ROLAND was in his late thirties, matinee idol looks, a steady, honest eye, and a firm hand. I wanted to not like him, but his smile exuded the sort of winning charm politicians tried to project and so often failed to fulfill. It wasn't anything you could fake; you either possessed cheerful, wholesome sincerity naturally or you didn't. This man looked like he'd never had a bad day in his life and never would. Formal in an impeccable tuxedo, I could tell he was also careful about details. There wasn't one trace of Adelle's lip rouge or face powder on him.
"Faustine tells me you're going to give us a trial run, Mr. Fleming," he said. "I can't tell you how grateful we are for the chance."
"We'll see how things work out. You planning to stay in Chicago?"
"For the time being. We've only just come from Europe, and this is Faustine's first time in the States. She's hardly had a chance to see anything. Soon as we were off the boat, we got a train out here to look up one of her cousins from the old country."
"Did you find him?"
"Yesss," said Faustine. "Ve talk of dead family an' bad times since death of czar. So bourgeoisie of him to live in past, so bor-ink, zo ve leave. Some family is better at distant, yesss?"
If she'd said elephants were purple, I'd have agreed with her. "How did you two team up?"
Roland beamed down at her. "We met at a backstage party." He put an arm around her waist. "It was love at first sight."
Faustine beamed up at him. "Roland iz such a roman-tik. He sveep my feet out."
Until now I thought they were just working partners. They didn't seem a match, him being so all-American and her being... her. I glanced at Bobbi, but she kept her smile firmly fixed in place, and it looked genuine. She liked a good love story.
Roland went on. "I'd made a niche in English theater playing Americans, but we couldn't stay, the way things are going. Soon as my latest play's run ended, we hopped a boat. The captain married us right after we cleared port."
"Zo roman-tik," Faustine added, tilted eyes glittering.
With her gloves on I couldn't see a ring on her finger, but Roland sported a discreet gold band. Had Adelle noticed, or did it matter to her? Bobbi didn't seem surprised at this news. Maybe it had come up earlier in the evening.
"What a trip, too," said Roland. "Cold as hell, everyone seasick with the high waves, and they ran submarine drills the first day out. Didn't call them that, of course, people were nervous enough. We all crossed our fingers against being another Lusitania. There's going to be war in the rest of Europe soon, not just Spain, you mark me. We got out just in time."
"I've seen the newsreels," I said. "Hitler's full of a lot of air, but that'll be the limit. He won't be so stupid."
Roland shook his head. "They're taking him very seriously over there. Have those reels shown the English parents training their kids about wearing gas masks?"
"Yeah, but that's an overreaction. The news plays it up because it sells papers and packs the theaters. Don't know why they're worried. Hitler would have to fight his way through France first. He's not going to risk going up against the Maginot Line. He just likes to hear himself talk."
"But too many others are listening to him. Lemme tell you about the German influence on-"
"Pol-i-ticks." Faustine sneered. "Are an utter bore, dar-link. Let us speak of more pleasant t'inks."
He shot her a rueful look. "You're absolutely right. I forgot that ladies are less devoted to America's other favorite pastime than are gentlemen."
"Vat more other pastime? Zex?"
I liked her way of thinking.
"Baseball," Roland answered, unperturbed.
"Ah!" she brightened. "I berry much vould like to see a baseball game. Iz possible?"
"In a few more months when things thaw out. You're going to love Wrigley Field."
"And hav-ink a hot dog? More months to vait?"
"I'll buy you one tomorrow."
"I loff Amer-i-ka!" She didn't beam so much as glow. Very easy on the eye.
By the time they were ready to leave I certainly didn't believe in Faustine's accent, but listening to her was too much fun. Bobbi's entertainment instincts were exactly right; these two would draw people in and keep them happy. Roland would get the women to swoon over his grin alone; Faustine would flatter the men into jelly just saying, "Good even-ink."
We said farewells, and I escorted them out, unlocking the front door. They'd been in the country long enough to buy or hire a car, a new-looking green Hudson.
Roland handed Faustine into it, and off they drove. I went back for Bobbi and to see if Gordy was close to shutting things down.
