by P. N. Elrod
“Pardon me,” he said in a gravelly voice with a local accent, “but I’d like to finish my dance with Miss Robillard.”
“Sure, Tony,” she responded with visible relief, rising from her chair before I could object.
I tried not to show irritation at this turn. To judge by the amused glint in Upshaw’s eyes, I failed. Rita allowed herself to be swept onto the dance floor. She and Upshaw made quite a show of things as the band swung into a hot rumba. He was the more practiced of the pair, but she did a reasonable job of keeping up with his lead, laughing and squealing with delight the whole time. When the music shifted into another song, he decisively led her away. They went to Coker’s table. Upshaw saw to it she was seated, then melted into the background, his errand of separating us as neatly executed as one of his dance steps.
Rita wouldn’t be returning, not while I remained, anyway. I waited long enough to see if Upshaw also planned to retrieve her purse. Instead he approached one of the many other women in the joint, inviting her to dance. She happily accepted.
While the opportunity lasted, I snooped. Rita’s little beaded handbag held a folded-up wad of a couple hundred in worn tens and twenties, lip rouge, a gold face-powder case with her initials on it, a vial of perfume, some keys, an address book, and a driver’s license from which I got her address. I flipped through the book. It had only names and phone numbers to some bookie joints I knew about and a few I didn’t.
A girl who liked to gamble. If the cash was anything to go by, she did well at it, too.
Leaving the purse, I moved back to lounge at the bar, finding a spot where I could see Rita and Coker. There was little point moving closer; even if I’d been at the next table, my improved hearing wouldn’t pick much useful conversation out from the constant blaring music and other voices. I wondered if it was too late in life to start learning how to read lips. The idea of getting away for a moment so I could vanish and sneak up on them occurred, but was momentarily impractical. Upon quitting Rita’s table, I noticed every gorilla in the place watching me. I couldn’t duck into the john without having company now. Coker had been too thorough passing word to them.
Rita and Coker had their heads close together. Rita shook hers a few times. I could guess he wanted to know what I’d been asking and was getting all the details. He frowned the whole time, which gave me a warm feeling inside. It meshed comfortably with my burning ears. If I had him worried, then I was definitely on to something interesting.
His questions eventually ended, and he started doing all the talking. He was mostly turned away from me, his attention full on Rita. As he spoke, he made little chopping gestures of emphasis. She began frowning herself. Whatever he said was making a hell of an impression, for she looked both grim and uneasy, quite a contrast to her unrestrained laughter only moments earlier.
It’d be nice to know what was going on between them, but I couldn’t find out for some while, not until they relaxed their guard. Annoying, for there was no way to tell how long the wait might be. Working with Escott had taught me a little about patience, but I couldn’t hang around all night.
Malone came by to ask if I wanted anything. I said no, then he put someone else in charge of the bar. Break time. He made his way toward the gambling entry. I briefly wondered if he spent his tips on the games there, then decided I needed to get off my duff and do something.
The gorillas still giving me the eyeball, I found a pay phone hiding in a curtained-off nook in the bare lobby and called the Red Deuces. Bobbi was busy onstage, so I left a message for her to take a taxi home if I didn’t show at the usual time.
Responsibility discharged, I decisively left the club. I had no doubt word would shortly get back to Coker.
The weather was still strangely cool for summer. I welcomed it, consciously breathing the soft night air to flush my lungs clean of the club’s choking smoke. With a certain amount of justified smugness, I knew my own place would have decent ventilation. Bobbi said it was good for the singers’ throats.
For a day worker the hour was late, so not many people were out and about. The Flying Ace was in the middle of a business area where everything else closed just as the club opened, which further cut down on foot and road traffic. Too bad for me; I wouldn’t have minded the extra cover. I went right, toward where I’d parked, but strolled past my car. Apparently I wasn’t on a tight leash; the bouncers were content to hang around the front and didn’t bother following.
