Mob Magic, page 13
"It'll be all right, kid," I purred. "It's okay. Don't worry. We're gonna get you outta here."
"Oh, Kitty," she said, picking me up and hugging me, "what am I going to do?"
"Hey, hey, put me down," I said. "I don't like to be picked up, okay? And I could do without the squeezing. Nothing personal, all right?"
"I'm sorry," she said, putting me down. "I forgot. You're not just an ordinary house cat, are you?"
"Bite your tongue," I said. "I'm a private investigator and your sister hired me to find you. She's come to take you home."
Phoenix looked away. "I can't go back," she said. "Much as I'd like to, I just can't. Not after what's happened. Not after ... what I've done."
"Sure you can," I told her. "Look, Phoenix, everybody makes mistakes. It's what makes people human."
"Yeh, what would you know about it? You're a cat."
"What, you think cats don't make mistakes? You ever see a cat jump out of a ninth-story window, trying to catch a pigeon sitting on the windowsill? They say cats always land on their feet, but that doesn't do much good when you're traveling 190 miles an hour. You ever see a Siamese with its paws up where its ears should be?"
She stared at me and then began to laugh. That meant there was hope.
"Come on, kid," I said. "I'm taking you outta here."
"Paco will never let me go," she said. And then she shuddered. "At first, I thought he was kinda cute and cuddly, but he's crazy. And he's dangerous."
"Hell, you could knock him over with potholder," I said. "How dangerous can he be?"
"You don't know Paco."
"Yeah, I do. We've had a few run-ins before. And notice I'm still here. Come on, put some clothes on and let's get out of here."
She threw on some jeans, a pair of boots and a sweatshirt and we headed out the door. The coast was clear all the way down the hall and to the elevator. The laughter and the moans had ceased coming from behind door numbers four and six, but whoever was rattling the chains was working overtime. We took the elevator down to the lobby. Paco and the goons were waiting for us when we came out. Phoenix gasped and froze right in her tracks.
"Gomez, Gomez, did you really think that I was just gonna let you walk outta here with my investment?" Paco said, trembling with malice. "You didn't really think you could sneak out, did you? Guess you didn't notice the cameras, huh?"
"I noticed them," I said. "In the lobby, in the elevator, and in the corridors upstairs. I'm betting you got some hidden in the rooms, as well, so you can run a little blackmail racket on the side."
"Like I said, Gomez, you're in the wrong business. You oughtta come and work for me. You're too smart to waste yourself on being a shamus. But maybe not quite smart enough, eh?"
"Smart enough not to come here and try to tangle with you without reinforcements," I said.
The deep, rumbling growls coming from behind them made Paco and the meatbags turn around. Bruno stood behind them in the lobby, growling, fangs bared, saliva dripping from his muzzle. Erich, the big wolfhound from the Plaza, stood beside him, looking like a goddamn rabid nightmare from the Scottish moors.
Paco yelped and took off like a shot, scrambling straight up the trunk of a potted corn plant like a goddamn squirrel. I didn't even know Chihuahuas could climb like that. It was pretty damn impressive.
"Shoot 'em! Shoot 'em!" he yipped, from his perch up in the leaves.
Guido went for his gun first, but the problem with carrying a cannon with an eight inch barrel in a shoulder holster was that you couldn't draw it all that fast. He hadn't even cleared leather when Bruno landed on his chest like a defensive end sacking a quarterback. Meatbag Number Two at least managed to get his gun out, but big Erich snagged him by the wrist, gave his head a shake, and flipped him over on his back like an aikido master. Meatbag Number Three had a .45 Comp gun in a speed rig. He had already drawn a bead on Bruno when I let him have it with ole Betsy, blasting him with a blue bolt of thaumaturgic energy that singed his chest and threw him back against the wall, unconscious. I heard a sickening crunch, followed by a high-pitched scream, and realized that Guido was gonna be singing soprano from then on.
Erich was showing a bit more restraint. The big wolfhound looked down at the big goon he'd thrown and said, "Had enough, little fella? Or do you wanna play some more?"
