Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals)
Page 12
Stoneface continued, “My way of doing things, on the other hand, makes people rich.” He tossed an envelope across the table. “That’s for the liquor delivery this morning.”
I placed my cigarette on an ashtray and peeked inside. The envelope was stuffed full of hundred-dollar bills. A lot of hundreds. Enough to run the bar for months.
Too bad I couldn’t keep it.
“No one delivered anything.” I closed the flap. “You stole our liquor. Or rather Luella stole it which, for reasons beyond your understanding, makes it a sort of gift despite the trouble it’s going to cause.” I gave Luella one of my cousin’s reproachful looks.
She shrugged apologetically. The gangster scowled.
“But that won’t work again,” I told Luella. “You’re way behind now in funeral payments.” She’d have to bury ten or fifteen janitors to even the score. “No more raids or free booze until you catch up.” I pushed the envelope to Luella and brushed the hair out of my face. “Besides, I’ve changed the coal-chute lock.”
“I understand.” Luella tucked the envelope into her handbag. “Agreed.”
That settled things. I’d have to dream up an explanation for Priscilla, and the financial setback would hit my contest profits hard. But it was worth it to get the upper hand in our childhood booze-for-dead-bodies deal.
“If you run short this weekend,” Luella said generously, “I’ll sell as much liquor as you want back on credit.”
“Thanks.” I nodded. “We’re fine now. I might need some tomorrow.”
The Charleston ended. Couples parted, looking a bit more energetic than they’d been before. Miss Pinn wrote Beau’s partner’s name up on the board.
Two spots remaining, fifteen minutes to go. The band announced a short break before the last two songs of the quarter-finals. Beau led his partner to her table.
“All right.” Luella put the handbag on her lap. “Now that the liquor’s settled” —her voice hardened— “where’s George?”
Uh oh.
“What’s settled?” Stoneface rejoined the conversation. “Who’s settled? We settled nothing.” He spread his hands. “You’re sittin’ on a gold mine here. I want to buy more booze.”
“I’m afraid that won’t happen, Mr. Gibraltar,” I said. “It’s much too good for you.”
“Too good?” Stoneface reddened, but then he took a breath. “Okay, fair enough.” He shrugged. “What you told me this morning. About your stuff’s too good to cut with embalming fluid? Mebbe you’re right.” He held his glass up and gazed at the brandy. “This is prime hooch, no doubt about it. I know people in Chicago, New York, Atlantic city. They’ll buy it straight and pay right through the nose. You can make double, easy, what you just tossed your friend.” He jerked his chin. “And that’s your cut. Free and clear.”
“Double!” We’d be rich. Luella’s French dress would be a rag I put on for cleaning. “Wow!”
Stoneface grinned broadly and stuck out his hand. “So, it’s a deal?”
I almost took it, but a deal? No Woodsen ever underestimates the power of that word. A deal with Harry Gibraltar and his mobster friends? Priscilla’s warning rang in my mind. Her fear the Feds would get involved and anger Eleanor.
I wanted money. I wanted cars, and jazz music, and painted shoes, and dresses of shimmering beads and silk. But what you need, my inner cousin counseled, is to stay out of trouble.
“I’m sorry.” I pulled my hand away. “My family doesn’t permit me to associate with hoodlums.”
“Clara,” Luella said warningly.
“Hoodlums?” The big hand clenched in a fist. “Permit?”
“Harry,” Luella said, “don’t make a scene.”
The man’s brow lowered. “Whaddaya think I am, some sorta pedigreed mongrel youse people can shoo away from your door?”
“No,” I replied. “I don’t believe mongrels have pedigrees.”
“Harry, don’t—”
“Don’t make a scene!” His fist shook the table. “Don’t cut the booze,” he growled. “I’m pretty sick of taking orders from little girls. Who put you onto this bootleg caper?” He challenged Luella. “Whose boys are out on the street right now loaded with gats? This five-foot-tall female bootlegger? Or me?”
“I’m five foot three,” I corrected him.
“Who’s got your empty-headed cousin?” Stoneface asked me. “Empty, that is, until one of my boys decides to fill his skull with lead.”
My eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening to kill my cousin, Mr. Gibraltar?” I asked slowly.
Luella choked. I turned my gaze to her.
“Is your family letting this bozo threaten to kill my cousin?”
“Of course not,” Luella said hastily. “Bernie’s fine, I swear!”
She thought she had the gangster on a leash. I’d trusted her to leash him. Had I been wrong?
“Harry’s frustrated, is all. He doesn’t mean it. Right?”
The gangster twitched as if he’d gotten a sharp kick on the shin.
Stoneface growled. “You know it, I’m frustrated.”
“He doesn’t understand,” Luella said, as much to him as to me, “about handling things neatly.”
“Neatly,” I said in warning tones, “without my cousin getting hurt.” Maybe the time had come to call in Gladys.
“Clara, Bernie’s all right. Honestly.” Luella clasped my hand on the table. “Look,” she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I left Gaspar with him, to make sure.” She raised her chin, displaying her throat. The leather cord she’d always worn, the one holding her wooden ankh, was gone.
“You loaned Gaspar to Bernie?” I breathed a careful sigh of relief. “Honestly?”
Luella nodded.
“Okay.” I swallowed, surprised and touched. Gaspar was part of Luella. Not physically, but at a deep, emotional level. I’d never heard of a host and her spirit guide splitting apart.
Maybe Luella did have things under control. I glanced at Stoneface’s heavy forehead. How hard could it be?
“Okay.” I squeezed her hand. “Thanks.”
“Clara, Bernie saw Gaspar,” Luella said earnestly. “Does that mean what I think it does? That you two did it?”
Stoneface made a disgusted noise.
She meant, summoned a demon. I’d been dying to tell her. “We did.”
“You two did it?” The gangster’s brow wrinkled. “It, it? You and your cousin?”
“It wasn’t…?” Luella’s voice trembled. “You didn’t…not with George?”
She thought I’d sacrificed her brother? “Of course not! No!”
King Oliver’s band took their places for the last two songs. Beau eyeballed me for the first time in hours. Then he looked pointedly at Ruth and offered another lady his arm.
“Then where is George, Clara?” Luella asked urgently. “Why didn’t he come back?”
“He’s…upstairs,” I answered carefully. “Resting. You got him awfully drunk.”
Luella had the grace to look guilty. “I sort of tricked him. He wouldn’t help me otherwise. I’m afraid the Jacques hit him pretty hard.”
“Well, he obviously needed a rest. So I—er—tucked George Junior into a bedroom to sleep it off.”
“But why not send him home?”
“Because—” Nothing came out. You’d have thought, by now, I’d have prepared a lie.
Fortunately, Stoneface interrupted. “Enough hen gabble!” His palm slammed the table. “No more. Now listen!” The gangster turned toward me. “I don’t care how much you and your cousin is makin’ whoopee.”
“Bernie?” I stared. “Whoopee? With me?”
“Or if your whole damn family sleeps in a bed of snakes!”
“Only two coven members,” I answered coolly. “And it’s more like a cot.”
“You are selling me that liquor.” Stoneface reached out and slapped my cheek. Hard. “Starting tonight.”
My skin blazed hot. He hit a lot harder than Priscilla.
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I threw my glass of brandy in Harry Gibraltar’s eyes.
Luella blanched. The gangster seemed—briefly—to turn to genuine stone.
The gangster’s hand moved to his pocket. So did mine. I grasped my hellfire.
Magic, so I’m told, is mostly focus and imagination. Just at that moment, I had a vivid picture of Stoneface living the rest of his life on a lily pad.
But the mobster only drew out his handkerchief.
“Try that again.” He mopped brandy off his face. “And your cousin’s dead meat.”
I should have bargained with him. Offered a deal. But I was too angry.
“And don’t expect that kitchen maid of yours to save him,” Stoneface continued. “The one with strong fingers. Because we took her, too.”
“You took…Gladys?” I asked, astonished. “You took our…maid?”
The conversation flip-flopped like a trick picture—one of those things that looks either like ladies dressing or clowns riding bicycles, depending on how you squint.
