The Vampire Files Anthology

by P. N. Elrod

“You did the same thing.” On the night we met, Escott had prepared defenses that included a supply of garlic and a cross, which I’d been able to ignore, and a crossbow, which I had not. I could expect similar measures and more from Dugan.

  “Actually, the invitation was for you to come to my office . . .” Escott continued thoughtfully.

  “After you swiped my home earth to get me there.”

  “I have apologized; besides, it turned out well enough.”

  “Yeah, but you’re one of the good guys. Dugan’s a kidnapper, has attempted murder, maybe has murdered, and is probably a prime candidate for the booby hatch.”

  “But curious. That could work against him. So . . . I return to the question of how any dealings with you could benefit him.”

  “Too easy, Charles.”

  “Oh?”

  “One visit to the district attorney and a few other key people, and I can make them forget about Dugan’s involvement in the Gladwell case. He’d like that to happen, don’t you think? He’d carry it all the way to Mrs. Gladwell to get himself clear.”

  Escott’s mouth sagged open, and for a second or three, it looked like his brain had steamed to a complete halt. He eventually recovered. “Well, we can’t allow that.”

  “Nope. I’ll have to see him, try to put him under. If that doesn’t work, I try to find out what his precautions are and make them go away. He’ll want to talk about them to keep me in line. Did you let Bobbi in on what’s going on?”

  He shook his head. “We were never alone long enough. First Mr. Lambert monopolized her, then Miss Petrova arrived—”

  “I saw. She’s something, isn’t she?”

  “Indeed she is. A touch theatrical but of an agreeably ingenuous variety. Intoxicating in small doses.”

  Whatever that meant. There was no such thing as a small dose with a gal like Faustine. “I’ll have to talk to Bobbi. I’m going to need her help setting things up to welcome Dugan.”

  “Not putting her in the middle of this, are you?”

  “Brother, she is essential. You, too.”

  “In what way?”

  I told him my idea.

  “Bloody hell,” he said again and broke into a rare laugh.

  WE split up. Escott made his way to the club’s basement where the carpentry tools were stored. He wanted to know what kind of drill bits I had on hand and was intent on locating extension cords, yardsticks, plaster, and other odds and ends. He’d be happy and occupied for hours. Nothing like a fresh problem to solve to cheer him through and through.

  I went down to the main room to rejoin Bobbi at her table. Roland Lambert and I would have a man-to-man talk, but it seemed better to wait until he was alone. If he and Adelle were still unavailable, I had no wish to break in on them. Bobbi and I had once been interrupted like that, and it’s not fun for anyone.

  “What’s with the different suit?” Bobbi asked.

  “Had an accident,” I answered. “Spilled something.”

  She could read on my face there was more story to tell, but she’d have to hear it later.

  I smiled at Faustine and told her how delighted I was to see her again. She purred something similar in return. Then I asked where Roland had gone.

  “Een the back of the stage, I t’ink,” she said, sipping from her glass. It held something clear with an ice cube. I couldn’t tell if it was water, vodka, or gin. She’d dolled herself up in more safari kills, leopard and sable draped over a black, clingy gown. Instead of a hat, she had some kind of bandage thing rolled around her white blond hair. It looked like a screwy war-wound dressing, except it seemed to be made of satin with lots of rhinestone trim.

  “He said you’d tired yourself out shopping today.”

  “How droll of my dar-link to say so, but yes, I did do much buying of t’ings. I vish to look berry Amer-i-kan. Success? Yess?” She gestured to indicate her ensemble. I knew a whole lot of bupkis about women’s fashion but had enough brains to express appreciation for the view. She did look impressive.

  “We’re doing more shopping tomorrow,” said Bobbi. “I’ll make sure she gets to the best places.”

  “An’ a luncheon wit’ the hot dog,” Faustine added.

  “Chicago style, I promise. Then maybe we try to find you an agent.”

  “Roland vill be look-ink. He said Adelle would be help.”

  From what I’d heard, they couldn’t have had much opportunity or inclination to discuss Faustine’s interests. I held to a neutral face. “I’m sure she’ll have something useful for him.”