You really don't want to argue when you're flat on your back and a dog the size of a Buick is sitting on your chest. The meatbag shook his head and remained perfectly still.
"You're not gonna get away with this, Gomez!" Paco yipped down at me from the potted tree. He was shivering like a leaf, shaking with fury. "I'm not gonna forget this! You hear me, Cat? You and I ain't through!"
"In case you forgot, Paco," I said, "cats can climb trees, too."
He shut up then, but I knew I hadn't heard the last from him. We had danced before, and I knew we'd dance again. The city was plenty big enough for both of us, but that didn't mean we had to like it.
The doorman in his fancy, braided uniform held the door open for us as we came out.
"Thanks, Abe," said Erich, with a nod at him.
"Anytime, ole buddy," said the doorman.
Phoenix stared at them, confused.
"Same union," I said.
"But won't he get fired?" Phoenix asked.
"Not unless that little rat wants his place of business picketed," said Erich. "That could tend to draw a bit too much attention."
"Thanks, Erich," I said. "I owe ya one. And you, too, Bruno."
"Hey, you bailed me outta the pound after I took a piece of Richards," said the shepherd. "You don't owe me nuthin'."
"What do you think, Erich?" I asked. "You got some work for this crazed police dog at the Plaza?"
Erich cocked his massive head. "How about an escort for our single guests who like to go jogging through the park at night and early in the morning?" he said. "Salary plus tips."
"Hey, works for me," said Bruno. "Thanks."
"Somebody had better warn the muggers," I said.
Then Phoenix let out a squeal when she saw the limo from the Plaza pull up to the curb with her sister, Sedona, sitting in the back seat. A moment later, they were in each other's arms, laughing and crying at the same time.
"I sure do love happy endings," Erich said. "Come on, Gomez. We'll give you a lift downtown."
"No, thanks, big guy," I said. "It's a nice night. I think I'll take the long way home and cut through some back alleys, just for old times' sake."
"Suit yourself," the wolfhound said. "Come on, Bruno. Let's go."
As they piled into the car, Sedona Summers looked over and said, "Thank you."
I gave her a little energy twinkle with ole Betsy. "Just doing my job, ma'am," I said. She gave me a dazzling smile, got back into the car, and then the driver shut the door, got in, and pulled away. I watched the car recede into the distance down the rain-slicked street and thought about what the big wolfhound had said. I liked happy endings, too. It was a cool, crisp night. I headed back downtown with my head up and just a bit of swagger in my step.
* * *
THE QUICK WAY DOWN
by P. N. "Pat" Elrod
Gordy Weems trudged up to my table, his phlegmatic face showing a muted combination of annoyance and disgust. "I got a stiff in the men's John," he stated.
I refrained from making any obvious jokes. He was too serious. The Nightcrawler Club, of which he was the manager, was a class operation; bodies in the toilet were not the norm for such a fancy joint. Sure, Gordy ran a very large hunk of Chicago's underworld territory, but he was too careful and smart to bump anyone on his own property.
"Not from natural causes?" I knew the answer, but had to ask just to be sure.
"A pill in the heart. I figure a .22. There's not much blood. When his tie's in place, it hides the hole."
I had no curiosity to ask how he'd determined that little detail. "Who?"
"Alby Cornish."
I was impressed. Alby was—or had been—an up-and-coming boxer being groomed for important fights. He could throw a right that would knock down a barn and knew how to take a dive and make it look real.
Gordy turned his head slightly, making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop. "He was here all evening with that club singer, Ruth Phillips. They were living it up pretty good until about an hour ago."
"What happened an hour ago?"
"Ruth's boyfriend caught them."
No need to say more. Ruth Phillips was known to be tight as a tick with Soldier Burton, a tougher-than-average mug who got the moniker for his uncanny ability to march from courtrooms free and clear of all charges, if not of all suspicion. He started out as an enforcer during Prohibition and now ran a ring of bookie joints. I could guess that he'd taken Ruth to the fights one time too many, and the sight of Alby's sweaty, well-muscled body had made an impression on her.
