Bloodlist
Chapter 8
I TRADED MY chips for cash at a grilled window under the hard gaze of two gunmen and folded the money away. The cashier made a big point of inviting me back again tomorrow night. He must have figured my beginner's luck would have worn out by then.
The band was playing a last slow number and I emerged from behind the door marked PRIVATE. Bobbi had gone around by another door and was on the dance floor, floating in the arms of a man who was holding his face close to her gleaming hair. Some guys had all the luck. It might have been Morelli, but I was only guessing.
The tables had lost most of their patrons. One whole section had been roped off and the mop-and-bucket boys were busy cleaning it. I collected my top hat and scarf, giving the girl at the counter enough of a tip to wake her up, and left by the front entrance.
I wondered how much line they were going to give me before hauling me in.
The cool night breeze off the lake felt clean and moist. The place was probably an Arctic hell in winter, but now things were just right. There were still a few hours before dawn. If they planned to try anything, I hoped the night would be long enough to accommodate them. I turned left along the front of the club, walking slowly. Behind, two sets of shoes were keeping pace with mine. I stifled a smile.
Between streetlights I paused and glanced back. One of them was the walking mountain, the other was the guard from the casino door. I tried to not be overly optimistic that they were after me. They could be underpaid enough to just want my newly acquired money. I continued on and turned the corner. There were two more men standing in the way. One of them plucked a toothpick from his mouth and flicked it away. He must have seen that one at the movies.
The guys behind caught up with us and completed the quintet. To make it look right I tried to duck past them for the open street. They were fast and professional and didn't even muss my clothes, but then I was not using my full strength to fight them. With arms held pinned to my sides and the white scarf over my eyes, I was marched quickly back to the club.
Prom the length of the walk and the smell at the end of it, we were going in by the alley entrance. I made some stock verbal protests until one of them shoved my own handkerchief into my mouth. This was done only to shake me up. If I'd really started to yell for help, they'd have been a lot rougher. In silence I was dragged up some steps and over a linoleum floor. From the leftover smell of grease, I guessed it was a kitchen. We trod on wooden floor for twenty-eight paces, then I was stumbling up a flight of stairs. Knuckles rapped on wood and I was shoved forward.
The door shut. I stood on carpeting in a room with two sets of lungs; one right behind me, probably the Mountain and the other about eight feet in front. A light switch clicked, and I felt a gentle warmth on my face.
The scarf was yanked down. The warmth came from a flexible desk lamp whose bulb had been angled to shine right in my eyes. The rest of the room was dark, but it didn't matter; the man trying to hide behind the glare was quite visible to me.
He was medium sized and dark haired, with a pale olive complexion slightly marred by old acne scars on his cheeks. In his young thirties, he had a set of sweet dark eyes that should have been on a woman. He would have been handsome, but his nose was too pinched and he had what looked like a razor cut for a mouth. His stare was intense and I shifted uneasily.
He smiled approval at my reaction.
I checked the room over so as not to look at him. It was a plain working office, but with a nice rug, a couple of paintings of ships, and an expensive desk-and-chair set. On the desk was a phone and blotter, in the corner behind me stood a file cabinet.
There was no other place to sit, though some dimples showed in the rug where chairs had been. He was smart enough to know how well such minor intimidations can undermine a person's confidence. He sat relaxed behind his desk, gave me a good once-over, then raised one finger as a signal to the man behind me. Hands probed, and my wallet, half a pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches were dropped on the desk. He opened the wallet, ignoring the money, and his eyes rested a moment on the little pasteboard card.
"I think you can consider this an emergency," he began. "Would you like us to put you in contact with your brother?"
Figuratively speaking, I could breathe a little easier. I'd worried he wouldn't have accepted me as Gerald. I didn't answer, but squinted at the light as though trying to see past it.
"I heard about you being at Paco's. They said you wanted to trade the list for your brother. I know where he is and I'm willing to deal with you."
It was simply stated and the truth, but I didn't think he was dumb enough to think I was that gullible. He was only feeling me out.
"Are you willing to deal with me?"
"Only if you're Slick Morelli."
He didn't answer except to move his hand slightly. The Mountain came up on one side and buried his knuckles in my stomach. That hurt a little--very little--and I faked the rest, going down on my knees as I had done at Paco's; no imagination, these guys.
"You can call me Mr. Morelli, Junior," he told me. "Now say thank you."
I was pulled to my feet and punched two more times before I got bored with the business and said what he wanted. There was a purpose to it all; get me to give in and obey him once and it would be that much easier for me to give in later about other things. He knew his business.
I'd seen it done in other situations. The faces changed, but the technique remained constant. I let the Mountain hold me up and concentrated on breathing. Under the circumstances, they were both bound to notice if I stopped.
"Now, where is the list?"
Again, I said nothing; my memory had it in a place I could not reach.
They'd killed me over it before, and they'd certainly try again--a difficult job in my present state, but not impossible. I had some control this time, though, and would stall to try and learn more, hoping my contact with them would trigger a memory.
Morelli opened a drawer in the desk, drew out a long black cigar, and fitted it into a silver holder. The skin on my head began crawling in different directions, my left hand twitched, and I fell back a step into the Mountain. He held me firm as Morelli looked up and saw my fear. The reaction had come boiling up without warning, and it was all I could do to stifle the urge to tear away and bolt out the door. He finished lighting the cigar and blew smoke at the ceiling.
"Start talking, Fleming."
A film was over my eyes. I blinked uncontrollably. My hands jerked up to rub them clear.
("Start talking, Fleming.") The Mountain's grip kept me on my feet or I'd be on my knees again.
(The cigar stink filled the little room. Its burning end pivoted from my eyes and pointed down to my left hand. The pain shot up the arm, into the brain, and came clawing out through my clenched teeth. I tried to tear away from it and the binding ropes) The Mountain shook me out of it. My jellied legs found the floor and I stood under my own power, staring at Morelli with hot rage. I wanted badly to let it out, knowing what it would do to his mind; good revenge for my past pain, but it would accomplish nothing. My eyes tracked another cloud of smoke. His leisurely manner reminded me that he had all the time in the world, I only had until sunrise.
"What did you do to Jack Fleming?" I asked. "How did you get him?"
"I ask the questions, Junior." This was punctuated by another punch.
"Did you have Paco shoot him?"
I was on the floor now and felt the distant blow of a shoe in the back of one leg. I made an appropriate noise in response. The Mountain bent down to pick me up. For the first time he spoke, whispering in my ear.
"Tell him what he wants, kid. He won't let me let up."
So he was supposed to be my friend, he had some pity for me. Maybe if I cooperated he'd pull his punches. Bullshit.
"Where is the list?" Morelli pretended he hadn't heard his boy speak.
I was made to stand. Favoring my kicked leg, or appearing to, I shook my head. The Mountain hit again and that's when I overdid my act. It was by accident, or by sheer clumsiness, that my body pitched too far and too fast off balance and my head connected hard with the edge of the desk.
The thing was made out of very solid mahogany.
Lights flashed behind my eyes, there were waves of dizziness, and if I went under they'd think I was dead. They'd sink me in the lake again and this time I might not come up. My eyes fluttered, I felt myself falling, but it was just the Mountain turning me over.
Breathe, keep breathing.
He was watching me closely. I looked back, concentrating on pumping my chest up and down and fighting the pain in my head.
Breathe, breathe until the worst of the shock passes.
"I thought he was gone for a second, but he seems okay, now," said the Mountain.
"Then wake him up." Morelli sounded infinitely put out. "And, Gordy, you be more careful with him this time."
He poured a glass of water I didn't want in my face and I spit it from my nose and mouth like poison. The door opened and a chair was dragged in. They put it under me. Perhaps Gordy the Mountain was getting tired of holding me up.
"Tell him what he wants, kid," he urged.
My head was bowed, I gently checked the sore spot. There was no blood, but it hurt. It hurt far more than Paco's gunshots. I remembered the time and let the sleeve ride up my wrist for a glimpse at my watch. Not good, but better than I expected.
Morelli was still behind his desk, puffing on the cigar. The office was hot despite the air-cooling system, filled with smoke and the stink of sweat. Now I was glad they'd thrown the water; it would give the illusion that I, too, was sweating.
"I'll clue you, Fleming. You talk now, or you are dead meat. We will work you over and you will die. Talk and you will live."
For how long? I wondered.
"Where is the list?"
Same old song. I stalled and let Gordy earn his keep. He was not too creative, but he had a lot of endurance and muscle. He needed it since I kept falling from the chair as part of my act. It was a long and brutal quarter hour before I finally broke. I'd seen it done before in movies, in real life. I gave them the full treatment: sobbing, pleading, anything I could think of, and it was exactly what Morelli wanted to see. He was feeling good now; he'd ground a man down, opened his guts, and not even left his chair.
I slid to the floor and made friends with the carpet, curling up to nurse bruises I didn't feel. It kept my face hidden and my voice muffled. Both were always dead giveaways whenever I tried lying. Between moans and groans I spun them a line of how Jack had passed the list on to his baby brother, but kept the details to the bare minimum; too many and they wouldn't believe it.
