Cold Streets

Chapter 11

ESCOTT scraped a match to life. His expression was several miles past sardonic. Apparently this wasn't the first time the lights had failed.
"Now see what you did?" said Bobbi. "You hurt her feelings." A candle stood ready in an ashtray on one of the machines. She handed it to Escott, who obligingly lighted it. "I thought you liked Myrna."
"I do! But that couldn't be-"
"Shh! Don't you dare say another word."
"Charles?"
He blew out the match, dropping it next to the candle, and lifted his palm to my desperate appeal for sanity. "Believe or not as you wish, but the recording cannot lie. All we can do is try to correctly interpret what is on it. We've listened to it over and over. The voice is not a randomly picked up radio signal. No one else-
corporeally speaking-was in the room with you, nor was anyone nearby performing ventriloquism or shouting up the heating pipes. The voice on this record was specifically reacting to what you were doing, ergo its originator was...
well, I'm not sure 'watching' is the correct word. The originator was certainly aware of your actions."
"Couldn't it just be some kind of crazy static or an echo? Some scratches on the record?"
They shook their heads in unison.
"But it's not all that clear."
"Clear enough," said Bobbi. "I thought you'd be happy about this."
"Happy?"
"For proof of Myrna being here."
"We get proof every time she plays with the lights! Doesn't mean I wanna-"
"Jack," Escott said evenly. "Before you get yourself in worse trouble with our resident revenant, I strongly suggest you shut the hell up."
I suddenly noticed the room was on the chilly side. For me to pick up on that meant it had to be freezing. However, neither Bobbi or Escott commented on the temperature drop. No sign of goose bumps or shivering showed from them. This must be how it felt when I invisibly clung to a some hapless person. I used to think it was funny.
Bobbi addressed the air above her head. "He'll come around, Myrna. He's just tired and upset about some other stuff that happened tonight. Don't take it personal."
We waited, but the lights didn't return.
"I wanna go home," I said. "It's late. Even for me. And that means really late."
Bobbi gave a sympathetic smile. "You're right. You sleep on it, then we'll listen again tomorrow and see what you think."
I didn't want to think about anything for the next few weeks, much less tomorrow, not about Dugan, Bristow, and in particular Myrna the ghost. To tell the truth, she scared me more than the other two and all their friends and cousins combined. Until now she'd been interesting, amusing, but safe. Now she had a voice and an opinion.
"Best to lock the recording away," said Escott after a moment. "We've a full day ahead."
Bobbi brought out a flat cardboard box. She carefully lifted the record from the turntable and slipped it inside a paper sleeve, then into the box. "Open your safe, would you, Jack?"
That woke me up a little from my nonthinking, but not by much; it took longer than usual to twirl through the combination.
"There's just enough room if you move that stuff over."
I shoved tonight's money envelope and receipts out of the way. For a fleeting moment I considered making the bank run on our way out. Nah. It could wait.
Bobbi slid the box into the safe at an angle. I returned the money and clanged the door shut, spinning the combination, then locking its "desk drawer" facade into place. That had been what Dugan tried picking open with his burgling tools.
Those were safely separated from him, hidden in a closet in the Glad well house.
But I was determined not to think about him or anything else until tomorrow night at sunset.
And maybe not even then.
Not that I remembered sleeping, but I did feel better upon waking.
It had been one hell of a long night, and chances were the day had been the same. I'd prepared for it, bathing and shaving before retiring to my sanctuary, dressed except for my coat. That I'd hung over the back of one of the chairs in the kitchen a couple of yards above. I didn't want to go to bed with it on, not so much to spare it from wrinkles but from imagining that I'd look too much like a dead guy laid out ready for his casket. Why else would you lie down fully dressed in your best clothes? Of course, no one was around to see, but I just didn't like the idea of it.
Escott was at the kitchen table, pot of coffee before him along with an egg nestled in an egg cup. He had the top third of the shell off and scowled mightily at the innards.
