The Vampire Files, Volume Five, page 8
part #11 of The Vampire Files Series
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 fox-trot. 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 the 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.”
