Bobby Belasco looked up from the pictures. “Now, I know who the fellow on the left is – Dracula. He’s kept his name out of the news, but I’m sure you’ve heard of Midnight Products? If you don’t keep up with financial news, than I bet you won’t know that they’re this new company that came out of nowhere last month and are murdering on the Exchange. They’ve already got factories in a dozen states, pumping out tons of products. And their CEO?” He tapped the picture of Dracula. “Is this guy here. Goes by the name of Mr. Dragonson. He’s kept everything nice and quiet, though his eccentricities are starting to slip out.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like he never goes out in the sun. Rarely leaves the top floor of his penthouse, where he lives like some kind of bughouse king. And his personality seems to be popular. At least a dozen junior executive types have started acting the same way as him. He’s also hiring muscle, and lots of it. Put a man name Fielding – ex-Marine, former G-Man and master shakedown artist – in charge of Midnight Products security.”
“Good God,” Weatherby whispered. “Dracula’s building some sort of vampire army.”
I nodded. “And if he’s making deals with Wagner that might not be the half of it.”
Belasco pointed to Wagner Stein. “Wagner? Ain’t that Dr. Twist – beatnik drug kingpin and a fixture in Greenwich Village? Word has it that he was chasing you around San Francisco just a few days ago. You want to tell me why?”
“I’d rather not, Mr. Belasco,” Weatherby said. “Let me just say that the individual known as ‘Dr. Twist’ is really a Renaissance Era occultist, known for his sadism and brutality. He’s also my ancestor.” He folded his hands, unease radiating from his face. “I don’t know why he’s visiting Dracula, though I doubt the result will be very good for modern humanity.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Belasco shuffled through the photos. I saw Drac and Dr. Twist talking, Twist passing a plastic bag containing some dark substance to Dracula, both of them shaking hands again, Dracula handing off a suitcase to Twist, and then the two walking away. “Every week they repeat this same little ritual. They’re working on something together, Mort. Something big.”
He was right. But I didn’t like Belasco, and I didn’t want to admit it. “So go tell the boys at Langley,” I said. “I’m sure your fellow Company boys have plenty of resources to do something about this. Hell, you snooped all this out just by yourself. Why not go to them?”
The spook shifted in his seat. “Well, it’s not exactly believable…” Belasco’s smile faded, little by little. “And the Company boys don’t really see me as a team player.” He pointed to me and Weatherby. “So that leaves you. I figured that you might have the expertise for this kind of operation, not to mention the will to get it done. So how about it?”
It wasn’t an easy question. Bobby Belasco had saved our lives in Zadar, using a sniper rifle and well-placed rocket to hold off the Soviet troops and KGB Agents intent on capturing us. Then again, Belasco was about as trustworthy as a sewer rat – and just as distasteful. But before I could reply, Weatherby gave a quick nod.
“What plan of action would you propose?” he asked.
“Just a little detective work, same as any other case.” Belasco tossed his cigar on the floor, mashing it down with his boot. “Find out exactly what Midnight Products, Dr. Twist and Mr. Dragonson are up to, and report back to me. I’ll keep up surveillance, maybe feed you a tip or two. But I’m expecting you to do the bulk of the work.” His grin returned as he stood up. “I knew I made the right decision in Europe.”
“Why’d you do that, exactly?” I asked. “It ain’t like we’re pals.”
“Pals? Nope. Assets? Definitely. And any good spy protects his assets.” He reached for his leather jacket and slid it on his shoulders. Belasco paused to give his beard a final scratch. “Now, Midnight Products is having a meeting for possible investors tomorrow at twelve o’clock. Dragonson’s bought out the entire Knight Building, turned it into some kind of corporate fortress. If you want to start snooping, you’d better start there.”
I glowered at him as he headed for the door. “Don’t tell me how to do my job, Belasco.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Bye bye, now.” Bobby Belasco stepped out of the door, leaving us alone in our suite.
I stood up and started cleaning the floor of cigar butts and whiskey spills. Belasco hadn’t left much in the bar. Weatherby sat on the couch, his arms folded and his head bowed. The kid was thinking.
