by P. N. Elrod
“The show going well?” I asked. “Adelle’s in fine form.”
“She’s always better for the second set, warmed up. Once she gets the measure of the crowd, she plays ’em like a banjo.”
Adelle Taylor, one-time silent movie comedienne, now a well-known radio actress, could put a song across and then some. She had a great voice and would have done well when the talkies came in, but by then she had grown tired of getting hit in the kisser with pies. There was also her looks. Nothing wrong with them, she was a classic beauty and kept herself trim, but Hollywood scripts rarely had a part, good or bad, for a woman in her thirties. Adelle read the writing on the wall and skipped over to stage work, where lighting and makeup could take off the years, and to radio, which didn’t care how you looked. I’d heard her play Juliet and Lady Macbeth equally well.
She had a local following of admirers I’d hoped to lure through Crymsyn’s doors, so she was booked for the weeknights, leaving her free on weekends for radio work. Then I advertised big. The ploy seemed successful ; new faces appeared at the tables, perhaps to become regulars. When not sidetracked by Escott’s cases, I did my best to assure that by personally greeting as many as I could when they first came in the lobby. A handshake, a smile, a look straight into their eyes with a confident statement they would enjoy themselves had done much for my business.
I cheated, of course, using hypnosis to plant the suggestion. Not a lot, just a gentle nudge. If customers had a good time, they’d return for more. My conscience was only a little tarnished. The only time I really dirtied it up was the night an entertainment reporter came in to do a review. I made sure he loved the place and consequently got a great write-up in his paper. All’s fair in love and liquor sales.
The supernatural edge was probably why I had a decent house even on weeknights. An astonishing number of other clubs in Chicago needed slot machines, tables, and other illegal advantages in their back rooms to stay alive. I could have made a hell of a lot more profit taking their road but didn’t want the bother of cop raids during election years and payoffs the rest of the time.
Speaking of those clubs, the owner of the Nightcrawler was seated on the lowest tier of the horseshoe, closest to the stage. You couldn’t miss Gordy Weems; he was like the portrait out front, built on a larger-than-life scale. He’d been squiring Adelle Taylor around town since summer, having snagged her on the rebound when something bad caught up with her last escort that took him out of her life. She’d been bruised by the experience but had apparently found in Gordy a bit more than just a massive shoulder to cry on. He was pretty well gone for her. Despite the fact he was one of the major names in Chicago’s mobs, he proved a remarkably stable influence.
It was odd, though, that he should be here, even to catch Adelle’s act. He had his own place and a lot of other businesses to run; usually you couldn’t blast him out of the Nightcrawler. He was always there. Period. His bodyguards were scattered at surrounding tables, so this wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment outing for him. He had company along.
“Who’s the guy with Gordy?” I asked.
Bobbi barely looked at him, as though to remind herself of someone she’d already seen but forgot was there. “I don’t know. Probably mob. Generally is with Gordy. They came in an hour ago. Adelle sat with them awhile, then had to do her set. They’ve been talking nose-to-nose a lot. The guy likes whiskey straight, and Gordy’s kept even with his usual.”
Which was tonic water and a shot of lime. Some kind of business was afoot, then. He never drank when he worked, but why here instead of his own place? Maybe he needed my special talents. It wouldn’t be the first time. I didn’t mind. His mob authority made mine one of the few joints in town exempt from paying the usual protection money. He owed me a few big favors but was also a friend. I was always ready to lend him a hand and vice versa.
“Guess I better find out if I’m supposed to be there.”
“He’d have sent one of the boys for you then,” she said with a nod toward the bodyguards. “They would have seen you coming in.”
“True.” If it concerned me, I’d be notified. For now, I was more than content to relax in a booth with my arm around Bobbi. “How’s the night been in general?”
“Good business, about half a house. We lost a few between shows. Some people have regular jobs in the morning. The whole band remembered their instruments and showed up on time, even that drummer who’s usually late.”
I smiled.
She caught it. “Jack . . . did you do anything?”