Adelle Taylor emerged from her dressing room, having apparently been busy changing. I never understood how women could switch stage costumes in a few seconds but take half an hour to put on regular clothes. It was a nightly ritual for Adelle, but she was beautifully turned out. Her dark hair was drawn up under a fancy hat; gloves, bracelets, coat, and all the things in between were decked out better than a Macy's window. She was enough to distract Gordy's attention from his guest. His otherwise impassive face shifted into what for him was a big, approving smile. He was gone on her, all right.
I hoped Bobbi was right about me keeping clear. Adelle, seeing Gordy wasn't ready, went over to the bar to talk with Bobbi. They were both acquainted with the basics of mob etiquette, and interrupting a private powwow, as Escott might have said, was "not the done thing." I hung by the entry under the portrait and hoped Bobbi would take the opportunity to let Adelle in on the specialized etiquette of dating mobsters. Gordy would never do anything against his girl, but Roland was fair game for rough stuff. I'd not been kidding about broken legs.
Gordy turned back to his table company, said something I couldn't catch, then they both rose, the man unsteadily, but sweating hard to master himself. All six bodyguards rose as well, regarding one another with restrained distrust but behaving. I had the feeling that if I coughed too loud, a shooting war would break out.
Anticipating their departure, I'd left the front open and followed them. Gordy's boys went along outside with the rest; Gordy hung back. His guest glared at him, reddened eyes annoyed.
"What gives?" he demanded, his gaze shifting suspiciously from Gordy to me.
"You two conniving?"
"I'm driving my girl home," Gordy replied evenly. "She's waiting for me."
"The canary?"
"The canary."
The man snorted disgust, then rounded fully on me. I got an up-and-down and didn't impress him. "Who's the snot-nosed kid?"
I was thirty-seven; I just didn't look it. A mixed blessing at times. Certainly I was old enough to know better than to react. He was throwing out a challenge to see which way I'd jump, but my night had been busy enough. "I'm Jack Fleming.
This is my club."
Another snort. "Who bought it for ya? Some kind of bar mitzvah present from your daddy?"
I smiled as though he'd been witty. "No, I earned it. Thanks for asking." He was too drunk to be hypnotized or I'd have given him a flying start on his future hangover. With enough emotional force behind the suggestion, I could drive him or nearly anyone else insane. Having that kind of power and having seen its effect on others usually kept me from getting pissed with people, even the ones actively seeking a kick in the ass. "I hope you enjoyed your evening."
"Go to hell, punk." He waited, maybe thinking I'd take a swing at him or at least frown. When I didn't, he threw a puffing laugh of contempt at my face and left. I was glad about not needing to breathe. His secondhand booze would have put W. C. Fields on his ass.
"Should I lock it?" I asked, once the door had him on the other side with the bodyguards.
Gordy seemed pleased. Since nothing had happened, that made two of us.
"Nah. My boys will see him off."
"Good."
"He's a bastard." Gordy's way of apologizing.
"In two minutes he won't remember any of it."
"Don't underestimate him."
"Who is he?"
"Hog Bristow."
"His mother hated him that much?"
"Got the name when he worked in meat packing, killing the pigs. He liked it.
Word got around, one of the old bosses asked if he could kill men just as easy.
He could. He liked that, too. His other name is Ignance."
"His mother did hate him."
"Don't ever let him hear you call him Hog unless he likes you."
Gordy knew some real pips. "What's he doing here?" Meaning in Chicago over New York. There'd been a Hell's Kitchen accent under Bristow's drunken slur.
"Business."
Which could be just about anything in the rackets. Gordy frequently kept me wise to what was going on, simply because I was on the outside of his mob-centered world and determined to stay there. He knew the value of a neutral ear combined with a shut mouth. "Why at Crymsyn instead of your place? Not that I mind the extra business."
"Whole town knows you're not on anyone's side but your own. It's safe to come here."
"Safe?"
"For talk. Started when this joint first opened. You invited everyone to the big party. It crossed borders. We found we could do stuff here and not have to worry about trouble."
Good grief. Lady Crymsyn as an underworld League of Nations. Not something I'd planned on. I'd noticed a lot of gangsters coming in, but until now thought it'd been for the shows and quality booze.
"The boys in the business agreed to keep the shooting in the streets. Place like this is too useful to mess up."
There were times when I couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. This was one of them. "Bristow coming back?"
"Tomorrow."
"What's his problem?" With that kind of man there was always a problem.