"I timed it," he said, not looking up at my appearance out of thin air. "I bought a special timer in order to get it right. I got the water to a rolling boil, and I watched it like a hawk for the correct length of time. So why in God's name did the bloody thing come out overcooked?"
He didn't really want an answer, not that I had one. I'd given up trying to learn the mysteries of cooking back in my college days. My gut feeling was the egg had been on the small side, but this wasn't a discussion I wanted to get into.
"Did Bobbi call? Did you see Gordy? How is he?"
"Yes she did, and no we didn't. He's about the same as he was last night, which is no worse, so we'll have to take that as being in his favor." Escott gouged his spoon into his hard-boiled snack and left the handle sticking up like a flag planted by a mountain climber. "I talked with Shoe, and he passed on that Dr.
Clarson was cautiously optimistic. So far there is no sign of either wound going septic, and Gordy has been awake-briefly-and cogent. He's very weak and in pain. The soporific he gets for it keeps him asleep most of the time, which is likely for the best. Gordy's not to be moved. No visitors for now. Only Strome and Miss Taylor."
"I'm going to need Strome along with me tonight."
"I made that known to the gentleman. He had no comment."
"He talks even less than Gordy."
"Which says much about him."
"Eat your egg. What is that? A really late breakfast?"
He worked the spoon back and forth and mined a crumbling mouthful. "More or less. I stole a couple hours of sleep this morning, then went to see Mrs.
Gladwell and her subterranean guest."
"How's that going?"
He chuckled. "Extremely well."
"What happened?"
"Around six this morning Gilbert Dugan woke from the clout you gave him and raised the most unholy row if one can trust the butler's and chauffeur's recountings. Apparently our intellectually superior gentleman went quite shriekingly berserk once he realized his predicament. Ten minutes or so of this tired him to exhaustion. He's loud but no stamina. This upset Vivi-Mrs. Gladwell, but-"
"Oh, jeez, Charles. Drop the front and call her Vivian. I know you like her."
"Oh." His ears went red, and he didn't do anything but eat his egg for the next minute. "Well. Then." When nothing remained of the egg but the shell, he put the spoon down and poured himself some coffee.
"Vivian was upset?" I prompted. God, some nights he was so damned English.
"Yes. She's had something of a sheltered life, and to hear that sort of unvarnished panic and rage coming from a grown man in such close physical proximity was quite frightening. But she held out. When it concerns the welfare of her daughter, she's adamantine."
That was a relief. Neither of us wanted her caving in.
"I was there when she went down to tell him the terms of his imprisonment. He got very foul with her, which we took to mean that he understood everything perfectly. He demanded to see first you, then me. I took care not to announce my presence, thinking he'd talk more freely. She said we were away on business and would be gone for an indefinite period. She said it in such a way that he'd know it to be false. He then complained piteously about the tightness of his bonds. She explained to him that they had to be snug because of the padding. If he tore that out, the manacles would still fit, only with more chafing from the rough edges. She warned him against that, being unable to guarantee the cleanliness of the metal. If he cut himself, he might get a case of lockjaw and die."
"Would he?"
"I really don't know. I only bought the things. I didn't inquire if they'd been sterilized."
"Where did you buy them?"
"From a blacksmith."
"He just had manacles lying around?"
"Yes. Along with horseshoes for the local farriers, he makes props for the stage, which is how I came to know him. He also runs a lucrative under -the-counter business for gentlemen with certain eclectic tastes that I shan't go into."
Fine, I'd ask more about the subject later.
"I stayed until luncheon, and heard how the butler and chauffeur dealt with their charge. They worked out a method so they need not ever step into the room to deliver his meals and pick up the remains."
"What's that?"
"The butler found a coal shovel, the broad, flat kind. He cleaned it off and now puts the plates on it and pushes it only just within Dugan's reach. He's able to pull the plates off with his fingertips."
