by P. N. Elrod
Bristow came more alert but with only a shadow of his initial belligerence. “Yeah, let’s get this show on the road.” He led the way in, his men following. The first two shot me a fishy glare, suspicious that I’d been up to something. They’d have a fine debate trying to figure it.
“What did you do?” Gordy wanted to know.
I kept up the innocent act. “Just greasing wheels. You may find him in a better mood than before, but I can’t promise how long it’ll last.”
The corners of his eyes crinkled. “Thanks.”
Wilton rose from behind the bar. I made a thumbs-up at him, but it didn’t do much to clear his worry. The check girl ventured to poke her head out. I signed for her to come take Gordy’s things. He granted her a benign smile and a twenty-dollar tip. She nearly floated away. Chances were she’d risk coming in again tomorrow.
I wanted a change of subject. “You follow that kidnap case in the papers?” Gordy got updates about the job from me as part of our usual shop talk. “The one Charles has been working on?”
His attention shifted unhurriedly from the girl to me. She had great legs. “Yeah. Bad deal on that society bum getting clear.”
“Dugan’s not clear yet.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“I’m going after him.”
“Sounds good.” No need for him to ask for details. He knew I’d fill him in after the dust had settled.
“I may want particulars on the rest of the gang. Stuff the cops wouldn’t have.”
“Whatever you need.”
“You know any of those guys?”
“Not personally. They’re nothing. Some theft, some hot checks, one guy shoots morphine. Small-change chumps. My people wouldn’t use’em for anything, especially the doper. I can have ’em all bumped if you want. Even the fancy-pants.” Gordy could arrange a hit on anyone, any place, especially if they were in jail.
“Don’t think that will be necessary, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
He gave a minimal shrug. Offering helpful information or death were all one to him. Guards before and behind, he lumbered off to the main room just as the band warmed into the first dance number for the night.
Wilton’s smile was fixed and brittle. Gordy had been speaking low, but perhaps our conversation had carried.
I went over. “You okay?”
“I guess.” He didn’t sound convinced.
“Did I hear you talking to Myrna?”
He nodded. “Seemed the thing to do. Told her to stop with the lights. She’s a great kidder, huh?”
“Yeah, so’s a lot of people who come in here. You know?”
“Yeah, sure, Mr. Fleming,” he said slowly. “Everyone’s a kidder.”
“Glad you understand that.”
His gaze flicked behind me. Another party coming in. Good, we could both do with something normal. “Back to work,” I said, cheerful again.
They were high-hat types I’d not seen before, three couples, well-dressed and young, but old enough to drink or they’d not have gotten by the doorman. There were too many at once for me to deal with, but I managed to snag the first man with my usual welcome speech and beamed charm at the rest. They were oddly tight-lipped as they took in the lobby; it usually inspired approving murmurs.
“Oh, do come along, Anthony dear,” said one of the girls to the man. Her eyes were bright and guarded, passing right over me. Her message was clear: stop wasting time with the servants, dah-ling. No skin off my nose, their money spent as good as anyone else’s, and they generally had more to throw around.
Anthony dear took her arm, and the group wafted in, keeping their hats and coats. Barhoppers sampling a new place, I figured. They’d have at least one drink, then decide where to go afterward, but the breed was more common on Fridays and Saturdays. This bunch either kept bankers’ hours at work or didn’t work at all.
The main room was about a third full, very good for the middle of the week. The high-hatters were clumped at one of the lower booths just inside the entry. They were trying to figure out the drinks order with the waiter while shedding their coats. Anthony dear saw me, then looked elsewhere a little too casually. What was his game? Order pad in hand, the waiter hurried off to the bar.
I made the rounds, stopping a few moments with the regulars, making sure everyone had what they wanted. Gordy wasn’t at his down-front table tonight. He and Bristow were high on the third tier, removed from the noisy crowd and music, the better for talking. They seemed to be deep into things, heads forward, faces unreadable. I couldn’t tell how well my influence was working on Bristow, but I expected Gordy would let me know.
By the time I reached the bar, the waiter was back from serving his posh table. “Those new ones in the far booth,” I said. “What did they want?” You can tell a lot about people from their choice of drink.