“I had a little talk with him.” It left me with a headache afterward because the man was fond of drink, but some of my influence must have seeped through the booze into his brain. He seemed bright and sharp of eye tonight.
“What kind of talk?”
“Just a recommendation he go easy on the bottle and pay attention to his job so he could keep it.”
“Must have been some kind of recommendation.”
“Irresistible.”
Her lids went to half-mast. It made her more cute than threatening. “Uh-huh. I thought you weren’t going to risk messing up peoples’ lives with that Svengali stuff.”
“You think he’s helping himself much?”
“No, but the road to hell and all that.”
“It’s only temporary. He can get himself sober and stay that way with my help, but unless he wants it on his own, it’ll eventually wear off. I can’t change a person’s basic nature; that’s up to him. The door’s open, though.”
“So long as you’re not too disappointed if he doesn’t go sailing through it.”
I lifted a philosophical hand. “No skin off my nose. After all, I only throw myself off bridges in the line of duty.”
She quirked one corner of her luscious mouth. “Ain’t that the truth and a half?”
I’d told her about my hurtling ride over the railing with the ransom suitcase.
The band played on; Bobbi announced she had things to look after backstage and went off to track them down. I had work as well, helping to close out the lobby register and send the doorman home. The hatcheck girl had her area in order, ready to go when the last customer came to collect. The bartender had everything cleaned up except for a dark red stain on the floor behind the bar. Nothing would ever clean that.
Years ago when this place was a different kind of a hot spot for booze, it became the site of a mob war skirmish. Someone lobbed a grenade through the front door, and a lady bartender named Myrna caught shrapnel in the throat. She dropped in her tracks and bled to death. The stain behind the current bar marked the spot where she’d fallen and died.
My maintenance man had chiseled out and replaced the tiles several times, but they’d always stain again in the same pattern. We finally gave up. Vampires I believed in, but never ghosts. Myrna’s sanguinary presence in the club had changed my mind.
“Any problems?” I asked the bartender, Wilton. He was the only one in the joint willing to work the front alone. Oddball things went on here, but he didn’t mind. Jobs were scarce, and not having a pay envelope was more frightening to him than going partners with a ghost.
“She keeps switching the vodka with the gin,” he said, jerking his chin at the rows of bottles lining the thick glass shelves. “Trying to be funny, I guess.”
“Maybe that’s how she kept them when she was alive. Try leaving them in place.”
“I did. She switched them back.”
Myrna had a sense of humor. “Anything else?”
“She sliced up some lemons. I had them set out with the knife, got busy, and when I went back, they were all ready in their bowl. What gets me is I never see any of that happening.”
“Shy girl. It bother you?”
“Nah. I kinda like the company. I been—don’t laugh, okay?—but when no one’s out here, I talk to her sometimes.”
“Makes sense to me.” I talked to her, too.
I’d gotten Myrna’s name from a young woman who impersonated Lady Crymsyn fo
r special events and shows. Along with being an actress, she was also psychic and rattled on about mystical-type stuff in the same matter-of-fact tone other people used when commenting about the weather. She was used to dealing with ghosts and assumed others were the same. Escott dated her for a while, but I don’t think he was too easy with that facet of her talents. Hypocrite. He could share his house with a vampire but got cold feet with a ghost-seeing girl.
“How are you, Myrna?” I asked.
No response. One of her favorite gags was to flicker the lights or turn them on and off, which is what I half expected to happen.
“She must be someplace else,” said Wilton.
We counted money and totaled tabs and tips. He signed out, gave me a list of supplies we’d need, and left for the night. I wrote the numbers on a clipboard, bagged the cash, and went upstairs to my office. Just as I turned the doorknob, the lights inside came on for me.
“Funny girl,” I said to the empty air.
