Neon lights, streetlights, warm lights from house windows, cold lights hovering meekly in doorways, and no lights at all in some patches, Strome drove us past a myriad of such beacons of city life until we reached the fiery red diamond-shaped windows of Lady Crymsyn, my nightclub. As soon as we paused in front a man was there opening the car door for me. I stepped out, protected from a thin sleet by the entry's arched red canopy. I greeted the doorman, then bent for a last word to Strome.
"See how things are going with Hoyle and phone me. If I'm not in my office, ring the booth downstairs. I'll be here the rest of the night."
"You sure?"
"What d'you mean?"
"You don't look so good."
I didn't expect that. Not from him. "I'm fine."
Pushing away from the Caddy, I barely gave the doorman time to do the other half of his job. He moved quick, though, ushering me inside, then came in after. Some places insisted on having a guy stand his whole shift out in the cold, but I didn't see the point. Just as many customers would go out as came in, and so long as he did his job he could decide for himself where he wanted to be.
Wilton was busy at the lobby bar setting drinks before a newly arrived foursome, and nodded a greeting my way.
There was a concerned look on his face, too. He'd been getting ready to open when Strome came to take me away.
I tossed the greeting back and asked how things were going so Wilton would know I was none the worse.
"Slow, but a good crowd for the weather," he replied.
"Any sign of Myrna?" Myrna used to be a bartender here long before I bought the place. Now she was a ghost. I didn't have anything to do with causing that.
"Not yet." Wilton was the only guy here who didn't mind working the front by himself. He liked Myrna even if she did switch the bottles around. "Whoops-spoke too soon."
"What d'ya mean?"
He pulled out a bowl of book matches and put it on the bar. Instead of being in orderly rows, neatly folded to show red covers with the club's name in silver letters, they were all opened wide and tossed every which way.
"Guess she got bored," he said, looking bemused.
"Ask her if she won't put 'em back right again."
"If she likes 'em that way, who am I to argue?"
The hatcheck girl came to take my things, but I waved her off, heading for the stairs and my office. I'd left a stack of work there a few ice ages ago.
From the short, curving passage that led into the main room came Bobbi's clear strong voice. She was doing a better job with "The Touch of Your Lips" than Bing Crosby could ever hope for. I paused next to the easel display for her. It held a large black velvet rectangle where her name glittered from silver cutout letters, surrounded by four stunning pictures of her, none of them doing her justice.
A second, similar display proclaimed the dancing talents of Faustine Petrova and Roland Lambert with an art poster of two stylized dancers locked together. It was surrounded by a half dozen stark black-and-white photos of them frozen in action. Classy stuff.
The third easel had a single dramatic portrait of Teddy Parris, a young guy Bobbi had discovered when he delivered a singing telegram to her. His long face and soft eyes were better suited to comedy, but he'd gone for a serious expression and gotten away with it. Silver stars fanned out around his picture, filling up the blank space since he could only afford to have the one photo done. Along with his name was an additional description identifying him as
"Chicago's greatest new singing sensation!"
Well, most advertising exaggerated one way or another. He was good, though, or Bobbi wouldn't have given him a break.
Bobbi finished her set for the moment. She would wait backstage while Teddy came out to earn his keep, then join him in a duet they'd worked up.
I wasn't sure how much to tell her about why I'd missed the first show. Certainly I would let her know what had happened with Kroun, the question was just how detailed to get and if I should mention Hoyle and Ruzzo. Lately I'd been doing too much that I wasn't proud of; she understood that the rough stuff was often a necessary evil, but she didn't need to hear about everything.
She would know, though. If even Strome noticed how bad I looked, then Bobbi would see red flags and hear sirens.
I plodded upstairs.
The office lights were on, as they usually were, since they didn't always stay switched off. Myrna liked to play with them. She used to make me uneasy, but no longer. I had other spooks to wrestle with, truly scary ones. Like what I'd done to myself at the Stockyards. My body still hurt from the excess.