"Sounds good. But what if he makes a grab for the shovel?"
"They tied a very stout rope to the hand grip on the end. If by some mischance he should get hold of it, he would be in a tug of war against the chauffeur and the gardener, who are fit specimens. They gave me the impression they'd enjoy seeing him make the attempt."
"I hope they don't test it."
"Oh, no, they appreciate that the point of all this is to get Dugan's confession.
There will be no larking about."
"Any sign of a confession coming?"
"Not for now. But this is only the first day."
A little disappointing but not unexpected. I'd hoped Dugan would crack right away, saving us all a load of trouble. Well, you can't have everything. Sooner or later he'd break. The packed heaviness, the ringing silence of those thick concrete walls would work away at him, along with not seeing any sky. I'd talked with guys who had been in solitary, and it left them scarred inside. They'd been in far worse conditions than Dugan, but the principles were the same. Isolation, silence, and nothing to do. I sometimes felt a hint of it myself while waiting for the dawn to render me unconscious.
"He'll capitulate. Eventually." Escott put his coffee cup in the sink, then cleared away the eggshell and wiped the table. He didn't know much cooking but could keep things hospital clean. "The last time I spoke with Vivian, he was in a sulk. His evening meal's to be a curry. The flavor should disguise the taste of the sleeping pills the cook is to mix into his portion. With what's going into his sweet pudding, he should sleep the night through with no incident. I wonder how he'll manage without eating utensils?"
"He say anything useful?"
"No, but he did try to warn the house that you were a mortal danger to them."
"What?" My nape hair went up. We'd discussed the possibility Dugan might play that card. I didn't think he'd show it so soon.
"Not to worry. As soon as he worked up to revealing that you were a blood-drinking vampire, it only confirmed to all of them that he was a raving lunatic. If you are worried that any might take him seriously, then I'm sure one of your little
'talks' will sort things to your satisfaction."
It seemed that an awful lot of people, myself included, were taking my acquired talent too much for granted. I was glad to have it, though. "Heard anything from Brockhurst?"
"No, but I've not been to the club or my own office today. I thought he wasn't due until nine."
"Yeah, I'm just nerved up."
"It's far too early in the evening for you to start that. While I'm thinking of it, I should call my answering service. There must be a perfect avalanche of messages piled up from the last few days. Also, Miss Taylor passed on a list of things she wanted from her flat, and Miss Smythe promised to have them ready at the club when we got there. I rather think she will insist on delivering them herself on the chance she can persuade the doctor to allow her at least a look through the door.
One cannot blame her."
Hell, I wanted a look for myself. "Anything from Strome?"
"Shoe didn't mention him."
"I gotta talk to him, find out what's been going on with Bristow, if anything."
"Of course. My answering service can wait a bit longer."
I dialed a private upstairs number for the Shoe Box, Cold-field's nightclub, and interrupted his supper. He had no news of Gordy showing much improvement.
"Doc says he's holding his own. Best he can do is keep on resting," he told me. "That Miss Taylor's been watching him close. Hasn't budged since you brought him in."
"Is Strome still there?"
A heavy sigh that was more than half growl. "Yeah. Like a blister. Sure can tell he hates where he is. I think he's scared shitless, but putting up a show like he's not."
"What's scaring him?"
"Miles and miles of brown skin." Coldfield chuckled. "I think he's afraid it'll rub off. Isham hasn't helped much."
"What's he done?"
"Nothing serious. Just made sure Strome got a big plate of fried chicken three times today, along with some collard greens and such. Lord knows where he found those. If he could have located a watermelon this time of year, he'd have cut the guy a big, smile-shaped slice."
"He's not treating Adelle the-"
"Oh, hell, no. Isham's got better manners than that, but if someone's got a goat to get, he can't resist the challenge. That lady's so wound up about Gordy she's not touched any food at all."
That decided me about bringing Bobbi along. She'd be able to make Adelle take care of herself. "I'm coming by soon.