"Very good," said Morelli. "But where is it now?"
' 'I took a room at Jack's hotel and waited for him. I figured you'd already been there and wouldn't come back again, and there was a chance Jack would for his stuff."
"Smart, Junior. Keep talking."
"It's at the hotel, hidden in the basement. I'll have to show you where.
You'll never find it otherwise."
They had a lot of trouble swallowing that one, and it took a large chunk of the time I had left to convince them they had to take me along.
My eyes were covered again, but this time they spared me the handkerchief. We went downstairs and waited in the kitchen. A car rolled up and stopped, its engine idling quietly. They opened the door, guided me down the concrete steps, and I was shoved into the backseat. I slumped low as if in bad shape--actually I was worried about the ever-present rearview mirror.
Gordy was on my right and another man was on my left. They each had a hand tightly gripping my wrists, taking no chances on my making a sudden move. Morelli sat in the front with the driver, occasionally giving a direction.
We crossed water once, twice, there were several turns, and we waited in silence for traffic signals. The car finally slowed and parked, the motor still running. The right-hand door opened and Gordy dragged me out. He pulled the scarf down and the first thing I saw was a gun ready in his hand. Next to him was the casino guard, who had a hand inside his coat like a latter-day Napoleon. His body blocked my view of Morelli in the passenger seat. Dead meat or not, he was careful not to let me see his face. It was fine with me, I was sick of it, anyway.
"Go and get it," he said.
The hotel was a block away on the same side of the street. Maybe the night clerk would remember me, but I wasn't planning to test him. I'd only gotten them back to this neighborhood because it made the story I told more plausible. I wanted them nowhere near my present hotel.
As before, they marched along, gripping my arms. I was in luck, for a change. They'd have to pass the entrance of an alley that ran between the hotel and the next building. There was a risk they might catch on to my unusual strength, perhaps they'd put it down to desperation. It wasn't getting any earlier; pretty soon I would be desperate.
We breasted the alley and I shook free, connecting a mild backhand hit in the gunman's stomach and pushing Gordy into some garbage cans. He recovered fast, and was up and after me before I'd gotten halfway down the alley. His friend was catching up as I came to the wood fence blocking the far end. I went over it with an agility that surprised me, landed like a cat, and pounded away, gaining a good lead.
The fence protected a street lined with residential brown-stones, each with steps and railings and deep doorways. There were plenty of places to hide if necessary. I went to the right, wanting to gain more distance before vanishing. That was one trick they didn't need to witness. I was looking for a suitable place to duck when one of them did the unexpected. It must nave been the gunman, Morelli had forgotten to tell him I was needed alive.
What felt like a sledgehammer blow caught me between the shoulder blades. The pain made me forget my aching head for the moment. I was in mid-stride when my body was lifted and thrown off balance by the impact.
I tried to keep my legs under me, but the shock to the system was too much, and they buckled and failed. I rolled hard onto the sidewalk, carried on by impetus until I hitched up against the wheel of a parked car. The two men trotted up and turned me over.
I 'm too much of a joker not to take advantage of such a situation.
Besides, it was a way of getting them off my back. I gave it my best, pulling my hands up to cover what should have been the exit wound and hoping it was too dark for them to see the lack of blood. As they approached, I gasped, twitched convulsively, and slowly let my last breath shudder out in a horrible rattle. I stared at them with glassy eyes. They stared back, then Gordy bent down to feel for a pulse in my throat. He straightened and looked at his buddy, shaking his head.
"You're up shit creek," he pronounced.
I was right about it being the gunman and saw why I hadn't heard the shot; a bulky silencer was fixed to his weapon. It was enough to damp the sound down so the local residents continued to sleep.
A half minute later the car rolled up and Morelli erupted out before it stopped. He glanced once at his men, then glared down at me. I was sorry for not drawing my death scene out long enough to give him a cryptic message to worry about. He whirled on his men. Gordy pointed at the other guy, who had gone all white. Morelli went all purple, the neck tendons coming up as though to break through the skin. His body shook with rage and his breath came in short gulps. He'd gotten one last chance to find his precious list, and this guy had stupidly taken it from him. He snatched the gun away and, using it as a club, laid into him. When he finished, there was another body decorating the sidewalk.
He gave the bloody gun to Gordy and stalked back to the car. Gordy picked up his buddy and followed a minute later.
"What about him?" he asked. They were out of my line of sight, but I could imagine his gesture in my direction.
"Leave him. He's got no wallet, they'll think he was mugged. Leave him."
The car doors slammed and they drove away.
I lay on the sidewalk and counted my blessings. When I stood up and felt my aching head I was in the mood to consider everything else. I was out of the Nightcrawler more or less in one piece and Morelli thought I was dead. On the down side, my new suit was a disaster area, I was missing fifty-eight hundred bucks and I still didn't know much more than when I'd begun.
The sky was getting lighter and I had to go home. I started around the corner to my old hotel, but thought better of it. There was a remote chance that Morelli might be there, or return the next day and find out about the guy in the ventilated tuxedo wandering in and asking for a cab. No, that was a very bad idea. I kept walking, moving quickly in hopes of finding some other open business, or better yet, an available cab. No such luck occurred and by now the light was hurting my eyes.
I was anxious enough to make an illegal entry into a closed drugstore on a corner and used their phone to call for transportation. There was still change in my pockets, so I left some on the counter for a pair of their darkest sunglasses and went outside to wait, scanning the street in worried hope. I was tied down to the place now, unable to move until the damn cab arrived.
The gentle gray light from the east was blinding, and I could hardly see him when he did come. Tumbling into the back, I promised him a two-dollar tip if he could get me to my hotel in as many minutes. With that for motivation, he poured on the coal.
When we reached the hotel, he had to follow me up to my room for the money, but I had to stumble down to the lobby again to pick up a key. My door was locked and my normal method of entry would have sent the man screaming into the streets. I was on a friendly basis with the night clerk, though, and that saved a little time. I persuaded him to give the driver the money and to put it on my bill. He did it with a smile, God bless him, gave me a key, and I fled upstairs.
The sun was up now. I was moving through syrup and going blind. I found the keyhole more by luck than anything else and shoved the door shut, sinking to the floor. My head felt ready to explode from the weak reflected sunlight filtering through the window. I crawled to my trunk, but it was locked. I tried to seep inside but couldn't; the light was searing my brain, I could hardly think. Where was the damn trunk key? I groped in the closet, tearing the pockets of my old suit. Wrong guess.
The bureau, I left them in a drawer Crawl over and visit them Middle drawer, under the shirts I groaned with relief as my stiffening fingers brushed them and clutched.
I fumbled forever with the trunk lock and was ready to just break it off when it finally flipped open. I pushed the lid up, forced my legs to straighten, teetered a second, and fell inside. The proximity of my home earth helped, and my arms had just enough flexibility left to pull the lid down again, shutting me safely away from the light.
Then consciousness was whipped away like dust into the wind.
Someone was knocking at my door, but it was too close and loud. It was the trunk lid. Escott was the only one who knew I slept here, so I said come in and it opened a crack. I thought I saw a dim oval floating in a sea of purple sparklers.
"Are you all right, old man?" it asked. "I've been trying to call for an hour."
I shook my head, which made it ache more. I wanted him to go away and let me rest.
"Good Lord, you look like death warmed over. Let me help you out."
I started giggling like a fool and let him pull me up. It seemed that lately all I ever did was let other people haul me to my feet. I felt weak, though, and let him, until I remembered he was still recovering from that knife wound and the strain of lifting me wouldn't be doing the stitches any good. I put a hand on his shoulder for balance, got my legs out of the trunk, and stumbled for the bed, flopping on it. It felt great to stretch out. Something cool and wet was soothed over my forehead, a washcloth. Escott was a mind reader.
"That's an extraordinary goose egg you have there. How in the world did you get it, or are you up to questions yet?"
I tried to open my eyes again, rubbing them clear with the cloth. Purple sparklers still floated around, so I had to locate him from the direction of his voice.
"What's the matter?"
"I got caught by the sunrise, I can't see anything."
Considering the situation, I must have sounded idiotically calm. I felt his fingers propping my lids gently open and heard a match strike. I thought I could see it as it moved from side to side.
"You're tracking light and your pupils are reacting to it."
"Then maybe it's temporary."
"Are you in any pain?"
"Only from the goose egg."
"You have a nasty hole in your shirt," he observed calmly.
"It matches the one in the back."
"You must have had a very interesting evening."
This time I took the opening and told him briefly what happened last night, just leaving out the part about Bobbi and the blackjack game.
"Have things improved?" he asked, meaning my sight.
"A little, I think." But I was only being optimistic and kept involuntarily blinking to clear my eyes.
He waited a moment before cautiously suggesting the Stockyards as a remedy. I'd have to stop being so sensitive about my feeding habits.
