Bloodlist

Chapter 7

DR. CLARSON WAS a small man with large brown hands that at first glance didn't look dexterous enough for the work they were doing. His tightly curling hair was cut close to the scalp. He was about fifty, but the gray at the sides made him seem older. His movements were economical, and if he had any opinions about patching up a white man in his tiny examining room at two o'clock on a Monday morning, he kept them professionally to himself.
Escott was out cold again on the exam table. The room was too small for anyone else but him and the doctor, so Shoe Cold-field and I had to be content to cool our heels in the waiting room outside. There were six old wooden chairs, each as scarred as the matching floor, a small table that must have served the receptionist as a desk, and some ancient file cabinets, also of wood. The place was very clean, though, and smelled sharply of antiseptic. Shoe looked worried, but not overly anxious.
However shabby the place was, he had trust in Clarson's medical skills.
I was restless and wanted to pace, but held it in check, trying to follow Shoe's example of patience. He sat quite still on one of the chairs, his eyes straying to the doctor and Escott, alert in case he was needed. All I could do was fidget around on my perch on the table and try not to look at the smears of blood we left decorating the floor when we brought Escott in. Bloody damn had been right, my hands and clothes were covered with the stuff. From literature I'd read in the past on the subject of blood and vampires, I should have been feeling something other than sick horror.
The blood on my hands got sticky, and I asked if there was a washroom nearby. Shoe glanced up and led the way out to one down the hall. We cleaned up as best we could, but our clothes would be the laundry's problem.
Things hadn't changed at the office. We sat down again. I chewed on a nail, a habit I hadn't fallen into since I was a kid. It tasted lousy, so I forced my hand down with the other and kept still. I looked at Coldfield and wondered why he hadn't asked for explanations, as he was certainly entitled to do, but then I hadn't volunteered any. I looked at Clarson's back and wondered what was taking so long and if we should call an ambulance.
I had eased Escott down on the seat, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it against his side. It soaked through in what seemed like an instant, but I could see now that my reckoning of time had been distorted by fear. With his head level with his heart, he came to after a moment and said something unintelligible, then clearly said my name.
'I'm right here. I'll get you to a hospital if I can find one."
"No. Find Shoe closer."
I had no better ideas and at least I knew where to go. Somehow I got over to the driver's side and drove like hell to the Shoe Box.
Half a dozen dark men jumped when we screeched up outside the place, and I could hardly blame them. A couple came up to the car, and I recognized one man from our previous visit. He stuck his head in the window, his eyes going wide and curious at Escott's huddled form.
"Is Shoe around? His friend Escott's been hurt."
He wasted no time on the tableau, but straightened and shouted to someone by the nightclub door, who disappeared inside.
"How bad is he?"
"Don't know--it's a knife wound; he didn't feel it at first."
"Yeah, that's how they are." He spoke from experience, but didn't elaborate.
Escott's eyes were open, but he didn't seem aware of very much. His lips were blue and a sheen of sweat covered his cold face. I knew shock when I saw it and wished to God Coldfield would hurry. After a couple of years of pressing the sodden handkerchief, I looked up and saw his face in the passenger window.
"Shit, what happened?"
"Knife fight. He wanted to come here."
"It's his lucky night," he said, and looked back at the club entrance and told someone to hurry. That someone was introduced as Dr. Clarson, who peered at Escott and got into the backseat, telling me where to drive. Shoe got in the other side and we took off. Three blocks later I stopped in front of a dusty stairway leading into a dark building. The street-level sign' declared the doctor's office was in room 201 and gave the hours.
Shoe took over pressure duty while Clarson went up to unlock things and turn on the lights. Between the two of us. Shoe and I got Escott up to the office, hopefully without inflicting more damage. Escott must have been in some pain by then; his gray eyes rolled up at the harsh white light and kept on going to the top of his head.