For all the vanishing activity in dealing with Hoyle I had not grown hungry, having fed only the night before. But I'd given in to I didn't know what demon and gorged myself to the point of sickness. In the hurried walk from Escott's street to the Stockyards I'd not thought to stop, turn aside, or even consider that feeding like that might be a really bad idea. I did it without thinking, the same as Hoyle when he shot at me. At some past point he must have known that killing me would bring down Gordy's full wrath, and yet he'd done it anyway.
So what horror would drop on me if I didn't shape up and get control of myself?
What if it dropped on someone else instead of me? If I...
Inside, the excess blood seemed to churn, thick and heavy.
The radio would help. I wanted other voices besides the nagging ones in my head. Turning the set on, I shed my overcoat, tossing it and the crumpled hat on the long sofa.
Then I paced, impatient for the tubes to warm up, for distraction to intervene. My skin felt like it was on inside out.
An unfortunate picture to conjure, the kind that bunched my shoulders up around my ears. I tried forcing them down. But the thought of blood and pain and screaming and a sadist's laughter-
Don't start. No more of this... no more...
I told myself not to listen to the echoes, to ignore, to hold on a little longer, and above all, not to scream. There was no actual pain, but the memory of the agony was enough to shred reason and sheet my eyes with blinding tears. Then I doubled over, hugging myself tight against a wave of uncontrolled shivering. It clamped around me like a giant's fist, shaking, shaking.
This time I was not cold. Far from it. The blood in me was fever-hot, and there was too much of it. My body seemed bloated to the point of bursting. Crashing just short of the sofa, I lay helpless and praying for the fit to pass, unable to control my limbs twitching and thumping against the floor. As before in the Stockyards I heard an alien noise; this time it was the sad keening whimper of a suffering animal.
And as before it was me, myself, and I.
Gulping air I didn't need, I wheezed and puffed like a living man and labored through the worst as it slowly passed.
At least I'd not given in to the urge to scream. Knowing that there were people downstairs who could hear and come running might have tipped things. I must not be too crazy then, not wanting them to see me like this. Crazy enough, though.
Scared, too. Scared sick.
The radio had warmed up, and dance music filled the room. I didn't know the name of the song, but seized on it, listening closely to the melody, following the rise and fall of the notes. The knots in my muscles eased, and eventually I was able to pull together enough to stand up again as though nothing had happened.
Then I swiped at my damp eyes and came away bloody. Damn.
In the washroom across the hall I scrubbed off the red evidence of my latest fit, convulsion, seizure-I didn't know what to call it. Once it had a name it might gain more power. The one I'd had earlier at the Nightcrawler had been far more mild, but this kind of bloodshed...
There was too much in me. My eyes might still be flushed from feeding; maybe that's what Strome had noticed. Too much, and it had simply seeped out under the strain.
I took care not to look at the empty mirror over the sink. Since my big change well over a year ago, I had grown mostly used to not reflecting. This avoidance was in case I did see something. Me. Like when I'd really been out of my mind that night when everything changed. I'd seen me smiling ruefully and shaking my head over myself. Not anything I wanted to repeat. Too creepy.
Back in the office I ran a damp hand through my hair, grimacing to take the starch out of my too-tight jaw.
"So... when's this gonna stop?" I'd asked the general air, which never offered an answer.
But the lamp on my big desk abruptly dimmed out and came on again. It flared brighter than it should have for the wattage, then settled into normal.
I untensed from my initial startlement. "Hello, Myrna."
Of course, someone downstairs might have been working the light panel for the stage, and the load on the circuits could account for what had just occurred, but I knew better. The club's ghost was here somewhere, as invisible to me as I was to others after going incorporeal. Maybe she'd seen the whole sorry show.
I read that ghosts tend to haunt the places where they died. Myrna's regular stamping ground was behind the lobby bar. About five years back when the place was under different, much wilder, management the poor girl caught some grenade shrapnel in the throat and bled to death. The floor tiles there had a dark stain marking the spot. It was pointless trying to replace them, the new ones stained up just the same. Even in death, Myrna still seemed to like tending bar, frequently shifting bottles around for a joke. She also liked Wilton, but lately she preferred hanging around me. Maybe she knew what I'd been through and was worried, like my other friends. But I didn't feel as though I had to put up a front for Myrna.
The lamp flickered, almost too fast and subtle to notice.
