The Vampire Files, Volume Four

by P. N. Elrod

  I went through the bath, then the living room, then the kitchen. Nothing unusual except that she obviously didn’t eat at home a lot. There were more bottles of beer and booze than anything else.

  Her intellectual life was pretty thin. The only reading matter lying around was comprised of magazines about film stars and their beauty secrets. Lots of pictures. I checked the books that were neatly lined up in the liquor cabinet behind the bottles. None of the titles were familiar to me, and the few I cracked open all proved to be love stories. No interesting notes dropped from the riffled pages, only a five-year-old track ticket stuck halfway through one. Probably a bookmark.

  Rita had said she didn’t have time to read, and since they were mostly hidden by bottles, she wasn’t using them to decorate the place. I checked the publishing date of one I had in hand, which was 1933. I checked the rest. They all either bore that date or that of the previous year. So . . . these had likely belonged to Lena. Rita now used their cabinet to store her booze, the books overlooked and forgotten in the back.

  They were too cheap to hock or sell. The glue holding the end papers had long dried out. One of the older-looking volumes crackled, and pages separated from the spine as I tried to shove it back into place. The glue coming away made it loose. The more I pushed the more it fell apart. I tried to put it together, and discovered something had been inserted between the end papers and the front cover that prevented it from properly closing flat.

  Opening it up, I found the something to be ten one-hundred-dollar bills secreted between the end paper and the front cover.

  The back cover and its end paper held identical treasure.

  Holy moley.

  Keeping control of the tremor that was trying to make me drop things, I knelt and removed all the books, piling them on the floor. For most, the glue was intact, for others it had dried out too much to hold. So far as I could tell by peeling those open enough to count, each book carried two grand in circulated nonsequential C-notes. The dates on them were no earlier than five years ago.

  Twenty-six books. Fifty-two thousand dollars.

  Where in hell had Lena gotten this kind of cash?

  11

  GREAT care had been taken in the hiding of it. A slight wrinkling on the edges indicated that the end papers had been steamed to loosen them. Perhaps she’d used a butter knife to pry them open enough to slip in the bills. Exactly twenty were in each book, front and back, a nice round number, but not so much as to distort the spines. If the glue hadn’t failed on the one, I’d have missed them all.

  So, apparently, had Rita. I couldn’t imagine her leaving such a treasure trove lying unused for five years, especially if she’d been hocking stuff to make the rent after Lena’s disappearance. Unless this was the hock money. And I was the king of Sweden. Nope, I’d found what had to be Lena’s very private and not so little nest egg. Rita should have tried reading more in her free time. Quite a rewarding thing, reading.

  As for what I would do with it . . .

  That could wait until I had thoroughly studied the situation. Twice now I’d helped myself to mob money that had come my way, confident that no one would make much of a fuss over its disappearance. I wouldn’t mind adding more to my side of Escott’s cellar safe, but wasn’t that greedy. This pile really should go to Lena’s family.

  If she had any. It was a good bet that she’d not been born Lena Ashley. Perhaps, like Malone, she’d served time and had tried to put it behind her. The reasons why anyone wants a name change are countless, and few are the result of anything pleasant.

  When Escott got back, he could start sniffing on her trail if I or the cops came up dry in the next few days. Compared to retrieving kidnapped pooches, it was far more worthy of his talents.

  Should there be no family . . . well, conscience dictated that I let Rita know about the cash, what with her being Lena’s only friend.

  Undisturbed for so long, it seemed safe enough to leave it here for the time being, but I decided against that. The cops would come around for a visit sooner or later, and they might take it into their heads to make a real job of searching. I got a flat knife from the kitchen, another shoe box from the bedroom closet, and went to work peeling back the end papers. In a surprisingly short time I had all the money out and the books back in place on the shelf with the booze bottles in front as before. I set two books aside, arranging the rest to fill in the gap. There was a slim chance that Lieutenant Blair might be able to find some of Lena’s fingerprints embedded in the dried glue, which could lead him to her real name. He would not know about the money, though.

