The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

  So far as my family was concerned I’d quit the not-too-terriblyrespectable newspaper game in New York and gotten a steady job in a Chicago ad agency, working at writing copy for the very eccentric Mr. Escott. He didn’t give me much time off, so I couldn’t come home for visits just yet, but he was generous with bonuses for good work. Whenever I got a bonus I’d send it home to Mom with my compliments and the assurance that I had enough left over to live on.

  Not one of them knew about the vampire stuff, and I had no plans to ever tell them. I didn’t know how. It was just too private.

  The whole business about exchanging blood, getting killed, and rising from the dead was not something I could easily talk about to anyone, much less my parents. Sure, they loved me, but I knew them well enough to know they simply would not understand what had happened. It was completely outside their safe and sane world. Telling them would change things between us, and the change would not be to the good.

  I’d done the same shut-mouth routine when I’d come back from the war. Some of the horrors I’d seen weren’t worth recalling or repeating, so I just kept them to myself and told amusing stories about army life instead. To hear me talk you’d think I’d been on one long holiday. A lot of funny stuff did happen, so I wasn’t lying, only leaving out what was bad. The folks were better off not knowing some of the things their youngest child had had to do then.

  Of course, some of the things I did now weren’t that much of an improvement.

  There was one more place to go before I could run home, change to a suit, and get to the club and Bobbi. It called for a long drive, picking my way through block after block until I crossed into what was pretty much a separate city within the city—the Bronze Belt, as it was called by the white people, where Chicago’s Negro population flourished. Whites did not venture here if they could help it, but I’d appointed myself the exception and sailed in.

  Some spots were full of activity, taverns and churches mostly, not much different from any other part of the town. I drove past, stopped at the lights when I had to, and got stared at a lot. Most people were indifferent, a few were hostile, for which I had no blame. If times were tough everywhere, they were twice as tough here.

  I found the place I wanted, but no close parking space. After circling the block once, I eased into an opening a few dozen yards away, got out, and locked up. A man jeered at me and another told him to shut up. There was definitely something to this dressing tough.

  The building I wanted was old, like those surrounding it, and in just slightly better repair. Lights were on in many of the windows, spilling out onto the cracked pavement. It was surprising just how many people were taking the trouble to stop and watch me walk.

  The door to the building got shoved open just before I reached it, and a large brown man emerged. He wore a white cook’s apron covered with stains. He brought with him the smell of hot oil and raw onions.

  “Hi, Sal,” I said, putting my hand out to him. “Thought I’d come by for a visit.”

  Sal frowned at my hand and rubbed his own on the apron. “Miss Trudence is out on a call right now. You best come by another time.”

  His boss lady was a nurse and frequently away from the place. “That’s too bad. I brought a little contribution to the cause. Will you give it to her when she returns?”

  “She don’t want no mob money.”

  “I know the rules, and it ain’t mob money. I earned it fair and square doing a job for Charles Escott. She can call him and check if she wants.”

  “Got no phone here.”

  “I forgot.”

  “Maybe you should come back later.”

  “And maybe you got kids that need milk right now. Just give this to her for me, will you?” I took two tens and a five and held it out to him, better than a week’s good wages in this neighborhood.

  He scowled like I’d offered him a month-old fish. “How you know I won’t just keep it?”

  “Because you work for Miss Tru, and God help anyone who doesn’t play square with her.”

  The scowl relaxed a little. “You say it’s honest?”

  “Word of honor. I’ve done this before. She knows I’m okay.”

  “Well . . . I guess.” He took the cash and shoved it in a pocket. “You wanta come in or anything?”

  Behind him was the unnamed haven Trudence Coldfield ran as best she could against the hard times and overwhelming odds. Her one-woman crusader’s palace was usually crowded with women and kids, victims of hard luck, hard life, or both. She offered shelter, food, healing, and advice, and in return expected them to put work into the place as part of their payback. She’d helped me when I needed it once, but my payback took the form of cash donations. I wasn’t sure how Sal fit into the picture, whether he was her boyfriend or just friend, but he did seem to be second-in-command of things.

  “I might scare the kids,” I said. His lukewarm attitude clued me on the proper response to his invitation. Inside I could hear people talking and a radio playing.

  Sal unbent a little more. “Yeah, they might think you a ghost’r something.”

  “Tell Miss Tru I said hello.”

  “Okay.” He stood and watched as I went back down the street again. I couldn’t tell if it was motivated by suspicion or to keep an eye on me. Not so many people stared this time.

  “Hey! White boy! What business you got here? You looking to get your ass kicked?”

  I would have kept going, but the voice was familiar and coming from a shiny new Nash that had pulled up behind and was pacing me. Shoe Coldfield was in the backseat. He’d partly rolled down a thick, bulletproof window to yell at me.

  I walked over, grinning, and the car stopped. “Hey, yourself. How you doing? Isham, is that you?”

  The driver turned enough to throw me a smile and nod.

  Coldfield opened the back door, and I climbed in. “Isham, take us around the block a few times.”

  5

  “HOW the hell you doing?” Coldfield asked, settling back into the thick upholstery. “And what the hell you doing at my sister’s place?”