"It might help," I agreed. It couldn't hurt.
He was apparently relieved at my reaction. "I'll be happy to guide you, but won't there be a bit of a problem with both of us trying to sneak in?"
"There's so much coming and going, we probably won't be noticed. Are you up to it?"
His voice, at least, sounded stronger. "I've had a good forty-eight hour rest. The stitches are itching and that means they're healing. I've even sent Cal home."
"Okay, if you're sure. Can you help me change?"
He did and somehow got me down the backstairs to his car. I thankfully left the rest up to him. He parked us close in and then put something into my hand.
"What's this?"
"Your dark glasses. They were in the bottom of your trunk. Should we run into anyone they will lend credence to any story I give them about your blindness."
"As long as they don't become a permanent part of the act."
"See here, if any blood will do, wouldn't it be easier if I just found a friendly dog?"
I was shocked. "A dog? I like dogs, I couldn't--"
"It was just a suggestion," he said hastily.
I got out and waited for him. He took my arm and guided me slowly along the sidewalk, down curbs, up curbs, and from the noise and jostling of bodies, past the front gates of the Yards. The cattle stench was very strong now, I could hear them clearly and very close.
"Try to find a place that doesn't look busy," I advised.
He said nothing, plainly thinking me crazy since most of the place was busy all the time. There was a long, soggy walk for us before he finally found a spot that met the requirements.
"Fence," he said. "Shoulder height, wooden, there are several cows on the other side."
He didn't need to tell me, I could sense them. I felt for the fence, then glided right through it.
I guess I should have warned him. He drew a shaky breath. "You could make a fortune haunting houses. That was quite an entrance."
I made no comment, my hands were already reaching out to a warm, shaggy body. I calmed the animal with soft words and felt my way toward its head. I knew just where to go in. If nothing else, my fingers could guide me to the right spot, but I paused and looked back to where he was standing.
"Escott?"
"Yes?" he whispered back.
"Would you mind not watching?"
"Er um not at all, old man." His feet scraped as he turned around.
Maybe he didn't understand why I was so touchy about this, but at least he respected my feelings. I could trust him to stay turned.
The ache in my head subsided quickly. I stood slowly, feeling much stronger. The stuff spread a wonderful warmth all through my body like a slug of smooth liquor, but without the drunken side effects. I took off the cheaters and tried my eyes out. The purple sparklers were fading, and I could just make out Escott's outline above the fence and went over.
"I think I'm okay now."
"Your eyes--"
"They're clearing already."
"They're"
"What?"
"Nothing, I'm glad may we leave?"
Escott clearly did not care for cattle at all. We got back to the car without incident and scraped our shoes off. Things were improved enough that I was able to drive, but Escott was more tired than he wanted to admit and remained quiet. It was fine with me, since I wanted to think.
My first waking hour had been too occupied with trying to recover and all my day time had been spent in total oblivion. I couldn't remember dreaming, perhaps I no longer did.
Physically I was all right, emotionally I was angry. It was still inside me, ready to be directed at Morelli or myself. I could have walked out of the club at any time last night, but stayed and went through the wringer again, hoping to find a memory. Except for the humiliation suffered at allowing another man to hit me when I could have hit back, I wasn't really hurt. Oddly enough, I felt no grudge against Gordy; the man's manner had been so completely neutral through the whole business that I thought of him only as a tool in Morelli's hand. I also remembered the bloody wreck of Sanderson's face. That had held me back, that and not wanting to tip my supernatural hand to them.
There was a kid I knew in the Army whose right hand had been shot clean off. I saw him years later wearing an artificial hand covered with a glove. He'd gotten into the habit of hiding it in his pocket and pretending it wasn't there, and each time you looked at his eyes they stared hard into yours demanding that you pretend as well. There was another kid in the same unit who'd lost a leg from the knee down. I met him again in New York while doing a story for the paper. He was the lead dancer and director of a polka troupe. He, too, was ignoring his injured limb, but in a different way.
My vampirism was just a peculiar condition, like a health problem. If I respected the rules it imposed I'd have less trouble, and that made it more acceptable to my confused brain. There were definite compensations for the rules, though. Otherwise I'd be at the bottom of Lake Michigan, forgotten and unavenged, along with who knows how many others. I'd changed in a greater sense than my grandfather could ever have imagined, but I'd been fighting it. That was why I'd been reluctant to have Escott watch as I fed. Had our positions been reversed I doubt if the thought would have even crossed his mind.
My anger had a direction now.
Morelli thought that kid brother Gerald was dead, and so did all his boys. It was a unique situation, certainly one of which I intended to take full advantage.
"I'm going after Morelli again," I said.
Escott nodded. "I can't think of a more choice subject for you to turn your talents upon. Have you worked out a plan yet?
"Yes. In fact, you inspired it back at the Yards."
"Indeed?"
I explained my idea. With a chuckle he approved and added a few touches of his own. We changed direction to go to his house, picked up some stuff, then went back to my hotel. While I took a bath, he worked on my perforated tuxedo shin.
"I certainly wish I could be around to see his face," he said, blowing lightly on the wet gore to dry it. Gingerly I put the shirt on, doubling my chin to get a good look at my front. A large part of it was covered with what looked like blood, but was actually some very realistic-looking stage stuff Escott had developed himself.
"The trouble with real blood," he said cleaning his paint brush, "is that it dries out, gets sticky, and goes brown, but this will stay nice and fresh looking. Unfortunately, it doesn't wash out, but in this case that hardly matters."
"Nope, the bloodier, the better," I agreed. It was good to be P. N. Brad doing something positive, not to mention sneaky, like a kid out on a college prank.
I had good color again, but Escott opened his makeup case and toned it down, putting circles under my eyes and hollowing out the cheeks.
"At least your face has the right underlying bone structure for this sort of thing. I find nothing more tiresome than trying to thin down a full face."
"That's never been one of my problems." I'd always been on the lean side. "Did you learn all this in the theater?"
"Yes, in Canada. I was apprentice to the makeup artist of a Shakespearean company for three years. I was also props, scenery painter, set builder, and as you know, occasionally played a part. I'm especially fond of character parts. The Soothsayer in Julius Caesar was one of my best roles, though hardly an effective one, considering that Caesar chose to ignore me."
"Got any similar warnings for me?"
"My dear fellow, in all fairness, I should call Mr. Morelli and warn him. He is in for a rough night. There, you don't look quite so bad as Banquo's ghost, but you'll do. It's subtlety we are striving for, after all." He gave me the keys to his car.
"But I couldn't--"
"I insist. Tonight, at least, so that you need not be delayed waiting for a taxi. You can drop me back home again and go on to the club from there."
It made sense and I was very grateful for the loan. As he pointed out, I might have a problem getting a cab driver to take me as a customer the way I was got up now.
"Look, I know you must be tired--"
"Nonsense, it is not doing anything that tires me out."
"Well, I thought if you felt well enough tomorrow you might ask around for a car for me."
"That should be no trouble. I have a friend in the business. New or used?"
I gave him enough money for a good used one. I had no preference of model as long as it was dark in color and fairly anonymous. I drove him to his door and promised to tell him all the details tomorrow, then I turned the nose of the big Nash north and headed for the Nightcrawler.
Parking a block away and out of sight of the club, I carefully locked things up and went down the dark street, trying to look inconspicuous in the bloodied tux. It was damp and quiet; the hard heels on my dress shoes made a lot of noise against the sidewalk, at least to my ears.
Having made a wide circle to avoid the front entrance, I eased into the alley, found it empty, and tiptoed up the concrete steps to listen at the kitchen door. A lot of activity was going on within, but I slipped inside anyway, feeling my invisible way along in the general direction of the twenty-eight-pace-long hall. They'd done me a favor with the blindfold last night, for it was very close to the method of travel I used now. I felt my way to the stairs and ascended, then partially materialized at the top to get my bearings.
The upstairs hall matched the one below, but was longer, running the length of the building. Just to the left and across the hall was a likely-looking door for Morelli's office. The rest of the hall had doors at regular intervals. Some were open with lights inside, and nearby a radio was playing, competing with the orchestra down below in the club.
Things seemed deserted for the moment, so I took the opportunity to check out the area. A partially solid form made it easier and quieter to move and my senses weren't so muffled, though it was almost like swimming in the air. I went to the office first; it was empty and I moved on to other rooms. There were several bedrooms, bathrooms, and a second set of stairs on the far east end. About a dozen of Morelli's boys seemed to be permanent residents, at two to a room. The place was like a hotel. The next door down from the office led to a much larger bedroom, probably Morelli's. I took a good look around, opening drawers and being generally nosy. He had a large tiled bath, a well-filled closet, and a door opening to a slightly smaller bedroom. From the decor and scent I knew it was Bobbi's.
She'd be downstairs, probably in the casino. If she'd been singing, I would have heard her. I wondered if she knew what had happened last night. Morelli might not have told her. It was something to hope for, anyway.