“Four martinis, a horse’s neck, and a Four Roses. A triple.”
“Which one got the whiskey?”
“Skinny guy on the end.”
That was Anthony dear. What had him so nervous to want that much ninety proof? The booths each had a small lamp; the low light picked out the red flush of his skin from the booze he’d busily slugged back. If he kept up that pace, he’d put himself in a coma.
Roland Lambert and Bobbi had a table close to the stage. As a matter of habit, I noted their drinks: grape juice on the rocks for her, coffee for him, apparently still on the wagon. Not many were up to resisting the call of demon rum and its many cousins, so I gave him credit for that. I wanted to like him, and would have, had I missed seeing him fooling around on his new wife. Maybe he and Faustine had a free-love kind of marriage, if that’s what those were called. I didn’t get it. If you don’t plan to stick with your one partner through thick and thin, then why bother to team up permanent?
Bobbi laughed in response to whatever Roland was telling her. They seemed to be getting on fine. Showbiz chat probably. His past experience in Hollywood would be irresistible to her; she’d want to know everything as part of her preparation for breaking into movies.
She rarely talked about it with me anymore, knowing how I usually reacted to the subject, which was to clam up. She sometimes mistook that for anger, but it was my way to avoid saying anything stupid—like asking her not to go. That was a tiger trap I wasn’t about to drop into. She’d helped me realize my dreams with this club; it was only fair to do the same for her, even if my heart wasn’t in it.
Part of me tiredly repeated I wouldn’t lose her; another part tormented with the likelihood that she’d leave and never return. It had happened before. No matter that the circumstances of losing Maureen—the woman who gave me this dark change, a woman I’d loved just as much—had been very different; the scars were in my memory. On bad nights they still bled. If I didn’t watch myself, Bobbi would suffer from my past pain. Neither of us needed that.
Bobbi saw me watching her, smiled, and waved. I smiled back, not quite ready to join them. It was close to showtime, anyway.
Consciously shrugging off the mood, I strolled to one side of the dance floor where a microphone was set up. I used to be awkward, but coaching from Bobbi and plenty of practice turned this aspect of my job into an enjoyable boost, just the thing for a sagging spirit. Applause helped, even if it was only a polite smatter.
I caught the bandleader’s eye partway through the current number. The music slowed and softened, and a blinding spotlight smacked me hot in the face. I switched on the mike and introduced myself. The regulars clapped; the high-hatters gave curious stares. I thanked everyone for coming in, told them they were lucky to be here tonight, then explained why by introducing the lovely and talented star of stage, screen, and radio, Adelle Taylor.
The band boomed her lead-in fanfare, the house lights dimmed, and the spot swung to fix on her as she glided from the wings, taking center stage for her first song. I made an unobtrusive exit, job finished for the night. Anyone could have done it, but I’d grown to enjoy those few seconds of attention, playing the good host.
Now I was free to invite myself over to Roland’s table, gesturing him back as he started to rise. “We’re informal here. Is Bobbi treating you right?” I took a seat next to her, getting comfortable.
“I’m learning plenty about Chicago,” he said, pitched barely loud enough to be heard over Adelle’s voice. Dancers sifted by, pairing up on the floor in front of the stage. “I used to only pass through here between Hollywood and New York. Seems I missed a lot.”
“You planning to stay?”
“We haven’t decided yet. Faustine and I want to look around first. I need to get used to the U.S. of A. again, and she needs to meet it, period. She’s looking forward to working again, if she can find any in her line.”
“Isn’t there a ballet company here in town?”
“She’s checking that, trying to get a decent agent.” He pulled out a gold cigarette case with his initials on it and offered us a smoke. Bobbi declined, thinking it was bad for her throat. I tried one. It was black with no filter. The taste was strong and exotic, reminding me of Faustine.
“They should be glad to have a Russian-trained dancer around,” I said.
Roland shrugged. “Anyone would be, but there might not be much open for me here as an actor. I’d thought I’d talk with Adelle, find out what sort of opportunities are in radio. God knows I can fake nearly any accent in the British Isles by now.” His gaze rested fondly on Adelle as she shimmered in the spot, her rich voice rising with the music. “If there’s some Shakespeare afoot, I’m sure she’ll help me get in.”
