by P. N. Elrod
Only I knew better.
15
ESCOTT used his pliers to pull out yet another jagged piece of shrapnel from the wall to expertly flip into the wastebasket standing in the middle of my office. He was able to work faster than I and had nearly cleared two walls of the stuff while I smoothed patching plaster into the holes. We both wore overalls and were generously coated with plaster dust, paint, and other remodeling souvenirs. The newly glazed windows were covered by blinds; the broken glass was swept away.
For the last two hours, since we’d arrived at Lady Crymsyn, I’d been telling him all that he’d missed for being in New York tracing a purloined pooch. It shouldn’t have taken me so long, but he had questions, and that drew out the process. In exchange for being caught up, he’d offered to help me gradually restore order to the grenade-induced chaos.
“So I came back here,” I said, “and found Gordy waiting in the lobby with a regular goon squad of muscle all set to charge San Juan Hill.”
“May I take that to mean he understood the significance of the wreckage here?” Escott indicated the walls and holes in the floor, which was presently protected by a stained tarp. I’d bought a thick rug to hide the latter damage until it could be repaired.
“In spades. He didn’t know what to think since there was no blood or bodies, but it got him moving. He figured if I came back, I might need help, so he brought in plenty. I explained everything.” That had taken some doing. In his own laconic way, Gordy had expressed a sincere desire to take Tony Upshaw apart with a dull boning knife and distribute the pieces up and down the Chicago River. I’d eventually convinced him how unnecessary it was since Tony no longer recalled his crime. In fact, he was back giving dance lessons at his studio, his conscience clean, his memory thoroughly scrubbed by yours truly. Before leaving him to wake in his car I’d thought of accounting for his bloodied clothes and bruises and decided against it. Everyone needs some mystery in his life.
“I hope you thanked Gordy for his concern.”
“Yeah. I did.” It cost me a few rounds of drinks at another bar, but well worth it for the goodwill among us all. Gordy was quietly relieved that I was unharmed, and pleased that Shivvey Coker was no longer running around. “He needed killing,” he’d told me. I’d kept the more interesting news like the who and how of his death to just between ourselves. His men were content to drink their beers, used to the fact that—unlike their boss—they didn’t need to know all that went on in the city.
“And what about Mr. Nevis?”
“He got back from his wilderness flight, then slept through the next twenty-four hours. Far as the cops know, he’s never been out of town.”
“The police are still interested in him?”
“Not really. Not since I talked to Lieutenant Blair. Shivvey was the next boy they wanted to interview, both about Lena and the barbershop killings. All those guys were known to be his cronies, and suddenly he ups and leaves town without a trace. Pretty suspicious behavior.”
“But would that not lead them to conjecture he might also be a victim of foul play?”
“Yeah, but I paid a trip to his hotel and did some packing. I made it look hurried. His car is gone, too. They’ll draw the right conclusions.”
“I hope you weren’t seen.”
“Gimme a break.” No one could have spotted my late-night entry into Coker’s rooms. They’d been on the fourth floor, but I’d quelled my dislike of heights and floated up the side of the building to sieve in through the window. I’d gone through the place like a dose of salts, stuffing a couple of suitcases full of clothes and such papers and items as he might have taken along for an extended trip. I left behind what he might have left. Later, I got rid of it all at some charity places, making sure no one of them got more than a couple of things each.
Not a good feeling going through a dead man’s effects. I kept looking over my shoulder as though expecting to see him hovering in midair with a hole in his chest and wearing an accusatory face. Stupid of me, since I’d not been the one to put it there. I chalked it up to nerves and just got the hell out, my fingers burning inside their gloves.
His car had required a little more effort, that is to say, Gordy’s help. Pieces of it were now anonymously distributed in a dozen or more garages, parts shops, and wreckage yards throughout Cook County and beyond. It hadn’t taken more than three hours for some mechanics to pull the thing apart, with other men stopping by to carry the pieces away. The whole process reminded me of ants stripping the body of a dead bug.
That’s all there was to make a man disappear forever. He’d left behind a reasonable hole, but it would soon fill up.
“The cops will keep hunting for him,” I said. “On the books the Lena Ashley case will remain open, but Lieutenant Blair has privately made up his mind about Coker’s guilt, same as Nevis and Rita.”
“But you are certain Coker did not kill her?”
“I asked him straight-out while I had him under. I don’t see how he could have lied, unless he was nuts or drunk, and I never got that off of him.”
“Why not inform the police?”
“Because then they’d go back to questioning Rita and Nevis again, and I know for sure they’re in the clear as well. Nothing would be served to keep pushing. All I can figure is Lena was into something over her head, or maybe she ran into some lunatic sadist. We’ll never know. I suppose I could question every bookie in town that she had contact with. Sooner or later I might turn something up.”
“There is an alternative.”
“My ears are flapping, talk to me.”
He paused in mid shrapnel-pull, frowning at the pocked wall and probably not seeing it. “I think it’s a significant point about Mr. Coker that he persuaded Mr. Upshaw to do his dirty work for him. He wanted Booth Nevis out of the way, but delegated the task of actually throwing the grenades to another fellow. Suppose he did the same thing five years past to get rid of Lena Ashley?”