Gordy snorted. "The bouncers said everything looked okay. Nobody made a fuss. Ruth took off, leaving Cornish and Burton at the table. They talked and had drinks, watched the show, then went to the lobby. I figure they stopped in the toilet for a leak, and Burton popped him during the drum finale."
The club's band had a hell of a drummer. Between his work and the blare of the horn section during that number Burton could have fired off a cannon and no one would have noticed.
"I need help, Fleming," said Gordy.
Now I was surprised. "You got it, but what can I do? You must have ten other guys who can move a body just as easy as me."
"Yeah, but they don't need to know about this and be talking to the wrong people. Soldier Burton's ambitious. He's been trying to bite pieces off my territory for over a year now. It's no accident he left Cornish here. He wants to make trouble for me with the New York bosses. I'll lay you short odds he's already called the cops."
The drum finale had been about five minutes ago. "We better get the lead out, then."
He nodded once, and I boosted from my regular table up on the third tier overlooking the stage and followed him to the plush lobby.
"Where was the attendant when this happened?" I asked, pitching my voice low and casual.
"On break getting a sandwich. When a show's playing, nobody gets up to use the John, so he's usually away then. Tonight he comes back, finds what he found, and tells me about it."
"Will he spill to anyone else?"
"He'll keep shut, likes his job too much. He's taking another break. A long one."
The men's room was fancy: gold-veined black marble floors, gold-plated faucets. You half expected the water flowing out to be scented. There was only one patron left, and he was just drying his hands. We waited for him to clear, then Gordy went to the last stall and pushed the door wide. Alby Cornish was slumped on the toilet seat, legs splayed and arms dangling, looking asleep, but definitely not breathing. He had a fighter's beat-up face and was dressed sharp as a Broadway hoofer. Gordy had been right about the tie hiding the bullet hole, but ten feet away I could still smell the blood. It teased at me, as it always did, the way the scent of fresh-baked bread teases at a normal person. I'd fed earlier that night at the Stockyards, so my corner teeth stayed in place, but even if I hadn't, the sight of Cornish's pathetic remains would have killed all hunger.
"We pretend he's drunk?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"Where do we take him? The lake?"
"To Soldier Burton's place."
"Huh?"
"He wanted to make trouble for me. It's gonna bounce right back at him. If you don't mind helping."
I didn't mind, but I wanted more of an explanation. Unfortunately, there wasn't time to get one, not if the cops were on their way. We lurched from the John with Alby between us, his limp arms hauled chummily around our shoulders. A few of the regulars in the lobby bar saw us dragging him past and hooted at his inability to hold liquor. A couple of the bouncers looked our way, but Gordy headed them off and said he was handling things. We collected Alby's hat from the check desk and jammed it on his head. It made him look more like a foolish drunk than a dead man.
We took him out into the muggy heat of an early summer night. Even the breeze off the nearby lake was no help at clearing the close air. The bloodsmell rose thick from Alby's corpse, throwing me off my stride as we got him down the steps.
"Cops," I said, spotting a radio car as it turned onto the far end of the street. "C'mon, my buggy's just over there."
We moved steadily so as not to draw attention, but we got it anyway. Even as we shoved Alby into the back seat of my Buick, the prowl car pulled up and both uniforms got out. Apparently they'd been told what to look for.
Gordy straightened to his full height, which was considerable, and waited for them. He made no outward show of it, but I could tell he was dangerously tense. His heartbeat was loud to my sensitive ears. There was a chance he could buy these two off, but it would give them a hold on him.
"Lemme handle it," I said out of the side of my mouth.
His gaze flicked sharply at me, and he made a very tiny grunting sound.
"Evening, officers." I moved to the left so I was under the full glare of a street lamp. What I had planned for them required light enough for them to see me. "What's the problem?"
Two minutes later they were driving off, calling in to report a false alarm. It seems the dispatcher had sent them to the club to check on an anonymous tip about a body on the premises. Gordy and I got into my car and took a different direction away.
"How do you do that?" he asked, sparing a glance out the back window for the cops' receding taillights.