  Dusting off my knees, I went to look in on Rita. She hadn’t moved a muscle since dropping off. I’d tucked her up snug and demure under the covers; many times I’d done the same for Bobbi when she was especially tired. Thinking about her under the present circumstances gave me no noticeable twinge of guilt. In fact, it was rather reassuring. Rita was a hell of a gal, but Bobbi was the one I wanted to be with. Always.

  I made sure the note about the memorial service was still in place. Since my suggestions would keep Rita from talking about tonight’s adventure, I had no qualms about seeing her again even if Bobbi was around. I did debate on whether to add more to the note, like a little personal compliment telling her that she was a hell of a gal, which took all of a second to decide against. Never leave behind anything that could be misinterpreted.

  Or interpreted for that matter.

  To be thorough, I went through the flat one more time, checking the out-of-the-way spots I’d skipped before, being too busy with the more obvious ones. Good that I did, too. When I tipped her floor model radio to see if anything might be under it, something shifted inside. The protective backing was loose. I opened it more, peering into the dim interior. Shoved into the narrow space between the cabinet and the works, standing on edge a bare inch from the nearest glowing tube, was a slim gray accounts book.

  It was about a third the usual size, making it easy to hide. Its ruled pages were divided up by neatly written-out dates, the earliest beginning in 1930. Next to the dates were numbers that could only be for dollar amounts. Some days had long lists of numbers, others only a few, and some were altogether skipped. Various shades of ink were used, but not in a way to indicate coding so much as different pens. All dealt with odd sums of cash and substantial amounts of it, sometimes thousands at a time. I identified the outgo column and the income, the latter being slightly less by an average of ten percent.

  Off to the side, in a separate column, were what might have been small amounts of cash. No decimals or dollar signs confirmed this, though. The numbers were round, the most frequently occurring one being twenty. Sometimes fifty or one hundred would pop up, but only when there was an especially large chunk of cash involved. These appeared on each and every transaction. A few initials were listed, identifying either places or people. I picked out a set as belonging to one of the larger betting parlors. Only one name was set down: Booth Nevis, and that was at the front of the book.

  There was a break in May of 1933. When the record resumed again in July of that year, a different handwriting had taken over the task. The separate column of round numbers was blank. I made a rough total of what had been listed up to that point.

  Wow.

  Things suddenly fit into place. I knew where Lena’s fortune had come from, maybe who killed her, and why.

  FOR all the money packed inside, the shoe box felt remarkably light. I held it and the one with Lena’s effects close, slipped under the flat’s entry, then rode the elevator down. The one quick parlor trick didn’t take that much out of me, but sieving through all those floors would. The hunger was creeping up to take hold as it always did. No escaping it, but it was easily remedied.

  My watch showed just past midnight. I needed to drop this stuff at Lady Crymsyn before going on to the Flying Ace to see Booth Nevis. No telling how long that interview would take, but I wanted it all finished so I could stop at the Stockyards and still be in time
to get Bobbi home. My excuse to see Nevis would be to tell him about the memorial service, and once started, I’d get more from him about his real relationship with Lena. Depending how cooperative he was, I’d be able to confirm what I thought she and Rita really did to earn their keep.

  I’d returned the accounts book to the radio. The post-1933 numbers matched up with the jagged, uneven writing in Rita’s address book, indicating she’d taken over keeping the records for the last five years. The two-month gap told me about when she’d come across the book, figured out the system, and decided to continue with it. I had a whole fresh batch of questions ready, but there’d be no waking her until tomorrow. She didn’t know it, but we had a date for right after the service for some more serious talking.

  Unless I got everything from Nevis first.

  If I was right about him, getting another migraine from me would be the least of his worries.

  Lady Crymsyn was as I’d left her, with no lurking reporters and the lobby dark. But as I unlocked and walked through the front doors, the bar light snapped on right in front of me.