“Dracula and Wagner are nearing the peak of their power,” I said. “If we’re going to hit them, why not now? They haven’t caused too much damage so far, but I doubt that’s gonna last.” I looked up at Weatherby. “Belasco’s right, kiddo. We’ve got to find out what they’re up to.”
“I know,” Weatherby replied. “I know, Mort. But I’m worried about going to war with Dracula and Wagner both. That’s what it will be, you know – total war. We’ve tangled with plenty of simple thugs and occultists, but these two are something else entirely.” He sighed. “They could hurt us. They truly could.”
“Let them try.” That was all I needed to say to put his mind at ease. I moved to the telephone, pausing by the drinks cabinet to grab myself the remaining bottle of bourbon. “In the meantime, let’s figure something out for that meeting tomorrow. I hate to break it to you, but a private shamus and a string-bean kid won’t exactly fit in with a bunch of high-powered investors. We’ll need someone else, with plenty of cash to tempt Midnight Products.”
Weatherby didn’t have to think long. “There’s Sly Baum,” he said. “Henry Wallace Baum sent me a letter. They’re staying in Atlantic City, and Mr. Baum just won a large sum in a high-stakes Poker game. I’m certain such a task would be acceptable to them.” But then the kid lowered his eyes. “But do we really wish to involve that excellent family in this?”
“Don’t worry, kiddo. I’ll get them a room right next to ours. Nothing’s gonna hurt your friends. You got my word on that.”
He nodded. “All right, Mort. Hold on a moment while I locate the phone number of their hotel.”
After a few minutes, I was chatting with Sly Baum in his beachfront hotel in Jersey. I explained the situation, gave him the proposition, and as I suspected, he agreed right away. “Sure, Mr. Candle. I’ll be glad to help you out and Henry Wallace will be delighted to see his friend. I owe you his life – and my own – a dozen times over. I’ll be at your hotel by tomorrow morning.”
“Aces,” I agreed. “I’ll put your room on my tab.”
“You don’t have to do that, Mr. Candle. I’ve just pulled in a big score, you know,” Baum said, but he didn’t argue. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“All right. Goodbye, Mr. Baum.” I set the phone down and looked at Weatherby. He was pacing around, idly tapping one of his dress shoes on the wooden floor. “Baum figures that we’ve saved him and his son plenty of times,” I explained. “So he owes us one. He’ll help us out with this.”
Weatherby put his hands in his pockets. “I knew they would. Henry Wallace is such a wonderful little fellow, though. I don’t want to involve him in this.” He looked up at me. “He won’t go to the meeting with Dracula, will he? Just send his father, and why don’t you go as well? Pretend to be his bodyguard or something. That seems plausible.”
“That’s the plan.” I raised the phone again. “Let me get the room next to ours reserved. And why don’t I order some dinner? You feel like steaks, Weatherby? I sure as hell do.” I made the reservation and had room service bring up a pair of steaks. They were delicious, but Weatherby didn’t have much of an appetite.
The next day, just at midmorning, the Baums arrived. They entered our room, and for a while we said our hellos and shook hands. Henry Wallace was excited to see Weatherby again, full of talk about the casinos and hotels he had visited since they last met and the many books he had read. Weatherby was careful to shake his hand, treating him like an equal.
“I’m halfway thro
ugh the Castle of Otranto,” he explained, as Weatherby sat him down on the couch and listened carefully. “And I’ve read Treasure Island three times. It’s really good, Weatherby. Thank you very much for giving to me. But, did you say you were gonna get my papa, I mean, my father, to spy on Dracula? Like, the vampire?” Henry Wallace had his father’s big ears, round spectacles and dark hair, though his was neatly combed instead of stringy and thin. His shirt and coat were white, and he had a carefully fastened red bowtie.
“I’m afraid so, my young friend,” Weatherby agreed. “And he is indeed a vampire. But you have no need to fear. Morton shall not leave his side.”
Sly Baum wore a blue tux, the bowtie drooping. He gave me a nervous smile. I wondered if he was having second thoughts. “It won’t be dangerous, will it? We just go in, listen to him make his pitch, and then get out of there?”