On the ground floor was another hall running roughly through the center of the building at right angles to the first, and it ended in a closed door. The hall served as a buffer zone between the casino and the nightclub. The door gave joint access to the hat-check stand and the casino cashier. I got curious as to where they kept the money they raked in, and went back to Morelli's office.
After a short search, one of the boat paintings on the wall swung out on hinges, revealing a combination-lock safe. I was unfamiliar with such things, but had read a lot of lurid literature about them and seen a few in movies. I'd be able to hear the tumblers clicking into place and for the moment had nothing better to do. The office door was locked, so there'd be enough warning to vanish in case of an interruption.
Playing with the dial was harder than it looked, and about a minute after I started, heavy footfalls were coming in my direction. I pushed the painting back, stood behind the door, and disappeared.
They twisted a key and the doorknob at the same time and three bodies burst into the room, hitting the lights. There was silence for a while as they went over the place. I felt the tug of moving air when they whipped the door away from me.
"He must have got past us," said someone.
"He wouldn't have had time." It was Morelli's voice.
"Then maybe the trip is on the fritz."
They tested it out. I got the idea that the second the painting swung open it set off a signal elsewhere in the building. It was working fine, but Morelli left a man to keep an eye on things while they searched the rest of the place. The other two left. I waited a decent interval until he settled into a chair. From the noises he made he seemed disgusted with guard duty. I quietly materialized before him, and his expression when he looked up was worth a million. I had his complete attention, and that made the rest easy.
"Don't move," I told him.
He didn't.
"I'm not here, you can't see me, you won't remember me. Take a nap."
He folded his arms over the desk blotter, lowered his head, and dozed off. I watched and listened, but he was genuinely asleep. I suddenly shivered all over and stifled a nervous laugh. Had it once been like this for Lament Cranston? Only the Shadow knew I went to the painting, swung it open, and waited.
My man woke up when the door crashed open. I could imagine everyone looking at the painting in vain, since it had been thoughtfully pushed back into place.
"Did you touch it?"
"I never went near it, Slick, honest! I been in this chair the whole time."
Morelli growled and they tested it out again with no better results.
There was a brief argument and in the end a second man was left to keep the first company. I waited long enough to give Morelli time to get downstairs, or wherever it was where he spent his evenings.
The two men were facing each other, one behind the desk, the other in the chair in front. They were quiet, but from the small sounds produced, a deck of cards was in use. The first man had already been primed, hypnotizing the second was just as easy. They both got sent off to Slumberland, and I repeated my act with the painting.
The next armed invasion was more fun. Morelli cross-examined his two stooges, unfairly accusing them of a lot of things, and then kicked them out, electing to remain there himself to do the job right.
It was exactly what I wanted.
I let him settle down. He made some calls on the house phone and then ordered up some coffee and a sandwich from the kitchen. He swept the cards into a pile and dealt out a hand of solitaire. I was behind him, partially materialized, and watched with interest. The hand didn't come out so he cheated until it did. I went away for a moment when his snack came and left him undisturbed as he ate. With what I had in mind, he'd need all his strength.
When he was quiet again, I moved in, covering him like a blanket.
Previous experience informed me that in this form I was on the cold side. He began to shiver almost immediately. I clung around him as he got up and fiddled with something on the wall, probably the air vent. He paced up and down, then got on the phone and made an irritable inquiry on the state of the air-cooling system. We both waited until the return call came that stated everything was working fine. He slammed the phone down and poured another cup of coffee to warm up. I drifted away, coming to rest on the chair I'd occupied last night.
By very slow degrees I became visible, until I was sitting solidly in front of him, staring with blank, wide-open eyes. I thought my initial appearance should be underplayed.
His reaction was quite gratifying.
Perhaps he'd first noticed something just on the edge of his vision as he looked down at the cards, something that didn't belong. The eye automatically tracks movement, but I wasn't moving, only gradually becoming there.
His eyes snapped up and grew until they were as wide as my own. His heart lurched and his breath stuck in his throat, and he stayed that way for nearly a minute, apparently too terrified to look away or even move.
I thought if I said boo (and I was very tempted) he'd go completely to pieces, so I kept still and slowly faded away.
Escott had said that my antics were unnerving. Now I was getting a firsthand look at their effect on the uninitiated.
He was frozen in place for some time, his heart fighting against his rib cage. Cards and cold coffee forgotten, he got up and circled the chair.
As soon as he touched it I blanketed him again to give a brief chill and then pulled away. He jerked back as though he'd been burned instead, and he was backpedaling for the door.
I heard his steps retreating down the hall. While he was out I eased the door shut and locked it. Going to the desk, I gathered all the cards up into a neat pile, which I left in the exact center of the blotter, faceup. The top card was the ace of spades. I opened the hinged picture again, shutting it and vanishing just as the door was unlocked.
He wasn't the first inside; he left that to Gordy, whom I recognized by his sheer bulk. Morelli was upset, but too proud to show it in front of his men, or to explain why he'd called them back so urgently. They went over the room inch by inch, testing the safe out again with negative results. I spent the time wrapped around Morelli to stay out of everyone's way and to wear his nerves down some more. He was gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering.
Then he noticed the cards on the desk.
"Which one of you did that?" he demanded.
They were all innocent and said so. He shut up, probably brooding on the significance of the top card. In the end, he pitched all of them out, except Gordy. The chair went out as well and another was brought in. He left the door open and had Gordy stand in the hall to watch the stairs.
He fidgeted awhile, getting up and patrolling the room, then dropping behind the desk in disgust. He had no further use for the cards and just sat there, fully alert and listening. I decided to fulfill his expectations.
I appeared quite suddenly on the floor, recreating the position I d been in when he saw me dead on the sidewalk last night.
It was a real sensation.
He shot to his feet, sending his chair over with a crash that brought Gordy in just too late to see me.
This time Morelli had him stay in the room.
He ordered up some more coffee and lit a cigar; just the thing for his nerves, as far as I was concerned. I waited patiently.
Gordy's suggestion for a game of pinochle was ignored. Neither man spoke much. Small wonder.
The coffee came and went. Morelli got up and said he'd be back in a minute. After all that liquid and the chills, I knew where he was headed.
He chose to go to the big tiled one in his own room. In his absence, I gently put Gordy to sleep and turned out the room lights. After making sure it was clear, I shut off the hall lights and then waited for Morelli to come out. When he did, he got very cold again. He hesitated in the fan of light from his bedroom, not wanting to venture into the dark hail.
"Gordy?" His voice was not normal, nor very loud. He had to repeat himself several times before Gordy responded. The office light came on.
"Yeah Slick? Why are the lights off?"
"What the hell were you doing sitting in the dark?"
"I dunno, I looked up and they were out."
"Did you put 'em out?"
"No, boss!" He sounded hurt. "Maybe one of the boys is playing a joke."
"Then you go find 'em and tell 'em it ain't funny."
"Sure. Now?"
"Yes, now!"
Gordy trundled off, stopping at the other occupied rooms to talk with the boys. Morelli's teeth were chattering, so I gave him a break and preceded him into the office. He opened a desk drawer and brought something out that clunked heavily when he put it on the desk. It wasn't hard to guess what it was. Well, if it gave him a sense of security, fine. I'd just have to undermine it.
I partially materialized in front of him, my hands reaching out. He blanched, brought the gun up--it was a police .38--and let fly with all six chambers. In this halfway state I felt the bullets tickle through.
They made sensation, but no pain. Nevertheless, I rocked back as though hit, and vanished. The room was full of smoke as his men charged in looking for something to shoot at, and they all asked questions, even the quiet Gordy. Morelli declined to answer and just said the gun went off by accident.
"Six times?"
For a gangster he was a lousy liar. "Shut the hell up and get out!"
They got out.
I hung around until four A.M. By then the club and casino were long closed, and the money counted and locked away behind the picture of the boat. Prior to opening the safe, Morelli had pressed a button under his desk, which I understood deactivated the circuit of the burglar alarm.
At the time, everyone was out of the office while he twirled the combination lock open. No one was there to see me peering over his shoulder and getting all the numbers.
He was feeling better after shooting at me and I'd been quiet for some time, which restored some of his confidence. All the same, he left two men in the office with the door open and strict instructions to keep their eyes in the same condition. Then he went to bed.
Twenty minutes passed, and things were quiet. I put the men to sleep, found the button, and turned off the alarm. It took another quarter hour of twisting the damned dial around before getting the combination right.
I'd been off on the last number and had to experiment. It was frustrating work and bad on my nerves because I had to keep half an ear cocked on the hallway, ready to vanish if I heard someone coming. In retrospect, I'm sure the time spent was pretty good for a complete novice. It certainly was profitable.
I was an honest thief, taking only my fifty-eight hundred bucks in smaller, used bills, though there was considerably more inside. I shut things up again and put the alarm back on. They'd have a fine time trying to figure out how the money got lifted.
I wanted to make a final grand call on Slick before leaving and more than that, look in on Bobbi, but the clock said it was late and I had to allow for car trouble or unexpected delays of some sort on the journey home. Playing it safe, I left, but promised myself and Morelli another performance.
