by P. N. Elrod
He'd sold the reporters the malarkey that he had run afoul of some real Chicago mobsters, and the tale was developing a life of its own.
"SHERLOCK" LAMBERT TAKES ON THE GANGS!-no kidding, that was how they'd printed it-headed an overwritten four-column section of a sob sister's feature. It was long on emotion, purple prose, with damn few facts, but why let the truth get in the way of such thrilling entertainment?
According to that version of events, a mysterious underworld figure had imposed his unwanted attentions on an innocent bride-at this point it was noted that film legend Roland Lambert adoringly kissed the hand of his beautiful wife, the famous Russian ballerina Faustine Petrova. After a brisk bout of fisticuffs, the gangster had been sent off in round order by her valiant husband, but that wasn't to be the end of it. Strange threatening letters began to arrive, compelling Roland to investigate and deal with their source. He was making serious progress at tracking the bounder to his lair, which was too close for comfort for at least one of the miscreants, and resulted in the present small setback. Here Roland gestured ruefully at his dreadful wounding.
Oh, brother.
At the time of the shooting, I'd been in a blind panic that I'd gotten him killed. Nothing like a little rest and a lot of personal moxie to turn things on their head. With a trowel in each hand, he'd plastered it on thick. I had serious doubts that any of the mugs in the gangs even knew the meaning of miscreant, but had to admire him. Roland's eyewash was a great misdirection. He'd made himself into a crime-busting hero, and my name was never once mentioned. What a relief.
The sob sister went into grand and glorious detail about how Roland had rescued his lovely bride from conflict-torn Russia. Their daring escape culminated in the Lamberts' romantic shipboard wedding amid the threat of lurking German submarines. Somehow, routine lifeboat drills took on an ominous significance, and the fate of the Lusitania twenty years back was remembered as though it had occurred yesterday. If there was ever going to be another war in Europe, stories like this would be one of the causes.
The couple had actually met over cocktails at a cast party for one of Roland's London plays, but that didn't make nearly as exciting copy.
The next paper went one better and compared Roland and Faustine to Nick and Nora Charles, speculating that a movie of their real-life adventures should be filmed, something that would even top The Thin Man for popularity.
Sleuth away, old sport, I thought.
Below the fold were a few short paragraphs about the mystery explosion in Chicago's Bronze Belt. It was old news compared to the rest, but could still sell a paper. A stark photo showed a smoke-filled street and staring bystanders frozen in the moment, but the camera flash hadn't reached far enough to show what was burning. It was a good shot, though; the photographer must have arrived with the fire trucks.
"You see this?" I asked, showing the page.
My houseguest was also catching up on the news and shook his head. "Huh. Doesn't look like the same place. "
"You saw it from a different angle. "
"I didn't see much but smoke. "
Kroun had hurtled from the bomb-gutted car and hidden behind some curbside trash cans before going to ground for the day, leading everyone to believe he'd been blown to hell and gone. Our kind is pretty damned tough, but there are limits. Kroun had only survived because of the car's armor plating and the devil's own luck. He'd gotten seriously hammered around and burned, though. It was really too bad he was unable to vanish and heal the way I could.
The story was little more than a thin rewrite of yesterday's edition, but this time had names. Someone had traced the car's owner. The police wanted to question underworld figure Gordy Weems about the incident. He'd love that.
Kroun read the piece through and snorted. "They don't know anything. This guy got it all wrong. "
"It happens. For you it's better if they don't have the facts. "
"You used to do that, didn't you? Reporting?"
"Yeah. About a thousand years ago. " I dropped into my chair, putting my feet up on the table.
"I hope that's a joke. "
It occurred to me that he didn't know my real age, either. I was thirty-seven, but looked a lot younger. I felt a brief, smug grin stretch my face.
"So how long have you been like this?"
Just the question I wanted to ask. "You first. "
"Uh-uh. You. " He went past me to peer out the front window, pulling the curtain open just a crack, perhaps checking for the first changes that marked the coming dawn. You couldn't always trust a clock.
"Happened a year ago last August," I said.
"When you came to Chicago?"
"Yeah. Slick Morelli and Frank Paco did the honors. "
They'd murdered me-a slow, vicious process-but I'd gotten some payback in the end. Slick was dead and Paco raving in a nuthouse God knows where. There was a lesson in that mess someplace about picking your enemies carefully, but I didn't like thinking about it.
"Morelli and Paco?" Kroun sounded like he'd met them once upon a time. "What'd you do to get noticed by those two?"
"Nothing I want to talk about. " And he would know it already. He'd spent time with Gordy, who knew all the dirt about my Undead condition and how it had happened. Kroun would have used hypnosis to pick Gordy's brain clean about my death, so what was his game asking me? Probably to see if the stories matched. Suspicious bastard. I could get annoyed, only in his place I'd have done the same. "What about yourself? How did you buy it?"
He didn't answer, closely watching something outside. The only reasonable activity at this hour might be someone leaving for an early job or the milkman making his round.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Car's stopped in front of the house. "
Now what?
"You know a big colored guy? Well dressed? Drives a Nash?"
Oh, hell. "What about him?"
"He's coming up the walk. Looks pissed, too. "
"Let him in. "
"It's your door, and I'm no butler. "
The man outside began ringing the bell and pounding. I tiredly boosted up.
Kroun stepped into the entry hall. "Oh, yeah. He's pissed. I'd stay to watch, but-"
"Upstairs. Third floor. Keep quiet. "
He went quick despite the limp, not making a lot of noise, though I couldn't hear much over the racket. He ducked from view at the top landing, stifling a cough.
I got the door. "Hi, Shoe. "
Shoe Coldfield filled a very large portion of the opening, his anger making him loom even larger. Before I could say anything else, a word of explanation, an invitation to come inside, he slammed a fist of iron into my gut.