“We’re there to do some snooping.” I tapped my nose. “If I smell something worth investigating, then I’ll go in for a closer look.”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Baum,” Weatherby chirped up. “I guarantee the safety of yourself and your son.”
“Why would either of us be in danger when you’re around, Weatherby?” Henry Wallace asked. He trusted Weatherby like the kid trusted me. “I mean, you guys have saved us tons of times. This is really the least we could do.” He reached for his backpack. “Oh, and Weatherby, do you read comic books? Papa, I mean, my father, he bought a couple at the corner store, and I think they’re really neat. Would you like to borrow some?”
“I would consider it an honor,” Weatherby agreed. He let Henry Wallace steer him into the corner, the younger boy already reaching for a handful of comic books.
Baum watched them go. “My little boy’s right,” he said. “Give me a few seconds to change and get ready, and then we’ll go. You want to take a taxi or—”
“My Roadmaster’s in the hotel’s garage,” I explained. “I want a set of wheels nearby, in case something goes wrong.” I gave him a grin. “Thanks for helping me out, Sly. I do appreciate it.”
“It’s nothing, really.” He opened his suitcase, producing a neat pinstriped suit, coal black and formal enough for funerals. “We’re friends, Morton. Our kids are pals, and so are we. I don’t have too many friends in this business, but I’ll go ahead and put you on that list. Now let me do my best to get into character.”
A half an hour later, we left the Hotel Grande and headed for Wall Street. Sly wore his business suit, his hair slick with tonic and his glasses shining with polish. New York was its usual booming self, the same constant hurricane of traffic, pedestrians and mass insanity that I’d known since I was born. Henry Wallace and Weatherby were in the back, both holding stacks of the youngster’s comic books. As we entered Wall Street, I spotted a nearby diner and dropped them off there.
Sly Baum leaned back and kissed his son on the head. “You be careful, okay?” he asked. “And you do everything Weatherby says, you understand, sport?”
“Yes, sir,” Henry Wallace agreed. Sly trusted Weatherby, just as much as he trusted me. Neither Weatherby nor I wanted to let the Baums down.
After dropping off the boys, I drove over to the Knight Building and parked on the curb. The Knight Building was a silver monolith, reaching head and shoulders above the other skyscrapers and poking up like a finger trying to touch the sun. I stepped out of the auto and squinted up at the top. I could make out the shaded windows.
There were two guards at the doors, big fellows in matching black suits. They stood in the shade, and wore dark sunglasses. I was guessing these boys were half-turned, vamps that hadn’t quite finished making the transition from pale-skinned geek to powerful bloodsucker. They stared at me, their eyes hidden. I didn’t say anything, just stood next to Sly and tried to look strong and stupid.
Baum was all smiles and charm. “Excuse me, gentlemen. We’re here for the meeting for potential investors with Mr. Dragonson? This fellow is my bodyguard. As a man of worth, I can’t allow myself too far without him. Surely, you understand.”
Wordlessly, the two guards stepped aside. We walked in through the big glass door, and joined a bunch of other business types in the cavernous marble lobby. The cost of their suits alone could have paid for half of the Normandy Invasion. In his own suit, Baum blended right in. I didn’t, but everyone knew I was hired help. At precisely one minute to twelve, the elevator doors rolled open.
Still discussing stocks and golf, the businessmen filed into the elevator like lambs going down a chute. Baum and I followed. It was a big elevator, the walls lined with silver. We stayed in the corner as it zoomed up to the top floor. The elevator was whisper-quiet, its bell ringing as we got to the top.
When the doors slid silently open, we saw Dracula standing there to meet us. He fit into his black suit like a corpse into a coffin. The whole room was darkened by shaded windows, but Dracula was very visible. He extended a hand to a wide table, where padded leather chairs and a slide show waited for us.
“Good afternoon,” Dracula said, every trace of Eastern Europe gone from his voice. “Please, take your seats and I will tell you exactly why you should invest your every penny in Midnight Products.” He had a low booming tone, the kind you wanted to obey as soon as you heard it. A broad-shouldered tank of man stood behind him, with blonde hair cut brutally short and a business suit matching his boss’s. “This is Fielding, in charge of security for my company. He must remain in my presence for obvious reasons.”
