The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 40
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
“I’m glad to hear it, but I’m not going rounds with him.”
“You might if you surprise him the wrong way.”
“I’m not surprising him at all. The only reason they want to kill me is because they think you’re dead. He knows you, just go in and tell him to lay off.”
“Oh.” He seemed nonplussed about the reminder. “Yeah. I’ll do that then.”
I held back, and he went first, calling Broder’s name and identifying himself. After a few long minutes he returned.
“Copacetic.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
I wasn’t so confident, but followed him in.
Broder was damn near as big as Gordy and didn’t look nearly as friendly and gregarious. I’d have tagged him for a wrestler, but he lacked the thick paunch around the middle most of them had. Football, then, and his teammates would nickname him “Bulldozer.” He looked more maneuverable and a lot harder to knock over. He regarded me with hooded, unfriendly brown eyes.
“Broder,” said Kroun, “this is Jack Fleming, the guy you’re not going to kill after all.”
Broder grunted; his voice box must have originally been dug out of the ground somewhere and replanted in him, the tone was that deep. He didn’t offer to shake hands, and I was glad of it.
“Okay, that was nice,” said Kroun, who could see this was as chummy as we’d ever get. “Fleming, if you’d bring in the last member of the party, we can finish this up.”
At the mention of the other guy, I was sure Broder growled. It was so low it might have been the rumble of a diesel engine from two streets over.
The light behind the bar flickered. Myrna was letting me know she was on watch. Kroun and Broder both looked at it.
“You should change that bulb,” Kroun said.
“I’ll make a note,” I said, and went outside.
The wind had a nasty bite. I rarely noticed the cold, which meant it must be a really bad night for regular folks. Because of it, I expected the man in the trunk to be half-frozen and in need of a blanket and something hot to drink.
I expected, but didn’t count on it, and drew my gun as I lifted the lid.
Good thing, too. He came out swinging. He’d gotten free of the ropes and had a tire iron in one hand and a long screwdriver in the other. I jumped back as he lashed hard with the iron in a lethal backhand. He missed breaking my knee by a gnat’s whisker.
“Hey!” I yelled, which didn’t do a damn bit of good. He boiled out, staggered for balance, then went for me, mad as spit. I moved a lot faster to get clear. He was too far gone to notice the gun. When he did see it, he made a determined swipe with the screwdriver.
Damn. I couldn’t tell if he was nuts for real or gambling I wouldn’t shoot. A gun’s only good if you intend to use it.
He had me there. Time to cheat. I pocketed the revolver, ducked around the bulk of the car, and vanished. Almost immediately I reversed, knowing he’d been right after me.
Yeah. He was just there, probably realizing I wasn’t where I should have been. He hesitated a second, which was all I needed to get behind him. Reappearing, I put him in a full nelson. He was no shrimp, but I had a supernatural edge in strength. I aimed sideways toward the building and launched us against it—only I vanished an instant before impact. Momentum did the rest.
He hit it pretty hard, to judge by the thump and grunt. I went solid. He’d lost the screwdriver and was wheezing, having had his breath knocked out. I dipped in before he could recover and plucked the tire iron away. He started for me again, but his energy was gone. I sidestepped like a matador and grabbed the back of his coat collar as he passed, hauling him around so he fell forward across the hood of the car.
“Settle down, pal, we’re just going to talk,” I said, catching and twisting one arm behind him.
“Go to hell,” he puffed, struggling.
I pushed until his face was mashed against the metal and lifted his arm a few notches. Any more would break or dislocate it depending on where I put the pressure. He still struggled. “I’ve already been there, thanks to you and Hog Bristow.”
At that name, and the emphasis I placed on it, he paused.
“We talk,” I said quietly. “And maybe have a drink. You wanna get out of the cold?”
He thought it over, then nodded. I let him up easy, ready for another round. He rubbed his arm instead, his gaze sharp. “This is your club.”