Have to pick Strome up for some work tonight. You hear anything about Bristow today?"
"Nothing. I've got my people keeping their eyes open, made some calls, and I know Strome's done the same. Bristow's yanked the hole in after him."
"If he's still in town. I'll be at Clarson's in an hour or so."
"Pull around back."
"No problem."
Escott followed in his own car as I drove to Lady Crymsyn, parking next to my spot in the lot. No rain tonight. A few puddles lingered in low spots of the paving, gradually shrinking in the cold wind. I gave myself a mental kick in the pants. If I'd just checked things more carefully last night...
What had I expected to see? A shooter standing up, gun extended like a duelist? That he'd have an arrow-shaped neon light blinking over his head saying,
"Look here"? I should have-
"Jack?" Escott paused on his way to the front.
"Yeah, coming."
Bobbi must have seen us arrive; she unlocked the door. Sober clothes and a somber face, a brief smile for my kiss hello. Before she could ask, I relayed Shoe's latest report on Gordy.
"I'll take you over to see him," I promised. "Adelle's going to need a break, but I was hoping you could fill in for her here tonight."
"I thought of that already. If you get me back in time, I can do it, but I'm warning you I'm in no mood for singing. I talked to Roland and told him we had an emergency. He said he and Adelle could start their weekend show early. We can call it a sneak preview or something."
"You're a genius." I kissed her forehead. "Charles will manage the place tonight."
"Does it require doing that announcement?" he asked. "Introducing them and such?"
"Yeah."
"I'll want some lines to say."
"What?"
"Lines. To speak."
"You're an actor, make something up." I moved toward the stairs.
"Actor, yes, writer, no."
I stopped moving toward the stairs. "But you're used to being onstage."
"Indeed I am, but I always had lines. Usually written by Shakespeare."
"You don't have lines when you're in disguise and working a case."
"That's quite different. I'm pretending to be someone else."
This was making my head hurt, and I hadn't hypnotized anyone. Yet.
Bobbi waved one hand in my direction. "Oh, Charles. It's easy. Just pretend to be Jack."
He rounded on her, looking relieved. "What an excellent idea. Thank you."
"Pretend to be-now just a damn min-"
"No problem. I took your place in the window last night. Felt like a turkey in a shooting galley, I tell ya." His precise English accent was gone, replaced by... I don't know what. It sure as hell wasn't me.
"I sound like that? You're nuts!"
"Brother, it's close enough." He shoved his hands in his pockets, parked his duff against a wall, and crossed one foot over the other. Bobbi giggled.
"Oh, for God's sake, I'll write you something to say, just don't expect any Shakespeare. And don't go putting on my new white tux."
"Ya sure? I'd look pretty snazzy."
"Yeah-yeah. Now stop doing that." Jeez, it was creepy.
He straightened into his normal posture. "Very well."
Red-faced, Bobbi snickered all the way up to the office.
She'd recovered by the time I set the brake behind Clarson's building. The alley was barely wider than the car and full of potholes deep enough to make me anxious about breaking an axle, but we were hidden from the street. The hour was still early, and people were out despite the wind. It sliced through my overcoat, an icy, arctic knife with a serrated blade. Bobbi visibly shook and made brr sounds as we climbed outside stairs to the second floor, and she still had some shaking left even after we got inside.
"Anything this cold should be illegal," she muttered.
Clarson had opened the door for us and smiled. "I got a gas fire in my office if you need warming up."
"Thanks, Doctor." I said. "How are you?"
"Thawed and ready for the oven. How 'bout yourself?"
"Worried about Gordy."
"There's no change. No talking, but you can see him if you don't mind wearing a sterile mask."
Neither of us minded. I put down the small suitcase that belonged to Adelle and unbuttoned my coat. Bobbi also kept hers on but removed her gloves, hat, and a thick wool scarf.