  And, yes, I jumped. Anyone would have done the same. I damn near dropped the shoe box of cash. My dormant heart tried to leap up my throat, then got stuck there. Nasty feeling, that. No spit to swallow it down again, either.

  “Son of a bitch—stop that!” The words just popped out of me, propelled by sudden anger. I didn’t know who the hell I was yelling at. No one yelled back. No prankster popped out to laugh. Nothing.

  The place was absolutely silent. Just me, a faint background whisper from the city outside, and that goddamned light coming on for no reason whatsoever.

  So . . . I gave in to it. The idea of a ghost being in the place, that is.

  None of us are that far from the cave, so I didn’t feel particularly foolish over the lapse. It jittered around my gut for a very short tight moment, the time it took for the scare to wear off and my thinking brain to get back in the saddle again. This would turn out to be an electrical or hardware problem, nothing more. Leon would eventually find and fix it, then I could stop feeling like a fool.

  I wasn’t sure I even believed in ghosts; being a vampire didn’t mean I automatically swallowed all supernatural stuff whole. If ghosts existed, then they weren’t the sort of thing that happened to me; they were someone else’s problem, like the psychic girl back at the party. If she could see me in a mirror while I was invisible, maybe she saw ghosts, too. She’d be just the type to do so.

  If there were such things.

  Right now I didn’t want to believe in them, because if they were real, then I might have one in my club, and I didn’t want anything to do with it. Not for one second. They couldn’t be real. Not here, anyway.

  Though that could explain the light going on and off.

  And that shot glass of whiskey on the old coaster.

  And a couple of things Leon had hinted about.

  No. It was stupid. Completely stupid. That’s what I thought as I stood frozen just inside the entry staring at the black marble bar with its bright chrome, the clean glass shelves behind, and their patterns of shadows rising toward the high ceiling.

  No. Such. Things.

  Really.

  So I steeled myself, then strode purposefully across the lobby to the master switch. It was with grim resolve that I skeptically turned on every light in the joint.

  No, none of us are that far from the cave at all.

  I didn’t bother investigating again. The toggle would just be up in the ordinary way. Grumbling, I shook off my heebie-jeebies as best I could and passed into the main room, cutting over its expanse to the bar on the far side. Under my instructions, Leon had installed a padlock to the door that gave access to the dead area under the tiered seating. I liked Escott’s idea about turning a corner of it into a second sanctuary for myself; only when that time came, I’d fix it to lock up from the inside.

  Ducking through, I carried the box with all the cash to the most distant, darkest corner, hunching down toward the last to keep from banging my head. None of the workers would be likely to intrude this far in; Leon had better things for them to do. I left the box on the dusty floor shoved behind some supporting framework and gladly vacated the area.

  Just as I clicked the padlock home, all the lights went out.

  Damnation.

  I didn’t jump quite so much but felt a quick sympathy for all those times when I’d startled Escott by appearing out of nowhere. Not so funny now.

  “Okay, you’ve made your point,” I called, not sure why. “So cut it out.”

  I did not expect to hear a reply. A man’s voice, grunting something that sounded like, “Huh? Whazzat?”

  Hackles rippled high on the back of my neck for an instant. A small, sick laugh escaped me.

  The lights came on again.

  I’d taken a breath and didn’t know it. Released it slowly.

  Heard other voices. Relaxed slightly as belated recognition—not to mention relief—kicked in as I hurried toward the front. When I reached the curtained entry, I could discern them well enough. No ghost, just six solid, unpleasant men standing uninvited in my lobby.

  The one by the front doors was Shivvey Coker. Two others I knew from last night. They were the same mugs I’d slammed around the alley for beating on Malone. Both looked colorfully the worse for wear after my tender ministrations, but still in shape to try for another bout. The remaining four men seemed to be out of the same tough mold. Between the seven of us this part of the club was getting full of suits and shoulders.

