by P. N. Elrod
Thank you, Hog Bristow. Thank you so very much, you goddamned son of a bitch, and please, please do be screaming in a really deep, sulphur-stenched pit burning merrily away for the rest of eternity.
“Jack…?” Bobbi’s light voice jarred me.
“I’m here.”
“Okay.” She sounded like she was a few yards from the office door, ready to come down if invited.
“I’ll be right up, honey, gotta make a phone call. Private.” That was the word we used that meant I was busy with mob business. She knew it was a necessary task and to help Gordy, but preferred to ignore my moonlighting for the time being.
“Okay.” Her tone was serene, almost singing, which meant I really should hurry. Her heels clacked down the hall, followed by the office door shutting.
I levered into the lobby phone booth, paid a nickel, and dialed very carefully so as not to wake up an honest citizen cursed with a number similar to Shoe Coldfield’s nightclub. To my growing concern it rang nine times before someone came on halfway through the tenth.
“Coldfield, what is it?” he growled. Since it was his office, not his home, I knew I’d not wakened him, but phones going off at such hours never portend happy news.
“It’s Jack. Charles said to say hello.” I hoped in this way to tip him that all was well.
Didn’t work. “Damn, kid, no one calls this late unless it’s an emergency. You okay?” He traded the rough annoyance for rough concern.
A few days ago Escott had informed him about my recent experience; apparently the basic facts had been augmented with a mention of my problems recovering. “I’m fine.” I tried to sound normal, whatever that was.
“Charles told me you were, and I quote—‘a touch wobbly’—and you know how he understates things.”
“Ah, he was just being optimistic.”
“Well, you didn’t call just to pass on a hello. What’s up?”
“One of the New York bosses came to town. The one who arranged Hog Bristow’s visit. A guy named Whitey Kroun. Know him?”
“With a name like that? You kidding?”
Coldfield, in addition to running his nightclub, some garages, and a few other businesses, also controlled one of the biggest gangs in the Bronze Belt. Unless it was assigned to him as a joke, any man nicknamed Whitey would not readily blend into the crowd.
“I’ll take that to mean no. What about a soldier called Mitchell? He was in Morelli’s gang about the time I first came to town.”
“Nope, sorry. You know the colored and white mobs don’t mix except when they can’t help it.”
“Yeah, but you generally know who’s who.”
“Only the local big boys, not the soldiers.”
“Okay, one more item. A collector here named Hoyle is on the outs with me along with Ruzzo.”
“Those bedbug-crazy brothers?”
“The same. You know Hoyle?”
“By sight. Tough guy, used to box. What happened?”
“He tried to play baseball, with me as the ball. I took his bat away and nearly made him eat it.”
He wanted more details, so I gave them. Coldfield liked a good story. As before with Escott, I left out the ugly epilogue in the Stockyards. Even thinking about it threatened to make me queasy.
“You’ve had a busy night, kid,” he said. He knew my real age, but couldn’t be blamed for forgetting most of the time. Now and then I would shoot him a reminder, like mentioning something from twenty years back when I was in the War, and he’d throw an odd look my way for a few seconds.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I said.
“About this Kroun, I can ask around if you want.”
“Nah, not that important. Charles can dig. He thinks it’s fun.”
“Kroun’s not giving you any trouble is he?”
“Nothing like that, just me being curious. I figure he’ll be going back to New York soon.”
“Better hope so. No one likes when the boss drops in to nose around. Just ask my people.”
Coldfield did run a tight ship, but I’d not heard of anyone trying to kill him lately. I thanked him; he told me to get some rest and hung up.
I remained in the booth, wanting a moment of quiet. The vast emptiness of the club was easier to handle in here. I liked having a place where I could put my back to a wall.
It couldn’t last. I had to boost out and go upstairs, or Bobbi would come looking, and I’d have to assure her that my sitting shut into a phone booth without phoning was a perfectly reasonable occupation. Before my buckwheats session with Bristow she might have accepted it as absentminded eccentricity. No more.
But I did seem to be better. The meeting with Kroun had gone very well. After that inner revelation, seeing those who would kill me as being no more than food, I’d been in control with not one wild, trembling muscle to mar the event. Maybe that’s all I’d really needed to restore my confidence. Sure, I was still nervous about some stuff—like now—but there were lots of people who didn’t like big empty, quiet, dark places.
So perhaps I should get off my duff and see my patient girlfriend. I’d been procrastinating with no good reason other than a vague and ridiculous trepidation that she would see all the stuff I wanted to keep hidden. Bobbi was closer to me and much more perceptive than anyone else I knew. She was the one person I couldn’t lie to even when I successfully lied to myself.
Well, maybe she’d take a good look, and if she pronounced me miraculously cured of my waking nightmares, I could believe it.
I pushed the booth’s folding doors open in time to hear a click, followed by several more, coming from the main room. A familiar sound, but out of place at this hour. Curious and cautious, I went through the curved passage.
All the little table lights were on. Spaced at regular intervals along the three wide horseshoe tiers, they made a grand sight even with the upside-down chairs, and I said as much out loud to Myrna.
“You’re really getting good at that, babe,” I added.