I kept my face frozen as best I could, but Bobbi shifted next to me; she’d have to trust that I’d keep my yap shut, and I would. For now.
A waiter came over, wondering if we wanted anything. I gave my usual negative reply and asked Roland if his coffee needed hotting up. He asked for a large glass of ice water. The waiter nodded and left.
Bobbi said, “I was just pointing out local celebrities to Roland, but I don’t think he believed me.”
“How so?”
Roland indicated a direction with his cigarette. “That big guy up there, he really is with the mob?”
There was only one truly big guy in the place, so I didn’t have to turn to know he meant Gordy. “Let’s just say he’s a businessman and leave it at that.” I gave a quick wink and smile.
“But he’s a friend of yours?”
“And Bobbi, too. Gordy can be a good friend.”
“He’s like Al Capone, though?”
“He’s a businessman. Chicago style.”
“And Adelle’s seeing him?”
“They like each other fine. He respects her. Treats her right. Looks after her very closely. Like the army at Fort Knox. Smart men don’t cross him.” Bobbi tapped her foot warningly against my ankle, but I judged I’d dropped enough hints for Roland to think about.
“But a gangster?”
“Love’s screwy, and you can’t argue with it.”
Finally Roland seemed to catch what I was throwing and eased back. “True. I count myself quite lucky Faustine felt inclined toward me in that way.”
Except, apparently, for those hot moments in Adelle’s dressing room last night. I hoped bringing Gordy so firmly into the picture would spark some common sense in Roland, keep him from a repeat performance. Much of that would also be up to Adelle, it taking two to tango and so on. Hopefully, Bobbi could take care of that part of the job a little later. I planned to keep Roland busy telling me about European politics during her set break, giving Bobbi a chance to go backstage for a girl-to-girl chat with Adelle.
“Who’s the college crowd?” Roland asked, his focus shifting to the high-hat table. “They don’t seem to be enjoying themselves.”
I’d noticed. They had their drinks but no smiles to go with them. Anthony showed a red face, having drained his triple in an amazingly short time, but was still upright and responding to conversation. “They’re new. Probably still getting used to the joint.”
“I’ve seen them at other clubs I’ve worked,” Bobbi put in.
“Oh yeah?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know the names, except for the black-haired girl next to the skinny guy. She’s that society deb, Marie Kennard. Oh, don’t worry, Jack, she’s allowed to drink now. Her coming out was enough years ago. I was with the band singing at her big party. Thought she’d be married by now. They usually are.”
Roland chuckled. “My dear, by now she could have done that, gone to Reno, and shed her husband like an old skin. It’s embarrassingly easy these days. Ask Adelle.”
Bobbi’s mouth popped open with shock. “Roland, I didn’t mean—”
He stubbed out his cigarette and patted her hand, eyes twinkling. “Of course you didn’t, I’m a poltroon, but I wanted to see the look on your face. It was darling. I promise to behave in the future. Actually, Adelle and I are quite easy about those times. I was a perfect beast and had it coming. We’ve forgiven and forgotten. Certainly she deserved a better man than I was back then. I hope she’s done so with that gangster fellow, but one can’t help but be uneasy. I still care for her—as a friend.”
“She’s never been happier. I heard her say so.”
He pantomimed being shot in the heart. “Oh, a mortal wound to my vanity, but you can heal it in an instant if you’ll honor me with a dance.”
He was smooth. Great delivery. He swept Bobbi onto the dance floor before she knew what hit her. I should have been jealous but wasn’t. She’d get her balance back soon enough, then he wouldn’t know what hit him.
Young Anthony dear of the high-hats had left his group. I wouldn’t have noticed his absence except for his friends staring my way. Soon as I looked, they went into a too-casual huddle. They must have been talking about me, but I couldn’t imagine why. The only notoriety I had was over six months out of date, having to do with a murder victim found in Crymsyn’s basement. It got my picture in the papers, but the case was long over and done.