“Then he could truthfully say he hadn’t killed her. When they’re under, they answer questions pretty literally. I should have thought of that.”
“He might well have done the same in removing the previous owner of this place also. Modus operandi is a difficult habit to break—particularly when one is unaware of one’s own pattern, or if it happens to work especially well.”
“Huh. Guess I get to talk to Rita and Nevis again, though I don’t think she had anything to do with it. Him neither for that matter, but I wanna cover the bases.”
“Of course, one must be thorough. What if you’re wrong about either of them?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” I said with the confidence of a man who knows there will be no bridge on his path. It was only an outside chance of Escott being right, after all, at least concerning them. Maybe Coker had fobbed the job off onto some other mug. Gris was still missing. Had he been around five years ago and up for hire? I’d talk it over with Gordy later.
“Hm.” Escott wrestled with a deeply embedded piece and yanked it clear in a shower of plaster. “Oh, dear. There’s a nasty mess.”
“I’ll fix it when I get there.” I mashed patch into another hole and smoothed it. Leon Kell would have done a better job, but I had reason to keep the grenade incident from him and his work crew. The private party opening for Lady Crymsyn was only days away; I didn’t want to spook them off.
“What about Miss Robillard? How is she doing?”
“Pretty well, as far as I can see.”
“You’re certain? She had a lengthy relationship with Mr. Coker, and then to be the one to kill him . . . it doesn’t strike me that she would recover too quickly from such a shock.”
“She’ll be all right. She’s a tough gal.”
She’d been steady enough right after the shooting, but a day of thinking it over had eaten away at her, with predictable results. I’d spent several hours with her the next night, holding her while she sobbed her head off. When the worst of the wave of rage, grief, re
gret, and guilt subsided, I did a little hypnotic suggestion work, hoping it wouldn’t backfire. I couldn’t take away what she’d done, but I could make it easier for her to live with it, but had to word everything most carefully. Easing her guilt was one thing, but I couldn’t go too far with that lest she come to think it was okay to shoot just anyone who annoyed her.
Helping her seemed to help me, as well. She was able to express what I could not, and the reassurances I gave to her echoed back to me and settled down inside somewhere. Whenever my shoulders started to hunch up from a bad memory, I’d hear myself talking to her and listen.
“She sounds a most remarkable young woman.”
“I invited her to the opening. I’ll introduce you. She’d go for you in a big way.”
“Really, now, you were going to introduce me to the model you’re hiring to impersonate Lady Crymsyn.”
“Her, too, why not?”
“I’m not the sort who can divide his attention in that manner.”
“Go on, I’ve seen you juggling lots of things at one time.”
“Things, yes, young ladies, no. I prefer to deal with them one at a time, if you don’t mind. It cuts down on mistakes, and where women are concerned one requires a great deal of concentration to avoid making too many errors.”
“Too many?”
“It has been my experience that they allow you only a certain number, the exact amount of which is known only to themselves. Once a fellow has exceeded that number, he may as well go home to his pipe and paper.”
Escott spent a lot of evenings home that way. You’d think with that English accent he’d have women by the truckload, because I’d watched him use it to good effect on them. Maybe he didn’t want to get tied down. A lot of women would count that against a man.
He kept at his work, his hands moving while his mind obviously soared elsewhere. I respected that he could do that. “Interesting about you being able to give Mr. Nevis a migraine,” he said thoughtfully.
“Spooked the hell out of me. I thought I’d given him a heart attack or something.”
“It was most disturbing to see, I’m sure.”
“I think it was because I pushed him too hard, and he’d been drinking beforehand.”
“I should like to question him about it.”
“He won’t remember anything. They never do.”
“Pity.”
Escott had a healthy curiosity about my condition that went beyond reading all the folklore about vampires—which was mostly wrong.
“I wish you would reconsider having yourself checked out by a physician,” he said. “It might prove to be most valuable to know the exact nature of your condition in scientific terms. You could always hypnotize the fellow into forgetting about it afterward.”
“Okay. I will.”
He stopped work to gape at me, for I always turned him down. “You will?”
“Yeah, but first you go out and buy a really good double-breasted suit and wear it to work regularly.”
Escott’s reply was brief, scaldingly acidic, and not to be repeated in polite company, but the language he chose made me grin.
I’d turn him into an American yet.
THE next few nights flew by as I put my full energy into getting the club ready. Though it looked all right, there was an astonishing amount that needed doing, but miracles can happen if you invest enough cash in them. I had to spend more than planned, but knew that I’d get it back. It was all legit business expenses, each one duly recorded in the ledgers by Malone.
He was the best miracle of all, interviewing and hiring the staff, getting them uniforms, and training them as to how things would be done at Lady Crymsyn. Hesitant at first, he gained a tremendous confidence in a very short time, and just as well. I was relying heavily upon him to keep things running during the day, but he was honestly interested in redeeming my trust and worked beyond my expectations.