"He wants a piece of my territory. I don't want to give it to him."
"Doesn't New York decide those things?"
"He's got ambition. Figures if he can take it, he can keep it. They're letting him try because they like him. He's a funny guy. They think."
"Because he's funny they're going to risk a war if you slug it out with him?"
"He's got ideas, too. Told them I'm too soft, don't make as much money as I should. There's a depression going on, what the hell do they expect? NRA programs don't go to booze, houses, and gambling. Bristow says he can change that, bring more cash. He harped for too long. You harp too long on something, they either shoot you or listen. They didn't shoot him."
Regrettable. "What are you going to do?"
"Talk him out of it."
"Just talk?" Gordy was a persuasive man with a subtle intellect, but Bristow didn't look the type who would hear anyone but himself. Drunk, he struck me as having less brains than your average rabid dog.
"Not much choice. I can't scrag him for no reason. They like him too much.
So long as he behaves himself, I gotta put up with him telling me what he wants."
"Which you won't give to him."
"I can't. I do that, it proves to New York he's right about me being soft. If I keep turning him down, sooner or later he either goes away-which means he loses face with them-or he takes what he's after. He ain't taking squat from me."
"But he'll try?"
"Maybe."
"How?"
He lifted his wide shoulders a quarter inch. "He'll think of something. But not tonight. I got him so drunk he won't be able to move. If I keep him drunk, he might forget why he came to town in the first place."
"I can do that for you, if he's sober. Send him off to Havana for a long winter vacation."
"I just might ask. In the meantime I'm learning plenty from him. He don't know that I'm learning, either."
Gordy's hobby, passion, vocation, specialty, and profession was information.
For him, knowledge truly was power; he had an unofficial Ph.D. in the collecting of anything worth knowing where it concerned the mobs. He had good reason for putting up with Bristow, then.
"I can help you there, too." I didn't mind making the effort if it sped the man on his way. "He won't recall a thing, either."
"I might ask you that, too. But it can wait."
We ambled back to the main room and the bar on the other side. Adelle greeted him in what had become her usual affectionate manner; bestowing a peck on his cheek and taking possession of one of his arms.
"All done?" she asked.
"With business," Gordy replied. "Home?"
"Yes, please."
"See you, Bobbi. See you Fleming." He escorted her out, a grizzly bear picking his steps carefully with a swan.
"All done?" Bobbi asked in turn.
"Just about." I collected the register money, tips, and clipboard record and took them up to the office safe. The light was on for me, and I remembered flicking it off before. When I put it out again, it stayed out. Myrna was tired, too. I left the light behind the lobby bar burning, though. She liked it that way.
"Busy night," said Bobbi once we'd settled in my car. She'd wrapped up deep in her coat against the damp chill coming from the not-too-distant lake. It would take a few minutes before the heater warmed up enough to blow more than freezing air.
"You pooped?" I backed from my parking place and headed toward her hotel apartment.
"Not that much, but I can tell you are, mister gangbuster man."
Sadly, that was true. Now that the excitement was over, I was dragging like a sleepwalker. "It's been a hell of a night." A two-week-long night for you."
Again, true. Escott hadn't been the only one made crazy tense over the Gladwell case. I wasn't in much of a mood for what relaxed me best. The only real recovery, mental and physical, would be resting the day on my home earth and visiting the Stockyards for a long drink. That I would do tomorrow. Though there was plenty of time for a stop before dawn, I wanted body rest first. Just sitting on the couch with my feet up and staring at nothing in the quiet of the house was what I craved more than blood. I'd used a lot of myself up this long night. Escott called it "mental digestion," where you don't think of anything, yet do a lot of thinking all the same.
I escorted Bobbi up to her hotel flat, parting with a chaste kiss good night and got myself home a couple hours before dawn. Not too surprisingly, Escott wasn't back. He was either tied up with talking to cops or still providing support and advice to Vivian Gladwell. Maybe more. She was a pretty good-looking woman, and he had plenty of charm stored away for when he felt like using it. The last couple weeks must have thrown them into the same room a lot, and now that the crisis was past... well, I knew firsthand how a surge of relief could affect one's libido. For both of them.
Since resolving some problems out of his past, Escott had discovered girls all over again and seemed to be making up for lost time. Not that he was gone every night, but now that he'd opened his door again to romantic possibilities, he had more social invitations. The women couldn't get enough of him. Must have been his English accent.
