The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 28
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
I accepted the gift and used it. My ears no longer streamed blood, but the leftover gore must have been an alarming sight. “Thank you.”
“Come in back, we’ll get you cleaned up.”
Back, meaning a bathroom or kitchen, meaning mirrors at some point. I pulled enough of my scrambled thoughts together to thank her again. “This is more than enough.”
“We gotta get him out of here,” Coldfield told her. “We gotta all get moving.”
“The hotel,” said Isham.
“Farther than that.”
“The club.” He’d mean Coldfield’s place, the Shoebox. But we had to check another place first.
“Call Lady Crymsyn,” I said. “Charles is there by now. If there’s other bombs…” It finally got through that I’d seen one going off.
“Jeez.” Coldfield, moving with astonishing speed for his size, threaded past dark aisle displays toward a door, where presumably he would find a phone. I hoped Escott would answer.
“The lobby number,” I called after. “Try that one. Let it ring.”
The fire rain of blown-up car pieces had stopped, but not the smoke. The wreckage lay all over the street, shattered windows gaped, their stares blank and cold. Most were ground floor, though a few second-story ones were gone. I hoped to God no one had been in front of any of them.
Isham left the grocers for a look-see, keeping a healthy distance from the car and moving fast. I went as well, standing just clear of the door. No other casualties were in view, but people were cautiously emerging, Coldfield’s soldiers. Isham talked to some of them, and they began to melt away from the attraction. By the time I heard the first fire-engine siren, the street was empty except for civilian types. Other cars rolled up, full of vultures who’d come to view the burning body. The smoke forced most of them upwind. A white man came over and asked if I was all right.
I swabbed the towel around, hoping to get the telltale blood off my face and neck. “Yeah, I’m fine, got cut by flying glass. Did you see what happened?”
“Was gonna ask you. Looks like the gas tank blew. Must have been a humdinger. Anyone in it?”
“I donno. Hope not.”
“Anyone else see?” He pulled out a notebook and a chewed pencil, and I recognized yet another of my own kind. What used to be, anyway.
“I don’t think so.”
“Hey, I know you, don’t I?” He gave me a squint. “You got that fancy nightclub. The one what had the body in the basement—”
“I gotta go.” I retreated into the grocery. People on the sidewalk parted for me, but closed up for him. He shrugged and looked for other witnesses.
It hadn’t really sunk in yet about Kroun. Hard to think beyond the burning car. The flames were less now, running out of fuel.
Coldfield returned. “Charles is fine. He’ll keep his eyes open and not be driving. You and me, this way.” He headed to the back.
He was in a hurry, but I paused long enough to leave the stained towel on the counter and fish out my wallet. I pressed five twenties into the woman’s hand.
She backed a step. “No, we couldn’t…”
“For the window.”
“It’s too much!”
“I’m apologizing, as well, ma’am.”
I rushed after Coldfield, who had cut left down the alley and was waiting impatiently by a row of trash cans. As he turned I only then noticed his coat was smeared with street dirt. Apparently the blast had knocked him down, too. I’d been much closer. There was a singed patch on my jacket and holes torn in my shirt. It was black so no staining showed, but I could smell my own blood on the fabric, along with the smoke.
With me half a step behind him, he led us down a much more narrow alley that opened to the next street. Just as we emerged Isham pulled up in Coldfield’s Nash, barely braking, and we dove into the back.
This car was also armored, for all the good it would do.
I looked when we had enough distance and saw the smoke rising over the buildings, thundering fast and black against what for me was pale gray sky.
“No one’s gonna follow,” said Coldfield, misinterpreting.
“Where we going?”
“My club.”
“Drop me at the Nightcrawler.”
“You joking?”
“I got things to do or there really will be hell to pay. Kroun comes to Chicago, gets killed, and, if I don’t get the blame, it will drop like a ton of bricks on Gordy. I gotta steer that away.”