That was a quick recovery. He knew how to land on his feet. “Broder’s waiting for you.”
His eyes flickered. How did I know the name? Then he figured it out. “Where is he?”
“In the bar. Great guy. I want him to meet my sister.”
That got me the kind of glare I was used to; nobody likes a wiseacre. “Is he all right?”
“Just peachy,” I said, mimicking Kroun. “C’mon and see for yourself.”
I tossed the iron and screwdriver in the trunk, slammed the lid, and walked toward the front of the club. The man followed, alert to trouble. His hand went to the inside of his coat, a familiar gesture for those used to a shoulder rig. He’d certainly know his gun was gone; it was an unconscious habit, like looking at your wrist whether the watch is there or not.
I opened the door to Lady Crymsyn and motioned him in. He gave me a fierce once-over. In the brighter light, his eyes were a very startling blue, like honest-to-God sapphires. I’d have to keep him away from Bobbi. She had a weakness for blue-eyed guys. Those peepers and the film-star looks could keel her over.
He stepped in and halted. The club’s décor was impressive: black and white marble, chrome trim, a high ceiling, and enough red to justify the name. Over the entry to the main room hung the larger-than-life portrait of Lady Crymsyn herself. She didn’t really exist, but a lot of men wanted her phone number all the same.
My new guest was focused elsewhere, gaping and suddenly white-faced at the sight of a nonchalant Kroun standing next to the bar. “Gabriel,” he whispered. “Son of a bitch.”
“You keep my mother out of this, Michael,” said Kroun, without humor.
I glanced speculatively at Broder. If his first name was Raphael, we could move this to a church soup kitchen and have a quick prayer service.
He glared back, and I thought better about asking.
4
THIS bunch did not indulge in a tearful reunion over Kroun’s miraculous return from the grave. Not that I expected anything in even distant view of the maudlin, but maybe at least a handshake traded between acquaintances. Michael had been willing to kill me over Kroun, after all, but that business must have been more to do with restoration of mob honor than revenge for the mobster himself.
Michael got over enough of his shock to speak. “What the hell happened to you?”
Kroun leaned against one end of the lobby bar, Broder anchored himself solidly at the other, and Michael stood slightly distanced, able to see them both. Occasionally, his gaze cut to me, but without hostility, just including me in the proceedings. He didn’t have to bother; this was their business, not mine.
While Kroun related his escape from the jaws of death, I eased past Broder and checked behind the bar. Everything was normal, not a bottle out of place. Despite the unlocked front door, no one had burgled the joint, and I didn’t think it was just good luck. Maybe I needed to thank Myrna for looking after things. She was quite a good guardian angel.
I noticed I stood on the permanently stained tile that marked the spot where she’d bled to death. No matter that the tile had been replaced several times, the stain just kept reappearing. I moved off it.
Broder watched me as though I might plan to slip arsenic into the gin and offer him the bottle.
“Like anything?” I asked.
“No.”
That earthquake-deep growl would take getting used to, and I’d had more than my share of experience at dealing with intimidating types. He shifted his attention back to Kroun, and though his face was impassive, Broder’s body was tense. From the look in his eyes, I got the idea that he actively hated the man.
“Mitch?” said Michael, all stunned disbelief. His reaction looked and sounded sincere, which meant he’d not believed anything I’d said back at the house. “But Mitch was—why the hell would he take the chance?”
Kroun did more explaining about his homicidal henchman. I wondered when he’d get around to hypnotizing them so they’d go on their merry way. I had to get to the hospital before visiting hours ended.
“Why didn’t you call me, send a telegram?” Michael wanted to know.
Kroun explained that as well. He’d shrugged from his coat, placing it and the new fedora carefully on the bar, and eased onto one of the stools as though we had all night. I concentrated on being invisible without actually disappearing. The other two remained in place, sponging up his every word. He made it sound plausible. Hell, I knew the real story, and he had me believing the eyewash.