I might introduce him to Faustine and see what he made of her Russian inflections. That reminded me of the Roland-Adelle duet.
Collapsed on the parlor couch with the big radio playing low, I stared at my feet propped on the arm and considered a possible triangle with Adelle, Roland, and Faustine. Include Gordy and it made a cockeyed square with all the weight in his corner. A dangerous balance. Bobbi was right about me butting out, but I didn't care to stand by when I could head off a disaster. Me talking to Adelle-or Roland-would help. It seemed the safest road, especially if no one remembered anything, and what Gordy never found out wouldn't hurt anybody.
But tomorrow was soon enough already to work things. I shut the radio off in mid-tune and went upstairs for a quick bath and fresh pajamas, then down to the basement for sack time.
Soon after my change from being living to being Un-dead, I was stuck for a safe place to hide from the day. I needed a totally private, fireproof refuge that wasn't a mausoleum. Closed-in, dark, airless places full of coffins and skeletons gave me the heebie-jeebies same as anyone else.
Then Escott invited me to move into his old brick house. The building had once been the neighborhood brothel, with lots of big rooms divided into little ones to accommodate the business. Escott's sporadic but ongoing campaign of restoration compelled him to take a sledgehammer to those interior walls. The ground and second floors were finished, but the third floor and attic work had been interrupted by a surge in his private agent business. I told him to bring in people to complete the job; he could afford it, but he preferred doing things himself. It apparently reminded him of his days on the stage. Along with acting, he'd picked up plenty of carpentry skills.
Escott had kindly walled up an alcove in his basement, creating a very secure and secret lair for me to pass my daylight oblivion. It wasn't flood-proof, as we'd found out last fall. During the season's first hard freeze, a kitchen pipe cracked, and as my chamber was underneath, I had a hell of an awakening. My first alarmed thought was that the house had caught fire and the two inches of ice water covering the floor was leakage from the fire hoses.
Thankfully, it wasn't, and it could have been worse, but the flood was calamity enough. A plumber took care of the pipe and a mop and bucket took care of the mess, but I'd had stacks of books and papers lying around, most ruined or nearly so. It prompted a new habit in me to keep things up on tables and shelves from then on.
Vanishing, I let myself sink down through the small gaps in the kitchen floor where Escott had hidden an emergency trapdoor. It was under the table, covered by a rug. Directly below was my walled-up chamber with a few homey necessities: table, chair, a lamp I always kept on, my typewriter, and an army cot. On the latter was a length of oilcloth stitched into a long, flat bag that held a quantity of my home earth. It was both creepy and comforting. I'd cheated death but still had to bed down on a reminder of the grave. I didn't know how, but its gloomy presence kept me from being aware of the passage of the hours. Without it, days were excruciating jaunts into purgatory because of the bad dreams between sunrise and sunset.
I had other places to flop, but they weren't as comfortable. Those were strictly for emergencies. Once in a while I'd mull over the possibility of fixing up a second permanent spot at the club, something even more secure than my locked office.
Lady Crymsyn's basement was clean, dry, and bright with electricity, but someone had died very horribly in one of its far corners years back. No ghost haunted that area, but the still-fresh memories of what I'd seen and imagined about that death lingered. Also, a couple of idiots had tried to kill me down there, so I took the hint that Fate had dropped and kept clear of the area.
Superstitious? You bet.
With a grateful sigh, I lay on my creaky cot and waited for the dawn. A silent, lonely pause, but brief if I timed it right.
Through the walls, I felt the sun creeping up and fought to stay awake. Pushing sleep off for as long as possible caused it to take hold more suddenly. I went out quick, then, one second awake, the next not. It was better than the alternative, which was a gradual, unpleasant sinking into paralysis, eventually followed by a slow loss of consciousness. The progression was too much like dying, and I'd had enough of that for several lifetimes.
I was awake. Then I wasn't. Good.
My "morning" started at close to five in the afternoon. Winters could be pure hell, especially in Chicago, but I welcomed them for the extended hours of darkness. The equinox had turned, though, each new night a minute shorter than the previous one. I'd learned the value of not wasting them as they dwindled.