I half expected one or any of them to blink in reply, but they remained steady. There was no point asking her to shut them off. She would or wouldn’t at her own whim. Besides, I could likely afford the electric bill; business had been pretty decent this month.
“See you upstairs. Maybe.” Actually, I hoped not. Some instinct within told me I was not ready to actually see Myrna. She was disturbing enough just playing with lights.
Billie Holiday’s version of “No Regrets” met me coming up the stairs. Bobbi hummed along to the radio, but stopped as I opened the door. She was busy at my desk, surrounded by empty tills, piles of wrapped cash, rolls of coins, a small stack of checks, the entry books, pencils, and the calculating machine. She’d traded her fancy spangly dancing gown for a dark dress and had a blue sweater around her shoulders. Her blond hair was pinned up out of the way. She punched keys on the machine, pulling the lever like it was a squatty one-armed bandit. When its brief, important, chattering died, she peered at the printed result.
“Hi, stranger,” she said, raising her face my way for a hello. She’d gotten a ride in with Escott while the sun was still up, so this was the first chance for us to really be with each other tonight.
I kissed her on the lips, and instantly knew it was right, the way it was supposed to be, the way it had always been for us; everything was going to be fine now.
Which lasted for a few perfect, wonderful seconds.
Then I overthought it, and what began as a warm greeting went subtly and utterly wrong. The demons in my head tore gleefully at me, whispering doubts, magnifying fears, and pointing out the obvious fact that this recovery business was an impossibility, so I pulled back and smiled and tried to pretend everything was great, and the smile was so forced that my jaw hurt, and I turned away so she couldn’t see how much it hurt.
Damnation.
Whatever had been repaired and rebuilt in me came apart so fast I wondered if it had been a sham to start with or if the sickness inside was simply overwhel
ming in its strength.
I didn’t want that.
Thankfully, Bobbi did not ask me if I was okay. We’d had that conversation several times already and kept butting into the walls of assurances, protests, and denials I put up, which she would knock down with a word or three, then neither of us felt happy. We’d accepted the fact that this would take a while, and it would not be pleasant. It wasn’t her fault that she terrified me. I was ashamed of it. On the other hand, if I avoided her or went on that vacation Escott had suggested, I’d go right off the deep end of the dock. She was my lifeline. I had to keep close to her.
“Ready to go home?” I asked. Her hat, gloves, and fur coat were ready on the couch. I sat next to them.
“Almost.” She gave me a long, unreadable look, then peered at the latest printing from the machine, writing a number neatly in the account book with my mechanical pencil. “We had a pretty good night, all things considered.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“You made fifty-two bucks and some change.”
I looked at the stack of cash before her. “You’ve got more than that there.”
“Subtract your overhead, salaries, and all the rest, and you have fifty-two bucks left over.”
“Less than last night’s take.”
“Cheer up, there’s not many guys who make that much in a month, let alone on a single less-than-perfect evening. It’ll be better this weekend if the weather doesn’t turn sleety again. What took you away? You were gone for so long.”
“I had to talk with a gentleman from New York.”
Bobbi understood the implications. “How did it go?”
“Good and bad. I’m still running things for Gordy.”
“And what’s the bad?”
“I called it right about why they sent Bristow. Kroun’s on my side, now, so—”
“Whitey Kroun?”
“Yeah, the guy from the phone. You ever meet him?”
“No. Once in a while I’d hear Gordy mention him, but that’s all. Just a name. I’ll be glad when you’re out of this, Jack.”
“Same here.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. I thought about asking if she remembered Mitchell, but held back. She didn’t care to be reminded of the days when she’d been Slick Morelli’s mistress. Gordy would be the best source for my idle curiosity when he was up to it.
Time for a subject change. “That was some nice act you had going with Teddy and the anniversary thing. It went over great.”
“I thought it might. We’ll make it a regular item if you clear it.”
“It’s cleared.”
“I’ll have to look up more wedding-type music or we’re going to get really tired of ‘The Anniversary Song.’”
“How about something from The Merry Widow? For the marriages that aren’t going so well.”
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be gruesome.”
Some of our old comfortable banter had resurrected itself. All I had to do from now on was sit ten feet away from her. “I want to have something special ready for this Saturday, if it’s not too short notice.”
“Just no street parades, too cold. What is it?”
I told her about helping out Escott’s suit with Vivian Gladwell by throwing a “birthday” party for Sarah. Bobbi was all for it.
“But don’t go overboard,” I cautioned. “You’ll scare Charles.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve done enough singing at debutant balls to know what’s right for that crowd. It’ll be fun, but tasteful.”
“You can tackle Charles tomorrow for details…”
The radio music died away, replaced by static as the station signed off. I reached for the dial.
“Wait a sec,” she said, staring at it.
I withdrew my hand and waited, the static buzz making my eyeballs itch. “What?” I asked after a minute.
“Aw, I was hoping…I guess she won’t do anything when people are watching.”
“Myrna?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d she do now?”
“I was working and some newsreader came on. I wasn’t paying it much mind, and it switched to music right in the middle of a story. Gave me a turn until I realized she’d done it. I looked, and the pointer was on a different station than before. Isn’t that something?”