“Seems to me you should be keeping your head a lot lower. I give you a talking-to, then bang-boom, there you are on the damn sidewalk being another damn mess.”
“Thanks for pulling me clear.”
“Thought you were a goner when that hit. Isham, who the hell got close enough to the car to rig that thing?”
“No one, Shoe. We watched it good.”
“It didn’t happen here,” I said. “Someone had to have done it earlier. The guys know Gordy’s car and that Kroun and I have been using it. Anyone could have wired it up at any time.”
“Why didn’t it go off sooner, then?”
“The trigger might have been on the passenger door. Kroun didn’t get in on that side when we left. It was pure chance. It was supposed to take me and Kroun out together.” I’d survived a hell of a lot, but being blown to pieces might have done the trick for real.
“So who did it?”
“Mitchell. Kroun’s lieutenant.”
“You sure?”
I spread my hands. “If that was meant just for me, then I’d have other names to give you. But if Kroun was supposed to go, too…the passenger door trigger changes things. A lot of people might know I’d be driving him and that he’d probably sit in the front. Mitchell’s the only one I can think of who’d stand to gain by Kroun’s death. He might be set to take over Kroun’s job if anything happens to his boss. With Kroun getting killed here, the Chicago outfit gets the blame, and Mitchell is clear to walk in. He wouldn’t be the first mug in the world trying to improve himself by knocking off his boss.”
“It worked great for Cassius. Didn’t last. He bought it later.”
“Hah?”
“In Julius Caesar? Cassius got a bunch of other guys to go in with him for the hit on Caesar. Dropping you at the Nightcrawler strikes me as being a really stupid thing to do. You don’t know who could be on Mitchell’s side.”
“I got an edge.”
“Yeah. Sure was helpful against that bomb.”
Actually it had kept me alive and had certainly cured a couple of busted eardrums if not more, but Coldfield needed to grouse and grumble and get it out of his system. He was shaken by the business, and this was his way of handling it.
When he ran down, I said, “I still have to go there and deal with him. I can’t let Gordy catch hell for something I didn’t do.”
Coldfield managed not to heave a huge sigh, just most of one. “All right. Isham, drive this guy to the lion’s den.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Uh-uh, I’m not taking the responsibility.”
“No problem.”
“You’re certain Mitchell’s the guy?”
“At this point he’s the likeliest, but there might be stuff going on I’ve missed or never knew about. I wasn’t exactly tailor-made for these kinds of fun and games.”
“The hell you’re not.” He gave me a look that was meant to include my supernatural condition.
“Maybe now, yeah, but I never wanted this job. That’s why I don’t get all the stuff happening. Too damned trusting. Soon as Gordy’s better I step clear.”
“Amen, brother. This shit’s bad for business.”
“The cops are going to be all over that wreck once it’s cooled down. They’ll eventually trace it to Gordy and want to question him. You got the name of his lawyer so he can run interference?”
“Yeah, Adelle’s had to deal with him. That’s covered.”
“You sure about this trip to the den?”
“I’ll go very carefully.” I checked my watch, but the crystal was cracked right across, the time stopped at the moment I’d been flung backward. It could probably be fixed, even the damaged innards, but I would replace it, buy something with a different face to it so it wouldn’t be constantly reminding me. “You wanna do me a real favor, you and Isham run over to Crymsyn and help Charles stay out of trouble. They might target there next.”
“I told him to get out, go to my club, and I’d put him up, but he said he was staying put.”
“Playing lieutenant,” I said, saying it with an “f.”
ISHAM dropped me a block from the Nightcrawler and drove off. I ghosted the rest of the way in, brushing quick between pedestrians on the walks, giving them a brief, intense chill that had nothing to do with the weather. When I encountered the uncompromising solidity of a building, I rose high, found a window shape, and sieved in. Men were in the room and a radio was on, tuned to some fights, but they didn’t pay much attention, talking over the commentator. I identified a couple of the voices as being regulars who worked the gaming tables below. They were expecting some local politicos tonight, and the pickings would be good except for one guy who was to “win” his weekly payoff. There was a discussion going on over the best way to make it seem like a genuine game.