As the waiting telescoped, I became very conscious of Escott's soft breathing. Every few seconds I had to stifle the urge to get up and check things. Leg muscles would tighten, then forcibly relax as I willed myself to stay put so as not to break the doctor's concentration.
Another twitch would bring up another excuse. For something to do I pretended to breathe. In that small and very quiet waiting room, Coldfield might possibly just notice its absence as Escott had.
Escott When there was a long, descending sigh in the next room, Coldfield went bolt upright in his chair and looked at me.
The doctor stood up straight and nodded over his work. His had been the sigh we had heard. We crowded into the doorway to see. Escott's clothes had been peeled away, leaving his trunk pale and vulnerable except for the bandages just under the line of his rib cage. Clarson washed up at a tiny sink in the corner and dried his hands carefully.
"How do I handle it, Shoe?" he asked without turning.
Shoe looked at me. "You want to tell me now?"
I told him how it had happened and that it had something to do with Escott's investigation of my case. Clarson shook his head, giving his silent opinion of grown men trying to act like Saturday-afternoon serial heroes.
"He won't be kicking off just yet," he told us. "So I guess there's no harm keeping this between us."
"What do we do now?" asked Shoe.
"Leave him here tonight, let him rest. He lost a lot of blood and got some muscle cut up, but no internal stuff or he wouldn't be here." He didn't specify if he meant the office versus an emergency room or among the living.
"What about tomorrow?"
"We'll see in the morning. I don't want him moved for now. I'm keeping him quiet for a few hours, so you two can go on. I'll call you at the club if there's any trouble."
"Do you anticipate any?" I asked.
"Not really, infection at the most. I cleaned him up good, but knives can be dirty."
Coldfield and I thanked him and went downstairs to the car. There was some blood on the upholstery, but it was dry now. We were just getting inside when a long, bony body lurched at us from behind. It was Cal, the skinny kid who shined shoes, but now he was minus his box and easy smile.
Coldfield was surprised, which for him was the same as being annoyed.
"What you doing out of bed, boy?"
"Jimmy told me about Mist' Escott."
"He's all right now--"
"Can I see him?"
"He's not even awake and the doctor says he needs rest. He's not hurt too bad, so come on and get in the car."
Cal looked wistfully up the stairs, then reluctantly got in between us.
I drove back to the Shoe Box and Coldfield had me park around the back.
Without being told, Cal got out and trotted ahead of us to the back door.
"He lives here?" I asked.
"Yeah, him and a few other boys his age. They earn their keep and it's respectable work."
"What about their families?"
"Some don't have any to speak of. Cal's dad was killed in an accident and his mama works in a bar so she can be close to the booze. When she climbs out of the bottle, Cal will move back with her, but until then he's got a home here."
"In a nightclub?"
The question should have annoyed him, but didn't. "My sister looks after them. This place is a castle compared to where they've been. I make 'em work and when they aren't working, they go to school. I don't force anything they don't want; they can leave when they like, and some do, but the smart ones don't."
The headline, "Bronze Belt Boys' Town" jumped into my head. It would make a good story, but now was hardly the time for an interview.
"Want to come in for a drink?"
"Thanks, but next time. I need to get home and clean up."
"You got a way home?"
"I can walk."
"Not in this neighborhood, you can't. Come on, my turn to drive you." We went to his newer Nash and got in. He asked where I lived and I told him. "That's a pretty long walk."
"I like to walk."
"In some parts of this town, you're better off running."
"So I've noticed." I handed over the keys to Escott's car. "Here, I won't be by till late tomorrow, you take care of them."
"Sure. You still going to mess with Morelli?"
"I have to, now."
"Take some advice and don't." He didn't mention the consequences. He didn't have to since we were both thinking about Escott.
Back in my room I packed my dirty laundry up for the staff to work on.