"I really look that bad, honey?"
Steady burning.
"Yeah. It stinks, don't it-doesn't it? Aw, hell. Look what they're doing to me. I'm talking like 'em even on my own time."
She was on the ball tonight for responding. Usually she wasn't so overtly active. I took a breath to say something more, then forgot what it was. A strong scent of roses was suddenly in the air. Instant distraction.
For a second I thought it might be Bobbi's favorite perfume; she favored something like it, but this was different in a way I couldn't pin down. It also made gooseflesh flare over me like I'd not felt since I was a kid listening to ghost stories by a campfire. There was a reason for that feeling, and she was right here with me.
Roses. A message from the dead. I'd said things stank; she fixed it.
I rubbed my arms, working out the tightness. Who could be afraid of roses?
"Trying to tell me something, sweetheart?"
Silence, steady lights, the smell of roses in a room with no flowers.
Silence... ? But I'd turned the radio on, had been listening to the music. The volume was all the way down now.
When had that happened? I turned it up again, just enough to hear the chatter of a sales pitch for something I'd never buy.
Myrna was branching out. How far would that go? Hopefully she'd remain harmless. She'd always been a good egg, even helped me and Escott out of a jam once. I had nothing to worry about from Myrna. Myself was someone else again.
I stared without interest at the paper mess on the desk, the mechanical pencil for ledger entries right where I'd dropped it the night before. That stuff used to be important; Lady Crymsyn was my own business, a source of pleasure and pride. Now it all seemed so damned futile.
Pacing around once, I inspected the walls, then peered through the window blinds at the dark street below. Because of the thickness of the bulletproof glass, the world without had a sick green tint to it and was slightly warped. I had the feeling it would look like that to me no matter what window I might use, maybe with no windows at all.
Enough of that crap. I needed a change quick before I swamped myself in more of the same and brought on another paralyzing bout of bad memory. The radio wasn't enough.
Vanishing, I sank right into the floor. Not a particularly pleasant feeling; but it doesn't last, and I'd known worse.
In a second or three I sensed myself clear of solid construction, flowing forward to and then through a wall. Though muffled, there was a change in the level of sound. Teddy Parris was singing. From the direction of his voice I was above him in the lighting grid over the stage. I went back to the wall again, following it until bumping into another wall, then eased straight down. It was just like swimming underwater with your eyes closed, and this pond was very familiar. I knew exactly how to get to my corner booth on the topmost tier of the main room.
But it was occupied, dammit. This seat was my usual spot to watch over things, and the staff always kept it reserved unless there was a really big crowd. No chance of that in midweek, so what was going on?
I brushed close to count how many. Just the one, but he was a paying customer and entitled. I guess. Nose out of joint, I'd just have to settle for the next booth over.
Then Charles Escott said, "Hello, Jack. Won't you sit down?"
The voice and precise British accent were unmistakable. If I'd had solidity, I might have snorted.
I lowered into the booth on the opposite side of the round table and slowly took on form. From the grayness emerged the soft light from the table's tiny lamp. Its glow fell on the lean features of my sometime partner in business, strife, and well-intentioned crime. Shadows lent a sardonic cast to his expression, but they didn't have to work too hard to bring it out. Escott's bony face and big beak of a nose were the kind that could easily shape themselves into a villainous look. Years back when he'd been on the stage in a Canadian repertory company, young as he'd been, he was always given the lead in Richard III. I'd have paid money to see that.
"How'd you know it was me and not Myrna?" I asked, once I could draw air again. It was fragrant from his pipe smoke. Cigarettes were his habit when on the move. Pipes were for his office or at home-unless he had a problem that needed to be thought through. Instead of the usual gin and tonic, there was a brandy in front of him. Must be one a hell of a problem.
"I didn't, but the odds favored you." Escott had developed a wary respect for Myrna. He'd annoyed her once, and she'd plunged the whole club into darkness, then the room got arctic cold, but only for him. After that he was always careful to be extra polite to her.
"She's in my office. Made my lamp flicker."
"I'd wondered where she'd gotten to," he said. "It's been quiet, no lights playing up. How are you?"