Shifted from that room to the hall and floated along, counting doors until reaching Gordy’s office. I eased through to the other side and listened, handicapped by this form’s cottonlike muffling. No one seemed to be in. That wasn’t too likely. I pushed on, finally going solid in the bathroom. I kept quiet and waited. Derner was on the phone, and he was pissed.
“Oh, yeah? Well, you get your ass moving and find him! The boss is raising hell over this. If we don’t find Hoyle tonight, tomorrow there’s gonna be fresh food in the lake for the damn fish.”
Since the phone was probably tapped I hoped he meant that threat for effect and wasn’t planning to carry it through. On the other hand, the FBI would like nothing better than for the wiseguys to knock each other off. Less work for them.
Derner hung up. I peered around the door. He was consulting a book for the next number. He dialed, let it ring a long time, then hung up in disgust. Before he could find another to try the phone rang.
“Yeah?” He sounded impatient. There was a glass of water on the desk and a toppled-over bottle of aspirin. He’d been busy. And frustrated.
Silence as he listened. So did I. I could almost make out the speaker’s words on the other end of the line.
“What? What’d you say?” His voice lost its decisive force, like the air had been sucked right from his lungs.
The caller repeated, his tones emphatic.
“Th-that’s impossible. I was just on the phone with him tonight. You sure?” Now he sounded uneasy. I could guess what the bad news must be. “Both of ’em? Where? You sure? Are you? Okay. Stick around, keep an eye on what the cops do. Call me again. I know it’s been busy, you just keep calling!” He slammed the receiver down, staring at the opposite wall with its pastoral painting and probably not seeing it.
After a moment, with elbows on the desk, he slumped until his head was between the heels of his hands. He let out a long low groan, gently rubbing his temples.
“Ahh, jeez. This is too much,” he whispered, eyes shut.
I went semitransparent, floating noiselessly over the floor. Stood right in front of him, going solid. Waited.
He must have had a really bad headache; he didn’t look up. He gave a sluggish jump when the phone rang and muttered a curse.
Then he straightened to answer, saw me, and froze.
After the first yelp, no cursing, no nothing, just pure shock on his face. Couldn’t tell if it was from dismay or guilt, then it slipped suddenly into genuine relief.
“You-you’re okay!”
I nodded, keeping a sober and somber mask on. “What did you hear?”
“One of the boys…said a bomb, the car blew up. Took you and Kroun…” He looked around. “Where is…?”
The phone continued ringing. “Get that,” I said. “I’m still dead. Understand?”
He answered. It was someone else relaying the same bad news. He said he’d heard already and told them to leave the area, then hung up. “Was that what you want?”
“That’s fine. Take the phone off the hook.”
He did so.
“Kroun’s dead. I was there.”
“How’d you get away?”
“I wasn’t in the car when it happened.”
“But you—” He just now noticed my appearance.
“Stuff hit me. I’m not hurt much. Listen, I think Mitchell might have arranged it.”
Derner seemed to hold his breath. He let it out, picked up his water glass, and finished what was left, not looking well.
“Who in this town knows how to rig a bomb?”
The man visibly winced.
“Well?”
“You ain’t gonna like it.”
“Aw, don’t you be telling me—”
“’Fraid so, Boss. Hoyle.”
I didn’t quite hit the ceiling. “Oh, that’s great! That’s just peachy! I thought that son of a bitch was a boxer!”
“He was. But before that he did mining. Out West. He learned how to set charges as a kid. He learned boxing in the mining camp, and that was his ticket out.”
“And in the good old days did he used to run around with Mitchell?”
He shrugged. “I donno. Could have.”
“So how is it Mitchell’s able to find Hoyle when no one else can?”