Clarson gave us each a white square of gauze with thin ties dangling from the corners. We knotted them into place, and he took us along the hall to a different room from his improvised operating theater. This one was furnished with a high, hospital-style bed, all white enamel and crank handles. Gordy's unmoving form dwarfed it.
He was almost as white as the bed and lay completely inert. It hurt to see him like that. He seemed flattened. Frail. Like he wasn't Gordy anymore. I could still smell blood, tainted by the miasma of a sickroom. Despite the cold, I wanted to open the window wide and flush the place clear. Gordy's head and shoulders were partially obscured by an oxygen tent made out of thick cellophane. Maybe it insulated him from the smell.
Strome was in a chair by the door. He wore a mask, too, making his face even more expressionless.
Adelle rose from a cushioned chair next to the bed. She rushed toward Bobbi, arms out. They clung to each other, and Adelle sobbed a few times, and in a soft, controlled voice Bobbi told her everything would be all right. She told her that a lot until Adelle was able to pull away, wiping her eyes with a very crumpled handkerchief. She looked like she'd been holding in a lot of tears. Her sterile mask was askew after that. She tugged it back into place and motioned for us to retreat back to the hall.
"Bobbi brought your stuff," I said, lifting the suitcase.
"Thank you." Her normal throaty tone sounded rusted and clogged, as though she hadn't done much in the way of talking lately. "It's been awful, but everyone's been so kind."
Bobbi put an arm around her. "C'mon, honey, let's get you patched back together. Wash your face and change. Put on some makeup, or Gordy won't know you."
"I can't do the show."
"Forget the show, it's covered. You got more important things on your mind."
She got the case from me, and Clarson led them away. Adelle evidently needed to talk, and Bobbi was a good listener. They'd be busy a while. I went back to the room and signed for Strome to join me in the hall.
"How's it been?"
He pulled the mask down so it bunched under his long chin. "Goddamn dinge-town."
I was in no mood for crap. "Shut up about that and stick to business."
He subsided, and without any whammy work from me. "I made calls.
Lowery's made calls. The boys are running all over town. Word came. Bristow says he didn't do it, but he has to say that."
"Who'd he say it to?"
"He called New York; they called the Nightcrawler. Boys there said that Gordy's alive and kicking, but New York wanna talk to him. Some of the boys here believe that, some think he's dead, the others are itchy, wondering which way to jump. We got a meeting like you want. Seven."
My watch read ten after six. "At Gordy's office?"
"Yeah. They ain't gonna like it if he don't show."
"I'll take care of them."
He grunted.
"Problem?"
"You ain't Gordy. It ain't me; it'll be them."
"I'll take care of them. You back me like you said last night, and you do it one hundred percent, or Bristow will be the last man you ever see. A mug like him moves into a new spot, he always gets rid of the old lieutenants."
He nodded. "I know how it works. You just don't get too cozy, yourself."
"Trust me, I'm the only man in this burg who doesn't want the job."
Strome nodded, eyes dead, like he'd heard that one before.
Bobbi elected to stay and be moral support for Adelle. She was just phoning the club to tell Escott as Strome and I made our way down to the alley. Isham came up the stairs, a grease-splotched bag in his hand. I smelled fried food on the freezing air.
"Don't you want no supper, Mist' Strome?" Isham drawled innocently. "Do you a pow'ful heap o' good to keep yo' strenth up, thas a fact."
"Knock it off," I muttered out the side of my mouth, but I couldn't avoid smirking. Isham winked once at me and leaned against the building so we could pass. "Shoe coming over?"
"Later on." His Southern accent had instantly dried up. "Doesn't want to draw notice here, y'know?"
"Make sure he calls Escott at my club, you keep them both posted about the patient."
"You got it."
Strome held silent all the way back to the Nightcrawler Club, which was quite a drive. The side streets were clogged with cars, the larger thoroughfares had even more cars, plus the traffic signals-all against me-horse-drawn wagons, and suicidal pedestrians. We arrived ten minutes late, but that's what I'd calculated as the perfect time. Late stragglers would be there, and the others would have worked into a grumbling restlessness, wondering when the hell things would start.