  Bobbi shot me a what-the-hell-does-that-mean look. It was pointless hiding anything from her, but this wasn’t the time for shocking revelations in front of the guy’s wife. I made an uninformative smile, then asked how things were going for Gordy and Bristow up on their third-tier perch.

  She took the change of subject in stride and shrugged. “Hard to tell. The mean-looking guy kept the waiter busy bringing drinks until he finally ordered a whole bottle. He’s doing most of the talking; Gordy listens.”

  No gun fun. I liked that. How would Bristow’s booze consumption react against my influence, though? It gave people a certain immunity from me; would it also erode the effect of the suggestions I’d already planted? I had often wondered about it.

  “What’s going on with them?” she asked.

  “Negotiations. The guy wants Gordy’s territory.”

  Bobbi sat up a little straighter. She was aware of what that meant and where Bristow’s ambitions could lead. “How serious?”

  “Gordy’s got things in hand.”

  “Gordy is friend?” Faustine wanted to know.

  “A very good one.”

  “Vhat matter is eet?”

  “They’re a couple of salesmen trying to divide up the city,” I said. “One guy wants another guy’s customers. They’ll work things out.”

  “Amer-i-kans, always the beez-nuss. I like eet. Here anyone become the million-aire, yess?”

  “Rags to riches is our favorite song.”

  “I vould like hear’ink that sometime.”

  “Of course, things haven’t been so good since the crash—”

  “Poof,” she said dismissively. “You vant to see big wreck of the crash, go to Continent, go to Russia. Boom, crash, boom, all over there. You here have no idea. Zo innocent. Yess, you have the soup kitchens, Roland tell me of them, but you have soup. Places over there, a potato feed village for a month, if they lucky to have potato. I am beeg coward; I get out.” She looked at Bobbi. “Tomorrow I vish to find church to light candle for those behind, yesss?”

  “Sure,” Bobbi agreed, impressed by Faustine’s social spirit.

  “Is good. I should ask my cousin, but he annoy me with talk of the dead and days gone by. Days are gone—poof—vhat more good to vish them back? Most I never vant to remember.” She lightened this with a self-deprecating smile and a flash of her eyes. She lifted her glass. “To good days that come, yesss?”

  “To better days, yes,” said Bobbi, lifting a glass of her usual grape juice. I had no drink but murmured approvingly.

  The bandleader struck up Adelle’s fanfare just then, signaling the start of her second set. She emerged from the wings, introducing herself this time around. She beamed in response to the applause and, with a completely straight face, smoothly launched into “Ain’t Misbehavin’.” I damn near choked, turning it into a cough.

  It couldn’t have been too convincing. Bobbi read me better than a book and kicked my ankle. I took it like a man, giving her a short nod and a thin smile so she wouldn’t do it again. She arched one eyebrow. I offered another smile, trying to look like I’d had enough, which was true, but jeez, I needed a laugh. Must have been reaction to getting shot and worry over what Dugan’s game might be. I’d tell Bobbi about it later. For the present, I liked it that her biggest concern was keeping me in line.

  Roland Lambert came out the backstage area door, looking fresher than next week’s paper. His tux was in perfect or
der, hair still slicked down, not even a sheen on his upper lip to betray his recent physical effort. He raised a hand in our direction, then paused at the bar. The man there served him a tall glass of ice water with a twist of lemon. Roland made his way toward us but was stopped by a woman at another table. She asked him a question, and he broke into a grin designed to charm. She seemed delighted in turn and hastily scrabbled for a paper cocktail napkin. The man with her produced a pen, and Roland obligingly signed his autograph.

  “Eet sometime happen,” said Faustine, who also watched the interplay. “People remember him from cinema. He adore the notice.”

  That was apparent. Roland seemed humbly grateful for the attention. He bowed and kissed the woman’s hand—she looked ready to offer to bear his children—then made his way toward us. Other patrons saw and were speculating on the handsome stranger’s identity. I heard some of it over the music, including a fiercely whispered, “No, he did not use to be Ramon Novarro,” from a nearby table. Their interest sat well with me, anything to keep them coming back for more.

