by P. N. Elrod
“Miss, you are in very serious trouble. The best way to ameliorate things is to cooperate with us.”
“At least give it a try,” said Allan. “Shall I carry you again?”
If his mother had not been looking on with a shrewd eye Izzy might have taken him up on that. “I can manage now.” Biting back the shoe discomfort she stood, but had a genuine need to lean on his arm.
They went to a wide hall, the equivalent of the one on the floor above, but with majestic pillars marching down its length. What a grand impression it must make on visiting heads of state. Izzy felt a swell of pride to have her country represented in such a beautiful manner. Between the pillars on one side nearly twenty men in servant livery were gathered, looking remarkably alike except for the dark faces of the Negroes. With a jar, Izzy noticed that to a man, they were all exactly the same height.
“The one who hit me was white,” she whispered to Borden.
At a word from him the ranks were thinned. The men dismissed from the line-up—for that was what it looked like—were slow to leave, obviously curious to know what was going on. Mrs. Hoover took off her glasses and twirled them. They instantly departed.
“Which one?” asked Borden.
Izzy checked each remaining face, none were remotely familiar. In a fit of inspiration she examined their trouser knees for signs of crawling around. Last she inspected their shoes, and finally shook her head. “I’m sorry, but he’s not here. The man I saw had old, worn-down heels. He’d polished his shoes, but there was too much scuffing to cover up the damage.”
“Good eye for detail,” said Allan. “Miss DeLeon should be working for you. Well, if he’s not here, then he’s still upstairs. Is my father is safe?”
“Yes, Mr. Hoover. I doubled the number of men around him. They’re alert for trouble.”
“The man may still be on the same floor,” said Mrs. Hoover. “Just in a very good hiding place. I trust you looked under the beds in the family quarters?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hoover.” Borden seemed unpiqued at having so basic a point raised. “We will check all over again.”
“The windows are wide open with this heat. Perhaps he made an exit by that means.”
“From so high up?” asked Izzy, then remembered she’d planned a similar escape using knotted sheets. “It could be possible that. . .”
“What?”
“Well, something Mr. Hoover said about not having burglars at your previous residence. I’d been hiding a very long time in that sunny room.”
“The Palm Court?”
“Yes, and the alligators were there the whole while?”
Allan nodded. “They like to sun themselves. It scares the canaries, though.”
“I think they scared more than the birds. If this man got up to the Palm Court, hid himself, then realized he was sharing his bushwhacking blind with a pair of gators—”
“He’d have been too terrified himself to move. Oh, this is smooth! I think you have it. Mr. Borden, let’s go hunting.”
“Sir, I can’t allow you to—”
“Bother that, follow me!”
Allan charged up the stairs, Borden and his men hastened after, and sore feet or no, Izzy charged too, since no one told her to stay put. Mrs. Hoover called after her son, but to no avail. Perhaps he’d been so quick to go in order to prevent parental restraint.
Izzy had to hang onto the hand rail at the top; she wasn’t quite up to her best yet, but wanted a prime location to watch.
Borden reclaimed enough of his authority to compel young Hoover to hang back a sensible distance. Two men were doing their best to stand in front of him while Borden and two others made their way cautiously toward the dividing panels.
“Don’t shoot my alligators,” said Allan in a very low voice, pitched to carry only a few feet.
Borden gave no sign of acknowledgement, his whole attention focused on listening. All Izzy heard were the birds, singing and flapping in their big cage. She inched forward. Just inside the Palm Court lay one of the gators. Its tail toward them, its head was partly turned. Evidently it was aware of Borden’s presence. He hesitated. Though protecting the president required flinging himself between his charge and assailants, dealing with a testy alligator was likely not a normal part of his job duties.
Getting an idea, Izzy took off her shoes. Oh, dear lord, that felt good, but she couldn’t pause to enjoy the exquisite relief. She said psst. Borden turned. She motioned for him to move to one side. He got her intent and stepped clear. Izzy had the eye and arm for throwing things, and the official Girl Scout footwear was a very sturdy, heavy item, built for tough use. Izzy made use of it by a hard and, as it turned out, accurate throw at the gator’s head.
