by P. N. Elrod
“Derner.”
“Uh-uh, Mitchell.”
A flare of real anger rose in me. “Mitchell?”
“If the worst happens, Mitchell’s taking over. He knows the ropes. The boys won’t object to him the way they’ve been doing with you.”
“They won’t, but I might. You pulling another Bristow here?”
For a second I thought he was going to slug me. His dark eyes blazed a moment. “Listen up, Fleming. You say you don’t want to be boss, but you sure as hell don’t mind throwing your weight around when it’s convenient. You handled yourself okay dealing with that Alan Caine mess, and you got lucky surviving those hits from Hoyle; but when all that clears away and you’re standing in the sweet spot, you still don’t have what it takes to be a boss.”
I kept my anger belted down tight. I had to hear him out. There had to be some way of getting Mitchell off the list of replacements. Gordy was improving, but next week he could be hit by a bus. “What am I missing?”
“The guts to kill and to order a killing. That’s not in you. Mitchell can do a piece of work and not think twice about it—but you think too much. You’re a stand-up guy, but not for this kind of job.”
On one hand I agreed with him. I’d killed before, but I didn’t like it. Some nights I carried those souls around on my shoulders like a flock of carrion crows. Kroun must have seen it. He was the kind to read people. “What about Derner? Why not him? He and Strome are both made.”
“They follow. They don’t lead. Not enough imagination.”
“And Mitchell’s got that?”
“You don’t know him. If you’re worried about him making trouble with your girl or you, I can get him to lay off, and that’s a promise.”
I didn’t have much confidence that Mitchell would obey, though.
“He was supposed to have Chicago in the first place.”
“That’s what he told you when Morelli died?”
“Yeah. But Gordy moved in faster. He turned out to be good at the business, so we kept him.”
“Mitchell didn’t like that?”
“Nope.”
“He got a grudge on?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
Hardly a reassuring answer. But I nodded like it meant something. “But all this is just so much eyewash. Gordy’s better. You and Mitchell will eventually go home, and we all settle back to business as usual.”
“Yeah. But if that changes…”
ON our return the small grocer’s was empty except for one very large man in a custom-tailored overcoat. He threw a dark, impersonal glance at me, then pretended to study a stack of canned goods. I walked outside with Kroun and Isham, getting partway to the car, then excusing myself.
“Just remembered I forgot something,” I said, and motioned for Kroun to go on to the car. He shrugged and kept going, opening the front passenger door, but not getting in. He leaned against the body of the car and watched the guys in the street who were watching him.
I turned back to the shop, but Shoe Coldfield was already emerging, filling the doorway a moment. The building seemed smaller with him in front of it.
“So that’s the man,” he rumbled in his deep voice. “He ever on the stage?”
“Don’t think so.”
“It’s a wonder he’s doing what he does. It’s too easy to pick someone like him from a lineup. Makes an impression.”
“Unless you got a lot of intimidation going for you.”
“That’s true. I expect he’s one of that type. Knew a few, but they were all onstage. Could play meek and mild, then open up and cut you in half with it. Good actors they were, the ones who knew how to control it.”
“I don’t think Kroun’s in the meek-and-mild club.”
“No he is not. I’ve done some checking around since getting his name, and he can be damn dangerous if you don’t watch yourself.”
“He’s leashed.” Sort of. I’d come to think the suggestion on friendship was wearing off faster than it should.
Coldfield approved. “You’re just playing with him?”
“Not for long. I’m hoping he and his boy go back to New York tomorrow. Soon as I get them clear I’ve got other things to work on.”
“Like that singer who got the noose?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry about that. I saw Caine perform once. Hell of a talent.”
“It’s less for him than for his ex-wife, Jewel. She’s got the blame for his death, and she didn’t do it. That’s not right.”
“Yeah, Charles filled me in today about all the trouble. Said you were looking dangerous.”
“Only to the killer.”
“That’s what’s bothering our mutual friend. You’re planning to kill the killer.”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Charles thinks you have. He’s on your side for it.”
“I thought he might be.”
“Well, the fewer criminals walking around, the better is how he likes it. Of course, I’m the exception to the rule.”
“I’ve wondered about that.”
“So have I,” he admitted.
“If Charles likes the idea, why’s he bothered?”
“It’s not over the killing, it’s you. He’s not been too happy about your state of mind. He’s worried what it’ll do to you. He doesn’t say it like that. He dresses it up in a hell of a lot more words, but that’s what it is boiled down.”
Escott had a valid point. “I’ve been shoved against the wall on this kind of business before, and I’ve learned I can live with it.”
“Uh-huh. But not too happily.”
“Shoe, I know you want to help, but what’s going to work best is for me to find the bastard who killed Jewel and make him pay for it. No, I won’t be happy afterward, but it’ll be better for me than if I did nothing at all.”
“I know what that’s like. On the other hand…”
“What?”
“Have I told you lately how I really hate scraping you off sidewalks?”
“I’m on the lookout. I know who I’m after, and so far they don’t know I’m after them.”
“Who would that be?”
“A troublemaker named Hoyle is the odds-on favorite, two idiots named Ruzzo—”
“Oh, God, them?”