To save trouble explaining the bloodstains I just threw the shin away. I spent the rest of the night flat on my back and staring at the ceiling from the bed. It was depressing having to sit through the long early-morning hours alone and not be able to watch the dawn and the change of mood a new day can bring. The only good thing was the oblivion it brought as soon as the lid of my trunk came down, and then an instant later it seemed, there was another fresh night ahead of me, as though the day had never happened.
I phoned the Shoe Box first thing and talked to Coldfield.
"You been out all day? I tried to call."
"Yeah. Call me for what? Is he all right?"
"He's weak, but insisted on going home. I thought you'd want to know, is all." He gave me a different address from the little office and I wrote it down. "You ain't going to tire him?"
"No, just apologize for putting him through all this."
"It's no one's fault but the's.o.b. with the knife." I agreed and hung up.
The taxi dropped me at a row of two- and three-story buildings that looked old enough to have escaped the Fire, or had been built immediately afterward. Kids played in the quiet street, and parents sat on the steps and fanned themselves in the twilight. It was a respectable middle-class neighborhood. It hardly seemed suitable for Escott, but then again I couldn't think what else would have been right.
I rang the bell of a brown brick building of three floors and Cal opened the door.
"Hi, Mist' Fleming. Shoe said you was coming."
From somewhere close inside, Escott said, "Were coming, Cal."
Cal grinned and said it again correctly, standing back for me. It was a small entryway, with a rack on the wall to hang hats and coats. Directly ahead were stairs leading up into shadows. On their left was a hall going through to the back of the house. An open set of double doors were parallel to the stairs, and beyond them was a cramped sitting room, where Escott was lying on an old chintz-covered sofa. He was in a deep purple bathrobe; the color made him look more pale than he was. There were tired circles under his eyes, but he seemed glad to see me.
"Come and sit down. Will you have some tea?"
The question was for Cal's benefit; I politely declined. "You look better than last night. How do you feel?"
"Tired, but I'll live through it. Shoe invited me to stay at his place, but I wanted to come home. We finally compromised, and he let me go, but only on condition that Cal stays over and keeps an eye on me."
"Good, I was afraid you'd be alone."
At second look, the place only seemed cramped. The high ceilings made the floor area appear smaller in proportion. The floor was highly polished, reflecting the lamplight and a few comfortable old pieces of furniture. Several pictures hung by long wires from the upper moldings.
They were all large mediocre prints of naked women reclining on clouds with naked babies and doves, and were hardly consistent with Escott's character.
"Did this place come furnished?"
He noticed where I was looking, his eyes crinkling. "Do you like them?"
"They're interesting."
He didn't miss my expression. "You have excellent taste. They shall no doubt prove profitable to the junk dealer as soon as I can get around to it."
"They came with the house?"
"Yes, certainly. It has an interesting history. I have it on good account from my neighbors that the place was once a bordello."
"The previous tenants are gone?"
"Yes, the owner died some time ago, the place went for sale, and I was able to buy it quite cheaply, as no one wanted to live here. You know, I still occasionally have to turn away an old customer who hasn't heard the news yet. My life is not dull-sometimes odd, but never dull." He sipped his tea. "Shoe thinks I should talk you out of pursuing your own case and to turn it over to the police."
"You know I can't go to them the way I am."
"I know, but Shoe doesn't. He obviously has decided that I have no further interest in it because of this little incident."
"I'm not too surprised; he mentioned it last night. I am sorry about this. If I'd been faster--"
He shook his head. "No one else could have been faster, I've seen it and you did save me, after all, and I am grateful. Forget about it, I'll be up and doing soon enough."
Cal came in with a glass of water and a small bottle of pills. "It's time."
Grimacing and accepting two, he washed them down quickly to get it over with, then Cal took the glass away to the kitchen. As soon as he was gone, Escott spit the pills fastidiously into a handkerchief and tucked it into the robe's pocket. He drank more tea to wash away their taste.
"What gives?" I asked.