I woke up hungry, my corner teeth out. Nothing surprising, I'd used a lot of myself last night. My body was never too subtle when it came to its need for blood, but would have to wait a little longer. Dark as it was, there'd still be plenty of activity going on at the Stockyards, and my feedings were better done alone.
Most people were apt to find my need to open a vein in an animal's leg to drink down the fresh, warm blood flow revolting. Though normal to me now, turned into a pleasurable necessity, I couldn't blame them for their reaction.
Escott was back, his long form reclining on the couch much the same as I had done. In his case, half a drink waited on the table, and newspapers were scattered to hell and gone on the floor. He was usually much more orderly, but he had earned time off. His eyelids were sealed shut, and a soft snore originating from his ample beak of a nose made the paper on his chest flutter a little.
I was about to ghost upstairs to dress, allowing him to continue undisturbed, but the damn phone rang. He jerked awake with an exasperated groan.
"I'll get it," I said, guessing this must have been going on all day.
It was a reporter for a paper I'd never heard of, and when I repeated his interview request aloud, Escott shook his head and waved off the prospect of getting his name spelled right.
"He's left for the week," I told the receiver. "Don't call back." I dropped the earpiece on its hook and went to the front room, dropping into my usual chair by the radio.
Escott sat up wearily. "There are occasions when I quite envy your ability to sleep through rows."
"It's not exactly sleep, but I know what you mean. Why not leave the thing off the hook?"
"Actually, I arranged for my answering service to take calls over the next several days. They're only to put through Mrs. Gladwell, the police, yourself, Shoe, Gordy, and Miss Smythe, of course. How the devil did that reporter get past, I wonder?"
"Probably pretended to be a cop. I've done it myself. The trick is to sound bored and keep talking."
Escott rubbed his face. "Perhaps I should go back to the stage. There wasn't as much money, but it was less nerve-racking."
"You should take a vacation. All the papers talk about now is Palm Springs.
Nice and warm there. The women are in swimsuits year round."
"Tempting as that is, I'm required to remain in town until this case is concluded."
"That won't be long. The cops have the guys."
"For the time being. One of the men you caught is the last scion of a very old, respected, and influential family."
"Which one? Dugan?" He'd been better dressed than the others, better educated to judge by his speech.
"Indeed. One Hurley Gilbert Dugan."
"So? He's still a kidnapper and was all set to murder that poor girl."
"Ah, but you've not heard that it was a terrible mistake, that he was forced into the crime by bad companions."
"What?"
"My dear fellow, please don't shout. It won't improve the situation."
By now I should have been used to the world spinning screwball into daily disasters while I lay insensible. I wasn't. In a quieter tone: "What the hell is going on?"
"I have no doubt that Dugan was the ringleader, but he's claiming to be as much of a victim as Sarah Gladwell. He's spun a very convincing story of being too easily influenced by some questionable types who befriended him in his friendless isolation, then threatened to kill him if he did not aid them in their nefarious kidnapping scheme. It's in the papers." He gestured at the drifts of newsprint lying all over the place. I caught a few of the more creative headlines. A lot had been going on, and none of it made sense.
"And people are swallowing that crap?"
"If one shouts a lie long and loud enough, it tends to be believed. I think Charlemagne began a rumor that a queen he once proposed to killed and ate her own children. Helped him save face when she refused his marriage offer. Many believed him because of who he was."
"Charles..."
"I know, but the distraction of pointless trivia keeps me from smashing things.
Besides, this is certainly a similar situation of someone shouting a lie to save himself. It's so completely outrageous that the papers are listening. Only the first day, and they've generated miles of print slanted in his favor. By the time the trial comes up, it's likely Dugan will get naught but a slap on the wrist, then off he goes back to his sad isolation, wiser for the experience."
I'd seen lies work before but could not understand it happening in this case.
"What about the confessions?"
"His three companions have willingly owned up to their share of guilt so as to obtain mercy from the court. They maintain Dugan was their boss and directed them in the crime, but Dugan holds to his story, saying they vindictively want to drag him down as well. I've a friend in the district attorney's office who let me know on the sly."
"That can't be possible. I primed him same as the others, gave him the works, the same confession to say. I know he was under."
"We may venture to speculate that in this instance your hypnosis failed for some reason. If he was intoxicated, you'd have had little effect on his mind. He was either drunk or..."
"Insane," I completed.
"Indeed."
Oh hell.