The gator snapped irritably at the object as it bounced off its flat skull. Izzy threw the remained shoe, this time so it landed past the snout. The thing scrabbled after, snapping it up like a prize.
With the way clear, Borden and his men entered the court, guns ready. Izzy held her breath and could tell Allan did the same. No one moved for a moment, then Borden emerged, disappointment on his face.
“No one’s there, sir,” he said to Allan.
“My alligator.” Allan moved past them. “If he swallows that shoe it could kill him.”
Saving the gator was not Borden’s concern, but Izzy felt a touch of responsibility. She followed Allan into the Palm Court. It was bright and hot compared to the dim hall, the light dazzling her. Allan was on his knees straddling his pet’s back. As if from long practice, he grabbed the alligator’s jaws and pulled them apart like a lion tamer.
“Would you retrieve your shoe, Miss DeLeon?” he asked.
Izzy didn’t like to risk getting her arm bitten off if his grip slipped, but she couldn’t flinch now. The shoe was hanging half way out, anyway. She snagged it up and backed away.
“Watch out, there’s the other one,” Allan advised.
Turning, Izzy saw the second gator approaching from the other side of the room, attracted by the activity. “Maybe you’d better feed them,” she said.
“Yes, then they might forgive me for all the abuse they’ve been through.” Allan released his hold and jumped back. “Perhaps we can—” He stopped, staring at something behind Izzy. She whirled. A man was clambering through the open window. He had firm hold of a thick, knotted rope that extended upward. Apparently he’d just climbed down from the roof.
Without thinking, Izzy aimed and threw again. Her official Scout shoe smashed square into the side of his head. Allan yelled for help, then tackled the reeling man. Secret Service agents rushed in; there was a mad scuffle for about four seconds, then everything went quiet. The man was lying face to the floor and handcuffed. Allan Hoover, puffing a bit, stood.
“Whizzer!” he said, grinning at Izzy, then looked down at the captive. “Who are you?”
“I have an appointment with the President,” the man stated. His voice was muffled, his mouth partly imbedded in the rattan rug.
“I think not. People with appointments don’t lurk, and you were lurking.”
“I was trying to get away from those monsters! Kept me from my duty half the day!”
“For that they will get extra chicken. Sounds like his pot is cracked, Mr. Borden.”
“We’ll find out for certain, sir.” Borden, who had been part of the rescue mob, now supervised the man’s removal. “This miss needs to come along, too.” He put a hand on Izzy’s arm.
Allan Hoover removed it. “I’ll vouch for her, Mr. Borden.”
“But, sir, she—”
“I know, but Mother and I will look into it. I’m satisfied she meant no harm. On the contrary, she and my alligators have endeavored to do your job.”
“I’ll have to make a report, sir.”
“Looking forward to reading it, if Father allows it. Come, Miss DeLeon. Let’s get your other shoe before my pets eat it.”
In the hall, Izzy padded along, shoes in hand. Mrs. Hoover waited by lower landing, staring a
fter the agents as they led the intruder away. He was speaking loud and rapidly about his missed appointment with the president.
“Dear me, if he’d just left a calling card he’d have gotten an invitation to one of our receptions,” she said. She looked at Izzy. “Well, Miss DeLeon, what are we to do with you? As a staunch supporter of the Constitution I cannot curtail freedom of speech as represented by the press, but—”
Izzy raised a conciliatory hand. “Not to worry, Mrs. Hoover. This is a heck of a—I mean a great story, but I’d rather forget it ever happened. I promise to respect your privacy and that of your family for as long as I live. My word of honor as a not-quite-Girl Scout.”
Mrs. Hoover blinked a few times, digesting this, and looked at Allan, who nodded. “Then your word is good enough for me, Miss DeLeon. I think you should leave now, but I will expect you back here this evening. We serve dinner at eight sharp.”
Izzy felt a case of shock coming on.
“That is, if you’re up to it?”