  Roland arrived, put his glass down, and picked up Faustine’s hand to kiss. “How are you, darling?”

  “I am vell. Vhat vas that?” She indicated the table he’d just left.

  “Haven’t the faintest who she was, but she’d been in London and remembered me from that production of Springtime for Flowers. Dreadful comedy,” he explained to Bobbi and me. “Critics roasted it, but it went over well with the regular populace. I played the rich American in love with the gardener’s daughter who turns out to be the impoverished contessa in disguise. I don’t know where the playwright got—”

  “That is lovely, dar-link,” said Faustine shortly. She made to stand up. Roland did his gentleman’s duty with her chair, pulling it back.

  “Something wrong?” Roland asked.

  “Da! All is the sssame.” Her tone was a few dozen degrees below freezing. “Always sssame, wit’ the ss-same.”

  “Beg pardon?” He was honestly puzzled.

  “Clear I am mak-ink wit’ you!” She picked up his water glass and flicked her wrist, dashing the whole of its contents full in his face. “You are a peeg!”

  Eyes blazing, she hurled the glass at his feet with a skilled flourish. It shattered completely and with much noise, then she sailed toward the lobby, head high.

  7

  THE sideshow was enough to stop Adelle’s performance in mid-verse. Some of the band had seen it, and their focus on the song flagged for a few seconds until the leader hauled them back to business. Adelle gamely returned but forgot her place and belted out the wrong repeat on the chorus. No one paid much mind; most of the joint was riveted on Faustine’s exit. It was a doozy. If she’d been a ship, icebergs in her way would have been the ones to break up and sink.

  Bobbi shot me a look; I nodded agreement. She hurriedly followed after Faustine.

  Roland held to a nonplussed reaction, freely dripping. The twist of lemon clung to one of his lapels like an eccentric boutonniere. I signaled toward the bar, and a waiter hurried over with a clean towel.

  “I’m most dreadfully sorry, Mr. Fleming,” Roland finally said, accepting the towel and dabbing at the damage. “I assure you that this is . . . is . . . oh, hell.” He sat down rather heavily.

  I gave him a minute to sop up the worst, then rose. “Come on, Roland. We’ll dry you out backstage.”

  He let me take his elbow and guide him away. Lots of eyes on us for the trip. Not the sort of publicity I wanted, but bearable. Things like this happened in bars.

  I showed him to a dressing room not in use and handed him another towel, then returned to the main room long enough to make sure the broken glass was picked up. The waiter was already there with a broom and pan. When I got back to Roland, he had his jacket and tie off, and was undoing his white silk shirt. The fine fabric stuck transparently to his wet skin, showing a solid spread of shoulder muscle. No wonder he was so popular. He peeled the shirt and hung it on the corner of the bathroom door. I was out of fresh shirts, or I’d have offered him one.

  “I am truly sorry about this,” he said, and he did look very repentant.

  “Tell that to your wife, not me.” I hung back by the door, keeping clear of the dressing table mirror.

  “She won’t hear it. Too angry. It’s my own fault. She’s the jealous type. I shouldn’t have paid so much attention to that autograph seeker—”

  “Save the bull. Faustine knows about you and Adelle. That’s what she’s mad about.”

  Roland stared up, horrified. “But she couldn’t.”

  “She’s female. Of course she damn well knows. They all got a built-in sense about men. They always know when a man’s being stupid. Sometimes they ignore it and hope the guy will smarten up, and sometimes they don’t bother. Faustine won’t put up with it.”

  “But . . . but I love her.” He made that seem like the cure-all for everything.

  “Apparently not enough.”

  “She knows I love her!”

  “Actions speak louder than words, and the little dance you had with Adelle”—I jerked a thumb toward the star’s room across the hall—“was a kick in the teeth to your wife.”

  “How did you—?”

  “This is my place. I know everything.”

  He scowled, like the bad news was my fault, but I was unimpressed, having had worse from lots tougher mugs. “You going to fire us?”

  “Nope. You come in to work like everyone else. If you two can’t work, then you’ll get fired.”