I saw his eyes flash over the businessmen as they sat down. They lingered on me. I wondered if he remembered me from that bloody chase in the Transylvanian woods, where only a dozen crosses had kept him from sucking my blood. I saw him take a step toward me. “Excuse me,” he said. “But what firm do you—”
Baum interrupted him with a cough. “He’s my bodyguard, Mr. Dragonson. I’m Sly Baum. I’ve earned a fortune in various ventures in Las Vegas, Atlantic City and Havana, and I’m looking to invest.” Dracula turned his gaze to Baum, looking over his sunglasses. His eyes glowed solid red, and Baum squirmed as he sat down. “H-he’s just my bodyguard,” he managed. “That’s all.”
“Of course.” Dracula turned away, his interest switching completely to the slideshow. He flicked it on and a picture of a smiling blonde family in front of their suburban house filled the screen. Dracula folded his hands, and I could imagine him as some despotic medieval warlord, preparing death for the invading Turks. “Gentlemen, I would like to present to you Midnight Products’ business plan, which I believe will make us the most successful corporate entity on the globe. Soon after arriving here, I began a detailed study of America, with an eye toward potential markets. I have discovered one.”
“And what’s that, Mr. Dragonson?” Baum asked, smiling pleasantly.
“All Americans have a desire to be accepted by their peers. To do what is considered ‘normal.’ If that means participating in a system that discriminates against minorities, oppresses the poor, and leads to wars against weaker countries, then so be it. They’ll give up their own happiness and independence – all for a desire of conformity.” He clicked to the next slide. It showed a bunch of goods, from cans of hair tonic to TV dinners to cases of Jell-O. “So that’s what we’ll appeal to. These products won’t make Americans happy. But they’ll help Americans blend in with other Americans. And that’s what they all really want.”
I stood behind Baum, watching everything. This marketing strategy couldn’t be all of Dracula’s scheme. Sure, it was a masterful business decision, but I’d bet my bottom dollar that he had more up that perfectly creased sleeve.
“So that’s your big plan?” I asked. All of the businessmen looked my way. I didn’t care. “You think the average Joe in the street’s gonna want something just cause his neighbor has it? What about the products actually being, you know, good?”
I felt a firm grip on my shoulder. I turned around. It was Fielding. The big chief of security was squaring his shoulders, like a boxer before the first p
unch is thrown. “You ought to hold your tongue when Mr. Dragonson is speaking,” he said.
“Maybe you ought to make me,” I retorted.
“Fielding, please.” Dracula motioned his pet bulldog to heel. “It is a valid question, though delivered rather bluntly.” He clicked through more slides. I saw factories spewing smoke, photographs of Klansmen lynching Negroes from down South, United Fruit plantations in some Latin American hellhole, and more.
“Look at what the average American is willing to tolerate in his government and economy, all for the sake of maintaining the same standard of living as his neighbors. Midnight Products is prepared to exploit this for a maximum effect. In the various floors of the Knight Building, my junior executives are hard at work creating commercials for radio, television and print that will portray this principle. Factories in New York and other cities are already opening to create the necessary goods. We will begin nationwide distribution by the end of the month.” He smiled without revealing his teeth – or his fangs. “The only question, gentlemen, is if you and your wallets will be along for the ride.”
He switched off the slideshow. The businessmen liked his speech. They ran up, handing out cards and promising their support. Baum and I stood back, watching the whole thing. It made me want to puke. I could’ve told everyone there that Mr. Dragonson was a bloodthirsty vampire and they wouldn’t have cared. They would sell out their country to Dracula, all for a piece of the percentage.
As they were talking amongst themselves and a receptionist brought in drinks – Bloody Marys, I noticed – Dracula and Fielding walked over to Baum and me. We were still in our seats, and watched them slide through the crowd of investors. Dracula lowered his glasses. I saw his hateful red eyes.
“Mr. Candle,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Would you like to tell me exactly what you are doing here?”
The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 3: Red Reunion (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #3) Page 16