“I. . .yes! I’ll be here!” No bump on the head would keep her away.
“Very good. Allan, see that she gets a ride. Good day, Miss DeLeon.” Mrs. Hoover left them.
“Dinner,” Izzy breathed. Had she heard right?
Allan shrugged. “My parents never eat alone unless it’s their anniversary. This is Mother’s way of thanking you for your help and providing you with a safe story to write. Wait ’til my father hears this.”
Oh, this was wonderful. . .terrific. . .whizzer. “Dinner at the White House!” Saying it aloud made it more real.
“You’ll enjoy it. Can’t say that I always do.” He took her arm, leading her gently off. “Don’t quote me, but this big old barn has always given me the willies.” So said a man who kept alligators for pets. He gestured back toward them. “Seems to agree with those two, though. . .”
* * * * * * *
__________
THE QUICK WAY DOWN
Author’s Note: The original version of this 5,000- word Vampire Files story sold to DAW Books for their anthology MOB MAGIC. I tweaked and expanded things, so consider this 8K-word version to be “the director’s cut.” Here we get to see a bit more of the working relationship between vampire Jack Fleming and gang boss “Northside Gordy.”
Chicago, May 1937
Gordy Weems trudged up to my table, his phlegmatic face showing a subdued combination of annoyance and disgust, which was as angry as I’d ever seen him. “I got a stiff in the men’s john.” he stated.
I refrained from making an obvious joke. He was too serious. The Nightcrawler Club, of which he was the owner and where I was presently seated, was a class operation; bodies in the washroom were not normal despite Gordy’s reputation. Sure, he ran a very large hunk of Chicago’s underworld territory, but he was too careful and smart to bump anyone off in his own yard—not so he’d get caught, anyway.
“Natural causes?” I knew the answer, but had to ask.
“A pill in the heart. I figure a .22. There’s not much blood. When his tie’s in place, it hides the hole.”
I had no curiosity to ask how he’d determined that detail. “Who?”
“Alby Cornish.”
“You’re kidding.”
But Gordy is no kidder.
“Damn.”
Alby was—or had been—an up-and-coming boxer being groomed for more important fights. He’d been able to throw a right that could knock down a barn and known how to take a dive and make it look real. A number of big shots would be unhappy about his demise.
Gordy would get the blame.
He turned his head slightly, making sure no one was close enough to eavesdrop. He’d have done that before speaking in the first place. This told me how nervous he was. “Alby was here all evening with that singer, Ruthie Phillips. They were living it up pretty good until about an hour ago.”
“What happened an hour ago?”
“Ruthie’s boyfriend caught them.”
No need to say more. Ruthie Phillips tight as a tick with Soldier Burton, a tougher-than-average mug who got the moniker for his uncanny ability to march from courtrooms free and clear of all charges, if not of all suspicion. He started out as an enforcer during Prohibition and now ran a string of bookie joints. I could guess that he’d taken Ruthie to the fights one time too many, and the sight of Alby’s sweaty, well-muscled body had made an impression on her.
Gordy snorted. “The bouncers said everything looked okay. Nobody made a fuss. Ruthie took off, leaving Cornish and Burton at the table. They talked and had drinks, watched some of the show, then went to the lobby. I figure they stopped in the toilet for a leak, and Burton popped him during the drum finale.”
The club’s band had a hell of a drummer. Between his work and the blare of the horn section during that number Burton could have fired a cannon and no one would have noticed.
“I need help, Fleming,” Gordy said.
Now I was surprised. He was a man more used to ordering up help, not asking for it. “You got it, but you have ten other guys who can move a body just as easy as me.”
“Yeah, but they don’t need to know about this and be talking to the wrong people. Soldier Burton’s got big ideas. He’s been trying to bite pieces off my territory for over a year now. It’s no accident he left Cornish here. He wants to put me in Dutch with the New York bosses. Short odds are that he’s already called the cops.”
The drum finale had been about five minutes ago. “We better get the lead out, then.”
He nodded once, and I boosted from my regular table on the third tier overlooking the stage and followed him to the plush lobby.