  “Trying to give it a bad name. What’s your excuse?”

  “I got a call that a tall, skinny white guy dressed like a longshoreman drove into the neighborhood. Thought it might be you.”

  “The hell you say. You’ve got people watching the place?”

  “’Course I do, but don’t let Trudence know or she’ll kill me.”

  To say that Trudence Coldfield disapproved of her younger brother’s work would be an outrageous understatement. He didn’t seem to be bothered by her withering opinion, however, mostly shrugging it off and acting humble when in her presence.

  “Watching as in guarding?”

  “You betcha. Lots of guys know we’re related. If something goes bad against them from me, they might try to get back by hurting her. Tru’s plenty tough, but there’s some stuff goes on that would sink her in two seconds. She’s about the only family I got left, so I look out for her whether she wants it or not.”

  “It must be quite a setup if it brings you around so fast.”

  “It is, but I was out and about anyway. Heard there was a good act playing at the Hearts Club. Thought I’d see if it was good enough for the Shoe Box.” That was his own nightclub. He only booked the best.

  “Is that why you’re in the hats?” I indicated the derbies he and Isham sported. Each had a diamond-trimmed horsehoe pinned to the band. Al Capone’s gang favored pearl-gray fedoras.

  “Yeah. Gotta advertise now and then, just so people know I’m around and seeing to their interests.”

  “You’re looking better than you did the last I saw.” Back in February, Coldfield had been caught in the middle of a dozen or so pounding fists and kicking feet in a budding gang war that wasn’t his own. I’d waded in to help clear things. He’d emerged out of it bruised and bloodied, but with some self-respect intact. I’d dragged back one of the fleeing mobsters so Coldfield could give him a lesson in fair fighti
ng. We left what remained at a nearby hospital for repairs.

  “I should hope so. Got a knot in one arm that’s been slow to go away, but the rest healed up fine.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “How’s Charles doing?”

  “Same as ever. Not too happy about pitching out all the divorce cases that keep coming in, and he’s been having another bout with the insomnia.”

  “He should see a doctor.”

  “That’s what I tell him. He just changes the subject. Why’s he so allergic to them?”

  Coldfield shrugged. “He’s not allergic, he just thinks he can handle everything himself, and most of the time he can.”

  “People don’t have insomnia for no reason. I know what used to keep me awake. What’s eatin’ Charles?”

  Another shrug. “It’s his business. If he wants to tell you he will. Other than that, he’s a private man. Respect it.”

  I’d heard that speech before. Coldfield had once suggested I get Escott stinking drunk if I wanted to hear him talk about himself. Not an easy thing to do with only one person doing all the drinking. Of alcohol, that is.

  Coldfield told me Escott just needed to get out more. “Look, it’s been a while since we all socialized, why don’t you bring Charles over to the club this week for some food? I just hired a French-trained cook up from Orleans.”

  “Does he do blood pudding?”

  He choked and shot me a sharp look at the reminder, suppressed a smile, then glanced at Isham. Isham did not appear to have heard. Coldfield knew about the vampire stuff and for some reason thought it to be completely hilarious that I should be in the dread ranks of the undead. “You can bring your own food,” he muttered. “Or whatever.”

  “Or I can watch the show. Who you got in this week?”

  He gave me the short version. The blues man playing there was good, but he did a couple numbers that nearly shut the place down. Some white cops had shoved their way into the club, having heard that obscene lyrics were being sung there. “Not what I would call obscene,” said Coldfield. “Bo was doin’ ‘My Pencil Won’t Write No More.’ The cops were looking to make an arrest, but they listened to the whole thing and were so damned grass green that they didn’t understand it.”

  I’d heard the song and it was plenty suggestive, but didn’t have any actual swear words in the lyrics. “What’d they do?”

  “Took ten bucks apiece from me not to break heads and went away. Wasn’t even their beat. I made a phone call to the police captain I pay to keep this kinda thing from happening. He said they’d stay outta my territory from now on.”

  “Think they will?”

  “If they know what’s good for everyone. I can’t have white cops taking graft that ain’t theirs. It upsets the balance of everything when guys like that strike out on their own.”

  I made commiserating sounds.

  “Besides, that captain knows if others come in an’ take from me, then there’s less to pass on to him.”

  “What a world.”

  “It’s the way things work,” he said, sounding remarkably like Gordy. “You wanta come along to the Hearts and see that act?” He knew I liked blues.

  “I’m not dressed for anything fancy. I wouldn’t want to lower the tone of the joint. Next time. We’ll make a night of it.”

  “Yeah, being seen with you like this would be bad for my reputation. What’s with the getup?”

  “Charles had a job for me tonight. I finished, got paid, and swung by here to throw some cash at your sister’s place.”

  “That’s mighty nice of you.”

  “Bread on the water, I figure. She helped me in a big way that time. I owe her.”

  He snorted. “If she’d let me I could really help her with that half-assed soup kitchen she runs.” Trudence had very strict rules about allowing riffraff into her haven, and that included her own brother. “She just can’t see that it don’t matter so much where the money comes from so long as it ends up in a good place. I tried telling her I was kinda like Robin Hood, but she wouldn’t have any of it and told me I should leave Sherwood Forest and get a real job in Nottingham working for the sheriff. That woman . . . ”

  “It might be a little difficult,” I conceded.