"They're morphine. I've seen what it can do to people, and I'd really rather endure the pain. At least I know it will go away. Clarson is an excellent fellow and discreet, but he really should know better. I had an armful of the stuff this morning and could hardly do anything for myself."
I wondered what he could possibly feel up to doing in his condition. "Do you need anything now?"
"Only more patience."
"You aren't talking me out of this mess?"
"We're enough alike that I know better than to try."
"I'm going there soon."
"Tonight?"
'Tomorrow. I want to give them time to cool down from last night's fracas. They wanted to know who we were with. You think they thought we were Pace's men?"
"Possibly, or any of a dozen smaller gangs out for trouble. I'm inclined to think they were just naturally suspicious. What do you plan to do?"
"I was a journalist two weeks agoI'll just check things out like it was any other story and see what happens." Vague at best as an idea, but it had worked for me on other occasions and had turned into acceptable copy. I was hoping to turn this into my missing memory.
Escott was visibly tired, so I wished him well and left, walking around the city for a couple of hours. Coldfield was right about some places being dangerous, but I was a big boy now and could take care of myself.
I was looking things over, getting acquainted with the streets and the personality of each block, slowly working toward the Stockyards and my inevitable stop there.
By now I had ceased to be too squeamish about the blood drinking. That oddball reaction had hit me on my second visit there. My first feeding had been done in a kind of panic; "you must do this or die." It had been quick, dreamlike, and with no time to think. My second visit had been more leisurely, and when it came down to brass tacks, I almost balked.
The thought of opening an animal's vein with my teeth and sucking blood from the wound was nauseating, but out of necessity I had to push the thought from my mind and get on with the business. Intellectually, I still had trouble handling the process, but by now I was at least getting used to it. It helped to think of it in terms of a habit, like brushing one's teeth; boring, but it had to be done.
The blood completely satisfied my hunger and gave me strength, but its ingestion was a far cry from sitting comfortably around a table with friends and socializing into the small hours over real food and drink.
Leaving the yards, I wandered a long time until I found an all-night theatre and went in. Leslie Howard pined after Merle Oberon in The Scarlet Pimpernel, and I watched it three times in a row, until I was rooting for Raymond Massey to win. He never did, so I went home and read the papers until dawn.
The personals still carried my question to Maureen, but had no reply. I told myself again I was a fool to hope after all these months and should just give it up. As always, I gave a mental shrug. It wouldn't hurt for just one more week, it really wouldn't.
But it really did. The trick was to ignore the hurt and keep hoping.
The tuxedo fit well enough. 1 was one of those lucky ones who could buy things right off the rack, even pants. The new patent leather shoes were a bit snug, but they'd be well broken in tonight. A mirror would have been useful, for I was interested in how young I appeared. I'd fed heavily last night to obtain good color as well, as I planned to pass myself off as Gerald Fleming again.
I transferred some cash into a new wallet and worked the stiffness from it. The rest of my money was locked in the trunk with my other personal papers. The wallet had a little pasteboard card with lines for printing one's name and address. I filled it in with the name of Gerald Fleming, a phony out-of-town address, and the name of Jack Fleming as someone to contact in case of an emergency. As a legal ID it was totally useless, but better than nothing at all. I draped the white silk scarf so it hung in front, and finished things off with the top hat.
I left by the back door, partially from paranoia, partially from the idea that if anyone in the lobby glommed me in this memorable getup they'd raise my rent. A few blocks away I caught a cab and had it take me to the lion's den.
Tonight the windows of the Nightcrawler were bright, and fancy people were streaming in and out even at this early hour. I paid the driver and trotted up the wide steps in order to slip inside with a knot of revelers, but found my way suddenly blocked by an agile mountain disguised as a man in a tuxedo. He had short blond hair, small eyes, and a chronically grim set to his mouth.