There was a brief crisis concerning the actress who was to play Lady Crymsyn. Finding a girl who looked the part was less difficult than finding one who also had the presence to get away with it. She had to live up to the promise in the Alex Adrian portrait. Not easy. Such a girl was finally located, then Malone had to find a costume-maker who could reproduce the red gown in time. A ten-dollar bonus for the seamstress worked toward that end.
Bobbi had taken over the direction of the entertainment, having booked a band and several other performers, and arranged their order of presentation. She’d reserved the top billing of the evening for herself, with my wholehearted blessing, as she had more than earned it. Things were on the level, too, since I was paying her just like the rest. It felt odd to be giving my girlfriend money; Bobbi was very touchy about certain kinds of gifts, cash being on the forbidden list. But this was work, and Malone was the one writing up the checks; all I needed to do was to sign them. We kept it on a professional level. It worked.
The rest of the details piled up and were either dealt with or put on the bottom of the stack depending on their importance or practicality. There was still a problem about the damned cement mixer, so the basement would go unfinished. The performers would have to make do with the few finished rooms on the main floor off the stage.
“Why is it so important to you?” Bobbi asked me after I’d groused about it one time too many. “And this time the real reason.”
I swallowed back my usual answer about wanting everything to be perfect. Damn, but some nights she was a regular mind reader with me. “Okay. It’s about Lena. I figure if the place is completely redone down there, maybe she will finally be laid to rest.”
“Then I don’t blame you, but what happened to her is all over with. You don’t think she’s the ghost messing with the lights, do you?”
I’d told Bobbi all about the interesting electrical games I’d witnessed. She half believed me. “No, I never thought that. Whatever is behind that is different.”
“So is there another ghost in your basement?”
“No. Strictly in my head. I get pictures there and I don’t like a lot of them. Changing things with cement and paint and lightbulbs will get rid of one of them.” The one being the sight of Lena Ashley’s spine bones sticking up out of the remnants of her red dress. The confining walls that had imprisoned her in the darkness were gone, but I had to have their marks on the floor and walls obliterated, too. Even then I wasn’t sure if I’d ever feel completely at ease in that corner, but then knowing its history, who would?
Bobbi kept telling me everything would be fine. By next week, when the grand public opening took place, it would all be ready just the way I’d envisioned. This week, I’d just have to live with it.
FRIDAY night I shot awake to the sounds of early activity. People, lots of them, were moving about, talking, joking, all quite unaware of my nearby presence.
I was not in the usual alcove at home but on a cot with a layer of my earth that I’d installed at Lady Crymsyn. Having taken seriously Escott’s suggestion about turning a section under the tier seating into a sanctuary, I’d moved in all the necessities, put a lock on the inside of the door, and allowed myself to surrender to my daylight coma with hardly a qualm. Leon and his crew were no longer needing the area for storage, and the waiters and bartenders had other places for their supplies. This spot was all mine. It was not for use every day since it wasn’t fireproof, but this time I decided to take the risk.
The staff had come in before sunset to ready things, and I could hear Malone directing them. The sound of his distinctive voice, which was calm yet carrying in the big room, told me that all was going well. So far. The doors would open in less than half an hour. Had I stayed home, I’d have used up much of that meager time between my waking and the club opening just getting dressed and driving over. As it was, I needed only to dress, having bathed and shaved just before coming to the club in the predawn to retire for the day.
I had a new tuxedo hanging ready for me on a convenient nail, a paper cover protecting it from stray dust. Tucking it
and my shoes under one arm, I went over to remove the padlock from the inside but changed my mind. People were working in the bar area opposite. It would require too much explanation to account for my eccentric emergence from under the seats, so I vanished to float up through the various barriers until reaching the second-floor hall. From there I floated to my empty office and went solid.
Escott and I had done a decent job of repair. The walls were whole again, the paint fumes gone, and the floor holes neatly covered by the rug. I tore the tux clear of its wrappings and quickly dressed. Bobbi, knowing I would be here, knocked and walked in just as I began to struggle with the cuff links.
“I thought it was about time for you to wake up,” she said.
One look at her and I forgot all about the opening. She was in a spectacular white gown studded with hundreds of rhinestones that floated on her shoulders and arms like silver stars. They tapered off the lower you went on her body, whose every delicious curve was revealed by the drape of fine cloth. Silver-and-white shoes with more rhinestones caressed her feet.
She took in my expression and smiled. The special one that always sent me to the moon and back. “Well, I guess Joe James knew his stuff if this little rag makes you look like that.”
“Uh . . .”
She did a slow turn. “You like it?”
“Um . . . ahh . . .”
“I guess that means yes.”
“Uh.” Oh, God, why did I have to waste my time opening this club tonight when I should be finding ways to get Bobbi out of that dress?
“Here, you need some help?”
“Yeah. Okay. Whatever you want, doll.” Unable to think for the time being, I held my arm out so she could fix the links. Then she fussed with my collar and tie, and I thought the scent of her perfume would make my head explode. It took all my willpower to keep from dragging her down onto my desk right then and there to let her know how I felt.
“Your pants are a little tight here,” she commented, her hand brushing dangerously close to a now highly sensitive and responsive area. I caught her wrists and raised them up, fiercely kissing them on the inside. The sweet pulsing of her blood teased, tempting me to linger.