gold thread. Matching bracelets covered her arms halfway to the elbows. Her long shock of red hair was in a single braid that trailed down her front. She followed no fashion that I knew of, but everything looked good on her.
Upshaw was urbane and butter smooth, giving no sign that not too many nights back he'd been cowering on the stairs over there begging me not to hit his face. I shook his hand, welcomed him, and gestured for them to avail themselves of the main room within. It was all I could manage. I still had a very strong desire to punch that Roman nose of his around so it would stick out one of his ears.
That image put me back in a cheerful mood again.
Joe James turned up, shook my hand quite a lot, and introduced me to some theatrical types with whom he'd been staying. The woman looked like a Valkyrie minus her spear and horse; the man had a flowing black beard like a cartoon Russian. Actors in search of a stage, I thought, greeting them. They both enthusiastically dragged Joe off toward the bar. Yes, definitely actors.
Another wave of motley people hit, Escott standing out from them because of his height and manner. It wasn't something you could catch with a photograph, but tonight he looked decidedly more English than usual. He'd taken some trouble with his preparations: a haircut, his tux was postcard perfect, and I caught a distinct whiff of shaving lotion as he came over to shake my hand.
"Congratulations, old man. Looks like you've a real success on your hands."
His open enthusiasm really meant a lot to me. "So I've been told. I just hope the place is packed like this every night."
"Indeed. And where might I find-ah." His gaze froze in the direction of Sherry LaBelle, who was busy doing a slow turn in front of Joe James's critical eye. He seemed pleased. Considering his likes and dislikes, the approval had to be for the dress, not the girl.
Escott had a clear field... and he was rooted in place, his jaw uncharacteristically dragging in a floorward direction. This was interesting; he always had something to say.
"Hey," I said.
No response. Good grief. She was a dish, but he was a big boy. He knew how to deal with beautiful women. At least I thought he did.
"Hey. Charles."
I'd heard the term poleaxed before, but had never actually seen it in action. He was showing all the symptoms.
"Charles. Charles-wake up before I have to stuff you with sawdust and put you in a corner."
"If it is next to that charming creature, I shouldn't mind a bit," he murmured dreamily.
He could still talk. "Come on, you've never even met her. She looks like the painting, she might not be like the painting, not for real."
He darted a surprised glance at me. "Yes, of course. And fish are allergic to water. Stop wasting time, man, and introduce us."
As there was a break in the line, I took advantage of it and did my social duty toward them both. Escott executed the slight bow-and-hand-kissing routine, only he made it seem like she was the only woman he'd ever tried it on. She responded with a smile, to his full-force, but under-control charm, keeping in character until I mentioned that Escott was my best friend and occasional partner in business ventures. She took this to mean he had an active interest in the club and warmed up a bit more. Knowing how I'd feel were the situation reversed, I retreated quickly from the picture so he could get on with things.
My retreat took me straight into a gaggle of reporters, and without warning at least three flashbulbs went off in my face. The scribblers then moved in, calling questions on top of one another while I dealt with temporary blindness.
Huh. I'd expected them to be here much earlier.
They were new faces, not the ones I'd put the evil eye on a week ago. The papers they represented had long been informed of the club's private opening. My plan had been to gain publicity for the club of the right kind, for them to write about the entertainment, not corpses in the basement. These guys had other ideas, though, and hammered away about Lena Ashley. I said I was satisfied that the police were doing a good job and pretended ignorance on the progress of the investigation. Not what they wanted to hear, but an invitation to a round of free drinks softened them quite a lot. After a third round was made to disappear they promised to write a glowing report about the club and mention its public grand opening next Friday. I was too smart to give them unlimited drinks for the evening; they'd have put me out of business.
That problem solved, I returned to my unofficial post by the doors to greet more people and was pleased when Shoe Coldfield turned up. His skin color brought an instant halt to most of the conversation in the lobby. It resumed again with whispers and not a few looks of horror, but they could go to hell. This was my place; all my friends were welcome.
"Good to see you," I said. More handshaking and grins.
"Well, I had to find out what the new kid on the block was doing. Charles wasn't exaggerating. This is one nice shack you've set up."
Before I could ask what Escott had said about the place, Coldfield introduced me to a stunning woman with cocoa skin and melting eyes. I didn't catch her name, only that she was a singer at his club, and I promised myself I'd come listen to her at the first opportunity. She had a deep contralto speaking voice, and I knew she'd look perfect in that blue satin dress sitting on a piano picked out by a single spotlight. Like Gordy, Coldfield had a couple guards with him, only they'd brought dates along. It was a subtle point no doubt planned by Coldfield. A man on his own can be a target for trouble; a man with a woman along was only looking for a good time. I signed to Malone to escort them to their reserved space.
"Where's Charles?" Coldfield asked.
"He's just over-" No, he wasn't. Miss LaBelle was on her own, but positively glowing from more than what was required by her role. Good, he'd made progress with her but wasn't overdoing things. "Probably inside by now. I put him at your table. If he looks like a stunned pigeon, there's a reason for it."
"What reason?"
I nodded toward Sherry LaBelle. Coldfield looked ready to burst into laughter.
"Okay, I won't rib him too much. It's about time he discovered women again."
Some ancient history-the bad kind-had turned Escott into something of a recluse for several years. He was gradually breaking free of it.
"I'll see you later," said Coldfield, and allowed his group to be led away.