Of course I was ready to attach all kinds of meanings to the innocuous social inquiry. But if anyone had a right to be irrational... "I'm fine."
"Why the unseen arrival?"
"I didn't want to distract from Teddy's number." Nor did I want the whole room see me going up to my table.
Some of the regular customers might follow and want to chat with the friendly owner, and I'd have to pretend to be cheerful. Not in the mood for that just now.
The place was much less than half-full, not bad for the middle-of-the-week slump with sleet coming down, but illogically discouraging. It was the same as for any other club in town, and by Thursday things would pick up again.
Come the weekend we'd be packed. Business wasn't on its last legs just because I'd not been at the front door as usual to greet people. Until a week ago I was always there, shaking hands, fixing my gaze on customers, and telling them they would have a good time, and so they did. But I couldn't trust myself yet to look happy and sincere, nor could I trust the hypnosis to so casual a use if it meant an instant killer migraine. Safer to keep a lid on it until I was in better shape.
A spotlight pinning him to the stage, Teddy sang smoothly through his number in good voice. I contrasted him with Alan Caine. Teddy didn't have Caine's onstage experience, but he sure beat him for offstage personality. Caine might draw in the patrons, but he wasn't worth the trouble. Gordy's outfit, being much larger and grander in scale than mine, could handle that kind of problem child.
"What happened earlier?" asked Escott. Though not on staff, he liked to come over and help out. Maybe it reminded him of his theater days. He'd been here since before opening tonight and must have seen my exit with Strome. "You've had adventures."
"What is it? My tie give it away?" I could feel it was on crooked.
"That and a few dozen other clues. Mr. Strome walking in and you two going missing for several hours led me to think that Dugan might have been found."
"No such luck."
While Teddy sang, I told Escott almost all of it, from the talk with Kroun to Hoyle's murder attempt, leaving out the falling-down nightmare of a headache, the Stockyard gorging, and its sequel in my office. He made no comment afterward, for by then Bobbi came shimmering onstage for the duet, and we watched her instead. She wore a glittery silver gown that clung tight till it reached her hips, then flared wide. She said it was perfect for dancing. Teddy took her hand, and they made a couple fast turns, enough to raise the hem daringly to her knees. Dandy view.
Seeing her, even at a distance, warmed me in a deep and gentle and basic way, like a flame on a cold night. She could make me forget, for a time, what it was like to be alone in the dark inside my head.
The band swung into the introduction for "The Way You Look Tonight," getting a smattering of anticipatory applause that faded when the singing started. She and Teddy sparked off each other in such a way that it seemed as though they'd fallen in love for real and hadn't quite figured it out yet. I knew better, but the audience ate it up. The applause came not only from the customers, but the waiters as well. They adored her.
Instead of taking their bows, she and Teddy remained onstage. For a second I wondered if anything had gone wrong with Roland and Faustine's exhibition dancing. Bobbi leaned toward the microphone and made an announcement, naming some couple celebrating their anniversary, so I eased back in my seat. One of the stage crew swooped the spotlight around until it rested on the right party, and everyone clapped. Bobbi and Teddy began a second duet, this time of "The Anniversary Song." During an instrumental part Teddy squired her around the stage in a very staid waltz, looking so serious that it bordered on parody. The celebrants in the audience got teased from their chairs by friends and took to the dance floor. Before the end, it was filled with other sentimentally minded couples. In all, a very successful moment.
Bobbi left the stage, and Teddy continued with another of his love songs, which wasn't part of the regular program.
"Where's Roland and Faustine?" I asked. They'd arrived at their usual time. I'd unlocked the door for them myself before heading toward my office to work on the books. Then Strome came in and...
"Backstage, I believe," said Escott. "There's nothing amiss. They'll be waiting for the dancers to clear so they can start."
Teddy and the band gave out another three minutes of crooning, then ended with a big flourish, the lights coming up. Everyone looked pleased as they wandered to their tables and put the waiters to work. The musicians changed their sheet music during the pause. Waiters circulated, snagging empty glasses, replacing them with fresh drinks. All normal.
I eased back again. For someone who seemed to think his business was damned futile I was showing too much nervous concern. Escott certainly must have picked up on it, but made no remark. He finished his pipe and tapped the bowl into the thick glass ashtray between us.