The band was playing a last slow number and I emerged from behind the door marked PRIVATE. Bobbi had gone around by another door and was on the dance floor, floating in the arms of a man who was holding his face close to her gleaming hair. Some guys had all the luck. It might have been Morelli, but I was only guessing.
The tables had lost most of their patrons. One whole section had been roped off and the mop-and-bucket boys were busy cleaning it. I collected my top hat and scarf, giving the girl at the counter enough of a tip to wake her up, and left by the front entrance.
I wondered how much line they were going to give me before hauling me in.
The cool night breeze off the lake felt clean and moist. The place was probably an Arctic hell in winter, but now things were just right. There were still a few hours before dawn. If they planned to try anything, I hoped the night would be long enough to accommodate them. I turned left along the front of the club, walking slowly. Behind, two sets of shoes were keeping pace with mine. I stifled a smile.
Between streetlights I paused and glanced back. One of them was the walking mountain, the other was the guard from the casino door. I tried to not be overly optimistic that they were after me. They could be underpaid enough to just want my newly acquired money. I continued on and turned the corner. There were two more men standing in the way. One of them plucked a toothpick from his mouth and flicked it away. He must have seen that one at the movies.
The guys behind caught up with us and completed the quintet. To make it look right I tried to duck past them for the open street. They were fast and professional and didn't even muss my clothes, but then I was not using my full strength to fight them. With arms held pinned to my sides and the white scarf over my eyes, I was marched quickly back to the club.
Prom the length of the walk and the smell at the end of it, we were going in by the alley entrance. I made some stock verbal protests until one of them shoved my own handkerchief into my mouth. This was done only to shake me up. If I'd really started to yell for help, they'd have been a lot rougher. In silence I was dragged up some steps and over a linoleum floor. From the leftover smell of grease, I guessed it was a kitchen. We trod on wooden floor for twenty-eight paces, then I was stumbling up a flight of stairs. Knuckles rapped on wood and I was shoved forward.
The door shut. I stood on carpeting in a room with two sets of lungs; one right behind me, probably the Mountain and the other about eight feet in front. A light switch clicked, and I felt a gentle warmth on my face.
The scarf was yanked down. The warmth came from a flexible desk lamp whose bulb had been angled to shine right in my eyes. The rest of the room was dark, but it didn't matter; the man trying to hide behind the glare was quite visible to me.
He was medium sized and dark haired, with a pale olive complexion slightly marred by old acne scars on his cheeks. In his young thirties, he had a set of sweet dark eyes that should have been on a woman. He would have been handsome, but his nose was too pinched and he had what looked like a razor cut for a mouth. His stare was intense and I shifted uneasily.
He smiled approval at my reaction.
I checked the room over so as not to look at him. It was a plain working office, but with a nice rug, a couple of paintings of ships, and an expensive desk-and-chair set. On the desk was a phone and blotter, in the corner behind me stood a file cabinet.
There was no other place to sit, though some dimples showed in the rug where chairs had been. He was smart enough to know how well such minor intimidations can undermine a person's confidence. He sat relaxed behind his desk, gave me a good once-over, then raised one finger as a signal to the man behind me. Hands probed, and my wallet, half a pack of cigarettes, and a book of matches were dropped on the desk. He opened the wallet, ignoring the money, and his eyes rested a moment on the little pasteboard card.
"I think you can consider this an emergency," he began. "Would you like us to put you in contact with your brother?"
Figuratively speaking, I could breathe a little easier. I'd worried he wouldn't have accepted me as Gerald. I didn't answer, but squinted at the light as though trying to see past it.
"I heard about you being at Paco's. They said you wanted to trade the list for your brother. I know where he is and I'm willing to deal with you."
It was simply stated and the truth, but I didn't think he was dumb enough to think I was that gullible. He was only feeling me out.
"Are you willing to deal with me?"
"Only if you're Slick Morelli."
He didn't answer except to move his hand slightly. The Mountain came up on one side and buried his knuckles in my stomach. That hurt a little--very little--and I faked the rest, going down on my knees as I had done at Paco's; no imagination, these guys.
"You can call me Mr. Morelli, Junior," he told me. "Now say thank you."
I was pulled to my feet and punched two more times before I got bored with the business and said what he wanted. There was a purpose to it all; get me to give in and obey him once and it would be that much easier for me to give in later about other things. He knew his business.
I'd seen it done in other situations. The faces changed, but the technique remained constant. I let the Mountain hold me up and concentrated on breathing. Under the circumstances, they were both bound to notice if I stopped.
"Now, where is the list?"
Again, I said nothing; my memory had it in a place I could not reach.
They'd killed me over it before, and they'd certainly try again--a difficult job in my present state, but not impossible. I had some control this time, though, and would stall to try and learn more, hoping my contact with them would trigger a memory.
Morelli opened a drawer in the desk, drew out a long black cigar, and fitted it into a silver holder. The skin on my head began crawling in different directions, my left hand twitched, and I fell back a step into the Mountain. He held me firm as Morelli looked up and saw my fear. The reaction had come boiling up without warning, and it was all I could do to stifle the urge to tear away and bolt out the door. He finished lighting the cigar and blew smoke at the ceiling.
"Start talking, Fleming."
A film was over my eyes. I blinked uncontrollably. My hands jerked up to rub them clear.
("Start talking, Fleming.") The Mountain's grip kept me on my feet or I'd be on my knees again.
(The cigar stink filled the little room. Its burning end pivoted from my eyes and pointed down to my left hand. The pain shot up the arm, into the brain, and came clawing out through my clenched teeth. I tried to tear away from it and the binding ropes) The Mountain shook me out of it. My jellied legs found the floor and I stood under my own power, staring at Morelli with hot rage. I wanted badly to let it out, knowing what it would do to his mind; good revenge for my past pain, but it would accomplish nothing. My eyes tracked another cloud of smoke. His leisurely manner reminded me that he had all the time in the world, I only had until sunrise.
"What did you do to Jack Fleming?" I asked. "How did you get him?"
"I ask the questions, Junior." This was punctuated by another punch.
"Did you have Paco shoot him?"
I was on the floor now and felt the distant blow of a shoe in the back of one leg. I made an appropriate noise in response. The Mountain bent down to pick me up. For the first time he spoke, whispering in my ear.
"Tell him what he wants, kid. He won't let me let up."
So he was supposed to be my friend, he had some pity for me. Maybe if I cooperated he'd pull his punches. Bullshit.
"Where is the list?" Morelli pretended he hadn't heard his boy speak.
I was made to stand. Favoring my kicked leg, or appearing to, I shook my head. The Mountain hit again and that's when I overdid my act. It was by accident, or by sheer clumsiness, that my body pitched too far and too fast off balance and my head connected hard with the edge of the desk.
The thing was made out of very solid mahogany.
Lights flashed behind my eyes, there were waves of dizziness, and if I went under they'd think I was dead. They'd sink me in the lake again and this time I might not come up. My eyes fluttered, I felt myself falling, but it was just the Mountain turning me over.
Breathe, keep breathing.
He was watching me closely. I looked back, concentrating on pumping my chest up and down and fighting the pain in my head.
Breathe, breathe until the worst of the shock passes.
"I thought he was gone for a second, but he seems okay, now," said the Mountain.
"Then wake him up." Morelli sounded infinitely put out. "And, Gordy, you be more careful with him this time."
He poured a glass of water I didn't want in my face and I spit it from my nose and mouth like poison. The door opened and a chair was dragged in. They put it under me. Perhaps Gordy the Mountain was getting tired of holding me up.
"Tell him what he wants, kid," he urged.
My head was bowed, I gently checked the sore spot. There was no blood, but it hurt. It hurt far more than Paco's gunshots. I remembered the time and let the sleeve ride up my wrist for a glimpse at my watch. Not good, but better than I expected.
Morelli was still behind his desk, puffing on the cigar. The office was hot despite the air-cooling system, filled with smoke and the stink of sweat. Now I was glad they'd thrown the water; it would give the illusion that I, too, was sweating.
"I'll clue you, Fleming. You talk now, or you are dead meat. We will work you over and you will die. Talk and you will live."
For how long? I wondered.
"Where is the list?"
Same old song. I stalled and let Gordy earn his keep. He was not too creative, but he had a lot of endurance and muscle. He needed it since I kept falling from the chair as part of my act. It was a long and brutal quarter hour before I finally broke. I'd seen it done before in movies, in real life. I gave them the full treatment: sobbing, pleading, anything I could think of, and it was exactly what Morelli wanted to see. He was feeling good now; he'd ground a man down, opened his guts, and not even left his chair.
I slid to the floor and made friends with the carpet, curling up to nurse bruises I didn't feel. It kept my face hidden and my voice muffled. Both were always dead giveaways whenever I tried lying. Between moans and groans I spun them a line of how Jack had passed the list on to his baby brother, but kept the details to the bare minimum; too many and they wouldn't believe it.