  “Fleming,” said Coker. His bland face was fixed for poker playing, eyes blank, but his posture tense. His right hand was in his coat pocket, and the set of his arm and shoulder indicated he was probably holding a gun. I could feel a tickling just in the center of my gut where he’d have the muzzle pointed.

  “Guilty as charged,” I said. “What’s this about? And what’s with playing with the lights?”

  “Lights?” said the larger of the battered mugs.

  I decided I should ignore that. It was pretty obvious to me that this gang followed my car from Rita’s flat; I’d not been watching for tails then. Why had he brought along so many friends? Better for me that I talk fast and not make any sudden moves. “C’mon, the club’s not open yet. I was just on my way out. Let’s go over to the Ace, where I can buy you a beer.”

  “Huh,” said Coker, unmoved. “Think you’re funny?”

  I looked at him, then down at his pocket, and gave him a neutral smile. “Don’t know what your beef is, Shivvey, but shooting me will only ruin two perfectly good coats.”

  “Then I’ll save mine.” He took the gun out, a flat little .22 semiauto, lethal with a steady hand and eye behind it, something to pay attention to but otherwise not a serious weapon to the mob boys. Its advantages were easy concealment and not a lot of noise. Now that the gun was visible, two of his men—the ones I’d clobbered—casually took up posts on either side of me, not close, but close enough. The rest ranged themselves around us.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked, less worried by the gun or the bouncers than the damage they could do to my place.

  “You’ve been busy,” Coker stated.

  “I have?” I didn’t think he was talking about the transformation of the club since he’d last been in five years ago.

  “Rita.”

  “What about her?”

  “You left the party together.”

  No one should have noticed us especially, but maybe he’d seen her flying leap from the table onto me and come to a conclusion. “She had a little too much of the firewater. Thought I should get her home.”

  His eyes were blank no longer. Fascinated, I watched the change as his control slipped and fell away. The hot rage blazing in them would melt a battleship. “Yeah, you went there, then came here. What happened in between?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You can’t tell me that when her warpaint’s all over your face.”

 
Damn. Not being able to use a mirror when cleaning up was a decided disadvantage. “Nothing happened.”

  “Gris.” Coker nodded to the larger of the two. They were both nearly my height, each packing a good forty more pounds of muscle. They acted like they thought they had the advantage. Gris moved in close on my left but kept his hands to himself. His slightly shorter buddy came up on my right, grinning. He was enjoying this far too much to judge by the wheezing giggles he wasn’t holding in. The other men shifted on their feet, indicating they were also ready for some fun and games, Chicago style.

  I kept on facing their boss, thinking he must be out of his mind. He was well aware that I’d been given a hands-off from Gordy. Coker had mentioned it himself only the other night. All I could figure was that he liked Rita a hell of a lot more than he’d let on, or maybe he was one of those jealous types.

  “Listen, Shivvey, I’ll admit I tried some, but she was too drunk. Passed out on me. I don’t like ’em when they’re passed out,” I put disgust in my tone, hoping that would be enough to at least shield Rita from repercussions. Didn’t look like I’d be so lucky.

  “Maybe you don’t like women at all, punk,” put in Gris. “Seems to me you were pretty hot for that faggot last night.”

  “Seems to me you weren’t in any condition to notice after I put your face into the bricks.”

  Gris decided I deserved a gut punch for that one. He didn’t hold back. The force of it doubled me over, and that was about all the harm it did. After a three count, I deliberately straightened. No gasping for lost breath, no retching. I fixed him with what I hoped was a cool, hard stare.

  Baffled anger from Gris in response.

  “He thinks he’s tough,” said his grinning buddy, who hadn’t caught on. “Give ’im another.”

  Coker stepped forward. “Not yet.” He was sharp but not sharp enough, being too focused in on what he expected to see rather than what was actually happening. Gordy certainly wouldn’t have overlooked my lack of reaction to the abuse. That didn’t make Coker any less dangerous, just more difficult.