"Good evening," he said civilly. I mumbled a reply of some kind, noting he was giving me careful study. His eyes flicked to some grillwork set like an oversized vent in one branch of the U-shaped entrance. The darkness of the small room beyond wasn't quite adequate to hide the man with the gun who sat there. He nodded and the mountain stood aside and let me by. I pretended not to notice this exchange, as they decided I wasn't a dangerous character. It was favorable to be underestimated. 1 looked young and hopefully innocent--all that was needed was a touch of stupidity. Considering some of my antics from the past, that would probably be very easy.
The doorman did his duty, but I paused at the threshold with a brief attack of doubt and insecurity. Though it would have been too dangerous for him, I wished Escott was along. I missed his confidence. Despite the advantages I had now, I could still get scared. For just one second I nearly turned back, but a silly-looking woman with frizzed black hair and too much makeup caught a look at me and whooped hello. Her party had preceded me coming in and were already more than a little drunk.
"Whatcha waitin' for, a streetcar? Come on in, cutey," she shrilled.
I couldn't stand this kind of drunk, but went in before I started thinking again. She latched on to my arm.
"Isn't he cute? Hey, Ricky, isn't he cute, isn't he?"
Ricky said, "Yeah," and swayed a little. How had they qualified getting in if the watchdogs had been so careful with me?
"That's how I like 'em, tall 'n cute," she told Ricky reproachfully. I hadn't been cute since I traded my short pants in for an older brother's hand-me-downs, but let them drag me inside. Stepping away from the door, I heard the men behind us chuckling. Good. If they found my situation something to laugh at. they might also think me harmless.
As politely as possible under the circumstances, I detached myself from the lady's grip and checked my hat and scarf in with the first of the many stunning blonds that worked there. Platinum was the dominant color, apparently a requirement for employment. They wore short black dresses decorated with silver sequins in the pattern of a spider's web. Over their hearts were black, red and silver pins of stylized spiders, all of which were a nice gimmick to tie in with the name of the club.
With difficulty, I turned my attention from the girls to the rest of the place. It was very noisy. The barrage of conversation trying to be heard over the brassy orchestra was like a riot in a large dog kennel. With that image in mind it was easy to categorize the patrons. There were a few high-class ones with pedigrees, but the overwhelming breed represented were the mutts; well-dressed, but mutts all the same.
Another blond came up and led me to a table the size of a dinner plate and told me the waiter would be by shortly. The place was surprisingly busy for a weeknight, but well organized. In less than a minute a young man appeared and took my order for Irish coffee, which also appeared in less than a minute. I pretended to sip, though bringing it to my lips was an act of will, and I had to stifle a gag. For distraction I looked around and caught several unescorted young ladies giving me a hopeful eye. I wasn't that handsome--they were working girls. I had no inclinations for that at the moment, so my gaze slid past to the swaying couples on the floor below. The band wound up the music, the dancers dispersed, and the lights went down. A single spot picked out another platinum blond leaning against the grand piano. She was in something long, white, and silvery, a nice contrast to the brief black skirts of the other girls and a perfect complement to her long shimmering hair.
She sang something sad and shallow in a voice that was surprisingly good, filling the room and hushing even the worst drunks. As with any woman I noticed, I was comparing her to Maureen, looking for something wrong, but for once the lady was holding her own. She finished her song, and the lights faded and came up, but by then she was gone, leaving her audience wanting more. The band cut to another number and couples began to venture onto the floor again. I looked up and saw a pretty girl smiling at me, holding a tray full of tobacco products.
"Bobbi always knocks 'em dead," she observed with a nod toward the stage. I made a business of picking out some cigarettes and got her to talk a little. In two minutes I found but where she lived, when she got off work, the time of Bobbi's next number, the location of the gambling rooms, and the requirements to get inside, which were specifically a-lot of cash and the willingness to lose it fast. Her interest cooled and she moved on, apparently having had experience with gamblers. I'd seen the type as well; men who would rather gamble than make love, more fool they.
