by P. N. Elrod
streamlined electric refrigerator that looked out of place in the faded kitchen. I dropped my fedora on the table and shrugged from Escott's coat, folding it over the back of a chair. "But you can stay here. It's safe. "
"I don't think so. " Kroun wasn't being impolite, just preoccupied as he crossed the room, got the phone book from a shelf, and flipped through it looking for cab companies. He found a page, running a finger down the columns of fine print.
I flicked the light on. Habit. We could both see well enough in the dark.
He murmured an absent-sounding noise and stared at the listings. "How many of these companies have the mob on them?"
"They all pay dues. The hotels, too. Shocking, ain't it?"
"Cripes. " He put the book back. "It's as bad as New York. "
To his former associates in crime, along with everyone else, Whitey Kroun was supposed to be dead. Not Undead, which none would know about or believe in, but the regular kind of dead, and he wanted to keep it that way. He did not need a cabby remembering him and blabbing to the wrong ears. There were ways around that, but Kroun must have been considering the trouble and worth of it against the shrinking time before sunrise.
He was clearly exhausted. He'd barely survived getting blown up, gone into hiding God-knows-where for the day, and only hours before had taken a bullet square in the chest. The slug had passed right through, ripped up his dormant heart, maybe clipped one of his lungs before tearing out his back.
My last twenty-fours hours hadn't been even that good. We both needed a rest.
"Spare bedroom's up the stairs, third floor," I said. "All ready. Just walk in. "
Kroun frowned. "Is it lightproof?"
"The window's covered. You'll be fine. "
"Where do you sleep?"
"I have a place. In the basement. "
He gave me a look. "What? A secret lair?"
That almost made me smile. "It's better than it sounds. "
Not by much, but it sure as hell wasn't a claustrophobia-inducing coffin on the floor of a ratty crypt like in that Lugosi movie. Just thinking about a body box gave me the heebies. My bricked-up chamber below was a close twin to any ordinary bedroom, being clean and dry with space enough for a good arm stretch. I kept things simple: an army cot with a layer of my home earth under oilcloth, a lamp, a radio, books to fill in the time before sunrise, no lurking allowed.
"Room enough for a guest?"
"I can only get into it by vanishing. " That was a lie. There was access by means of a trapdoor under the kitchen table, hidden by expert carpentry and a small rug. I just didn't want Kroun in my private den. Since he was unable to slip through cracks I was pleased to take advantage of his limitation. Just because we had vampirism in common didn't mean I should welcome him like a long-lost relative. He'd sure as hell not tipped his hand to me about his condition.
"You maybe got a broom closet?" he asked.
"Yeah, but you wouldn't like it. "
"I could. "
"C'mon, Whitey, no one knows you're here-"
"Gabe. "
"Huh?"
"My real name's Gabe. " His eyes were focused inward. "Mom's idea. Gabriel. Hell of a name to stick on a kid. Got me in a few fights. "
Now why had he told me that?
He got a look on his face as though wondering the same thing. Maybe he was dealing with his own version of shell shock. Well, I wasn't walking on eggs for him. "Okay. Gabe. No one knows you're here, and no one's looking for you. The cops are still sifting through what's left of that car. By the time they don't find your body in the ashes, it'll be tomorrow night and you can start fresh. "
He seemed to return from memory lane. "You get day visitors? Cleaning lady? Anyone like that?"
"Nobody. "
"What about Gordy's boys? Strome and Derner?"
"They know not to bother me with anything until tomorrow night. No one's gonna find you. " There was no point telling Kroun to lay off being paranoid; the kind of stuff he'd been through would leave anyone twitchy. I understood him all too well.
"That won't discourage my pals in New York. First Hog Bristow gets dead, then me. "
"Chicago's rough," I admitted.
"They won't blame the city. " Kroun frowned my way so I'd be clear on who would be held accountable. He had good reason. Bristow's death was the mug's own stupid fault, though at the end I'd done what I could to help him along. Anyone else would consider my actions to be self-defense, just not his business associates back East.
Whitey-or was I to call him Gabe now?-Kroun had been my ostensible guest and looking into the Bristow situation when another mobster tried to take him out with a bomb. Kroun's apparent, and very public, demise had happened right in front of me, on my watch, and that made me responsible. The big boys he'd worked with in New York were bound to get pissed and react in a way I wouldn't like. Maybe I should try faking my death, too.
"Will your pals be sending someone here to deal with me?" I asked.
"Count on it. Unless Derner or Gordy can head them off. "
Derner was my temporary lieutenant when it came to the nuts-and-bolts operation of mob business. His boss, Gordy Weems-a friend of mine and the man usually running things in Chicago's North Side-was still recovering from some serious bullet wounds of his own. I'd been talked into filling his spot until he was back on his feet. He couldn't get well fast enough for me. I had to be the only guy west of the Atlantic who didn't want the job. "Gordy stays on vacation. Derner and I will look after things, no problem. "
"If you say so, kid. "
Kroun had a right to his doubts. Running a major branch of the mob was very different from bossing an ordinary business. For instance, firing people was murder. Literally.
Another coughing bout grabbed Kroun. He tried to suppress it, but his body wasn't cooperating. He made his way to the sink and doubled over, hacking and spitting. When it subsided, he ran the water to wash the blood away. There wasn't as much as before; he must be healing.
I inhaled, caught the bloodsmell. . . and again waited. Nothing happened, no tremors in my limbs, no urge to scream, no falling on the floor like a seizure victim.
Very encouraging, but instinct told me I was still rocky and not to get overconfident.
"Cripes, I hate getting shot," he muttered.
"It's hell," I agreed.
He cupped hands under the water stream and rubbed down his face. "You've been through this, too?"
"Not if I can help it. But whenever I catch one, I always vanish. When I come back, I'm tired, but usually everything's fixed. "
"The hell you say. "
"You didn't know?"
He gave no reply.
"Didn't the one who gave you the change tell you anything?" I was very curious as to who had traded blood with him, allowing him the chance to return from death. When had he died? How long ago? He'd dropped no clue as to how long he'd been night-walking. He could be decades older than me in this life or months younger.
That streak of silver-white hair on the left side of his head marked where he caught the bullet that had killed him. Who had shot him and why? How had he dealt with his dark resurrection? The lead slug was still lodged in his brain, and the presence of that small piece of metal was enough to short-circuit his ability to vanish. It also prevented rejuvenation, kept him looking the same age he was when it happened. Instead of seeming to be in his twenties like me, he outwardly remained in his forties.
But Kroun wasn't sharing confidences. Making no answer, he twisted the water tap off and dried with one of the neatly folded dish towels Escott kept next to the sink. In the harsh overhead light Kroun looked even more gaunt than a few minutes ago. The coughing fit had sapped him.
"You hungry?" I asked. He had to be. He'd lost plenty of blood tonight. It would put him on edge, maybe make him dangerous. That was what it did to me.
"A little, but I can hold out till tomorrow. "
; I went to the icebox. In the back were some beer bottles with the labels soaked off, topped with cork stoppers. The dark brown glass obscured what was inside. They represented an experiment that had worked out. I pulled a bottle and handed it over. "It's cold but drinkable. "
He eyeballed it. "You're kidding. You store the stuff?"
"Only for a few days. It goes bad once the air hits. Like milk. "
He took the cork out and sniffed it. "It's animal?"
"Yeah. "
He shot me a look. Checking. Appraising. "Good. "
Damn. That angle. . . and he'd thought of it first. "Hey, you don't think I'd. . . "