Unless something better occurred to me, I planned to wait around until Rita left, then follow her home. If I worked it right, she’d never be aware of my invasion. Vampires are known for making clandestine visits in the wee hours to see young ladies in their boudoirs; far be it from me to break with tradition.
I’d get back to Booth Nevis when his migraine eased. His reaction to the news of Lena’s death struck me all over again as I walked around the block. That he’d cared for her more deeply than he wanted to admit was obvious. There’d been genuine surprise from him at my bad news. Unless he was a better actor than my partner, I was inclined to think Nevis to be uninvolved with her murder. So, why bother to hide how he felt toward her? Probably something to do with his business; it was a smart man who did not admit to weaknesses like having been in love with a murdered woman. The authorities could turn a blind and well-paid eye to his gambling club so long as no other complications forced them to take notice. The sensational “Jane Poe” death might change that delicate balance for Nevis. Or he had a jealous wife hidden somewhere I didn’t know about.
Shivvey Coker I figured to be intelligent muscle primarily interested in keeping his job by making sure things ran smoothly for his boss. That’d be sufficient reason for him not to want to talk to me about Lena and see to it Rita was hushed. I knew a little about his background. He could and certainly had been violent when necessary, but was smart to keep from being solidly linked to any specific crime, not even to the death of Welsh Lennet.
I couldn’t picture Coker going to all the work of walling up anyone, though. The slow cruelty of the act somehow didn’t seem to fit him. He was more the type to just get the job finished, bury it, and move on. And if, as Escott maintained, Lena Ashley’s death was meant to be an example or a warning to others, then why hadn’t even a hint of it been whispered about in the last five years? In some ways the Chicago underworld was the smallest town on earth. Always knowing what your neighbors and rivals were up to was as much a necessity of the life as turning a profit.
I’d made nearly a full circle of the block and approached one of the club’s side entrances. It was in the middle of a wide service alley and used as a back exit for the gamblers should there be a raid. Some of the rollers were hanging around the steps, having a smoke and lying to each other about this and that. Malone, along with two of the waiters, stood around as well, still taking his break. For me, the knot was cover enough from the bouncers, who were presently out of view. I spotted a few people I knew from the Nightcrawler and went over to join their group. They were always good for rumors.
“Fleming! Heard the cops were giving you the works.”
“Don’t you know enough to leave dead bodies lie?”
“What’s the real story, huh?”
“Ya shoulda let Gordy fix it for ya.”
“What kinda action you gonna be runnin’ once the place is open?”
This last came from a dapper, clean-jawed guy named Gardner Pourcio. He was addicted to most kinds of betting but, unlike others with the malady, actually managed to win a marginal profit. It was enough to keep him coming back for more. He had at least ten wives in as many cities, and they were all gunning for him.
I’d been faintly hoping I’d run into Pourcio or someone like him. From talks with Gordy about my club’s dark history I knew of half a dozen guys who’d been there when Lennet died. Gardner Pourcio was one of them.
“No action in my club, just the best booze, good music, and great acts,” I said.
“Jeez, what’s the p
oint, then?” His sharp features registered supreme disappointment.
“To keep the cops from giving me more works.”
“How’s that going? I heard the dead dame you found got carried out in pieces.”
“I didn’t watch. The cops took care of that, and they were welcome to it.”
“Think she was one of Welsh Lennet’s leftovers?” Pourcio pushed his fedora a little higher on his head, lifting his chin at me. The others listened in as well; Malone and even the jaundiced-looking waiters were clearly interested.
“Could be. Didn’t you go to his old place a lot?”
“All the time. In fact, I was there the night of his big boom. You ever hear about that?”
“No, not really. It must have been something.”
Pourcio gave a mock shudder and lighted a cigar half as long as his arm. He’d evidently recounted his story many times; he had a well-rehearsed manner about him. “I tell you, I thought the world was coming to an end. I was toward the back, or I’d have bought it for sure.”
“What happened?”
