The Vampire Files, Volume Four

by P. N. Elrod

  “Good. Anything from our dancing newlyweds?”

  “Roland called to say they’d be rehearsing tomorrow. That’s a good sign. You probably should talk to Faustine, though. Smooth things out for the duration.”

  “I’ll do that the first—”

  Hog Bristow and his three apes emerged into the lobby like a rockslide: not much speed but plenty of force. Bristow was red-faced, his shoulders bunched high, his head low, unconscious imitation of his nickname. The four of them saw me on the stairs where I’d paused in mid-step. Bobbi went still, her hand tightening on my arm.

  Bristow pointed at me. “You tell ’im! You tell ’im good! No one messes. Goddamn bastard. Thinks he. Thinks. No one! You tell!”

  The lobby lights flickered warningly, dimming, then snapping bright.

  “Goddamn,” said Bristow, glaring up at them. “Goddamn dump!”

  With that, they rumbled over my floor, Bristow cursing and weaving so much his boys had to hold him up. The doorman hastily went to work and seemed relieved not to catch their notice as they passed by.

  “Good night and little fishes,” said Bobbi, breathing again. “What was that about?”

  “At least one bottle of booze too many.” This had to stop. I’d had enough. “Let’s see if Gordy can enlighten us. Wilton, start closing up.”

  Wilton, pale behind his bar, visibly swallowed and nodded a lot.

  Strome and Lowrey walking ahead, the third guy trailing, Gordy was just descending from his table. We met up at the bar on the far end.

  “Guess you saw him,” he said to me. He signed for Strome to keep going. “Bring the car to the front.”

  “What happened?” I asked, keeping my voice even. There were no bodies lying around, but the last straggle of customers were hastily gathering up to leave. The band wouldn’t have to play “Good Night, Sweetheart” this time to get them out.

  He shrugged, a little sheepish. “Hog lost his temper.”

  “I think he was born that way.”

  “Maybe. He got loud. His boys talked him down, but not by much. He’s plenty sore. Finally figured out that I’m not cooperating and never will. Tomorrow I’m supposed to let him take over or else. He won’t forget this one. He talked to New York today. They want him to finish things.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Where will you finish it?”

  His mouth twitched. “Not here. I like this place.”

  I was going to second that opinion, but Adelle came out, back in street clothes and ready to go home. She was all smiles for Gordy, unaware of Bristow’s drunken wrath, but she picked up on the tension. Her smile dampened slightly.

  “Anything wrong?”

  Gordy shook his head. “Nothing to worry about, doll. Later, Fleming.’Night, Bobbi.”

  Adelle seemed to want more information but had to walk out with him to get it. She sketched a puzzled wave over her shoulder at us and went along, taking two steps to Gordy’s one. He must have been plenty upset; he usually walked at her pace.

  I looked at Bobbi. “Wanna close this bar while I take care of the front?”

  “But . . . that is . . .” She gestured after them.

  “Nothing we can do. It’s business.”

  “Business. And I know what kind. I sometimes forget that with Gordy. What he has to do to hold on to what he’s got.”

  “Me, too.” I was glad my responsibilities were more mundane. And mostly legal.

  “I hope he keeps Adelle out of it.”

  “He will.”

  We split up. We’d meet later in the office to bag the cash and total receipts, then on the way to her flat I’d make a stop at the bank. I liked the routine; it got my attention off less pleasant matters like Gordy’s pending disposal of Bristow.

  In the lobby, the hatcheck girl had retrieved Gordy’s overcoat, and he was just pulling it on. Adelle’s face no longer seemed puzzled, only somber. Gordy must have told her enough so she could pack her curiosity away. She was well aware of his work beyond running the Nightcrawler Club and knew when to back off.

  The lobby lights dimmed again.

  Wilton stopped counting his register money and looked up, frowning.

  “I get you, Myrna,” I muttered.

  The remaining two bodyguards noticed but didn’t take any meaning from it. I went past them and the doorman, signing for him to stay put, and opened the front door myself.

  Empty street, wet and cold, still raining steadily. Gordy’s big bulletproof car growled quietly next to the curb, chugging out exhaust, Strome at the wheel.