The next one through the doors was a surprise. Lieutenant Blair sauntered forward, putting out his hand. The illusion of a perpetual smile lent to him by the trim of his mustache was very pronounced. He seemed most pleased with himself.
"You've got quite a gathering here," he said. "Haven't seen so many of the wise crowd in one spot since Big Al was in town. What are you trying to do here?"
True, more than three-quarters of the people here were in the mob or connected to it. I'd have to widen my circle of friends. "Show everyone a good time. That's all."
"Of course, of course. But you'll have to excuse the men I've got outside if they note down the names of some of your customers-it's only in regard to the Ashley case," he lied.
So he wasn't here as a mere guest, but then I'd not expected that. "I thought you'd closed it."
"Not completely. I've got a new angle. We were able to take some prints off those books you gave me."
The noise around us seemed to fade as I focused my undivided attention on him. Hypnosis was unnecessary, though, he was eager to talk. "What about them?"
"We identified her. It just came in today. You probably know something about it. You were in New York at the time."
"About what?"
"Lena Ashley's real name was Helen Tielli." He gave the name an emphasis of importance.
Almost familiar, but my memory didn't toss out anything useful. "Was she an actress? With the mobs?"
"Close enough. I got some extra wire photos of the newspaper articles. Thought you'd like to see them since you've a vested interest in the case." He drew a narrow envelope from his inside pocket and gave it to me. "Consider it a thank-you for your help."
I sorted through the articles-one of them was from the paper I'd once worked at-and the general facts of the whole monstrous story came back to me. "You sure Lena was this Tielli woman?" I asked, feeling disturbed and not a little sickened.
"The general description of Lena and Helen match, same as for a thousand other women, but fingerprints don't lie."
"But how could she be? From what I heard from her friends they really liked her. Loved her, even. How could she have been that way and do something like this?" I indicated the papers, wanting him to gainsay their facts.
Blair shrugged. "I've seen enough so I know it's not impossible for someone like her to have a good side. They commit a crime that would made a mortician vomit and then forget about it ten minutes later like some animal. Except an animal has a reason for its actions. Helen Tielli had no such excuse."
I shook my head. "The world's in a toilet."
"Yes. Too bad we couldn't have caught up with her. Someone else did instead. It was a hideous way to die, but with her history... I'd say justice was served. And"-his teeth glinted and his eye was hard-"don't quote me on that."
"I'm not with the papers anymore. Just a humble saloon keeper, now."
Blair looked all about him, making a show of it. "You've made up a whole new meaning for the word humble, Fleming. Better send it in to Webster's, and quick." Blair went off to pay his respects to "Lady Crymsyn." I hoped he wouldn't be sharing his information with the now-drunk reporters. Probably not just yet. He'd more likely be checking on any men he'd posted inside.
"Where'd that dinge and his buddies come from?" a man asked, jarring me from my reading of the articles. "I didn't know you had the place that much open."
Hot flare of anger. I looked down at Gardner Pourcio. He was in a sharply cut suit, big cigar at a defiant angle between his lips. Had to let my eyes slide past for a second as an unpleasant picture flashed through my mind. Damn, I could still smell the burned flesh.
"His name is Shoe Coldfield," I said evenly.
"Oh, so that's him. Heard he was running things in the Bronze Belt. What are you doing mixing with the criminal element in this town I ask you? He's one tough mug."
Considering how he made a living, Pourcio had no business turning his nose up at criminal elements. "He's one of my good friends. Understand?"
"Oh, okay, I get it, takes all kinds, I guess. So, where's the action here?" He glanced around expectantly.
"I told you the club is on the up-and-up."
"Come on, no one opens a joint like this without having something on the side. Is it upstairs?"
Sighing, I fixed him with a look. "No gambling here, Pourcio. Just good booze and a great show." Release.
He shook his head. "Well, that's a crock. How's a guy supposed to earn a living? Saa-aay, who's the pippin in the red dress?" He craned for a look at "Lady Crymsyn."
"She's spoken for, so don't even try." He had enough wives.
"Just my luck. I better stick to cards tonight, then. You sure done a job here, though. I wouldn't a known the joint, 'cept for right over there." He pointed at the lobby bar, which was doing good business. "That's where the lady bartender got it when they croaked Welsh. Finally remembered her name-Myrna. She was a hot little pippin, too, the poor kid."
Behind him, the bar light went out. The bartender there absently turned it back on again, and took another order.
"Caught it right inna throat, boom. But it was quick, I'll say that."
Out again. This time the bartender mouthed annoyance as he slapped the toggle.
"She maybe din' know what hit her," Pourcio went on, oblivious of the show.
Out.
"You were friends with this Myrna?" I asked.
He held up crossed fingers. "Hey, me and that sweet twist were this close."
Now all the lobby lights went out, causing a slight stir with my guests.
I showed my teeth. "Pourcio-you are a goddamned liar."
Without hurry I went to the wall panel and flipped the switches back up once more. I stared at the bar. Nothing visible behind it except the flesh-and-blood hired help.
Pourcio followed the direction of my stare and misinterpreted. "Good idea, Fleming. Don't mind if I do." He strolled over in search of a drink.
Would that I could have one, too. A double. "Myrna?" I whispered, experimentally.
No reaction from the lights. If not for the show that had taken place while I'd been bleeding out all over the floor with a broken back, I'd have put this down to coincidence. Not anymore. Well, if there had to be a resident ghost in the club at least it-she-had a sense of humor.