With a riveted audience, he took his time, first getting his cigar well started. “It was like this: I was really doing a number on Buster Yeats—remember him, boys? We had a craps game going, an’ I was doin’ so well with the sevens he thought I’d switched the dice. Now everyone knows I’m honest as the day’s long—”
Someone gave a derisive laugh.
“—but I had a hard job convincing Buster of it when he’s in the hole for a grand.”
“Last time it was only one hundred,” the heckler put in. A couple of the bouncers emerged from the exit, crowding through the other staffers. One of them unconcernedly elbowed Malone aside. He made no protest and moved clear.
“I’d raised the bet by then,” said Pourcio smoothly. “Well, I put a fifty down and was just wishing to lose it so Buster’ll cool off, when I hear glass breaking up front. I didn’t pay no mind, ’cause that thing happened all the time with the waiters going butterfingers with stuff, so I made my roll. But before the dice stopped there was one hell of a bang. Two or three, I think, and the whole place is suddenly coming down. There was a big guy right behind me who caught some of it, and he falls on me like a brick, knocking me flat. I was pissed at the time ’cause he weighs a ton and is bleeding all over, ruining my suit, but later I figure he saved my life. He took a hunk of shrapnel that would have cut my arm off, but all he needed was a few stitches.”
“Lucky for you, then,” I said.
“Luckiest night of my life, except countin’ the time I raked in a pile from that forty-to-one shot. You guys remember that?”
“What happened after the boom?” I asked to keep him on the right subject.
Shedding some of his storytelling affectation, Pourcio’s face went serious. “It was pretty bad. Blood and screaming women, and people running around trying to get out. I got under the craps table, not knowing if there might be more of the same coming in, but it was finished. Welsh and three of his goons was all over the front, making most of the mess. They wasn’t nothing to me, but I was sorry about Myrna.”
“Who was she?”
“This poor schmuck lady bartender who bought it out in the lobby. Throat got tore wide open, she dropped in her tracks and bled to death. I was sorry about her. Whenever I was playing at Lennet’s, she’d always steer my fourth wife off to some other joint and even make her believe I was the one lookin’ for her. Poor Myrna. I’d have married her, but she was too wise to me.”
“What about Welsh Lennet?”
“He was an asshole. And then he was dead.” Pourcio dismissed him with a cloud of thick blue smoke. Story ended, his audience broke up a bit, some going back inside. The bouncer with the elbow was saying something forceful to Malone, who listened with a pinched and troubled expression, his gaze lowered. I wondered if he was due for an interview with Coker about me. There was damned little he could say.
“I heard Lennet was good with women, though,” I said, returning my main focus to Pourcio.
“He had the money for it, ya mean.” He smirked. “That’s what made him so good.”
“Didn’t he have a couple of real classy jobs on the payroll? A gal here said there was one called Lena Ashley that he was tight with.”
“News to me, Fleming. I remember her, sort of, but she wasn’t one of Lennet’s string, she was strictly Booth Nevis’s property.”
“Oh yeah? I didn’t know he was in that game.”
“He ain’t. I meant she was his special girl. She wasn’t working, that is to say, not in the usual sense.”
“Tight, huh?”
“He looked out for her. They was joined at the hip, if ya know what I mean.” That gave him a laugh.
“If she was with Nevis, then why’d she hang at Lennet’s place?”
Pourcio snorted. “Who said she ever went there? Not me. I never seen her there, only at the track or the bookie joints. Wouldn’t think she was smart enough for it, but she was a humdinger for pickin’ winners. Maybe it was women’s intuition or something, but she was good. She never made a big noise about it with the bookies to make them wise, so she could keep on bettin’ with ’em. Wouldn’t think she was smart enough for that, either. She had looks, though, which was enough for her to get by fine.”
“You knew her pretty good?”
“Nah, just to see her around. She never said two words to me. Probably heard about my wives and got spooked off; that’s the only excuse I can think of.”
Another round of derisive laughter along with, “Yeah, Gardner, sure.”