  “Bristow gone?” I asked, stepping out from under the entry canopy. Rain sifted onto the back of my neck.

  He leaned across the seat to the passenger side and rolled the thick window down. “Huh?”

  I repeated the question.

  “Yeah. He’s gone.”

  Good so far as it went, but I took Myrna’s fun with the lights seriously. She was quite a girl for spotting trouble. I left the canopy shelter and trotted toward the parking lot. There were few cars remaining, most likely belonging to the band members. I didn’t know what make Bristow would have but could assume it to be a new model. Nothing fancy here. Musicians tended to earn pennies, and their transportation reflected that.

  The most likely hiding place checked, I hurried back. The other side of the club was bordered by a narrow street, clear of traffic. I carefully looked over the buildings opposite the front. All the windows were dark and closed tight. No one on the roofs. Unless they were down behind the facades. Cold perch.

  Still bothered, I returned to the lobby. No one was hiding behind the bar with Wilton; the rest rooms—for once I broke my rule about invading the ladies’—were clear. Gordy waited near the door. Maybe he didn’t know why I was running around, but he understood I’d have a good reason.

  “Anything?”

  I shook my head. “Not offhand.” I still had the heebies and went to the light switch panel, cutting off power to the entry. It was sensible not to have everyone brightly picked out as they left. “I’ll see you out.”

  He sent Lowrey ahead, the other guy behind and close to Adelle, and I held the door for them. Once out, Lowrey went to open the car’s rear door. Gordy was just handing Adelle in when firecrackers went off. Three or four short, flat bangs. Gordy grunted and stumbled.

  10

  THE noise galvanized Lowrey and his partner. They went for their guns but couldn’t pinpoint the source of the sound for the echoes.

  Gordy shoved Adelle the rest of the way into the car but faltered in his dive to cover. He faltered so much that he pitched facedown onto the wet, cold sidewalk.

  Another couple shots sent the rest of us down with him. I flinched out of pure instinct and recent memory, but had my head up first.

  “The parking lot!” I yelled at Lowrey, pointing.

  He got to his feet, dragging his buddy along with one hand and snapping a shot off randomly with the other. It was stupid but would maybe make the shooter duck.

  Gordy let out another grunt of pain. I’d been torn between helping him and giving chase, but that decided me. I heaved him into the backseat. Adelle gave a startled cry as he fell heavily across her.

  “What’s wrong, what’s wrong? Gordy?” Panic raising her tone.

  I pushed in next to him and yanked the door shut. “Out of here!”

  Strome got over his surprise, forced gears, and gunned the accelerator. We lurched from the curb, skidding on the slick road, tires spinning, taking hold, spinning. I caught only the barest glimpse of the parking lot and saw only the cars, no shooter. I should have gone in, looked between them, under them.

  “Shit,” said Gordy, arms tight around himself.

  “Where?” I asked. Couldn’t see the blood for the dark color of his coat, but the smell was all over him. “How bad?”

  “Donno. Hurts like hell. Club, Strome.”

  “Forget that. We’re going to the hospit
al.”

  “Can’t. They’ll be there.”

  “You think they won’t be at the Nightcrawler?”

  “Can’t have cops in. Gun wounds bring the cops.”

  “Okay, okay, I got a place, then. Bristow won’t know about it, I promise. They got a doctor keeps his yap shut.”

  Gordy shut his eyes. “I guess . . .” He gave a long sigh.

  Adelle had been frozen, her face dead white. “Gordy? Say something. Gordy?”

  I listened. Heartbeat. “He’s just passed out. Take it easy. Strome, head south at the next corner. Make sure we ain’t followed.”

  “But the boss said—”

  “I’m taking over until he tells you different. Go south and step on it.”

  A tough trip for us all. Strome questioning every direction I threw at him, Adelle fighting panic, blinking tears, and me dreading that Gordy wouldn’t last out. To give her something to do, I had Adelle clamber over the seat to the front so I could lay Gordy down flat. I crouched in the foot well and told her everything would be all right.

  Gordy opened his eyes a few times but didn’t say anything. He seemed to be drifting in and out.