"Well. About Hoyle," he said. "That's a remarkably nasty business. Very sudden."
"Nah, he's been building up to it. I just wasn't paying attention. You ever deal with him?"
"Rather less than you. Strome will be your best source of information on him, should you need it. Or Gordy."
Who was on the bench for the moment. "I won't bother him with this. My job is to hold the fort and try not to break anything. God, I can't believe he turned up there tonight. He looked like hell."
"He must have been worried for you."
"He's worrying me. If he'd just rest up like he's told he'd be back in a week."
"I think you should inform him of tonight's near calamity."
"It's covered."
"Hoyle and five others made a sincere effort to kill you. You may well be nearly bulletproof, but it would be unwise to so lightly shrug off such an assault."
"I'm not. Hoyle's been seriously discouraged. He'll be too busy licking his wounds tonight to do anything else. If he's stupid and hangs around town, I'll have him brought in for a more severe talk to keep him out of trouble. I'll send him on a long vacation, maybe his whole crew."
"Havana again?"
"I don't feel that kindly." I quirked my mouth, remembering some of the words to "Minnie the Moocher." "What do you think of Sweden? Some place really cold so he can cool off."
"There's always the lake," he said casually. "Very cold down there."
Every once in a while Escott scared me. It wasn't a joke. He had a dark streak in him and definite opinions on what to do with troublemakers. But maybe there was more going on here. Maybe he wanted to see how I'd react. "I just want the guy away. When Gordy's back he can deal with this kind of bother. He's good at it. I'll turn the whole mess over to him and forget about it."
"One may hope for as much."
"What do you mean by that?"
"It's come to my attention through Bobbi that Gordy's lady friend is urging him to find another type of business."
If Gordy left, my temporary position could become permanent. My still very full belly tensed at that horror. I made myself ease down. Adelle Taylor had a lot of influence over Gordy, but not in certain areas. "Gordy won't leave. This kind of work is what he's all about."
Escott made a noncommittal grunt and sipped his brandy. "I wish you good luck then. None of this can be too terribly easy for you."
"Actually, it is. Derner does all the day-to-day stuff and keeps the Nightcrawler running smooth, Strome sees to the rest. Mostly I'm a convenient figurehead-or target-and now I've got Kroun's approval. Sort of. It would have been fine if Hoyle hadn't put his foot in. There won't be a repeat with him, but others might want to try."
"Hm." He managed to put a lot of meaning into that.
"You think I should have killed him to discourage future challenges."
"It's the way their world spins 'round. Do you see Gordy as some sort of gangland Robin Hood? That he never killed anyone to keep his position secure?"
"Of course not. I know the score with him. But there's guys out there lots worse than Gordy. You and I've both met 'em."
And I let it hang in the air. That was one Escott couldn't dispute.
The lights faded, and the general conversation noise died down. The band started in on a low, dramatic fanfare, growing louder as the darkness increased. The drums and horns came in strong like a thunderstorm. For a few seconds the whole place went pitch-black, then wham, a spotlight picked out Roland and Faustine magically on the dance floor, still as statues, poised for their first step. Their timing was perfect as the music launched into a sultry tango, carrying them along. At first it seemed too dated, until the rhythm shifted to swing, but they went on with the South-American-style dancing, holding eye to eye, body to body and generally steaming up the place.
It shouldn't have worked, but it did. More than half the heat came from their own kind of electricity. They were recently married, and passions were high, but they'd already crashed into some rocks, one of them right here at the club. Roland loved Faustine, but had a hard time keeping his pants buttoned around other women, like Adelle Taylor.
She was his ex-wife from a decade back. From what I'd heard through the walls of their impromptu backstage reunion, the renewed attraction was very mutual. But since Adelle was with Gordy, it was just a bad idea from every angle for her ever to be alone with Roland again.
Not wanting a future problem-like him ending up with broken legs-I'd had a talk with him, so he was behaving himself, and apparently Faustine was slowly and cautiously forgiving him. As long as they kept the fights away from the customers and did their act without any hitch, I was satisfied.