But Michael didn’t like what he heard. “We came all the way out here, nearly killed him”—he jerked a thumb at me—“and that’s it?”
“It’s enough,” said Kroun. “Don’t go blaming Fleming, either. I told him to keep shut until I knew the score.”
Told, I thought. Nicely chosen, having it seem like I was one of the boys following orders the same as any other soldier in their line of work. Fine, whatever it took to get rid of these two.
Counting Kroun, make that three.
He continued. “Fleming’s off the hook for my murder and whatever else you can think up. Call Derner, tell him everything’s squared, and take the next train back, we’re done.”
“They still made a try for you. I can’t let that pass.”
“There is no ‘they.’ Mitch was my man, and Hoyle was already on the outs here. No one else is responsible for their shenanigans. I know that, the question is why you can’t get it through your thick skull.”
Michael’s eyes sparked and narrowed. Broder shifted.
Kroun didn’t seem to notice. “C’mon, Mike. If it’ll make you feel better, sock Fleming in the jaw a few times, call it payback, and have done already.”
It wouldn’t have hurt me much, but that wasn’t going to happen this side of hell. Michael didn’t bother looking my way, just shook his head at Kroun.
“Okay,” he said. “I get it. Mitch was a bad apple, he’s gone—and you’re ready to forgive and forget?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s not like you.”
“What can I say? People change.”
“Sure they do. See it all the time.”
I’d long picked up on a deeper tension between them. Though Kroun was one of Michael’s people, he behaved like the man in control. Michael made him work for it, though. Come to think of it, Michael could have been disappointed about Kroun’s surviving.
“Maybe good old Mitch was acting on his orders,” I said to Kroun. Not smart of me to provoke a fight, but I wanted him to start convincing these guys to leave.
He turned my way. “Ya think? What about it, Michael? You want my job?”
“Go to hell.” Michael’s reaction was instant, right on the surface. He made no effort to mask his disgust.
Kroun’s relaxed expression remained the same, but he went utterly still. His friend had crossed a line. Maybe they both had. Oh, crap. Kroun was armed. If his eyes got empty again, I’d have to try and stop him. This was my place, and it had seen enough blood.
Myrna must have agreed. All the lights suddenly flickered, dimming, but not quite going out. This went on for maybe ten long seconds, then they steadied up normal again. It successfully broke the mood, creating a new one.
Michael snapped around at me, suspicious.
“Electrical short,” I explained.
“Who else is here?”
“Nobody but us chickens.”
He didn’t believe me. “Broder.”
Broder nodded, pulled out a revolver big enough to stop a charging rhino with one shot, and headed toward the main room. The curving hall leading into it was dark.
“Wait,” I said.
He paused.
“You might need this.” I tossed him a flashlight. There were a dozen of them scattered throughout the club, Myrna was that playful. He caught it one-handed, neat and solid. “But it’s just a short. Electric panel’s over there.” I pointed to a spot on the wall next to the lobby phone booth. The utility was hidden by a red velvet curtain. Michael crossed to check on it, then motioned for Broder to continue. His footsteps faded.
It got quiet enough that I could hear Michael’s heartbeat. A little fast. He shouldn’t be so nervous.
“Drink?” I suggested.
“No, thank you.”
“At least a short beer.” I drew one and put it on the bar. “You gotta be thirsty after that trunk business, which I’m sorry about, by the way.”
His focus shifted from Kroun, finally, and he came over for the beer. “You got some nerve.”
“That part was my doing,” said Kroun.
Damn. I wanted him to shut up so I could keep his pal’s attention divided. Kroun seemed hell-bent on thinking up new ways to be fatally irritating.
Michael downed half the beer. Booze would have been better for such a cold night, but he didn’t strike me as one who went for the hard stuff. I’d hung out in my share of dives and had learned a little about other drinkers.
“I got your stuff,” I said. I pulled out the spoils I’d taken from him, spreading them on the counter.