"Very good," said Morelli. "But where is it now?"
' 'I took a room at Jack's hotel and waited for him. I figured you'd already been there and wouldn't come back again, and there was a chance Jack would for his stuff."
"Smart, Junior. Keep talking."
"It's at the hotel, hidden in the basement. I'll have to show you where.
You'll never find it otherwise."
They had a lot of trouble swallowing that one, and it took a large chunk of the time I had left to convince them they had to take me along.
My eyes were covered again, but this time they spared me the handkerchief. We went downstairs and waited in the kitchen. A car rolled up and stopped, its engine idling quietly. They opened the door, guided me down the concrete steps, and I was shoved into the backseat. I slumped low as if in bad shape--actually I was worried about the ever-present rearview mirror.
Gordy was on my right and another man was on my left. They each had a hand tightly gripping my wrists, taking no chances on my making a sudden move. Morelli sat in the front with the driver, occasionally giving a direction.
We crossed water once, twice, there were several turns, and we waited in silence for traffic signals. The car finally slowed and parked, the motor still running. The right-hand door opened and Gordy dragged me out. He pulled the scarf down and the first thing I saw was a gun ready in his hand. Next to him was the casino guard, who had a hand inside his coat like a latter-day Napoleon. His body blocked my view of Morelli in the passenger seat. Dead meat or not, he was careful not to let me see his face. It was fine with me, I was sick of it, anyway.
"Go and get it," he said.
The hotel was a block away on the same side of the street. Maybe the night clerk would remember me, but I wasn't planning to test him. I'd only gotten them back to this neighborhood because it made the story I told more plausible. I wanted them nowhere near my present hotel.
As before, they marched along, gripping my arms. I was in luck, for a change. They'd have to pass the entrance of an alley that ran between the hotel and the next building. There was a risk they might catch on to my unusual strength, perhaps they'd put it down to desperation. It wasn't getting any earlier; pretty soon I would be desperate.
We breasted the alley and I shook free, connecting a mild backhand hit in the gunman's stomach and pushing Gordy into some garbage cans. He recovered fast, and was up and after me before I'd gotten halfway down the alley. His friend was catching up as I came to the wood fence blocking the far end. I went over it with an agility that surprised me, landed like a cat, and pounded away, gaining a good lead.
The fence protected a street lined with residential brown-stones, each with steps and railings and deep doorways. There were plenty of places to hide if necessary. I went to the right, wanting to gain more distance before vanishing. That was one trick they didn't need to witness. I was looking for a suitable place to duck when one of them did the unexpected. It must nave been the gunman, Morelli had forgotten to tell him I was needed alive.
What felt like a sledgehammer blow caught me between the shoulder blades. The pain made me forget my aching head for the moment. I was in mid-stride when my body was lifted and thrown off balance by the impact.
I tried to keep my legs under me, but the shock to the system was too much, and they buckled and failed. I rolled hard onto the sidewalk, carried on by impetus until I hitched up against the wheel of a parked car. The two men trotted up and turned me over.
I 'm too much of a joker not to take advantage of such a situation.
Besides, it was a way of getting them off my back. I gave it my best, pulling my hands up to cover what should have been the exit wound and hoping it was too dark for them to see the lack of blood. As they approached, I gasped, twitched convulsively, and slowly let my last breath shudder out in a horrible rattle. I stared at them with glassy eyes. They stared back, then Gordy bent down to feel for a pulse in my throat. He straightened and looked at his buddy, shaking his head.
"You're up shit creek," he pronounced.
I was right about it being the gunman and saw why I hadn't heard the shot; a bulky silencer was fixed to his weapon. It was enough to damp the sound down so the local residents continued to sleep.
A half minute later the car rolled up and Morelli erupted out before it stopped. He glanced once at his men, then glared down at me. I was sorry for not drawing my death scene out long enough to give him a cryptic message to worry about. He whirled on his men. Gordy pointed at the other guy, who had gone all white. Morelli went all purple, the neck tendons coming up as though to break through the skin. His body shook with rage and his breath came in short gulps. He'd gotten one last chance to find his precious list, and this guy had stupidly taken it from him. He snatched the gun away and, using it as a club, laid into him. When he finished, there was another body decorating the sidewalk.
He gave the bloody gun to Gordy and stalked back to the car. Gordy picked up his buddy and followed a minute later.
"What about him?" he asked. They were out of my line of sight, but I could imagine his gesture in my direction.
"Leave him. He's got no wallet, they'll think he was mugged. Leave him."
The car doors slammed and they drove away.
I lay on the sidewalk and counted my blessings. When I stood up and felt my aching head I was in the mood to consider everything else. I was out of the Nightcrawler more or less in one piece and Morelli thought I was dead. On the down side, my new suit was a disaster area, I was missing fifty-eight hundred bucks and I still didn't know much more than when I'd begun.
The sky was getting lighter and I had to go home. I started around the corner to my old hotel, but thought better of it. There was a remote chance that Morelli might be there, or return the next day and find out about the guy in the ventilated tuxedo wandering in and asking for a cab. No, that was a very bad idea. I kept walking, moving quickly in hopes of finding some other open business, or better yet, an available cab. No such luck occurred and by now the light was hurting my eyes.
I was anxious enough to make an illegal entry into a closed drugstore on a corner and used their phone to call for transportation. There was still change in my pockets, so I left some on the counter for a pair of their darkest sunglasses and went outside to wait, scanning the street in worried hope. I was tied down to the place now, unable to move until the damn cab arrived.
The gentle gray light from the east was blinding, and I could hardly see him when he did come. Tumbling into the back, I promised him a two-dollar tip if he could get me to my hotel in as many minutes. With that for motivation, he poured on the coal.
When we reached the hotel, he had to follow me up to my room for the money, but I had to stumble down to the lobby again to pick up a key. My door was locked and my normal method of entry would have sent the man screaming into the streets. I was on a friendly basis with the night clerk, though, and that saved a little time. I persuaded him to give the driver the money and to put it on my bill. He did it with a smile, God bless him, gave me a key, and I fled upstairs.
The sun was up now. I was moving through syrup and going blind. I found the keyhole more by luck than anything else and shoved the door shut, sinking to the floor. My head felt ready to explode from the weak reflected sunlight filtering through the window. I crawled to my trunk, but it was locked. I tried to seep inside but couldn't; the light was searing my brain, I could hardly think. Where was the damn trunk key? I groped in the closet, tearing the pockets of my old suit. Wrong guess.
The bureau, I left them in a drawer Crawl over and visit them Middle drawer, under the shirts I groaned with relief as my stiffening fingers brushed them and clutched.
I fumbled forever with the trunk lock and was ready to just break it off when it finally flipped open. I pushed the lid up, forced my legs to straighten, teetered a second, and fell inside. The proximity of my home earth helped, and my arms had just enough flexibility left to pull the lid down again, shutting me safely away from the light.
Then consciousness was whipped away like dust into the wind.
Someone was knocking at my door, but it was too close and loud. It was the trunk lid. Escott was the only one who knew I slept here, so I said come in and it opened a crack. I thought I saw a dim oval floating in a sea of purple sparklers.
"Are you all right, old man?" it asked. "I've been trying to call for an hour."
I shook my head, which made it ache more. I wanted him to go away and let me rest.
"Good Lord, you look like death warmed over. Let me help you out."
I started giggling like a fool and let him pull me up. It seemed that lately all I ever did was let other people haul me to my feet. I felt weak, though, and let him, until I remembered he was still recovering from that knife wound and the strain of lifting me wouldn't be doing the stitches any good. I put a hand on his shoulder for balance, got my legs out of the trunk, and stumbled for the bed, flopping on it. It felt great to stretch out. Something cool and wet was soothed over my forehead, a washcloth. Escott was a mind reader.
"That's an extraordinary goose egg you have there. How in the world did you get it, or are you up to questions yet?"
I tried to open my eyes again, rubbing them clear with the cloth. Purple sparklers still floated around, so I had to locate him from the direction of his voice.
"What's the matter?"
"I got caught by the sunrise, I can't see anything."
Considering the situation, I must have sounded idiotically calm. I felt his fingers propping my lids gently open and heard a match strike. I thought I could see it as it moved from side to side.
"You're tracking light and your pupils are reacting to it."
"Then maybe it's temporary."
"Are you in any pain?"
"Only from the goose egg."
"You have a nasty hole in your shirt," he observed calmly.
"It matches the one in the back."
"You must have had a very interesting evening."
This time I took the opening and told him briefly what happened last night, just leaving out the part about Bobbi and the blackjack game.
"Have things improved?" he asked, meaning my sight.
"A little, I think." But I was only being optimistic and kept involuntarily blinking to clear my eyes.
He waited a moment before cautiously suggesting the Stockyards as a remedy. I'd have to stop being so sensitive about my feeding habits.
"It might help," I agreed. It couldn't hurt.
He was apparently relieved at my reaction. "I'll be happy to guide you, but won't there be a bit of a problem with both of us trying to sneak in?"