And here I was trying to imitate them. I abandoned my table and drifted over to a guarded door marked PRIVATE. The large man there asked my name. I gave the one I was using that night and was slightly disappointed to get no reaction. He consulted a telephone, a buzzer sounded, and he opened the door wide.
It was another big room, but much quieter, lit by crystal chandeliers and dimmed by cigarette smoke. I'd been in places like this before, but never when they were in one piece. Usually I was hot in the wake of a police raid making a written account of the destruction and noting down who had been arrested for what. Prior to tonight I had never been able to afford this sort of decadence. It felt great.
At the money cage I bought two hundred dollars in chips, blanching inwardly at the small pile they made in my pocket. For something to do, I lit a cigarette and studied faces. Not one of them was familiar, which was all for the best, since I didn't want to be noticed right away. I wandered around, looking for Slick Morelli. He was either not there or my memory was not cooperating the way it had at Frank Paco's. Maybe I was expecting too much from my traumatized brain.
Giving it a rest, I found an isolated corner and got into a blackjack game, winning ten dollars and losing fifty before realizing I could cheat without getting caught.
The dealer's face had about as much expression as a dead fish, but he had no control over his heart rate. When the immediate noise level occasionally subsided, I could just hear it. Every time he dealt the house a good hand it beat just a little louder and faster, and after some concentrated practice at sorting out the internal signals my rate of winning rose marginally. I didn't win every time, that was impossible with the other players and the natural fall of the cards, but I had enough of an edge to win more than lose. In an hour I left the table a thousand dollars ahead, excited at the prospect of a new vocation in life.
Circling the room again, I looked at the new faces, checking out the suckers at the roulette tables and slot machines. One of the machine patrons was the singer, Bobbi. She looked just as good, if not better, close up as she did fifty feet away on stage. Now she was wearing a black sequin-trimmed wrap over her bare shoulders. It must have been to provide some modesty to her stage gown, but since the black material was practically transparent it had just the opposite effect.
She pushed a coin into the slot and hauled the lever down with just enough precise force, indicating long practice. She got a cherry and two lemons. Her face revealed no disappointment.
Her moves were automatic: push in a coin, yank the lever, and wait, push in a coin I was getting hypnotized. She won a small pot, added the money to the stack she kept ready, and started over again. I wondered if she'd rather gamble than make love.
She noticed me out of the corner of her eye. Just my luck, the first emotion I inspired in her was annoyance. "The floor show's in the next room, ace."
"Sorry, didn't know I was intruding."
"You shouldn't look over other people's shoulders."
I moved around to her front field of view and angled so I could look out across the room. Tapping out a cigarette, I offered her one.
"They kill the voice and stain the teeth," she told me, pulling the lever down with decidedly more force. I put my props away unlit and offered to buy her a drink.
"No, thanks, and before you ask me why I'm here, I'm supporting my crippled mother down on the farm."
At least she was talking to me. She didn't say anything I wanted to hear, but she was talking. I watched her play the machine. There was more strength than grace in her automated movements, but the view was very absorbing.
"You know Slick Morelli?" I asked.
She kept up the rhythm, but her eyelids flickered. "Doesn't everybody?"
"Where is he?"
"Somewhere around."
"Can you point him out?"
"You think I'm the party hostess or something? Go talk to one of the boys over there." She jerked her head in the direction of the door. The movement dislodged a wisp of hair. She paused long enough to brush it with her fingertips, using the gesture to glance at me before going back to the machine. I tried to keep my smile neutral and non-threatening.
"I heard that yacht of his is for sale," I tried. "The Elvira."
She laughed. Another coin, down came the lever. I didn't see the result.
She put in another coin.
"Why not? He needs the money."
This time the lever stayed up. Her eyes slid over to mine. I expected blue, but they were hazel. She studied my face, trying to fit me into a category and finally deciding; it was anything hut complimentary. "What do you want?" she said wearily.
"An introduction to Slick?"
