“Actually, I do. It’s none of your business, and it’s going to take a while, so don’t expect me back any too soon.”

  Michael’s tanned face went muddy like Broder’s. “No. We’re all leaving. Don’t cross me on this.”

  “Come on, Mike. I nearly got blown to perdition and back, then had to put Mitch down like a rabid dog. I’m taking a rest. You’ve got guys who can fill in for me.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll hang around here, see a few shows, maybe do some fishing—”

  “No!” There was angry force behind that, far more than the situation warranted. Not knowing Michael, I couldn’t tell for sure, but his anger was covering up something else.

  It was…fear. No such vulnerability showed on his face, but I could smell it. I remembered a moment when, with no small shock, I realized that Gordy was afraid of Kroun. Gordy didn’t know about the vampire angle; it had been fear of the man himself. He and Michael had that in common. So, why were they afraid of him, and should I be worried?

  Kroun’s eyes were darker than before. His voice remained low and level and deadly patient. This was Whitey Kroun, not the more affable Gabe. “I’m not getting on that train. If I go back to New York, who’s to say the next guy I run into won’t try to finish what Mitch started? No, thanks. I’m staying here until you’ve done some housecleaning.”

  Michael recovered his self-control. Quickly. Throwing his weight around wouldn’t work. His tone shifted, became the reasonable one of a man willing to compromise. “Okay…come and help me, then. Only you know who you’ve pissed off lately.”

  Kroun barked a short laugh. “That would be everyone.”

  “I’ll make sure you’re protected. No one’s getting another chance at you. I guarantee that.”

  “Thanks very much, but I’m staying—until further notice.”

  Michael’s hand twitched, reminding me of the gun no longer under his coat. Broder didn’t make a move, just watched and listened. Apparently he’d seen this kind of thing before. I tried to read him for a clue as to how it might end, but would have had better luck with a brick wall.

  “It’s the old bastard, isn’t it?” Michael asked. “You’re here to see him.”

  “Yeah,” Kroun admitted, after a moment.

  “It’s no good, he’s crazy, you’ll only stir him up. Stay away from him.”

  Kroun made no reply. Making an effort, I kept my yap shut, wanting to know more.

  Michael glanced at Broder, who did not react.

  Kroun poked at the handkerchief, pulling it out again. A quick refold and he put it back, this time showing a razor-thin edge of white. He looked at me for an opinion. I gave a thumbs-up.

  “I’m gonna look up an old friend or two,” he said. “No one you’d know.”

  “And do what?”

  “None of your damn business, kid. I’m not repeating myself.”

  “Whitey—”

  “Mike.” Kroun raised one hand in a sharp “back off” gesture and met his gaze square and granite-hard. “Enough.”

  Silence stretched, but not to a breaking point, and the lights remained steady. Michael continued, body tense, but his voice was calm. “All right, fine. But since you’re worried about people taking potshots, you’ll have to have a bodyguard. Someone who will be the first person I hold responsible if anything goes wrong.”

  “Not him,” Kroun nodded at Broder, who again did not react.

  “No problem.” Michael looked at me. “He’ll do.”

  “Forget it,” I said instantly.

  “I can take care of myself,” Kroun said.

  Michael’s mouth tightened, not in a smile. “You’ve got a point about being a target. Anything happens to you again, and I break this town like an egg—and Fleming knows it. You’ve vouched for him plenty tonight. He’ll bust heads to keep you safe.”

  I’d also be motivated to get Kroun to leave as soon as possible. That might not be in keeping with his plan to retire from the business. I threw him an expectant look. Now was the time to put them both under and make them leave.

  “Cripes,” Kroun muttered.

  “It’s him, or Broder and I tag along.”

  “Go ahead,” I put in. “I don’t want the job.”

  “Gee, thanks,” said Kroun.

  “You can get out of this,” I reminded him, knowing he’d catch the meaning.

  He shook his head once, surprising me.

  “Come on…”

  “No. Drop it.”