“Maybe Hoyle found him. It’s no secret him and Kroun came to town. Coulda looked him up, they got to talkin’…”
“Yeah, then decide to kill two birds with one boom.” Which didn’t explain Alan Caine’s death. Maybe he’d overheard something he shouldn’t.
“He ain’t getting out of Chicago alive.” said Derner. “None of them.”
“Make sure New York knows what really happened. I want them to hear it from you first, not Mitchell.”
“Right.” He reached for an index book with phone numbers, then slapped his hand on it. “Damn! I got some good news for you! Ruzzo—they been found. That two-grand reward tipped things. One of the guys phoned in with the name of a hotel and a room number. Not five minutes back. They probably been there under some other name this whole time. I can send some guys to get them now.”
“No, I’ll do it.”
He looked me up and down. “But you need a doctor.”
“The address.”
He gave me what he’d scribbled on notepaper.
“I’m going now. You go on and do what you’ve been doing and play the angle that me and Kroun are both dead. You don’t tell anyone different. Make sure New York understands they have to play along with the act, too, in case Mitchell calls them. If he comes in, pretend go along with whatever he says, find out all you can of what he’s up to. Don’t let him kill you, though.”
“No, Boss.”
“Protect yourself, but we need Mitchell alive to tell us what he’s been doing.” The last thing I wanted was Mitchell catching lead before I had the chance to take him apart myself.
“Right, Boss.”
I hurried to a smaller room off that one. It had once been Bobbi’s bedroom when she’d been with Slick. Completely redone, the stark white walls were partially hidden by gray metal file cabinets, a five-foot-tall map of Chicago, a large neon beer sign meant for outside display, and a desk too ugly for any place public. As depessing as an army barracks, no fond memory of our first encounter stirred in these surroundings.
It did have a fire escape, though. I opened the window and climbed out, thereby giving Derner a plausable explanation for how I’d gotten in in the first place.
Outside, I shut the window, vanished, and, holding close to the side of the building, slipped down to terra firma, then glided over the sidewalk until reasonably sure I was out of sight of the club.
The street where I materialized was busy with early-evening traffic. I walked quickly toward an intersection and waited, palming some dollar bills. I used those to hail a cab, figuring my now-scruffy clothes were not something to inspire trust in any driver. On the third try I got one to pull over and gave him the street for Ruzzo’s hotel.
It was west of the Loop. A good place twenty years ago, less so now. They couldn’t charge the pre-Crash fancy prices to travelers anymore, so they switched to bringing in long-term tenants who didn’t mind that service wasn’t what it used to be. I paid off the driver and sauntered in the opposite direction, circling the block to see what the back alley looked like.
Pretty much what I expected, but the loading-dock area was taking a laundry delivery and full of busy men in work clothes. I blended with them, waving a familiar and confident hello to complete strangers who nodded in return. You can get away with nearly everything doing that. Obligingly I shouldered two paper-wrapped bundles and took them in. I dropped them onto a flat trolley cart with other bundles and, without looking back, kept going down a short hall until I found the service elevator. There was no operator at the moment; he might have been on a coffee break or helping with the delivery. I stepped in and took myself up to the sixth floor.
The inside layout was in a squared off U-shape with the elevators in the middle. I went down the wrong branch, retraced, and found the right door. Ruzzo’s room was at the very end, next to the window that opened to the metal framework of a fire escape. I wondered if they’d chosen it on purpose to have an extra exit or just naturally got lucky.
As I bent down for a look and listen at the keyhole the air in my dormant lungs shifted from the motion, and I got the first whiff of bloodsmell.
Quickly I backed from the door, hands out defensively.
As though the damn thing would break off from its hinges and jump me.
It didn’t.
After a moment, I pulled together enough to think twice about entering. Both times the decision was to go; I just couldn’t bring myself to move.
Never mind peering through the keyhole, just get it over with. Before I could think a third time, I vanished, streamed through the crack above the doorsill, and reformed just inside, but taking it easy.
No lights on, but the blinds were up on the window across the room; plenty of glow came in for me to use.