She almost asked why, but thought better of it. "Go talk to one of the boys."
"They're not as pretty. My name's Gerald Fleming I think Slick will want to talk to me about my brother Jack."
The names meant nothing to her, which was a relief.
"Jack met him two weeks ago, they were aboard the Elvira."
Her heartbeat went up suddenly, but she kept her face straight.
"He's built just like me and much the same in the face, but he's in his mid-thirties."
Nothing new, she was still reacting to the mention of the yacht.
"Frank Paco and a guy named Sanderson were there, too. Fred's dead now and Paco is headed for a nuthouse"
She went white at those names, but still tried to cover it with a kind of defiance. "So what?" She wore a soft flower scent, but underneath the roses I could smell fear. I asked her why she was afraid. She didn't deny it. "Death and taxes, what else?"
Slick Morelli or me?
She kept her eyes on the machine. "I think you'd better go now."
"I'd rather stay."
"Suit yourself, it's no skin off my nose."
"A guy could get discouraged."
"Good."
"I know Slick killed my brother."
She had a lot of control, but now the fear smell was drowning the perfume. She went on playing, pretending she hadn't heard.
"If you see him tonight, pass that on. I'll be around."
"You're not kidding, are you?"
"No."
"Why do you think he--"
"Because I was at Frank Paco's last dinner party, the one with the hot finish that made all the papers. I overheard things. Slick's name came up in the course of the conversation."
"Aren't you being kind of stupid to march in here like this?"
"Maybe, but Slick won't hurt me because I've got something he wants."
"What?"
"The same thing he wanted from brother Jack, but didn't get."
"Okay, be cagey."
"The less you know the better it is. I don't think you want to be in the middle of things."
"So everyone tells me. Why should you care?"
"You remind me of someone."
"Thanks a heap."
"She was afraid sometimes, too."
She watched me, troubled and wary. I shut up and moved away, there was no more to say to her and I couldn't trust my voice. Maureen was still too strong within me and I was feeling guilty for being attracted to Bobbi. She was as beautiful as Maureen, but in a different way; she was also vulnerable and worked hard to hide it. She gave me a lot to think about and I drifted blindly for a while. I lit more cigarettes, but didn't inhale. My body allowed me air to speak with, but rejected all foreign substances but one, and I had tanked up on that last night. I puffed superficially and added to the haze.
In one of the alcoves a little away from the noise, a serious poker game was in progress. There were five players, but most of the chips were on one side of the table in front of a totally bald fat man with a tangled brown beard bunching along the edge of his jowls like a baby's bib. Just as I strolled up one of the players threw down his hand and folded for the night. He left with a sweat-slick face, his body giving off the kind of reek that only comes from a habitual gambler, the kind that loses. I was the only observer of the game, the fat man probably won far too often for it to be of any interest to onlookers.
The cards went down and he raked in another pot, neatly stacking his chips according to color with his short, flat fingers. There must have been nine thousand dollars in front of him.
"Care to join?" he said, not looking up.
"No, thanks, I'll watch." I didn't like poker, tending to agree with Ambrose Bierce, who defined it as a game played with cards for some purpose unknown. I'd been listening to heartbeats and knew my little trick would be totally useless at this table with these veterans of the bluff. To test it, I mentally played a hand against the fat man, looking over the shoulder of another player. I lost repeatedly, as he registered about as much emotional reaction as the felt-covered table. All hands were alike to him. Bored, I finally left, sliding quietly out of the alcove. The fat man's glassy soulless eyes followed me before they snapped back to his cards.
After patrolling the room once for Morelli, I went back to the blackjack table and settled in for some serious gambling of my own. As a game to play, it was much faster, and I enjoyed the mental workout it gave.
Before I knew it, two hours were gone and I was the only player left. It increased my odds of winning, 1 had the dealer's reactions down well enough by now to practically read his mind.