"There's so much coming and going, we probably won't be noticed. Are you up to it?"
His voice, at least, sounded stronger. "I've had a good forty-eight hour rest. The stitches are itching and that means they're healing. I've even sent Cal home."
"Okay, if you're sure. Can you help me change?"
He did and somehow got me down the backstairs to his car. I thankfully left the rest up to him. He parked us close in and then put something into my hand.
"What's this?"
"Your dark glasses. They were in the bottom of your trunk. Should we run into anyone they will lend credence to any story I give them about your blindness."
"As long as they don't become a permanent part of the act."
"See here, if any blood will do, wouldn't it be easier if I just found a friendly dog?"
I was shocked. "A dog? I like dogs, I couldn't--"
"It was just a suggestion," he said hastily.
I got out and waited for him. He took my arm and guided me slowly along the sidewalk, down curbs, up curbs, and from the noise and jostling of bodies, past the front gates of the Yards. The cattle stench was very strong now, I could hear them clearly and very close.
"Try to find a place that doesn't look busy," I advised.
He said nothing, plainly thinking me crazy since most of the place was busy all the time. There was a long, soggy walk for us before he finally found a spot that met the requirements.
"Fence," he said. "Shoulder height, wooden, there are several cows on the other side."
He didn't need to tell me, I could sense them. I felt for the fence, then glided right through it.
I guess I should have warned him. He drew a shaky breath. "You could make a fortune haunting houses. That was quite an entrance."
I made no comment, my hands were already reaching out to a warm, shaggy body. I calmed the animal with soft words and felt my way toward its head. I knew just where to go in. If nothing else, my fingers could guide me to the right spot, but I paused and looked back to where he was standing.
"Escott?"
"Yes?" he whispered back.
"Would you mind not watching?"
"Er um not at all, old man." His feet scraped as he turned around.
Maybe he didn't understand why I was so touchy about this, but at least he respected my feelings. I could trust him to stay turned.
The ache in my head subsided quickly. I stood slowly, feeling much stronger. The stuff spread a wonderful warmth all through my body like a slug of smooth liquor, but without the drunken side effects. I took off the cheaters and tried my eyes out. The purple sparklers were fading, and I could just make out Escott's outline above the fence and went over.
"I think I'm okay now."
"Your eyes--"
"They're clearing already."
"They're"
"What?"
"Nothing, I'm glad may we leave?"
Escott clearly did not care for cattle at all. We got back to the car without incident and scraped our shoes off. Things were improved enough that I was able to drive, but Escott was more tired than he wanted to admit and remained quiet. It was fine with me, since I wanted to think.
My first waking hour had been too occupied with trying to recover and all my day time had been spent in total oblivion. I couldn't remember dreaming, perhaps I no longer did.
Physically I was all right, emotionally I was angry. It was still inside me, ready to be directed at Morelli or myself. I could have walked out of the club at any time last night, but stayed and went through the wringer again, hoping to find a memory. Except for the humiliation suffered at allowing another man to hit me when I could have hit back, I wasn't really hurt. Oddly enough, I felt no grudge against Gordy; the man's manner had been so completely neutral through the whole business that I thought of him only as a tool in Morelli's hand. I also remembered the bloody wreck of Sanderson's face. That had held me back, that and not wanting to tip my supernatural hand to them.
There was a kid I knew in the Army whose right hand had been shot clean off. I saw him years later wearing an artificial hand covered with a glove. He'd gotten into the habit of hiding it in his pocket and pretending it wasn't there, and each time you looked at his eyes they stared hard into yours demanding that you pretend as well. There was another kid in the same unit who'd lost a leg from the knee down. I met him again in New York while doing a story for the paper. He was the lead dancer and director of a polka troupe. He, too, was ignoring his injured limb, but in a different way.
My vampirism was just a peculiar condition, like a health problem. If I respected the rules it imposed I'd have less trouble, and that made it more acceptable to my confused brain. There were definite compensations for the rules, though. Otherwise I'd be at the bottom of Lake Michigan, forgotten and unavenged, along with who knows how many others. I'd changed in a greater sense than my grandfather could ever have imagined, but I'd been fighting it. That was why I'd been reluctant to have Escott watch as I fed. Had our positions been reversed I doubt if the thought would have even crossed his mind.
My anger had a direction now.
Morelli thought that kid brother Gerald was dead, and so did all his boys. It was a unique situation, certainly one of which I intended to take full advantage.
"I'm going after Morelli again," I said.
Escott nodded. "I can't think of a more choice subject for you to turn your talents upon. Have you worked out a plan yet?
"Yes. In fact, you inspired it back at the Yards."
"Indeed?"
I explained my idea. With a chuckle he approved and added a few touches of his own. We changed direction to go to his house, picked up some stuff, then went back to my hotel. While I took a bath, he worked on my perforated tuxedo shin.
"I certainly wish I could be around to see his face," he said, blowing lightly on the wet gore to dry it. Gingerly I put the shirt on, doubling my chin to get a good look at my front. A large part of it was covered with what looked like blood, but was actually some very realistic-looking stage stuff Escott had developed himself.
"The trouble with real blood," he said cleaning his paint brush, "is that it dries out, gets sticky, and goes brown, but this will stay nice and fresh looking. Unfortunately, it doesn't wash out, but in this case that hardly matters."
"Nope, the bloodier, the better," I agreed. It was good to be P. N. Brad doing something positive, not to mention sneaky, like a kid out on a college prank.
I had good color again, but Escott opened his makeup case and toned it down, putting circles under my eyes and hollowing out the cheeks.
"At least your face has the right underlying bone structure for this sort of thing. I find nothing more tiresome than trying to thin down a full face."
"That's never been one of my problems." I'd always been on the lean side. "Did you learn all this in the theater?"
"Yes, in Canada. I was apprentice to the makeup artist of a Shakespearean company for three years. I was also props, scenery painter, set builder, and as you know, occasionally played a part. I'm especially fond of character parts. The Soothsayer in Julius Caesar was one of my best roles, though hardly an effective one, considering that Caesar chose to ignore me."
"Got any similar warnings for me?"
"My dear fellow, in all fairness, I should call Mr. Morelli and warn him. He is in for a rough night. There, you don't look quite so bad as Banquo's ghost, but you'll do. It's subtlety we are striving for, after all." He gave me the keys to his car.
"But I couldn't--"
"I insist. Tonight, at least, so that you need not be delayed waiting for a taxi. You can drop me back home again and go on to the club from there."
It made sense and I was very grateful for the loan. As he pointed out, I might have a problem getting a cab driver to take me as a customer the way I was got up now.
"Look, I know you must be tired--"
"Nonsense, it is not doing anything that tires me out."
"Well, I thought if you felt well enough tomorrow you might ask around for a car for me."
"That should be no trouble. I have a friend in the business. New or used?"
I gave him enough money for a good used one. I had no preference of model as long as it was dark in color and fairly anonymous. I drove him to his door and promised to tell him all the details tomorrow, then I turned the nose of the big Nash north and headed for the Nightcrawler.
Parking a block away and out of sight of the club, I carefully locked things up and went down the dark street, trying to look inconspicuous in the bloodied tux. It was damp and quiet; the hard heels on my dress shoes made a lot of noise against the sidewalk, at least to my ears.
Having made a wide circle to avoid the front entrance, I eased into the alley, found it empty, and tiptoed up the concrete steps to listen at the kitchen door. A lot of activity was going on within, but I slipped inside anyway, feeling my invisible way along in the general direction of the twenty-eight-pace-long hall. They'd done me a favor with the blindfold last night, for it was very close to the method of travel I used now. I felt my way to the stairs and ascended, then partially materialized at the top to get my bearings.
The upstairs hall matched the one below, but was longer, running the length of the building. Just to the left and across the hall was a likely-looking door for Morelli's office. The rest of the hall had doors at regular intervals. Some were open with lights inside, and nearby a radio was playing, competing with the orchestra down below in the club.
Things seemed deserted for the moment, so I took the opportunity to check out the area. A partially solid form made it easier and quieter to move and my senses weren't so muffled, though it was almost like swimming in the air. I went to the office first; it was empty and I moved on to other rooms. There were several bedrooms, bathrooms, and a second set of stairs on the far east end. About a dozen of Morelli's boys seemed to be permanent residents, at two to a room. The place was like a hotel. The next door down from the office led to a much larger bedroom, probably Morelli's. I took a good look around, opening drawers and being generally nosy. He had a large tiled bath, a well-filled closet, and a door opening to a slightly smaller bedroom. From the decor and scent I knew it was Bobbi's.
She'd be downstairs, probably in the casino. If she'd been singing, I would have heard her. I wondered if she knew what had happened last night. Morelli might not have told her. It was something to hope for, anyway.
On the ground floor was another hall running roughly through the center of the building at right angles to the first, and it ended in a closed door. The hall served as a buffer zone between the casino and the nightclub. The door gave joint access to the hat-check stand and the casino cashier. I got curious as to where they kept the money they raked in, and went back to Morelli's office.