“In your ear, too. I’ve had better luck than you guys could ever hope for and don’t you know it.” Pourcio turned back to me, puffing out a smoke ring. The air was still enough for it to hold its shape for a time. “They’re all jealous of me, you know, so I can afford to feel sorry for ’em.”
“That’s one way of looking at it.” I was about to try for more details about Lena and Nevis, when a commotion toward the back exit got my attention. The bouncer with the elbows was laying into Malone like Benny Leonard with a grudge. Malone was lean and small and not putting up much of a fight. Mostly he was trying to duck and run clear, but the second bouncer trundled forward with an ugly grin and grabbed him. He roughly dragged Malone around so his partner could go to work in earnest. Malone caught some hard fists in his face and gut.
No one stepped in to stop things.
Malone didn’t make a sound except for pain-driven grunts as he was hit. The second man abruptly laughed and released him. Malone flopped boneless to the pavement. That’s when the first man kicked him.
I was over my surprise and moving by then. I didn’t know what the beef was, but two on one just isn’t right when he’s not hitting back. I pushed through the crowd and shoved the first goon hard out of my way. He cannonballed against the building’s brick side with an audible thud and dropped. Onlookers tumbled over themselves to get clear.
The second man paused to grin at me assessingly; he shifted his balance fast and swung. I blocked it easy with one arm, pushed him back, and told him to take a walk.
His response was to inform me of what I could do with myself. He stepped over the prostrate Malone so we could properly square off.
I felt a smile creeping over my face. Maybe it was only an excuse to show my teeth. “You don’t want to do this,” I warned him, arms out, palms down.
“Sure he does,” Gardner Pourcio crowed behind me. “I’m giving four to one on Fleming, who’s taking?”
The big bouncer scowled at what to him must have been insulting odds. We were of a height, but I’m also on the lean side. A year ago, he’d have bent me in two the wrong way and not broken a sweat. I’m no fighter, but I had one hell of a supernatural edge he didn’t know about.
While Pourcio hastily gathered bets, the bouncer made another swing, which I dodged. I once more tried to tell him he should stop, but that just annoyed him.
He’d had some experience in the ring and in ol
d-fashioned street fighting, with no qualms against hitting below the belt or any other place he could plant a fist or a foot. I kept my distance and darted in when an opening presented itself, but he was quick enough to dodge or put up a guard before I could connect. Someone yelled at me to stop dancing with him.
Okay, what the hell. Pourcio had probably collected enough bets by now to last him awhile.
I let the bouncer get close and felt a solid punch in my belly that should have flattened me for a week. The pure force of it doubled me over, but I didn’t feel much in the way of pain. It did put me in a position to return the favor with some very steep interest. I piled in with a right, not as hard as I could have made it—no need to rupture his internal organs—but sufficient for the job. He wheezed in shock, folding. I followed with a quick, solid shot to his chin, and it was over.
He wasn’t the only one shocked to judge by the faces gaping at me when I straightened and brushed my clothes back into place. An odd silence descended upon the gathering. There was one happy man in the crowd: Pourcio, who immediately began calling in markers.
“Hell of a show, Fleming! Hell of a show! I owe you a drink. Hell, I’ll even buy you dinner!”
“You owe me ten percent of the take,” I corrected him. I trudged over to Malone, who was feebly trying to sit up. The bloodsmell hit me a yard away. His face looked like a bad road, and his once neat white shirt and black vest were stained with gore and torn past repair. “Can you stand?” I asked.
“One—one thing at a time,” he panted, his voice thin and distorted by a split lip.
I looked toward the waiters, thinking his friends would come help, but they turned away, not meeting my eyes. “Hey, get a towel or something.”
“Our break’s over,” one of them said, and slipped off with the other man to get into the club.
“Hey!”
“Never mind,” Malone whispered. “I’ll be all right.”
“Yeah, and prosperity is just around the corner.” When he was ready, I helped him up. “C’mon, let’s get you—”