I’d done myself right with this room, making it comfortable. Most of the time I was allergic to paperwork, but nice surroundings reduced the symptoms. Bobbi had picked out a couple of the luxury touches like the heavy, light-blocking curtains and an extra-long sofa but hadn’t gone overboard with pillows and frills. Some club offices looked like a brothel parlor; I didn’t want that. Besides, fancy stuff didn’t combine well with multiple locks and bolts on the steel door or the wire-meshed, bulletproof glass of the windows. The room was as secure as a giant safe because occasionally I’d sleep the day through on the sofa. When the sun was up, I was dead—or something close to it—and thus vulnerable. In that state I needed all the sanctuary I could afford.
I shoved the money bag into a safe disguised to look like a drawer front on my massive desk, locked up, and returned to the main room. I put the light out myself, thinking Myrna wouldn’t mind.
Adelle had finished her set, taking her last bow to applause. She threw a smile at Gordy and went backstage. He was still busy with his friend, who didn’t appear too friendly now that I got a good look at him. A wide man with a red face, pronounced jowls, and a bad haircut, his suit was on a level with his hair, the coat too narrow for his frame so it stretched tight across his shoulders.
Some kind of serious dealing was going on with them. They both seemed tense. I walked past, but Gordy didn’t give any high sign to come over, his focus on the man.
Fine with me; I could ask him later or maybe find out what Adelle knew. She’d be in her dressing room. The band had two more numbers, a moderately fast dance, followed by a slow swing version of “Good Night, Sweetheart,” which told the customers the place was about to close. Some of them were already settling money on the waiters, gathering up to leave.
I took the long way around to get backstage. There were four dressing rooms here, men on the left, women to the right, each side sharing its own small toilet and shower in between, an unheard-of luxury for the talent. Bobbi had helped with the layout, insisting the expense would be worth it. She had plenty of showbiz know-how and knew what was needed, so I gave her a free hand. Since the opening, the artists had only wild praise about their accommodations. I finally got it: that if they were happy, they’d make the audience feel the same.
Adelle had the celebrity room, a red-painted door no different from the other three, close to the stage with the number one engraved into a chrome star mounted at eye level. A slot beneath had a card with her name on it in curlicue writing. Come the weekend, someone else’s name would be in place, but for now she was queen of the show.
Her door was wide open, and I heard her inside, apparently with a guest. “Oh, for crying out loud,” she exclaimed, sounding pleased.
Her back was to me as I came even with the opening. She’d plastered herself to the body of a tall, strongly built man, kissing him like tomorrow didn’t matter. He returned the favor with interest, his arms wrapped tight around her, hands firmly cupping her butt.
I kept going and hoped Gordy stayed the hell out front.
THE band finished their last number and began packing instruments and filing out, passing me where I stood just inside the red velvet stage curtains. I had a nod and smile for them, a word of thanks, good nights, and see ya laters, all the time with my brain churning over Adelle’s little love scene.
I’m in favor of affection of most kinds, and had it been anyone else, I’d have shrugged it off, since this was none of my damned beeswax, but she was Gordy’s steady date. Though he was a good friend, I didn’t know him well enough to guess how he’d react to her running around on him. The way that kiss had gone, there was no chance the handsome guy could have been a long-lost relative, not unless Adelle came from one seriously unhinged family.
I pressed the button that drew the curtains. They rattled smoothly along their tracks. Another high-hat expense, but otherwise I’d have had to pay some union man to do it manually. Once they were shut, I slipped out front by way of the side stage stairs, crossing the dance floor. All the customers had departed except for Gordy, his guest, and the bodyguards. The grim discussion was still going strong.
The last bartender and a couple waiters who were stacking chairs on the upper-tier tables looked toward me. They were familiar enough with Gordy’s face and reputation to give him a wide berth, but at the same time they wanted to close things out and go home. I motioned them to come down, meeting them at the bar on the far side of the room.
“We’ll shut out the register,” I said. “If those guys want anything more, I’ll take care of it. You know what they’re talking about?”
“No, sir,” one waiter volunteered. “Don’t wanna know, either.”
I chuckled once so they could see I wasn’t worried. It only reassured them a little. They felt better once their tips were divided and they could escape out the rear exit, following the band.