“You’ve met ’em?”
“Yeah. Two brains and not a mind between them. They’re stupid, but cunning and faster than rats when they need to be.”
“I won’t turn my back on any of them. Hoyle’s the favorite for this job. I gotta find him, ask a few questions, then make a decision.”
“As in just how to bump him?”
“You reading minds?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been doing this a while.”
“With any luck I’ll settle it tonight, then we can try and”—I almost said “forget it” but that wasn’t going to happen—“get back to what passes for normal around here.”
“Yeah, my guys are getting their noses out of joint for all the extra marching around in the weather.”
“Listen, I don’t want you putting yourself out—”
“Forget it, it’s good for them. Walk some of the fat off their shanks. They’re keeping a sharp watch on Gordy. There’s no white people come within a hundred yards of this neighborhood we don’t know about. He’ll stay safe.”
“I appreciate it, Shoe.”
“It’s good for business to look out for him,” he said.
I didn’t gainsay. If that’s what Coldfield had to put about to seem to have a tough, practical front for his troops, then I was all for it.
“That movie star mutt of yours looks like he’s tugging at the leash.”
Kroun had begun to pace up and down a few times, looking my way impatiently.
“If he’s cold, why doesn’t he get in the damn car?” Coldfield asked.
“Probably thinks I’ll forget him if he’s out of sight. I better go.”
“All right, but watch yourself. I�
�m fresh out of brooms and scrapers.”
I walked toward the car, the wind picking up and pushing at my back. Kroun saw my approach, putting on an “it’s about damn time” face. He dropped into the front seat and hauled the passenger door smartly shut.
It made a hell of a lot louder noise than it should have. Rather than a metallic bang, there was a deafening krump, then it was like the sound itself slammed me in the chest. I was hurled backward, right off my feet, not understanding why. I glimpsed smoke suddenly blacking the windows of the Caddy on the inside before I hit the pavement. Some instinct told me to keep rolling. Each time I saw the car a different view presented itself.
Smoke flooding from under it, thick and black.
Another explosion, the boom too loud to hear, only feel.
The rear end suspended five feet in the air and nothing holding it up.
The heavy body abruptly crashing down on all fours, flames engulfing the back.
The tires ablaze, adding smoke and stink to the picture.
Pieces of metal shooting by like hot hail.
A tumbling wall of fire and blackness roaring toward me like a train—
14
INSISTENT, annoying things plucked at me, at my clothes. I waved them off, but they made a solid grab, pulled strong, and dragged me over a rough, hard surface. A man yelled in my ear, but it was muffled, as though I’d vanished. He might have been cursing.
Fire rained down. It was almost leisurely. Fat drops floated confetti-like or struck the cement, bouncing to scatter yellow-and-blue flames. A second look, and they proved to be attached to dark bits of burning things. It seemed a good idea to get out of their way, so I got my feet under me and working together. Hours later we reached the cover of a building and ducked in. Someone had broken the front window, and the lights were out. When I chanced to breathe, the air reeked of gasoline, burned rubber, and hot metal.
Doubled over, coughed it clear. Two other men were with me, Coldfield and Isham, also coughing.
Eyes stinging, I looked through the window—the shattered glass had blown inside—and saw the big Cadillac’s shell engulfed in a fast and furious inferno. Smoke roiled from its stricken, blackened carcass in a wide, twisting cloud that was fortunately blowing away from us. Even at this distance the heat warmed my face, but I couldn’t hear anything from what should have been a blast-furnace bellow. Touched one ear. Came away blood. A lot of it. My face, too. Damn. Without thinking, I vanished and returned. My hearing popped back to normal and other hurts that were starting to make themselves felt ceased altogether.
“Jack?”
Turned. Coldfield stared at me, concerned. So did Isham, but with a different expression. He rubbed his watering eyes, shook his head, looking puzzled.
“Jack? You hear me?” Coldfield again.
“Yeah.” What the hell had happened?
“You okay?”
“Think so.”
“That makes one of you. Your friend out there’s gone.”
I didn’t get him. “What? Something happen to Gordy?”
“The guy you came with. Kroun.”
“What? No…” Looked again at the wreck. Too much smoke to see inside the car, but that was just as well. For some things you don’t want details.
“There was no way to help him.”
“Oh, goddamn.”
“Yeah. This puts everybody up shit creek. Gonna be hell to pay.” He wiped his streaming eyes with a handkerchief.
Someone touched my shoulder. The woman who always stood behind the counter offered me a damp towel. “You’re hurt, Mister. Your face.”
I accepted the gift and used it. My ears no longer streamed blood, but the leftover gore must have been an alarming sight. “Thank you.”
“Come in back, we’ll get you cleaned up.”
Back, meaning a bathroom or kitchen, meaning mirrors at some point. I pulled enough of my scrambled thoughts together to thank her again. “This is more than enough.”
“We gotta get him out of here,” Coldfield told her. “We gotta all get moving.”
“The hotel,” said Isham.
“Farther than that.”
“The club.” He’d mean Coldfield’s place, the Shoebox. But we had to check another place first.
“Call Lady Crymsyn,” I said. “Charles is there by now. If there’s other bombs…” It finally got through that I’d seen one going off.