  “Ha! ’Cept for some acting experience and knowing how to shine shoes I got no skills the rest of the world wants, but I am good at this.” He gestured at the car and the neighborhood beyond. I took it to mean his organizational abilities at running his gang. He could have taken those skills anywhere in the business world and done well for himself—if he’d been white.

  COLDFIELD dropped me at my car and drove off after I promised to tell Escott about the French cooking. He was out when I returned to the house; the news would have to wait. I got into a suit, and went to the Nightcrawler in time for the last of the second show. Things were much the same as before, lively, but without the tense, worried energy of an opening-night crowd. The performance was getting good reviews and the customers were getting their money’s worth, so everyone was happy.

  Walking into the lobby, I skipped checking my hat and coat when I saw some familiar faces and spent some time saying hello. Most of them were mob and had business dealings with Gordy, but pretty nice guys when they weren’t working. Gil Dalhauser was at the outer bar, his long frame slung onto a stool, his sleepy-looking eyes missing nothing. He nodded at me, so I went over.

  “Have anything?” he asked, ready to signal the bartender.

  “Thanks, but later. Can I stand you one?”

  “I’m fine with this.” It was a double, and he could nurse one of those for an hour or more. I’d seen him do it at the party.

  “In for more fun and games?” I asked, meaning the show.

  “I came with the others. They’re inside.”

  “Who? Grant and LaCelle?”

  Dalhauser nodded. “Came over here with the Taylor dame. Gordy took her into the private club an hour ago.”

  Interesting. “I heard she was engaged to Grant.”

  “She thinks she is.”

  “What’s the real story with them?”

  He shook his head, which said a lot to me, mostly that Bobbi had been right and Grant wasn’t interested in Adelle. And that it was hard for me to make conversation with a man who was obviously related to a clam. Things might have been different if I could have joined Dalhauser for a drink, but that was impossible.

  “I don’t want to miss what’s left of the show,” I said. “I’ll see you around.”

  “Fleming.”

  He stopped me just as I turned away. I turned back. “Yeah?”

  “Watch out for Grant.”

  “How so?”

  “Just keep clear of him. Consider it a friendly warning.”

  “You can’t tell me something like that and not give details.”

  “Actually, I can.” Nothing came out from behind those cold blue eyes. He took a drink and lowered the level in his glass by an eighth of an inch.

  I looked hard at him. “Explain.”

  His expression clouded for an instant, then reasserted itself. Too quickly. Great, slow drinker or not, he’d had enough booze tonight to make hypnosis difficult. If I pressed any harder it would attract attention or put him on guard if I failed. I eased off, frowning.

  “Only trying to do you a favor, kid,” he said.

  Maybe Gordy would have a line on this. “Yeah, thanks a lot.”

  I left him and went on into the club proper.

  The lights were down except for those on the dance-floor stage. I didn’t have much trouble navigating the smoke-filled dimness; I never do. Bobbi wasn’t on just yet; the Melodians’ crooner was doing his solo part, singing to some overdressed dowager who looked happy enough to burst. The teacup number was yet to come.

  Gordy’s table had a different set of people tonight. I didn’t know any of them and figured he’d left it free for paying customers. Ike LaCelle had a spot off to the right on the second tier. There was a blond w
oman next to him who sort of looked like Carole Lombard but just a little plump. She was dressed flashy and laughed too hard at everything he whispered to her, and he laughed too hard back. They were having a fine time. I didn’t want to sit just yet and parked myself behind an empty spot on the third tier rail to watch the show.

  Just as I was wondering where Archy Grant might be and speculating why I should be wary of him, the crooner ended his song, and Ted Drew got his Melodians to strike up a familiar fanfare. The crooner turned and started clapping, looking upstage, and the spotlight swung from him to the right-hand wings. Archy Grant, looking fresh and thumbtack sharp, burst from them waving both arms and giving his signature grin to the rising applause as he was recognized. The music, which was the theme number to his radio show, faded as he stepped up to the microphone and introduced himself. To judge by the loud response, everyone knew him.

  He explained how he thought The Shanghai Review was so good he had to get in on it to bring it down to his level. This got a laugh, then he said he’d wanted to join in on the fun for just one song if no one minded. Nobody did, and he launched into one of his standbys.

  Grant was a good showman, practiced and polished, with a knack for making it look unrehearsed. He played to the audience, using his own brand of energy to get each to think he was singing only for them. By the time he finished the song most of the women looked like they’d just fallen in love with him. He bowed, grinned, and thanked everyone, then told them all to give a big welcome to the real star of the show, Bobbi Smythe. The lights went out, and when they came back, the crooner stood in Archy’s place, ready to begin the teacup number. Bobbi and her sailor costar came out with the chorus and went to work.

  I stayed and watched to see if there was anything new about it—there wasn’t—and to just enjoy the performance. When it finished, I threaded through the crowd to get into the gambling room. Quite a few customers were ahead of me; the guard at the door just nodded as I eased past on the side.