  “Here?” asked Strome in disbelief.

  “Here,” I stated. “Pull in and park. Adelle, you get out and come around. If Gordy wakes up, you let him know we’re getting a doctor. Don’t let him see you cry.”

  She nodded, eyes swimming. The last was more for her than Gordy. If she thought it would help him, she’d keep control.

  Soon as Strome braked and parked, I hit the door handle and backed my way out. I’d located one bullet wound and had a handkerchief pressed to it. Adelle took over; I sprinted up some old stairs and banged loud on a door with a glass panel. It rattled, came close to breaking. I kept hammering away, calling loud, my heart clogging in my throat. God, wasn’t anyone home?

  Finally a light came on past the frosted glass. “Who is it?”

  “Jack Fleming. I’m a friend of Shoe Coldfield.”

  “Okay.”

  The Negro man on the other side unlocked and opened the door. Dr. Clarson was small-boned and fine-featured, his short hair peppered with gray. He wore a bathrobe and slippers but didn’t seem unduly disturbed by so late a visitor. “What’s the trouble?”

  “Gunshot, maybe more than one. We gotta keep it under the table.”

  “Can you bring him up? What are you waiting for then?”

  Down again to roust Strome from behind the wheel. We were smack in the heart of Chicago’s Bronze Belt, and he didn’t like it one bit. Couldn’t blame him. The white and colored gangs had no love for one another, even against their common enemy, the law, but too bad, this was an emergency.

  I got Gordy under the arms and dragged him from the car, Strome caught his feet, and we lugged him up the steps with Adelle anxiously following. We got through Clarson’s tiny reception area; he directed us to an equally tiny examination room smelling of carbolic and alcohol. He’d changed his bathrobe for a doctor’s white coat, and once we had Gordy on the examining table, he told us to undo his clothes.

  The bright light here showed the damage all too clearly. Gordy had taken two bullets, one in the side, another in the back of his shoulder. The holes weren’t big, but they bled steadily and too much.

  “I’ll need help,” said Clarson. “Wash your hands, pull on some gloves and masks. They’re in that cabinet over the sink.”

  “All of us?” asked Strome.

  “Young man, I am not Hercules. I will not be able to turn this man over like a flapjack. You two strong boys are to do that. Miss? You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  Adelle, who was now very gray, made herself straighten up. “No, Doctor.”

  “Know any nursing?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re gonna learn some. Wash up, too.”

  She threw her purse on a chair, shed her coat and hat, and plucked off her gloves in about three seconds, and was at the sink scrubbing away before Strome and I even thought of moving. She hiccuped, gulping deep breaths, and sobbed twice. By the time she had the rubber gloves and sanitary mask on, she was in shaky control.

  While we washed, Strome muttered, “Ain’t there no other place?”

  “No. Now shut up and cooperate.” I gave him a look.

  He shut up and cooperated.

  Clarson was either too busy working to notice or pretending not to hear. He was quick and efficient, and his questions were strictly medical. He wanted to know how long since the shooting, Gordy’s age, and if he was allergic to anything. Adelle answered those. I was surprised to learn Gordy couldn’t handle strawberries.

  “Then we won’t give him any,” said Clarson, winking, which seemed to reassure her. He did not ask for anyone’s name. Mine he knew, but he’d “forget” it before the night was out, along with everything else.

  I lost track of time. It passed slow and fast at once. Gordy remained unconscious, which was just as well, though Clarson had me standing by with some kind of knockout gas just in case. I didn’t watch and wished I could shut my ears off. Despite the fact I drink blood and utterly relish the taste, seeing it pouring out of a friend set off a whole different reaction in my guts. I found myself gulping, too, fighting dry heaves. Strome was slabfaced, not one sign of worry or queasiness; this was just part of the job.

  Adelle, holding up better than I, handed Clarson instruments and whimpered relief when one of the bullets clattered into a white-enameled bowl.

  “Good,” Clarson muttered. “Didn’t fragment. Seems to have missed his liver. Lucky man.”

  Big slug. At least a .38, maybe a .45. Someone had meant business.