  Damn him. The crazy son of a gun wasn’t going to do it. I snorted, turning to Michael, framing an appeal. “Look—”

  Kroun broke in. “Won’t work, Fleming. He’s made up his mind. I know what that means, you might as well learn it now.”

  I already did and didn’t like it. He could force a change in Michael’s views, but it wouldn’t stick. Depending on how strongly a person felt, the hypnosis might last for weeks or just a day or so. It was worth the effort to me, though. However difficult to influence, once Michael and Broder were on their way out of town, they might think twice about coming back again.

  Yeah, sure.

  I’m often a victim of my own optimism.

  “It’s just for a couple days,” Kroun went on. To him I was hands down the lesser of two evils, giving him good reason to cave in so fast. “This place is closed, what else have you got to do?”

  “Plenty,” I said.

  If I’d been asked instead of appointed, it would have been different. I’d been my own boss too long to go back to being pushed around by a bunch of murdering bastards. Yes, I was one myself by now, but…they all looked at me, hostility, assured expectation, and cynical resignation parceled out between them.

  Oh, what the hell. I wanted to keep an eye on Kroun anyway.

  He read my face easily enough. “That’s settled. When’s that train leaving?”

  “Never mind the train.” Michael held his glasses up to the light. He rubbed at a lens with the end of his tie. “Broder and I are staying in town.”

  “Why?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “You want to see how it turns out with the old bastard.”

  “Among other things.”

  God, were they going to start up all over again?

  “Fleming watches you, Broder and I watch Fleming. Everyone’s happy.”

  Except Fleming, I thought.

  “You—” Michael pointed at me, then gestured me over to the side.

  I hated being ordered around by anyone, especially in my own place, but put up with it in the interest of getting them out more quickly. From the signs, Michael wanted an off-the-record talk. He couldn’t know that Kroun would be able to hear it from across the room.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  He put the glasses in their case and looked me up and down. “You understand how we do things?”

  “I’m wise.”

  “We’ll see. You look after Whitey, and when I ask about what he does, you will tell me.”

  “No problem.” Look after? That was a funny way of saying it, like Kroun needed a keeper.

  “Lie or leave anything out, I’ll know about it.”

  Threats were easy to drop, but I had the feeling he was giving me a legitimate warning. “Okay. But tell me why you’re so anxious to know what he’s up to.”

  “You like him? Think he’s a friend?”

  “I like him. The jury’s still out on the other.” I didn’t mind Kroun knowing that.

  “Smart of you. It’s okay to like him, but don’t trust him even if he tells you the Pope’s Catholic.”

  “Why?”

  “He came here to kill you, and you have to ask?”

  Good point.

  “It takes a certain kind of man for such work. He’s one of them.”

  “You, too. You were ready to pull the trigger on me.”

  “Yes, that’s true.” He tilted his head. “But I would have felt really, really bad about it.”

  “You’d have felt bad?”

  “For a long time. Yeah.”

  He’d had me fooled.

  “Whitey doesn’t have a conscience, he never did. He’s amusing, can be very charming in fact, but killing is no more to him than driving a car is to you.”

  “You’re worried he’ll kill someone while he’s here?”

  “I don’t want him stirring up trouble.”

  “Who’s he after?”

  “I wouldn’t know. You get a hint of it, you call me.”

  If he knew, he’d probably tell me, and my job would be easier, but that wasn’t going to happen. Admitting his ignorance would be weakness, and he’d never show that to the hired help. I hated games. “Where you staying?”

  “Whitey’s hotel. Derner has the number. This is important, Mr. Fleming. Important.” He looked almost comically intense.

  Kroun had him on edge, and it would be stupid to dismiss that. I nodded.

  “What I hear from the crowd at the Nightcrawler is you have scruples,” he said. “You don’t like it when people die.”

  “I’m old-fashioned that way.”