We went in by the back way again, this alley in far better repair, up a short flight of concrete loading dock stairs to a busy, steam-filled kitchen. Lately Gordy had been offering steaks and the trimmings on a very short, limited menu, but it seemed to be going over well. All he needed was one man out front as a food shill.
His job was to sit in a central spot and be served up a slab of meat wider than my hand to tempt a dozen other patrons to do the same. It always smelled good, which accounted for most of the orders.
The profit margin was enormous since Gordy had a deal going with a meat-packer union boss. The boss got into the club whenever he wanted, no cover, no paying for shows, as many guests as he chose to bring along, and the first round of drinks free. His meals were free, too, and in return, Gordy got an unlimited supply of beef without having to pay.
Sweet stuff, and I could get in on it, but I didn't want the bother of a kitchen at my place just yet, if ever. Cooked food smells were nauseating to me. My customers would just have to make do at the diner down the street for the time being.
Through the kitchen, a hall, the back stairs. The band out front boomed away on a frantic number. It was still a little early in the evening to force that kind of speed-up on the dance floor. I had to remind myself this wasn't my club; I was just here to keep the muscle in line, not interfere with the show talent.
The upper landing, then left to Gordy's office. Its door was wide open, and a dozen guys were outside, watching my progress. Lots of hats and eyes and grim expressions. I knew many by now, all of them by sight and was on amicable terms with most, which didn't mean anything. In the rackets a guy could be your lifelong best friend but still order you killed or even do the killing if it was deemed necessary. The unpredictable Dion O'Banion was executed in his own flower shop while shaking hands with a guy, the hit approved by two of his closest bootlegging partners, Johnny Torrio and Al Capone. Business was business.
This bunch looked worried and watchful. Once I went inside, I got why. At least another dozen boys were waiting, and none of them were my best friends and never would be. They either had a gripe against me or we'd traded fists at one time or they didn't like my looks or resented that I got special treatment from their boss. Despite the high-tone suits and dapper hats, it looked like a convention of junkyard dogs, even the handsome ones. I couldn't hear any actually snarling, but you could feel it strong in the air like the hum a radio gives warming up with the sound on full.
It was much as I'd anticipated.
I crossed the room, Strome a good three steps behind. So much for backing me. If anyone took a shot, he was in the best position to see... and duck from the line of fire.
Lowrey and a man named Derner sat at Gordy's desk; he was one of the more sensible lieutenants. I might be able to rely on him, but he'd go along with the majority. He was speaking into the phone, his gaze on me.
"He just walked in," he said. The room was quiet enough so everyone heard.
Derner held the earpiece out. "It's New York. They wanna talk to you."
"I wanna talk to them, but in a minute."
"But-"
"In a minute."
Derner pulled his sagging jaw back into place, hastily mumbled into the mouthpiece, and hung up. He vacated Gordy's chair and got out of my way, but I had no intention of sitting there. Nearly thirty guys so tough you could ice skate on them were just looking for me to get stupid. Leaving that chair empty for the time being sent them a message about my intent but also left things open for misinterpretation. Instead of showing respect for Gordy, they might think I didn't have the guts to sit in his place. Those were the ones I had to watch for, and they all seemed to be in the front circle.
Lowrey glanced at Strome, then me. "Who's watching the boss?"
"A friend. He's in safe hands."
"Whose?"
"Wise up." There was no way I'd let that information drop here with all these ears. For all I knew, Bristow could have already recruited half of them with promises of better pay and positions when he took over. Which wouldn't happen if I could help it.
I parked my duff on the edge of the desk, recalling that Escott had adopted a similar posture. Just how close had he been to imitating me? I kept my hands out of my pockets, though; it spoiled the lines of the suit, which were very smooth.