I flipped up my last card--it was a straight blackjack, I got them occasionally. It was time to quit. Hardly believing it, I gathered up fifty-eight hundred dollars in chips. At this rate I could buy Dad a whole new chain of stores. My conscience wasn't chafing a whole lot. It was Slick Morelli's money and he owed me.
Shuffling the chips away, I looked up, my eyes locking on to Bobbi's face. She moved without hurry across the room, not smiling, not frowning, carefully blank. She sat on the stool next to me and gave the dealer a quiet signal. He closed the table and left.
"You gave up on me pretty fast. Why?" she asked.
"I thought that's what you wanted."
"I don't know what I want right now."
Dance music filtered in sporadically from the club room as the door opened and closed. I caught her scent again--roses and fear. It was strangely exciting. Her skin was very light and in the shadow beneath her jaw I could see the veins throbbing with life. I could smell that, too.
Keeping very still, I waited for her to look up at me. She was so very beautiful and the first woman I'd wanted in a long, long time. When she finally looked, I suggested we leave the room. She stood and let me follow her through an unmarked door at the back. We were in a dim hall, silent for her; for me it was filled with the uneven rhythm of her lungs and the booming of her heart. She let the wrap slide back from her shoulders as her arms went up around my neck. The length of her body pressed warmly against mine, just as I had wanted it. I caressed her hair, tilting her chin up and kissing her red lips.
But the passion was all one-sided. Her face was empty of all thought or feeling, her mind was in some neutral state, waiting for my next suggestion. I backed off in doubt, then, suddenly knowing it was wrong, I turned away.
As a living man I'd never forced myself on a woman, and I wasn't going to start now. My changed nature had provided me with an all-too-easy route to seduction. Maureen completely avoided the use of this ability.
She had wanted a willing lover, not a slave.
Bobbi's arms hung loose at her sides, and gradually awareness returned to her eyes. If she had some idea of what I'd been doing, she made no sign. Perhaps she thought her own desire had brought us here. I put a hand on the doorknob, hers stopped me.
"I think I should go."
"No." Her voice was hardly above a whisper. "I had to tell Slick what you said."
"I know, it's all right. That's why he sent you after me."
"Was it that obvious?"
"Just unexpected."
"I can get you out from here. I'll tell them you got wise and ran."
"Too risky for you, though."
"I'll be all right." Her breathing was back to normal and she still held my hand. Her face was tilted up again and she was free from any form of suggestion now. I lowered my head and kissed her and felt elation when she responded. I wanted to stay there, but reluctantly had to draw away.
There was a pleasant kind of pressure building in my upper jaw. It was different from hunger pangs, but just as intense, pushing out my canines. While things were still manageable, I pushed them back into place with my tongue. Now was not the time or place for that sort of thing.
"This isn't Slick's planning," she said.
"I know."
"Look, maybe I can meet you tomorrow--"
"Tomorrow night. I have to talk with Slick first."
"Why?"
If I tried to answer that one we'd be there all night, which under any other circumstances would have been most desirable. I shook my head and smiled a little. "I'll take you back before you're missed."
She crumpled. "I hate it when he makes me do this. He said it was a joke, but I know better. He wanted me to get you outside, for you to meet me out front so you're seen leaving the club."
"I'll oblige him, but we'll leave you out of it."
"But you're a fish on a hook now. Don't you see?"
"Like my brother?"
She was trying not to shiver. "I don't know about him, I really don't.
Two weeks ago Slick spent several days on the yacht. He came back exhausted and in a bad temper, maybe your brother had something to do with it, but I just don't--"
She looked like she needed a pair of arms around her, and I did the best I could. "Don't worry about it, it's my choice. I'm leaving now, by the front door."
"He'll kill you," she said with certainty.
"No, he won't." It was too late for that, but a person doesn't have to have a bullet drilled through his heart to be emotionally dead. I smiled again, got hers in return, and felt alive for the first time in years.