“Where was the wash room attendant?” I asked, pitching my voice low and casual.
“On break, getting a sandwich. When a show’s playing, not many get up to use the john, so he takes a minute. Tonight he comes back, finds what he found, and tells me about it.”
“Will he spill to anyone else?”
“He’ll keep shut. Likes his job too much. He’s taking another break. A long one.”
The men’s room was fancy: pale-veined black marble floors, gold-plated faucets. You expected the water flowing out of them to be perfumed. There was only one patron now, just drying his hands. We waited for him to leave, then Gordy went to the last stall and pushed the door wide. Alby Cornish was slumped on the toilet seat, legs splayed and arms dangling, looking asleep, but definitely not breathing. He’d had a fighter’s beaten-up face, but was dressed sharp as a Broadway hoofer.
Gordy had been right about the tie hiding the bullet hole, but I caught the tang of fresh blood the instant we walked in. I don’t breathe regularly, but drew in air to speak and got the scent. It teased at me, as it always did, the way the smell of baking bread used to before I’d been killed last summer. Unlike Alby, I got over being dead, trading it for being undead. It has its advantages, if you’re not squeamish.
I’d fed earlier that night at the Union Stockyards, so my corner teeth stayed a normal length, but regardless of that the sight of Alby’s pathetic remains would have dispelled any hunger. Damn, he looked young. I tried not to wonder if he had family somewhere, a mother with a heart to break when she got the news. I tried, but was not successful. That’s why I would not do well as one of Gordy’s employees: unlike the others I had empathy and too much imagination.
I caught Gordy looking at me and knew he was reading things in my face.
“Sorry, kid.”
“I know.” I owed Gordy favors; he owed me favors. Neither of us kept track, but this wasn’t about paying what’s owed. When a friend calls for help, you be stand-up and help him, even if it costs a piece of your soul.
“If there was any other way—”
“We pretend he’s drunk?” I asked, because we shouldn’t waste time.
“Yeah.”
“Where do we take him? The lake?” Gordy had an efficient means of getting rid of inconvenient corpses, though I never asked for details. I could infer efficiency, sinc
e the mugs he disappeared never surfaced again.
“To Soldier Burton’s place.”
“Wha—?”
“He wanted to make trouble for me. It’s gonna bounce right back on him.”
No need to ask for an explanation, I’d find out soon enough, unless the cops interrupted us.
We lurched from the john with Alby between, his limp arms hauled chummily around our shoulders. God, he was still warm.
A few of the regulars in the lobby bar saw us dragging him past and hooted at his inability to hold his liquor. A couple of the bouncers looked our way, but Gordy waved them off, saying he’d handle things. We collected Alby’s hat from the check desk and jammed it on his head. It made him look more like a foolish drunk than a dead man.
We got him out into the muggy heat of an early summer night. Even the breeze off the nearby lake was no help at clearing the close air. Bloodsmell rose thick from Alby’s corpse, throwing me off stride as we took him down the steps.
“Cops,” I said, spotting a radio car as it turned onto the far end of the street. “C’mon, my buggy’s just over here.”
Even as we shoved Alby into the backseat of my Buick, the prowl car pulled up and both uniforms got out, hands on their guns, skepticism on their faces. Apparently they’d been told what to expect.
Gordy straightened to his full height, which was considerable, and waited. He made no outward show, but I could tell he was dangerously tense. His heartbeat was loud to my sensitive ears. There was a chance he could simply buy these two off, but it would give them a hold on him.
“Lemme handle it,” I said out the side of my mouth.
His gaze flicked sharply at me, and he made a very tiny grunting sound.
“Evening, officers.” I moved to the left so I was under the full glare of a street lamp. What I planned required light enough for them to see me. “Is there a problem?”
Two minutes later they drove off, calling in to report a false alarm. I’d learned their dispatcher sent them to the Nightcrawler to check an anonymous tip about a body on the premises. Then it was just a matter of persuading them that a drunk with a grudge had wanted to make trouble. Gordy and I got in my car and took a another route to get clear.