  “Good. You watch him, keep him out of trouble, keep him from making trouble. Do whatever it takes.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “That—despite what I said about you being the first to get the blame—I guarantee there will be no reprisals.”

  What the hell? I went cold inside. “Oh, now, just a damn minute—”

  “You don’t know him or you wouldn’t balk.” Michael sent me a long, level stare. He was smart enough to see past my third-best clothes and chin stubble, reading that I was a cut above the usual mugs in his line. For all that, he’d still misjudged me, and I resented it.

  This smelled to high heaven. It could well be another version of what I’d just avoided: Kroun gets bumped—preferably by someone expendable like myself—then they bump me. “Fill me in.”

  “Get him to tell you. He seems to like you. He just might. As I said, do whatever it takes to keep him in line. If his stay here is quiet, you won’t have to do a thing. When he’s ready to leave, Broder and I will go with him.”

  Sounded great, except for going against Kroun’s plan to retire. If he wanted Michael to know, he’d have mentioned it by now. It wasn’t my place to bring it up.

  “This is business, Mr. Fleming,” Michael added, with a meaning to the phrase that was familiar.

  I’d heard it from Gordy enough times to get the message loud and clear. Great, someone else to be on guard against. What the hell, it couldn’t hurt to pretend to go along with him.

  Well. Actually, it could.

  “We’re done,” Michael pronounced. He should have told me not to repeat this conversation to Kroun, but hadn’t. Did that mean he trusted me to keep shut, or he didn’t care if Kroun knew?

  Damn, I hate games.

  Kroun snorted, eased off the barstool, and pulled on his new coat and hat.

  “What the hell is that?” asked Mike, gaze fixed on the fedora.

  Kroun took it off, checking it carefully. “Looks like a hat. What are you seeing?”

  “It’s black.”

  “Charcoal gray,” Kroun corrected, putting it on.

  “You always get white.”

  “People change. I have mentioned that, I know I just did.” He must have noticed my expression. “Right?”

  I shrugged, wanting to stay clear. “Who wears white in the winter?”

  Mike seemed puzzled. “Whitey does, always has. It’s how he got the nickname.”

  “I thought it was from the—uh—” I made a vague gesture on the side of my head.

  “A white hat,” said Mike. “Always. Since he was a kid.”

  How far did these two go back?

  “It’s the end of an era,” Kroun pronounced. “C’mon, Fleming, close the store.”

  The clothing talk reminded me of something. “Minute. I’ll be right back.” I started toward the curving hall.

  Broder got in my way.

  I looked at Michael.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  It is infuriating to have to get permission to walk around in one’s own place. I really missed my hypnosis, for then I’d have had the two of them out in the street dancing a fox-trot till dawn.

  Pain like red hot railroad spikes in both eyes, followed by my brain exploding…but maybe worth it.

  “Business,” I said, deadpan.

  Michael waved dismissively, and Broder made a slow nod. He wasn’t moving, so I had to go around him.

  In his low rumble—not directed at me—he said, “He’ll be fine.”

  It’s amazing what you can infer when your mind’s working right. Michael must have signaled to him to follow me, and Broder had refused. He wasn’t about to take a second trip into the main room. It was creepily dark in there. I’d not bothered with the lights, nor taken a flashlight, and couldn’t blame him for hanging back.

  There was enough glow coming from the high, diamond-shaped windows for my eyes. One thing I noticed right away: every chair and table was in place. There was no sign of what caused the big crashing noise that had chased Broder out.

  “Myrna…you’re the pip,” I said at a conversational level.

  No response. Maybe she was tuckered out from all the fun.

  I crossed the dance floor, hopped onto the stage, and passed through the wings to the dressing area. There I did flip a light switch, as it was quite black with no windows, and went into one of the rooms.

  Some of my clothes lay on the floor where I’d dropped them. That night, the damage Bristow had done to me wasn’t healing and seemed to be getting worse. I’d come here hurting and afraid and had tried to wash it off my soul in one of the showers. When that hadn’t worked, I’d tried to kill myself.