He went first for the glasses case, opened it, and put them on. The gold wire-rims reflected the lights, making it harder to see his eyes. He looked less like a film star and more like the kind of brainy guy who lived in the college library. Neither image was in keeping with the reality that he was a big wheel in the New York mob.
He checked the wallet, put it away, then gave me a hard stare, mitigated quite a lot by the specs. It was difficult to take him seriously while he had those on.
“What?” I asked.
“The money,” he said with a pronounced frown.
Money? Oh.
“I’ve got it,” said Kroun, casually. He was messing with his handkerchief, his attention wholly on it. He shook open and refolded it so four points spilled over the top of his breast pocket like a tired flower.
“Hand it back,” said Michael.
“Hm…” Kroun pretended to think, then shook his head. “No.”
“That’s my money, dammit.”
“You found where I hid it in my hotel room. I recognize the clips. Next time I’ll trust it to a safe.”
“I thought you were—”
“Dead? That’s a good reason to take it. I forgive you.”
“One of those is mine.”
“Huh. You’re right.” Kroun searched, produced the cash, and removed the money, tossing the empty clip to Michael.
He caught it reflexively, scowling. “Funny.”
“You can spare it. You must own a bank or three by now. I bet you’ve made more in the last ten minutes than most guys see in a lifetime.”
Glowering, Michael finished his beer and turned down my offer for a second. I washed the mug, stacking it with the others under the counter, just your friendly neighborhood barkeep.
We all jumped when something big crashed in the next room. I recognized the sound: chairs clattering, hitting the floor, lots of them. Kroun’s hand went to his pocket, but he glanced at me. I shook my head to signal “don’t worry” and he eased off, doubtful.
Michael was just to the curved entry hall when Broder appeared, nearly running into him. For a big guy he had speed, but he hauled up short, as though he’d been caught in an embarrassing act.
“What is it?” Michael demanded.
Broder scowled. He was good at that. “Nothing.”
No one bought it.
“The lights were out,” he went on. “I bumped a table in the dark. Knocked things over. The batteries are dead.” He threw the flashlight. I caught it less neatly than he had earlier but spared the bottles behind me from breakage.
Under the counter, I clicked the light’s button. The thing worked just fine now. It would be unwise to point that out to anyone, so I quietly put it away. Myrna was expanding her activities. What a gal.
“Find anything?” asked Michael.
Broder holstered his cannon. “A lot of dark. Heat’s off back there. Cold as hell.” For all that, he was sweating, a sheen covered his broad face, and beads gathered at his temples. The heating was the same throughout the building. I’d not turned it down. He had a tan similar to Michael’s, but under it, his skin had gone muddy. When he approached the bar, I tried catching a whiff of his scent and was rewarded with the unmistakable tang of fear.
Looked like Myrna had found a new playmate for the evening. What had she done? Maybe it was better not to know. I poured Broder a whiskey without being asked, and this time he accepted, downing it quick.
“You okay?” I asked.
That got me a suspicious look; he knew I knew something about what had spooked him. “I am fine.”
“Are we done here?” Kroun asked.
“Yes,” Michael said shortly. “There’s a late train back to New York tonight—”
“Enjoy the trip.”
Michael visibly steamed. “You’re coming, too.”
“Uh-uh. I’ve got unfinished business.”
What the hell? The three of us glared at him, waiting for the rest. Kroun spread the handkerchief out flat, refolded it, and tucked it back so two neat triangles showed over the pocket.
“Which one’s better?” he asked. “This or the other way?”
“Like that,” I said. “What unfinished business?”
“Don’t get your feelings hurt, but I had other things to do out here besides bumping you off.” He flicked at his pocket with one finger. “You sure? I liked the other way.”
“So do floorwalkers. What other things?”
“A floorwalker? Nah…not in this suit.”
“Whitey,” said Michael. “We’re going back to New York. You don’t have any more business here.”