"Native talent." I'd hypnotized them faster than any stage magician and planted a few easy suggestions to make them forget all about us. "It comes with the condition."
"Along with the blood drinking and vanishing act?" Gordy knew all about me being a vampire.
"Yeah."
"Jeeze." He'd seen me do my special evil-eye whammy on mugs before, but he was still impressed by it. I asked for directions to Soldier Burton's place. He gave them, then settled back in silence for the rest of the ride.
We'd met last August, soon after my brutal demise at the hands of another mobster. Under the orders of his boss, Gordy had tried to beat some information out of me, but I didn't hold that against him. It's a tough world. Besides, after what I'd been through in the dying and the coming back from it, a couple of fists in the gut were a regular cakewalk to me. Over the course of a few rough jams we'd developed an odd sort of friendship and mutual respect for each other, so that's why I didn't think twice about helping him to move a corpse halfway across Chicago.
I parked in a dark patch by the service door of a swank building of ten or so stories and cut the motor. Gordy's plan was simple: Get what was left of Alby Cornish up to the penthouse floor where Burton lived, then call the cops.
"I know a homicide dick who's been itching to cuff Burton for years," said Gordy.
It sounded okay to me, and now I could see another reason why he'd wanted my company. He needed my other talent for vanishing and getting through the cracks around locked doors. I did just that to the service entrance, which would only open from the inside. Once in, I pushed on the bar and Gordy strolled past, carrying Alby's two hundred fifty pounds on one shoulder with ease. We found the service elevator and took it to the penthouse floor without encountering anyone.
"Wouldn't it be better if Alby were actually in the apartment?" I asked.
"It would, so long as you don't get caught."
"Fat chance of that."
I did my vanishing act again, this time slipping under the servant's entry to reappear in a fancy kitchen which was cleaned up for the night and empty. The place was quiet; Soldier Burton was probably off making an alibi for himself. I slipped the door open and told Gordy I'd take it from there.
"You don't have to."
"It's being practical. If someone walks in, I can get scarce, you can't. Go down to the car, wait a few minutes, then call your tame cop to come over. I'll be gone by the time he arrives."
A reasonable man, he handed the body over to me, along with the hat. If it weren't so damned macabre, the whole thing would have struck me as being like a frat house prank. Things were too serious for laughter, though. I could feel the dead man's weight right down to my soul. Not an hour ago he'd been leading a crooked but fairly harmless life, having a stolen good time with a pretty girl. Now he was a piece of meat headed for the coroner's knife.
Hurrying from the kitchen, I soon found what I wanted, a bathroom. I eased Alby onto the toilet and damned if he didn't lapse into the same sprawling posture as in the club's stall. I placed the hat on his head at a jaunty angle and told myself that his killer would pay—if Burton was indeed the killer, but I had no reason to doubt Gordy's line of reasoning or his word. Sure, he and Burton had a stew going between them over territory, but from what I knew of it, Burton was more annoyance than threat. This business had just upped the ante. Too bad for him that Gordy was a sharper player and had an ace like me in the hole.
Then I turned around and discovered a whole new change in the game.
Facing me was a blonde angel, all satin curves in lavender pajamas but with a look on her kisser that declared her to be tougher than a keg of nails. Before I could fully register its presence, the revolver in her dainty pink hand gave a nasty snap in my direction, and something exploded above my left knee. My leg stopped working. I dropped, clutching the sudden burning wound and cursing.
She didn't say anything that I noticed, I was too busy trying to stay solid. For this shooting there was plenty of blood. The lead had gone right though my thigh. The holes were knitting up, though. The process was fast, but damned painful. My usual reaction to a bad hurt is to vanish, which would instantly heal things, but it didn't seem a good idea to give in to it while angel-girl was watching.
"Ruthie? What the hell are you doing?" A man's startled voice called from farther in the flat, accompanied by approaching footsteps.
"What do you think? I told you I heard something." Ruth Phillips, for I recognized her now, rounded on someone behind her. "You bastard! You told me you'd taken care of Alby!"