I laughed out loud. The man was definitely a clown. “You actually believe you took a gol—er—Gladys prisoner?” Not even Eleanor was brave enough to try a stunt like that.
“Harry.” Luella looked like she’d swallowed a gopher. “Harry, it’s time to go.”
“We offered her 500 clams to go for a ride in the country.” Stoneface put his handkerchief away. “My boys has been taking good care of her.” He leered. “Or maybe by now, that Swedish pancake has taken good care of them.”
“Harry.” Luella rose abruptly. “We need to discuss this. In private.”
“Your men offered Gladys clams?” I shook my head. “She thought you meant real clams. Clams she could cook.”
“Let’s go, Harry.” Luella took the gangster’s arm. “I told you—”
“Yeah you told me.” Stoneface lumbered to his feet. “But you know what? I’m gettin’ mighty sick of being told!”
“Harry, listen—”
“No, you listen, you little brats. Both of youse.” He clutched Luella and started for the door. “Do this! Do that! Sneak here, hide liquor there. Like this whole business is some kinda goddam kid’s game.”
I skipped after them. “Are you all right?” I asked Luella.
She nodded and rolled her eyes in disgust.
“But this is not a game.” The gangster opened the door and hauled Luella onto the sidewalk. “This is serious.” Beyond him, the Hollywood Grand sparkled, golden against an indigo, twilight sky. “This is the grownup world. And one way or other, you kids is gonna play ball.”
“Baseball’s a game too, Harry,” I couldn’t resist saying. “And I know how to play. You swing a bat and kick the pitcher if he’s dumb enough to make you miss the ball.”
“You’re crazy. You’re absolutely nuts.” Stoneface released Luella and offered her his arm. She took it, with just a trace of misplaced admiration in her eyes. Luella has always liked forcefulness in a man.
“Take care of George,” Luella turned back to me. “As soon as he’s done resting I’ll send Bernie home.”
“Sure thing,” I lied.
The music inside the building halted. I turned and ran full-tilt into the bar. There was one song, and one space on the blackboard, remaining.
“Care to renegotiate our deal?” Hans slithered to my side.
“To what?” Across the room, Beau Beauregard’s cool gaze met mine. His face was thoughtful. Angry. Deeply sad.
“Forget the dance contest,” Hans offered. “You keep your blood. I’ll cure all the zombies—except for Beauregard.”
“In exchange for my soul?”
“That would be lovely.” He chuckled. “But no. Why don’t you sell me your cousin?”
“Sell Bernie?” I kept my eyes on Beau. “How could I? He isn’t mine.”
“Oh, not his soul,” the demon said casually. “Not even his body, which I haven’t the slightest use for. Sell me your interest in him. Simply agree to cut all family ties.”
Beau walked over and spoke to Gilda Gray. The band, the room, everything held its breath.
Sell Bernie? I shook my head. The man might be a dope, but he was still my cousin. Sell Bernie? “Forget it.” I clutched my vial of hellfire. “No deal.”
“I will kill you,” Hans warned darkly. “You’re a fool to waste your life over something so small.”
“Maybe.” Beau turned his back on Gilda. I felt a flair of hope. “Or maybe not.”
The zombie caught my eye, shrugged grudgingly, and offered Ruth his hand.
King Oliver leaned forward. “All right, everybody,” he called, “this is our final number. Later tonight, we’ll be in the Hollywood Grand ballroom, playing with our good friend, Paul Whiteman. So here it is: ‘The Chattanooga Stomp!’”
The music started. Gilda Gray flung herself furiously into a chair. And Beau and Ruth began the worst train wreck of a foxtrot the world has ever seen.
They couldn’t do it. They simply didn’t fit. I’d read that dead people are isolated, that they only connect emotionally when they touch someone alive. Now watching Beau and Ruth, I understood. They tried. They really did, but there was just no spark between them.
Thirty seconds into the song, Gilda Gray laughed wildly and swept the dishes off of a table onto the floor. Two men lifted her onto the surface. She threw her hands out, thrust her hips forward and, with no partner at all, started shaking her shoulders.
The shimmy. Oh no!