  That perked him up, but it didn’t last long. “We’ll patch things up. We need this job. I’ll make her see that it was nothing, that it will never happen again.”

  “Let her cool off first. You chase her down now, and she’ll skin your face with a spoon.”

  “But I—”

  “Roland . . . listen to me . . .”

  It took a little longer than usual, he had a lot of emotion to cut through, a lot of protest, but I got to him, and we had a fine chat. My favorite kind. I did all the talking.

  WHILE the newly penitent and temporarily wiser Roland flapped his damp shirt over an electric heater, I took the back way behind the stage to get to the lobby. Bobbi wasn’t in sight; Wilton said she was in the john.

  “The other blonde with her, the one in the furs and oddball hat?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. He looked as though he’d seen such performances before. “She was plenty upset. Rattled some lingo I couldn’t make out and kept saying, ‘Peeg, peeg, peeg.’ What’s that?”

  “Her husband.”

  “She don’t like him much tonight, huh?”

  “Not much.” I cooled my heels in front of the ladies’ room, reluctant to breach its sanctity. Though I’d been through it on inspections during the building of Crymsyn, once we opened, I kept clear. You had the men’s and the ladies’, and never the twain shall meet, nor shall such havens ever be violated. A sensible code to follow, apparently based on the tribulations of real life.

  The place was full of mirrors, too.

  After a few minutes I put an ear to the door. I heard contralto sobbing echoing off the marble interior and “Peeg, peeg, peeg,” and what sounded like babbled Russian. Bobbi’s lighter voice crooned sympathetically along. “I know, honey, they’re all the same, every last one of them.”

  I hoped she didn’t include me in the crowd and made a mental note to send her flowers. The two of them would probably be there for a good long while. I could have shortened the time, using my special talent to get Faustine to forget her anger and make things up with Roland, but judged it would work better after she settled down. Whenever possible, I tried to keep hypnosis sessions short and easy. Less of a disturbance to the subject and less of a headache for me.

  The hatcheck girl was more interested in the floor show than Wilton and pleased to participate. All she had to do was let me know when Bobbi and Faustine finally came out, and she eagerly watched the rest room door like the fate of the nation de
pended on it. For her, this was better drama than One Man’s Family.

  In the main room I propped up the other bar, which was only open when we had a bigger crowd to serve, and surveyed things. Conversation was back up to normal, the waiters were busy, the dance floor in use. Good. Adelle had reclaimed her composure and was cutting through “Have You Ever Met That Funny Reefer Man?” She didn’t deliver as fast a ride as Cab Calloway, but she kept it jazzed enough to get away with it. Odds were that most of my patrons had no idea what a reefer was and why this was such a popular number with the grinning band members. Nearly everyone was either dancing or at least tapping their toes to the beat.

  Gordy was the exception.

  He and Bristow looked a lot more serious than before, and their bodyguards seemed to have been drinking lemon juice, straight. They were eyeing one another, hard-faced and tense. I debated whether or not to make the climb up there and pretend to play host, perhaps calm things between them a little. It was fifty-fifty whether such an interruption would hinder or help.

  Escott appeared just then, saw me, and came over. Dust smeared his lapels, cuffs, and knees, indicating he’d been happily grubbing around in the club’s tool storage.

  “Everything I’ll want is on hand,” he announced. “No need to send out for supplies. You’ve also plenty of wire, though cobbling the more specialized electric bits together is not my strong suit. I can repair a lamp, but for what you have in mind—”

  “Bobbi will know what to do, or know someone who does who can bring in whatever we need.”

  “What did she think of your idea?”

  “Haven’t told her yet, she’s talking with Faustine, who’s having a nervous breakdown.” I gave him the short version of the melodrama.

  “Dear me. Where is this Mr. Lambert? I didn’t want to interrupt his talk with Miss Smythe and missed meeting him.”

  “Drying out backstage. We had a discussion. He won’t be any trouble in the future. Tomorrow night will be better for socializing. He and Faustine should be back together by then. I’ll see to it.”

  “Handy weapon, that.”