“She didn’t scare you?”
“Not really. She just surprised me. It must be boring for her to only play with the lights. Can’t blame her for branching out. Maybe she’s getting stronger the more we pay attention to her.”
That disturbed me, but I kept it to myself, suspecting Myrna might cut the lights entirely in response. I didn’t want dark.
Bobbi continued. “I like her company. The place doesn’t feel so empty. Kind of friendly, you know? Like she’s looking after us. So I talk to her. I think she likes it, must be lonesome, being a ghost.”
“What do you talk about?”
She smirked. “You, of course. Women always end up talking to each other about their men sooner or later. Of course with Myrna I have to carry the conversation. Maybe we could get that record-cutting equipment up here and see if we can hear her talk back again.”
“Maybe.” I’d recently found it necessary to record a conversation and filled the office with hidden microphones. Much to my consternation a third voice, faint and strange, but definitely female, had also been on the wax disk, reacting to what was going on. Even thinking about attempting that once more made my neck hair rise. But…perhaps it could get a question or two answered, help us find out more about Myrna. “Wanna go home?”
Bobbi didn’t think twice. “Yes. Please.”
I put the cleaned-out tills on a table, ready for the next day while she scooped the counted cash into a bank envelope for the night deposit box. I put the change bags in the safe on top of the revolver I kept there, shut and locked, then helped Bobbi on with her coat.
As we started to leave, she swooped to one side and fiddled with the radio tuning until she found music.
“There,” she said, as Tommy Dorsey’s band came through. “I think this station plays all night. Myrna might end up with farm and weather reports in a couple hours, but it’ll be company until then. You don’t mind?”
“Nope. Leave the light on, too.” I could sympathize all too well.
On the way out I checked the main room. The little table lamps were dark now. We left the one burning behind the lobby bar alone.
Bobbi shivered and went brrrrrr during the first ten minutes of our ride until the Buick’s heater was warm enough to blow something other than arctic wind. I stopped briefly to drop the money into the bank’s night deposit slot, then drove quickly through the near-empty streets to her hotel apartment. Drowsy, she leaned against me for the ride, and things felt normal again. I wanted to put my arm around her but had to have it free to change gears.
She woke up as I braked in the no-parking section in front of her building, got out, and came around to hold her door, leaving the motor running.
“Not coming up?” she asked.
“You’re done in, honey, and I had a lot crashing into me tonight.”
There must have been a dozen variations of protest hesitating on her lips, everything from “I could get untired in a hurry” to “That’s all right, just let me know when you’re ready, sweetheart,” and she didn’t say any of them, including the heartbreaking “Jack, I’m so sorry.” It would have been too painful for both of us, so we accepted this nice, safe, not-quite-as-painful illusion.
I walked her through the hotel lobby to the elevator, and like well-rehearsed actors we said the familiar good-bye-until-tomorrow lines. They sounded hollow and sad compared to the cheerful call and response she’d traded with Escott earlier.
She broke, though, and stopped the automatic elevator doors from closing. “You’re sure? Just for company?”
“The company is a rare and breathtaking creature of light and music and beauty who would make angels jealous, and I don’t know what I did to deserve to b
e on the same planet with you.”
She fairly gaped. I hardly ever talked like that to her.
“But—” I kissed her chastely on the forehead and left it at that.
Her hazel eyes were wide a moment, then she made a little dive at me, wrapping her arms tight around. We held close for a solid minute, and I felt my body responding to hers, felt the rush of warmth, the first build of pressure above my corner teeth, the desire to slowly remove all her clothes and settle in and come up with old and new ways of exhausting her and myself thoroughly before dawn swept my consciousness into its shallow grave.
Resisting while I still could, I gently pulled clear. “Get some sleep,” I said softly, backing off. I turned away before seeing whatever look might have been on her face.
The doors knitted shut and took her up and away from me. I hurried to the car, hit the gears rough, and shot clear, taking corners too fast and abusing the gas pedal on the straights. Before I alarmed any cops, I found a space in front of a block of closed shops and pulled in, decisively cutting the motor.
Then I waited.
I’d wanted to go up with her, and not just for company. Still wanted. Ached for it. Was sick for it. Wanted to go back even now and surprise her, make love to her. I would hold her close and warm and bring her to the edge of that wonderful, feverish peak and oh-so-gently bite into her throat, and it would just happen and she wouldn’t fight me, wouldn’t even think to, and then it would be too late, and like a mindless, greedy animal I would gorge on her blood as I’d done on that cow, unable to stop…
The tremors began their fast rise from within, an icy tide come to drown me. I hugged my ribs and groaned like a dying thing and keeled over across the seat.
6
FULLY clothed, still in my overcoat, I lay flat on the army cot in my pseudotomb in Escott’s cellar, waiting for the dawn.
It’s really better than it sounds.
I had heat and light—always leaving the lamp on since I hate waking up in the dark—and it was profoundly quiet. My bricked-up alcove wasn’t the overwhelming large space of the club, nor so cramped that I’d get claustrophobic, and I could put my back to a wall.