  I snagged things up quick and piled them on a chair. Bloodsmell floated up, rusty and stale. That came mostly from my overcoat. It would need a good cleaning—if I could bring myself to wear—

  No, definitely not. A dead man’s blood was all over it, invisible against the dark fabric. I’d not killed him, but had drunk deeply from his twitching corpse.

  Yeah. I’d done that.

  Not something one can forget, not anything I wanted to remember, but there it was: insanity.

  I was ashamed. Ashamed I’d lost control, crossed a line. If I was lucky, I would wince over that one for decades to come and learn from it.

  If unlucky, I might do it again.

  Face flaming, I rifled the pockets and found an address book, a plain thing in thin brown leather. It had belonged to the late Alan Caine. I’d taken it from his hotel apartment on the night of his murder on the off chance that it might prove useful in finding his killer. The problem had resolved itself, but now I had an idea for using the book to get the cops out of my hair. Derner could help, and it wouldn’t cost a nickel in bribes.

  Halting in midturn for the door, I realized I couldn’t leave this stuff. If the cops ever decided to search the place…no…such complications I did not need. I spread the overcoat flat, threw all of the clothing on it, then rolled it into a bundle, ready for dumping.

  I hurried out, bundle under one arm and the book in my pocket.

  “What have you got there?” Michael wanted to know.

  “Laundry.”

  “That was your business?”

  “Yeah. I’m short on clean shirts.”

  He snorted. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Car keys,” Broder said, his hooded gaze traveling between me and Kroun, not knowing which of us had chauffeured.

  I handed them over. It never occurred to me to argue about who was to drive. He stood by the front door, making it plain we were all to exit first.

  The leather case with the syringe remained on the bar. I got it and quietly passed it to Michael. He shot me a sharp look, but I wore my blandest “I don’t give a damn” face. He shoved the case deep in his coat pocket and moved on. If Kroun noticed, he didn’t show it.

  I locked the front door. As we walked toward the parking lot, the outside lights winked on and off. The others saw and looked back; I kept going.

  “It’s just a short,” I said to no one in particular.

  At the Studebaker, Michael turned and smiled. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Fleming. I’m very happy I didn’t have to kill you. Tonight.”

  Some guys enjoy being cute. Michael and Broder quickly got in the car first, locking the doors. They moved fast, as though rehearsed.

  “What’s this?” Kroun asked, pitching his voice to go through the rolled-up windows.

  One hand cupped to his ear, Michael mouthed an unconvincing “What?” and met our irritation with a good-natured, innocent smile. Broder started the motor, shifted, and backed out.

  “He’s stranding us?” I stared as Michael did the kind of playful bye-bye wave usually reserved for small kids.

  “That’s what it looks like.” Kroun just shook his head. “Payback for the money I took off him. Michael’s a big one for payback.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Huh. He’s got my new stuff,” he added.

  “He said he was at your hotel.”

  “I heard. I’ll pick it up later. Where to now? This hospital?”

  “Yeah. There’s an el stop just up the street. It’ll take us. Cabs don’t like this area much when the club’s closed.”

  I turned, walking into the wind. My hat tried to fly off, so I carried it. Kroun jammed his on tight and kept his head down. He muttered unkindly about the cold and folded his coat lapels over his chest, turning up the collar. Maybe he felt it more than I. That slug in his brain might make a lot of things different for him.

  “So,” I said, “is the Pope Catholic?”

  “Mike doesn’t know things have changed. I’m not the man I was. He wouldn’t understand that, even if I gave him the whole story—which I’m not.”

  “Doesn’t anyone know about you?”

  “Hell, no. Just you and your girl. There’s no need for it to go any further. I survived the car exploding. The exact how of it stays with us.”

  “What about the other stuff? You heard everything. Michael as much as said I should kill you if you got out of line.”

  “You can try.”

  “Don’t give me that. He was serious.”

  “Yeah. He was.”

 

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