The bartender and I did the final money count, then he gratefully left as well. I wanted to go backstage again and find Bobbi but had to park myself here until Gordy finished his talk. The staying open later than usual didn’t bother me; whatever Adelle was up to in her dressing room did. Fortunately, Gordy was too involved to go look for her.
With everyone gone, it was nearly quiet enough for me to listen in on him, even at this distance over the hum of the beer cooler. They kept their tone low and droning, though. I caught a few words but not enough to figure out what they were talking about.
Then Bobbi emerged from backstage. She’d probably been having her nightly chat with the bandleader about tomorrow’s music. She had company with her, a petite, elegantly slender woman dressed to the nines, with some tens and elevens mixed in. If Bobbi hadn’t possessed a strong presence of her own, she’d have looked like a dowdy shopgirl in comparison. The woman had white blond hair under her velvet hat, which sported a diamond-crusted pin holding spiky feathers. Matching bracelets were on one black-gloved wrist; the other was hidden inside a fur muff. A thick fox fur lay around her shoulders like a safari kill. There was an exotic cast to her face: high cheekbones, full lips, long, dark, slanted eyes. She had a stately walk, chin elevated like royalty. You went at her speed, or you went away.
Bobbi seemed immune to that inherent command, going at her usual sprightly bounce, yet both women arrived at the bar at the same time. I wondered how they did that.
“Jack, this is Faustine Petrova.” Bobbi’s expression telegraphed that I should overdo the manners.
I came around the bar to take Faustine’s regally extended hand. In no wise could I convincingly bow and kiss it. Only Escott could get away with that, so I settled for a gentle double shake and release, adding a nod and welcoming smile. “A pleasure. How do you do?”
“Berry vell, t’ank you,” she replied in a rich contralto, lips carefully outlining each word, teeth showing.
“Miss Petrova was a member of the Moscow Ballet not long ago, but decided to leave,” Bobbi explained.
“Eet vas pol-i-ticks, my dear. Peasants who t’ink they know daun-ce.”
Faustine Petrova sniffed her disdain. “Now because of that Austrian’ouse painter an’ that pig of a fascist train conductor, there is no place in all Europe safe for the true ar-teest.”
I didn’t know if the accent was real or not, but I could listen to it for hours. “Yes, things are very miserable over there.”
“Indeed. Zo I come to vonderful Amer-i-ka in hope to be free to do az I pleaze. Eet iz a great country.” Her approving gaze swept around the interior of the club, as though it embodied the best of corn-fed, homemade ideals.
“I won’t argue with that, Miss Petrova.”
“An’ zo, in the spirit of all t’ings good in my new ’omeland, for verk I am look-ink.”
“Indeed?” I glanced at Bobbi for enlightenment, having no idea what the hell kind of “verk” I could provide a ballerina in my joint. The hot jazz, blues, and swing I showcased wouldn’t mix well with her kind of training.
Bobbi’s eyes sparkled. “Miss Petrova is here with her partner, Roland Lambert. They do exhibition dancing, specialty number stuff.”
Faustine lifted a lazy hand, palm up. “Eet pays the rent.”
That kind of act I might be able to use, depending how good they were. “Well, the band’s gone now, so an audition isn’t possible—”
“I’ve already seen them,” said Bobbi. “They’re terrific, like Astaire and Rogers but at a higher temperature. They know what they’re doing.”
I trusted Bobbi’s shrewdness about all things related to the stage. “I suppose we can work out a contract, do a trial run for a week, and see how it goes. You know the requirements?”
Faustine nodded. “Daun-cing wit’ the customers after show. I have no problem wit’ that. Neither does Roland. I enjoy mingl-ink wit’ the people. Amer-i-kans are zo charm-ink.”
It was too much for me to picture her bouncing a fast fox trot with some Midwestern businessman in search of a foreign thrill, but if she didn’t mind, I was willing to give it a try. “When do I meet your partner?”
“Roland’s backstage,” Bobbi answered for her. “He’s old friends with Adelle.”