After a short search, one of the boat paintings on the wall swung out on hinges, revealing a combination-lock safe. I was unfamiliar with such things, but had read a lot of lurid literature about them and seen a few in movies. I'd be able to hear the tumblers clicking into place and for the moment had nothing better to do. The office door was locked, so there'd be enough warning to vanish in case of an interruption.
Playing with the dial was harder than it looked, and about a minute after I started, heavy footfalls were coming in my direction. I pushed the painting back, stood behind the door, and disappeared.
They twisted a key and the doorknob at the same time and three bodies burst into the room, hitting the lights. There was silence for a while as they went over the place. I felt the tug of moving air when they whipped the door away from me.
"He must have got past us," said someone.
"He wouldn't have had time." It was Morelli's voice.
"Then maybe the trip is on the fritz."
They tested it out. I got the idea that the second the painting swung open it set off a signal elsewhere in the building. It was working fine, but Morelli left a man to keep an eye on things while they searched the rest of the place. The other two left. I waited a decent interval until he settled into a chair. From the noises he made he seemed disgusted with guard duty. I quietly materialized before him, and his expression when he looked up was worth a million. I had his complete attention, and that made the rest easy.
"Don't move," I told him.
He didn't.
"I'm not here, you can't see me, you won't remember me. Take a nap."
He folded his arms over the desk blotter, lowered his head, and dozed off. I watched and listened, but he was genuinely asleep. I suddenly shivered all over and stifled a nervous laugh. Had it once been like this for Lament Cranston? Only the Shadow knew I went to the painting, swung it open, and waited.
My man woke up when the door crashed open. I could imagine everyone looking at the painting in vain, since it had been thoughtfully pushed back into place.
"Did you touch it?"
"I never went near it, Slick, honest! I been in this chair the whole time."
Morelli growled and they tested it out again with no better results.
There was a brief argument and in the end a second man was left to keep the first company. I waited long enough to give Morelli time to get downstairs, or wherever it was where he spent his evenings.
The two men were facing each other, one behind the desk, the other in the chair in front. They were quiet, but from the small sounds produced, a deck of cards was in use. The first man had already been primed, hypnotizing the second was just as easy. They both got sent off to Slumberland, and I repeated my act with the painting.
The next armed invasion was more fun. Morelli cross-examined his two stooges, unfairly accusing them of a lot of things, and then kicked them out, electing to remain there himself to do the job right.
It was exactly what I wanted.
I let him settle down. He made some calls on the house phone and then ordered up some coffee and a sandwich from the kitchen. He swept the cards into a pile and dealt out a hand of solitaire. I was behind him, partially materialized, and watched with interest. The hand didn't come out so he cheated until it did. I went away for a moment when his snack came and left him undisturbed as he ate. With what I had in mind, he'd need all his strength.
When he was quiet again, I moved in, covering him like a blanket.
Previous experience informed me that in this form I was on the cold side. He began to shiver almost immediately. I clung around him as he got up and fiddled with something on the wall, probably the air vent. He paced up and down, then got on the phone and made an irritable inquiry on the state of the air-cooling system. We both waited until the return call came that stated everything was working fine. He slammed the phone down and poured another cup of coffee to warm up. I drifted away, coming to rest on the chair I'd occupied last night.
By very slow degrees I became visible, until I was sitting solidly in front of him, staring with blank, wide-open eyes. I thought my initial appearance should be underplayed.
His reaction was quite gratifying.
Perhaps he'd first noticed something just on the edge of his vision as he looked down at the cards, something that didn't belong. The eye automatically tracks movement, but I wasn't moving, only gradually becoming there.
His eyes snapped up and grew until they were as wide as my own. His heart lurched and his breath stuck in his throat, and he stayed that way for nearly a minute, apparently too terrified to look away or even move.
I thought if I said boo (and I was very tempted) he'd go completely to pieces, so I kept still and slowly faded away.
Escott had said that my antics were unnerving. Now I was getting a firsthand look at their effect on the uninitiated.
He was frozen in place for some time, his heart fighting against his rib cage. Cards and cold coffee forgotten, he got up and circled the chair.
As soon as he touched it I blanketed him again to give a brief chill and then pulled away. He jerked back as though he'd been burned instead, and he was backpedaling for the door.
I heard his steps retreating down the hall. While he was out I eased the door shut and locked it. Going to the desk, I gathered all the cards up into a neat pile, which I left in the exact center of the blotter, faceup. The top card was the ace of spades. I opened the hinged picture again, shutting it and vanishing just as the door was unlocked.
He wasn't the first inside; he left that to Gordy, whom I recognized by his sheer bulk. Morelli was upset, but too proud to show it in front of his men, or to explain why he'd called them back so urgently. They went over the room inch by inch, testing the safe out again with negative results. I spent the time wrapped around Morelli to stay out of everyone's way and to wear his nerves down some more. He was gritting his teeth to keep them from chattering.
Then he noticed the cards on the desk.
"Which one of you did that?" he demanded.
They were all innocent and said so. He shut up, probably brooding on the significance of the top card. In the end, he pitched all of them out, except Gordy. The chair went out as well and another was brought in. He left the door open and had Gordy stand in the hall to watch the stairs.
He fidgeted awhile, getting up and patrolling the room, then dropping behind the desk in disgust. He had no further use for the cards and just sat there, fully alert and listening. I decided to fulfill his expectations.
I appeared quite suddenly on the floor, recreating the position I d been in when he saw me dead on the sidewalk last night.
It was a real sensation.
He shot to his feet, sending his chair over with a crash that brought Gordy in just too late to see me.
This time Morelli had him stay in the room.
He ordered up some more coffee and lit a cigar; just the thing for his nerves, as far as I was concerned. I waited patiently.
Gordy's suggestion for a game of pinochle was ignored. Neither man spoke much. Small wonder.
The coffee came and went. Morelli got up and said he'd be back in a minute. After all that liquid and the chills, I knew where he was headed.
He chose to go to the big tiled one in his own room. In his absence, I gently put Gordy to sleep and turned out the room lights. After making sure it was clear, I shut off the hall lights and then waited for Morelli to come out. When he did, he got very cold again. He hesitated in the fan of light from his bedroom, not wanting to venture into the dark hail.
"Gordy?" His voice was not normal, nor very loud. He had to repeat himself several times before Gordy responded. The office light came on.
"Yeah Slick? Why are the lights off?"
"What the hell were you doing sitting in the dark?"
"I dunno, I looked up and they were out."
"Did you put 'em out?"
"No, boss!" He sounded hurt. "Maybe one of the boys is playing a joke."
"Then you go find 'em and tell 'em it ain't funny."
"Sure. Now?"
"Yes, now!"
Gordy trundled off, stopping at the other occupied rooms to talk with the boys. Morelli's teeth were chattering, so I gave him a break and preceded him into the office. He opened a desk drawer and brought something out that clunked heavily when he put it on the desk. It wasn't hard to guess what it was. Well, if it gave him a sense of security, fine. I'd just have to undermine it.
I partially materialized in front of him, my hands reaching out. He blanched, brought the gun up--it was a police .38--and let fly with all six chambers. In this halfway state I felt the bullets tickle through.
They made sensation, but no pain. Nevertheless, I rocked back as though hit, and vanished. The room was full of smoke as his men charged in looking for something to shoot at, and they all asked questions, even the quiet Gordy. Morelli declined to answer and just said the gun went off by accident.
"Six times?"
For a gangster he was a lousy liar. "Shut the hell up and get out!"
They got out.
I hung around until four A.M. By then the club and casino were long closed, and the money counted and locked away behind the picture of the boat. Prior to opening the safe, Morelli had pressed a button under his desk, which I understood deactivated the circuit of the burglar alarm.
At the time, everyone was out of the office while he twirled the combination lock open. No one was there to see me peering over his shoulder and getting all the numbers.
He was feeling better after shooting at me and I'd been quiet for some time, which restored some of his confidence. All the same, he left two men in the office with the door open and strict instructions to keep their eyes in the same condition. Then he went to bed.
Twenty minutes passed, and things were quiet. I put the men to sleep, found the button, and turned off the alarm. It took another quarter hour of twisting the damned dial around before getting the combination right.
I'd been off on the last number and had to experiment. It was frustrating work and bad on my nerves because I had to keep half an ear cocked on the hallway, ready to vanish if I heard someone coming. In retrospect, I'm sure the time spent was pretty good for a complete novice. It certainly was profitable.
I was an honest thief, taking only my fifty-eight hundred bucks in smaller, used bills, though there was considerably more inside. I shut things up again and put the alarm back on. They'd have a fine time trying to figure out how the money got lifted.
I wanted to make a final grand call on Slick before leaving and more than that, look in on Bobbi, but the clock said it was late and I had to allow for car trouble or unexpected delays of some sort on the journey home. Playing it safe, I left, but promised myself and Morelli another performance.