People began to look her way, hypnotized. All the dancers, Beau and Ruthie included, slid to a stop. Gilda’s feathers jiggled. Her hips swayed side-to-side. Half of her seemed to dance one way, while the other half wiggled in place.
Mr. Aimsley, peeking between Presbyterian fingers, sank onto a barstool. Several other men sat down in chairs.
“Say!” Ruth grimaced. “That isn’t dancing!”
People began clapping with the music. Gilda’s feathers shimmied harder.
“Say!” Ruth pushed the dishes off another table and leapt on top. “Say, I can do that!” The next instant she was shaking too. The genie stomped her feet. She hopped up and down. She held her arms out, elbows bent, and shimmied her shoulders. The red and black beads on her stunning dress flashed in the light.
“I got it!” The genie squealed. “I got it!” Ruth’s curved figure jiggled in perfect time.
Mr. Aimsley fanned his face with his clipboard. Girls on the dance floor began to join in. Within seconds, the entire room was full of shimmying females. Men stomped and cheered wildly until the song raced to a stop.
Silence swept the room. It was precisely eight o’clock.
The crowd held its breath as Miss Pinn strode to the semi-finalist board. In the last remaining space she wrote: Gilda Gray.
I swallowed disappointment, and fear, and a last silent apology to my family. And then I gripped the hellfire in my pocket and nodded to the demon.
Hans took my free wrist, grasping tightly, hurting my skin.
Miss Pinn squeezed one more name into the bottom slot: Ruth.
Could it be possible? Was I imagining things? Had we just tied for last?
I yanked my wrist away from Hans. “We made it!”
Ruth had qualified for the semi-finals. I had another twenty-four hours before I lost my bet.
“I did it!” Ruth leapt off of the table and kissed Beau. Then she dashed toward me across the floor. “I got—” She skidded to a frightened stop. “Oh, no!”
“Don’t worry.” I hugged her. “You did great! We’ll practice harder tomorrow.”
Ruth wasn’t looking at me. She was watching Hans, who seemed to be sucking a large sour lemon.
“I had to,” she whimpered. “Please, boss. You know I had to try my best.”
“Your best,” Hans observed drily. “Proved unexpectedly good.”
“You!” I shoved between them. “You, leave her be!” I’d had enough jackass men for one night. “You know our deal. She’s working for me.”
I grabbed a brass ashtray off of the bar instead.
“Get out!” I said. “Get out, or I’ll slug you!” It might not hurt, but he’d get a face full of ash.
The demon’s lemon got bigger and sourer. But then he shrugged.
“On that civilized note” —he bowed— “I shall retire. However, you’d better win our bet tomorrow night. Because if there’s any way for me to kill you within the scope of our deal, I will.” He leaned close and breathed into my ear. “I swear.”
“Yeah, well!” I raised the ashtray.
“And ponder this.” He grasped my wrist and pinched. My hand went numb. The ashtray clattered to the floor. “Ponder this,” Hans repeated. “If you survive, you’ll have a lifetime of dealing with demons ahead. You might consider whether you want me to be your enemy or friend.”
The demon limped away. A whiff of smoke swirled past him as he opened the front door.
“Sez you.” I muttered, rubbing my arm.
Ruth waited, warily, until the demon had gone. Then she began wriggling like a demented rabbit. “Did you see me?” She grabbed my shoulders. “Did everybody see me win?”
I grinned. “You were terrific.” The genie’s enthusiasm was catching. “Really. That dance was great.”
Someone yelled for an encore. The call echoed around the room.
“Well, ladies?” King Oliver picked up his cornet. “One more time?” He started counting. The dancers cheered. Ruthie shimmied into the crowd.
Then I remembered Bernie.
“Ruth,” I shouted over the rising noise, “we’ve got to go!”
She waved and smiled. Oh well.
One dance. I’d let her enjoy her victory that long, and then we’d go track down my cousin. Across the room, I saw Beau Beauregard, and mouthed: Thank you for trying.
He turned away, as if he hadn’t seen.
The front door opened. A little figure staggered in, covered in grime. Grover Aimsley, I realized. His eyes were wide and staring, mouth open, hands smeared with stains that might have been blood.