  He continued working. Strome and I turned Gordy over when asked, and Clarson started on the shoulder wound. The bullet had struck his blade bone and didn’t want to come out.

  “This is the tricky one. I expect he’ll want to use his arm when he’s healed up.”

  “He’ll be all right, then?” asked Adelle, hovering on hope.

  “Don’t know. Lost a lot of blood. Have to watch for infection. He’s lucky but not clear of the woods yet.”

  Out in reception, someone banged on the door, then opened it. I thought I knew what it would be and had Strome take over with the gas. “I’ll look after this.”

  Clarson nodded absently.

  I went down the short hall but didn’t make it to the final door. It was kicked open. I went still, hands away from my body, palms toward the tall, grim-faced colored man who came in. He had a .45 revolver aimed right at my chest.

  “It’s me, Isham,” I said calmly.

  He recognized me right off but barely shifted the muzzle, his gaze on my blood-smeared gloves. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Had some trouble. Friend got shot. Figured Clarson could help.”

  “Shoe don’t know this.”

  “Not yet. You can tell him for me.” Isham was one of Shoe Coldfield’s soldiers. I’d expected him or someone like him to show up before too long. Coldfield, who ran the biggest mob in the Belt, kept a careful watch on his territory, and four white people in an expensive car stopping in the middle of it at this late hour would draw all kinds of attention.

  “Who’s the friend?” He started to move past me.

  I blocked the way, not making a challenge of it. “You can look later. I don’t want to distract Clarson.” Keeping Isham and Strome apart also seemed like a good idea. “It’s Gordy Weems.”

  Isham didn’t quite rock back on his heels. “North Side Gordy? What the hell’s going on?”

  “Thug from New York’s trying for his job, which would be a bad thing to happen.”

  “You know that for a fact?”

  Mob politics in Chicago were a delicate balance of territory, power, and a kind of backhanded trust that it made lousy business to rock the boat unnecessarily. Lately things had been even and peaceful. But Isham might think a new boss taking over from Gordy would improve his own boss’s position. “Yeah, for a
solid fact. You don’t want Hog Bristow coming in and throwing his weight around.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “You will if he gets hold of things. A little war’s been declared. Gordy needs to keep low in a neutral place until he can stifle this guy.”

  Isham didn’t want to go along, shaking his head. “Not here, he can’t.”

  “Call Shoe, let him know. I’ll talk to him.”

  He frowned. “I don’t wanna wake him up.”

  “Then don’t, but leave us to get on with things for the time being.” I put my full concentration on him. “You can tell him in the morning if you think that’s the right road. What would he want done?”

  Release.

  Isham blinked, resumed frowning. “Guess I’ll call him.”

  I went back to the impromptu operating room, a pain between my eyes.

  About half an hour went by, and Coldfield came in, a big, deep-voiced man who hated surprises. I was a major one. He looked like he’d been awake anyway, but I apologized for the intrusion. He shook my hand and told Isham to find another place to park Gordy’s car. Strome would have taken the keys along, but Isham didn’t mention a need for them.

  “Is Charles in on this?” Coldfield asked.

  “He’s at my club. I called and told him what’s happened and where we went.” Escott had taken the news, passed it to Lowrey, and calmed Bobbi down. She’d been ready to go through the ceiling with worry. Gordy was a big brother to her. I had no good news on him but nothing bad, either. “He’ll keep quiet.”

  “I know that. Who’s this Hog Bristow?”

  In a few words I outlined what I knew of the man and the general situation. “I had to get Gordy someplace safe where Bristow wouldn’t look and couldn’t bribe or beat it out of people.”

  “Oh, yeah, a bunch like you coming here, no one’ll pay mind to that.”

  He had a point. Coldfield called the shots for many in the Belt, but not everyone could be counted on to back him. There was always a small player looking to move up in the game. “Yeah, we’ll get out soon as Clarson says. Gordy wouldn’t want to impose.”

  Coldfield, who had been giving off tension like heat from a fire, nodded and seemed to ease back. “Don’t worry about it. We can look after him. I just want to make sure there’s no trouble coming my way. Is that something you can take care of?”