I thought about vanishing and drifting over for some eavesdropping but couldn’t risk it. I’d pulled that stunt plenty of times, but only in places where I never expected to return. Lady Crymsyn already had a resident ghost; no need to start rumors that the owner was one as well. Instead, I smoked Roland’s exotic cigarette, deciding I liked my own homegrown brand better, and stayed put. It was good not to be doing anything strenuous. Despite the blood I’d taken from Bobbi earlier, I wasn’t fully revived. Last night had been a lot of work. Very shortly, I’d make a bank run to deposit receipts, then stop at the Stockyards for some serious restoration. Until then, loafing was allowed.
Roland and Bobbi finished their turn on the floor and came back. She asked him to repeat a story he’d related about dancing with Marion Davies at a Hearst mansion weekend party. He had my full attention, since I’d always had a soft spot for that actress.
Apparently she was a good egg with a better sense of humor than William Randolph. She’d been in a costume epic and wanted a sword-fighting lesson from Roland, since it looked like fun. He’d managed to smuggle a good supply of liquor onto the teetotaling grounds of the estate at San Simeon, though, and had been drunk as a skunk at the time.
“I dimly recall chasing her around the swimming pool with a dessert spoon instead of a sword,” he said. “We didn’t want to do each other an injury, you see. Marion was laughing so hard she fell into the pool, and it was only gentlemanly that I jump in to save her. We were having a fine time splashing about until Hearst turned up. Seemed he didn’t care to have his lady friend dripping wet with her clothes clinging to her, not with all the other guests to see, anyway. Marion laughed it off, but the next morning I woke up on an airplane heading back to Hollywood with no idea how I’d gotten there. She later sent me a note, apologizing. I still have it somewhere. Lovely girl.”
Bobbi asked him to tell another one, but Escott came in and walked over. Whatever his phone call to Vivian had been about left him in a good mood. He bowed over Bobbi’s hand, smiling warmly an
d complimenting her on the Snow White dress. That made her sparkle a little brighter. If I had a soft spot for Marion Davies, then Bobbi had one for Escott. Must have been his accent. I introduced him to Roland. They said the usual things, sized each other up, then Roland asked what part of London he was from.
“Oh, several places at least,” was Escott’s light but gently discouraging reply. He didn’t talk much about his past. “I understand you had some success on the stage there. Quite an accomplishment. May I inquire what productions and theaters?”
Roland was more than pleased to share stories about past triumphs, then with a prompt from Bobbi, talk changed to the Gladwell kidnapping. Escott kept things on the most general of terms, but she wanted details. He seemed ready to supply them. Then Anthony dear came back to his friends.
“Good lord,” Escott muttered under his breath.
“Something wrong?” Bobbi asked.
He wore a peculiar, stretched smile. “A slight digestive upset. I think I’ll see if the barman has something to help.” He excused himself and walked unhurriedly away, his back firmly to us and the other table.
Roland looked puzzled. “That was a quick onset of symptoms.”
“I’ll see if he needs a doctor,” I said, excusing myself, too.
Careful not to make a beeline, I threaded between tables, playing host, until reaching the bar. Escott had a brandy instead of a bromide in front of him.
“What’s up?” I asked.
The left side of his mouth twitched, and he remained turned from the room. “That young fellow with the large group is related to our infamous Hurley Gilbert Dugan, that is what’s up, old man.”
It was a struggle, but I resisted the urge to check over my shoulder at the high-hatters. “You’re kidding.”
“I assure you I am not. He’s one Anthony Brockhurst, a distant cousin. His picture was in the papers, those society events Dugan went to with his late mother. This is no coincidence. What the devil could he be doing here?” he wondered, irritated.
“Following you.”
“Or you.”
“How would he—oh.” If Dugan remembered our hypnosis session, he’d be curious and ferret out my partnership with Escott pretty quick. Part of that could be asking a few staunch supporters to go to my club and play spy. Now I understood the stares and backhand talking. How much had Dugan told them? Were they in on the kidnapping? I got an itch to corner Anthony dear for a private “chat.” The rest of them, too. They couldn’t all be as crazy as Dugan.