“Jeez.” Coldfield, moving with astonishing speed for his size, threaded past dark aisle displays toward a door, where presumably he would find a phone. I hoped Escott would answer.
“The lobby number,” I called after. “Try that one. Let it ring.”
The fire rain of blown-up car pieces had stopped, but not the smoke. The wreckage lay all over the street, shattered windows gaped, their stares blank and cold. Most were ground floor, though a few second-story ones were gone. I hoped to God no one had been in front of any of them.
Isham left the grocers for a look-see, keeping a healthy distance from the car and moving fast. I went as well, standing just clear of the door. No other casualties were in view, but people were cautiously emerging, Coldfield’s soldiers. Isham talked to some of them, and they began to melt away from the attraction. By the time I heard the first fire-engine siren, the street was empty except for civilian types. Other cars rolled up, full of vultures who’d come to view the burning body. The smoke forced most of them upwind. A white man came over and asked if I was all right.
I swabbed the towel around, hoping to get the telltale blood off my face and neck. “Yeah, I’m fine, got cut by flying glass. Did you see what happened?”
“Was gonna ask you. Looks like the gas tank blew. Must have been a humdinger. Anyone in it?”
“I donno. Hope not.”
“Anyone else see?” He pulled out a notebook and a chewed pencil, and I recognized yet another of my own kind. What used to be, anyway.
“I don’t think so.”
“Hey, I know you, don’t I?” He gave me a squint. “You got that fancy nightclub. The one what had the body in the basement—”
“I gotta go.” I retreated into the grocery. People on the sidewalk parted for me, but closed up for him. He shrugged and looked for other witnesses.
It hadn’t really sunk in yet about Kroun. Hard to think beyond the burning car. The flames were less now, running out of fuel.
Coldfield returned. “Charles is fine. He’ll keep his eyes open and not be driving. You and me, this way.” He headed to the back.
He was in a hurry, but I paused long enough to leave the stained towel on the counter and fish out my wallet. I pressed five twenties into the woman’s hand.
She backed a step. “No, we couldn’t…”
“For the window.”
“It’s too much!”
“I’m apologizing, as well, ma’am.”
I rushed after Coldfield, who had cut left down the alley and was waiting impatiently by a row of trash cans. As he turned I only then noticed his coat was smeared with street dirt. Apparently the blast had knocked him down, too. I’d been much closer. There was a singed patch on my jacket and holes torn in my shirt. It was black so no staining showed, but I could smell my own blood on the fabric, along with the smoke.
With me half a step behind him, he led us down a much more narrow alley that opened to the next street. Just as we emerged Isham pulled up in Coldfield’s Nash, barely braking, and we dove into the back.
This car was also armored, for all the good it would do.
I looked when we had enough distance and saw the smoke rising over the buildings, thundering fast and black against what for me was pale gray sky.
“No one’s gonna follow,” said Coldfield, misinterpreting.
“Where we going?”
“My club.”
“Drop me at the Nightcrawler.”
“You joking?”
“I got things to do or there really will be hell to pay. Kroun comes to Chicago, gets killed, and, if
I don’t get the blame, it will drop like a ton of bricks on Gordy. I gotta steer that away.”
“Seems to me you should be keeping your head a lot lower. I give you a talking-to, then bang-boom, there you are on the damn sidewalk being another damn mess.”
“Thanks for pulling me clear.”
“Thought you were a goner when that hit. Isham, who the hell got close enough to the car to rig that thing?”
“No one, Shoe. We watched it good.”
“It didn’t happen here,” I said. “Someone had to have done it earlier. The guys know Gordy’s car and that Kroun and I have been using it. Anyone could have wired it up at any time.”
“Why didn’t it go off sooner, then?”
“The trigger might have been on the passenger door. Kroun didn’t get in on that side when we left. It was pure chance. It was supposed to take me and Kroun out together.” I’d survived a hell of a lot, but being blown to pieces might have done the trick for real.
“So who did it?”
“Mitchell. Kroun’s lieutenant.”
“You sure?”
I spread my hands. “If that was meant just for me, then I’d have other names to give you. But if Kroun was supposed to go, too…the passenger door trigger changes things. A lot of people might know I’d be driving him and that he’d probably sit in the front. Mitchell’s the only one I can think of who’d stand to gain by Kroun’s death. He might be set to take over Kroun’s job if anything happens to his boss. With Kroun getting killed here, the Chicago outfit gets the blame, and Mitchell is clear to walk in. He wouldn’t be the first mug in the world trying to improve himself by knocking off his boss.”
“It worked great for Cassius. Didn’t last. He bought it later.”
“Hah?”
“In Julius Caesar? Cassius got a bunch of other guys to go in with him for the hit on Caesar. Dropping you at the Nightcrawler strikes me as being a really stupid thing to do. You don’t know who could be on Mitchell’s side.”
“I got an edge.”
“Yeah. Sure was helpful against that bomb.”
Actually it had kept me alive and had certainly cured a couple of busted eardrums if not more, but Coldfield needed to grouse and grumble and get it out of his system. He was shaken by the business, and this was his way of handling it.