Whoever had eyes to see would know I wasn't packing anything more lethal than a handkerchief and loose change. Strome told me to carry heat, and I did have a gun. I had a couple of guns, picked up here and there on various cases with Escott, but left home or locked in my office safe. These guys wouldn't be impressed by firepower. It was too common, too easily used, too easily betrayed.
On the other hand, they'd take me for an idiot, going unarmed.
"Here's the deal," I said, loud so the boys in the back didn't have to work to listen. "Gordy's been plugged, but he's all right. He told me to keep things running until he gets back."
"How do we know that?"
"Because Bristow ain't standing here, and most of you are still breathing. If Bristow gets in, he will clean house. Those two go hand in hand."
"If Gordy's all right, why don't he call?" This from a big guy named Ruzzo. He wasn't the one to worry about, that would be his younger brother, also big. They were both called Ruzzo by everyone, with no additional name to distinguish one from the other; one man, two bodies, and two bad tempers if they thought anyone was shorting them on money or deference.
"I didn't ask why," I said. "That's how he wants it."
"He's dead," said Ruzzo the younger, "Like I thought."
"Like I thought," echoed his brother.
Fair fighting was for the boxing ring, and sometimes not then. With no warning and moving faster than they could think-not difficult-I darted from the desk, gut-punching once each, left, right. Not quite hard enough to rupture internal organs, but folding them down. Neither would be moving right away. I strolled back to the desk, shooting my cuffs.
Several of the guys blinked and maybe remembered why Gordy gave me special consideration, even though I wasn't on the payroll.
"Gordy says I'm in charge til he returns. If you're wondering about changes, I'm not making any. Everyone keeps doing what they do same as usual. Any problem with that?"
A gaunt man two steps from me pulled his gun from a shoulder holster with the same casual movement as lighting a cigarette. He was a heartbeat from shooting, but I slapped my hand over his, forcing it down, squeezing hard to break fingers.
He got a fist in the jaw with my other hand and dropped. I plucked the gun free of his lax grip and, very purposefully, gave it to Strome. A message to him, too. He met my gaze steady for an instant. He was unreadable but didn't try shooting me, despite the offered opportunity. Whether it was because he knew better than to try or was genuinely supporting me, I couldn't tell. He shoved the gun into his belt.
"Everything runs the same," I continued, "except for you guys who are going to find me Ignance Bristow. He's the one who did the shooting or arranged to have it done. He was only supposed to talk Gordy into handing over the business.
It didn't happen. Now I wanna talk to him. After I'm done, Gordy's gonna want to talk to him."
"He won't let us bring him in," someone said.
"You don't have to bring. You just find. Find him and tell me where he is. I'll take it from there. Make damn sure you're right, 'cause I don't have time to waste on no goose chases. When you're sure, you call here."
"We get paid extra for this?"
"Extra? Okay, who's the wiseass?"
General laughter. Not a lot, but a good sign.
"This ain't a hit, this is hide-and-seek. But-the guy who finds Bristow gets a grand as a bonus. You can buy your girlfriend something nice and something nicer for the wife so she don't mind you being out late."
Another laugh.
I pointed to the men on the floor. "Get these mugs outta here and set 'em straight. If you got work to do, go do it. The rest of you spread out and look for Bristow. Find him tonight, and I'll put another grand on top of the first."
"That's just for locating him? We don't do nothin' else?"
"Easy money," I said.
They all seemed to agree; I never saw a room clear so fast without a lunch whistle sounding first. They left behind the Ruzzos and the gaunt gunslinger. At a look from me, Strome called a few guys over for cleaning duty, dragging the bodies out.
The phone rang.
"That'll be New York again," said Derner.
"Who am I talking to at the other end?"
"Guy called Kroun."
I thought I'd heard of him. Gordy talked about lots of people, lots of names.
"Who's he?"
"The fella who sent Bristow here."
Great.