Then the music shifted to a darker, more intense mood, and the white spot flared red. Faustine's white gown took on that color, her skin, too; she looked like a diabolic temptress. Roland's black tuxedo blended with the background shadows and his white shirtfront, cuffs, and gloves also went blood red. It was a new addition in their routine, and the effect raised a collective gasp from the audience.
Faustine broke away from her partner and did graceful ballet-style spins, then he stepped in to support her through other classically inspired moves, finally lifting her high. Stretching her arms, she arched her back so much it looked close to breaking, but held firm as he carried her around, making it seem effortless before bringing her to earth again.
The crowd was enthusiastically approving with their applause.
"So that's what they've been rehearsing," Escott muttered. "Bobbi said it would be a showstopper."
"Yeah, it's great." My voice didn't sound right to me. Too tight. Too fast.
Not again. Please...
"What's-" He turned.
Ham-fisted, I tried to switch off the little lamp and succeeded in knocking it over. The bulb shattered with a hollow pop, like a very small gun going off. It made me flinch.
"Jack... ?"
"Minute." I'd not wanted him or anyone else to see me doubling over. I resisted the urge to hug myself, holding tight to the edge of the table, fighting a flash of nausea and an involuntary shudder. Escott's eyes must have been used to the thick shadows. He watched with apprehensive concern as the fit peaked and finally passed. Thank God he was being sensible and not going agitated on me. I had enough of that on my own.
This seizure wasn't as bad as the last, but bad enough. I wanted to shrink away into a small hole.
"All right now?" he asked after a moment.
"No, goddammit." If I was alive in the normal sense, I'd have been panting like a dog. As it was, I barely drew in enough air for speech, so my reply came out a lot milder than I felt.
The lights on the dance floor rose a little, and Roland and Faustine enjoyed their extended bows, then broke apart to do the other half of their job. He picked out a lady from one of the closer tables and invited her to a foxtrot. Faustine simply stood in place and a couple of guys nearly broke their necks trying to be the first to get to her for a turn. The shorter and more nimble of the pair won, and she granted him the honor of her company. Within a minute the floor was half-full of other dancers.
Everything for everyone else was as normal as could be. I hung on by my fingernails and managed not to slip, convulsing, under the damn table.
Escott found the small switch for the broken lamp and made sure the juice was off. "I suppose this is an improvement over your pacing and the jumping up to stare out windows and not talking for hours on end. Any more left to go?"
"Donno. Just that red light caught me by surprise. It looked like... reminded me... you know."
"No need to go into it. Has this happened before?"
"No. Yes." Now why in hell had I said that aloud?
"Indeed?" He expected more information. Waited me out.
"W-when my guard's down. Or if I think too much. I don't dare relax."
"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 denned 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."
"Let's not overdo things." He looked alarmed.
"Okay, but at least cake and ice cream and a few balloons. We deserve a little celebration."
"Well... all right. Thank you." Under the reticence he seemed pleased.
I actually felt normal, even cheerful, for having a purpose in life again. One that didn't involve mayhem and killing.
It lasted nearly a whole minute.
The layout of the club's main room was such that from most any point in the horseshoe-shaped tiers of tables, you could see the entry and thus anyone coming in. That's how I spotted Evie, the little dancer who was so inexplicably sweet on Alan Caine. One of the waiters came up to guide her to a table, but she started talking to him, looking upset even at this distance. She still wore her overcoat, gloves, and hat, and carried a big purse. Under all that I glimpsed spangles on her stockings and the flashy shoes she wore for her dance routine with Alan Caine.
"Now what?" I asked.
Escott followed my look. "Trouble?"
"I hope not. She's the chorus girl I told you about. The one that Hoyle was going to use for a football."
"Hm. Then it's likely trouble, else she'd be at the Nightcrawler doing her show. Let's hope he didn't return to finish what you interrupted."
"She seems to be okay."
The waiter gave in to whatever Evie wanted, leading her up the long, carpeted stairs. He couldn't have known I was here and must have decided to turn the problem over to Escott.
Who must have got that, too. "For what we are about to receive..." Escott muttered out the side of his mouth.
"May we be truly thankful," I also muttered, completing the blasphemous old battle prayer.