Cold Streets

Chapter 4

"Was he drunk?" Escott asked.
"No. I'd have smelled it on him. Sensed it in other ways. He went out just like the others." Or so it had seemed.
Damned few people were immune to my kind of hypnosis. Drunks were difficult, but I could eventually get through the booze by either taking it slow or just waiting for them to sober up. With crazy people, waiting didn't work. They tended to stay crazy and not go under at all. Their minds were somehow resistant to my will, and it showed. But not this time with Dugan. He'd played me and played good.
"So the guy is nuts?" What a perfect pip. Loony bin cases I didn't like one little bit, too unpredictable.
"He's moneyed and probably unbalanced," said Escott. "I'm quite terribly shocked. No, I take it back; I'm bloody tired. Been at it all day. The Gladwell estate is under siege by the press. Mrs. Gladwell has hired bodyguards to keep out the riffraff. Some of the more vicious members of the populace are accusing the poor woman of staging the kidnapping herself, either as a means to get rid of a mentally defective child-"
"Oh, good God."
"Or as a publicity stunt. Of course, they're vague over exactly what it is she wishes to have publicized. It's sickening."
"This changes things."
"Indeed. There is a serious likelihood that a clever lawyer could get Dugan free."
"No," I said decisively. "I'm not going to let that happen. How can it happen with the other members of the gang talking their heads off?"
"They're seen as lying about his part in the crime to make things easier for themselves. If they implicate Dugan, perhaps they will have shorter sentences to serve. They all have records for various offenses. Dugan's is clean-officially-so with-"
"Officially? What's he not done, then?"
"Interesting chap. Took me a bit of digging, but I found a few choice items in his far past to consider. When Hurley Gilbert Dugan was ten, there was an incident involving the death of a governess. She was found in her room with the gas on, but nothing was proven one way or another. It could have been murder, suicide, or an accident, but after that, he was packed off to a boarding school. In the time he was there, another student died of an apparent fall down some stairs. Dugan was removed soon afterwards, taken home again, and taught by private tutors.
That was years past, though. I found nothing of further interest unless you want to count deaths in the family, which seem to be legitimate heart failures and disease."
"What was he, a one-man crime wave?"
Escott shook his head and sipped his drink. "One should not leap to conclusions. Though they are suspicious, neither of the episodes are necessarily connected to him. I've witnessed stranger examples of coincidence in action."
I was less ready to give Dugan the benefit of a doubt. He'd not actually discouraged Ralph from his intent to rape Sarah- only called it disgusting. He and the rest had been industriously preparing to dump her in that pit afterwards, dead or alive.
"Look, if he's got money, what's he doing pulling a kidnap job?"
"The very point he's raised time and again to the press: that he has no motive.
He's stood on the front entry to his venerable family mansion, grandly pointing out to the photographers that a man in such a home has no need of mon-"
"He's not in jail?"
"His lawyer managed to get him out after posting bond. I'm told the show before the judge was most convincing. At least the other three are where they belong."
"Not good enough."
Escott finished his drink, hanging onto the empty glass, running one long finger around the top the way you do on crystal to get it to sing. This one remained silent. "With Dugan's lack of reaction to your intervention, he likely is insane but able to behave normally most of the time. We've both met that type before."
"Have you talked to him?"
"Only to my friend on the inside, who was present during an initial interview session. She described him as being 'very charming' for what that's worth, but sensed there was something 'off' about him that she couldn't describe."
"What was she doing there?"
"Taking stenography notes for the district attorney's office.
With my direct connection to the victim in this case, the lady could lose her post for merely wishing me good evening in the street. It's extremely unethical, a jeopardy to the DA's case, but this young fellow put the wind up her, so when I telephoned, hoping for a hint or two of how things were progressing, she fairly gushed."
"She owe you a favor or just like you a lot?"
He lifted one hand from the glass in a demurring manner. "Bit of both, as well as her interest in seeing Dugan put away. She's not above bending rules in a good cause and knows I can keep a confidence."
"My lip's buttoned, too."
"Never crossed my mind to worry about you."
"What did Dugan do for a living before he took up crime?"
"Very little. His uncle's family has something to do with ball -bearing manufacture. It mostly runs itself under a board of directors, so Dugan devoted himself to educational pursuits."
"Smart?"
"Graduated with honors from the University of Chicago. A business degree of some sort, quite in keeping with his class."
"Any mention what he does in that free time when he's not kidnapping girls?"
"You'll hate this: charity events. Before her demise last year he would squire his aging mother to such things."
"Doesn't support him being very isolated."
"No, but it does give him a point of connection to Sarah Gladwell. She and her mother often attended the same affairs. I've not yet been able to establish a similar connection between him and his tarnished companions in crime. I should like to know how they met."
I went over my memory of Dugan from last night: knocking him cold, shoving him in the car, bringing him around, finally hypnotizing him. He'd been the last in line for his turn, no special reason. He was older than the others, in his young thirties, which had struck me as odd. Most people that age were more or less settled into routines established years earlier. He'd had a pale, good-looking face, mouth quirked in a kind of secret smile. It was his natural expression, his lips shaped that way, not fading even when I had him under. Usually people go all dead-eyed and slack-jawed. His eyes had glazed during his turn, but it's easy enough to fake. Could he have wakened sooner than the others, have heard things, been quick enough to understand what I was doing? If so, then that made him far too smart for my peace of mind.
I flipped through the newspapers. Their pages had photos of the gang, Vinzer, Ralph, and Ponti, the bearded scruffiness of their mug shots in stark contrast to a handsome society portrait of Dugan. Also included were pictures of him escorting his sweet-faced, white-haired mother to past charity events, evidently plucked from the papers' archives. He looked very benign indeed.
Several papers had sent photographers out to the small house in Indiana to get shots of the kidnappers' country retreat. Captions for the scene of the crime pointed to significant sites like the bed where young Sarah had lain and the partly destroyed outhouse. I'd stopped the cleanup before it had begun; hopefully there were still plenty of Dugan's fingerprints to be found there.
I looked at Escott. "Does Dugan have a story on where he spent the last two weeks?"
"He claims he was a prisoner to the other three, too fearful of his life to chance trying to escape."
"Bullshit. He was in a car right behind Vinzer and Ralph the whole trip back to the house."
"Pity you can't testify to that."
I grunted agreement, skimming the papers. The articles varied wildly on angles.
Though all were anti-kidnapping, very few were anti-Dugan; the rest annoyed me.
Were they that impressed by his wealth? Understandable in these hard times, but hardly rational. A couple of the more thoughtful ones reported on and speculated thoroughly about the mysterious Good Samaritan who had foiled the plot. They called for him to come forward with his testimony. I would have loved to oblige them, with or without their offered reward. It was hefty enough to attract plenty of phonies. They'd all have to get through the coming dog-and-pony show without my help.
"Bored rich guy," I stated, shaking my head at the follies of the world. "Maybe he's trying to top Leopold and Loeb by getting away with it, skipping jail altogether." That was a lot of conclusion-jumping, but it nettled that the guy might have put one over on me. I wanted him to live down to those conclusions. "He didn't need the money, so the kidnapping might have been an experiment to him, a thrill crime to see if he could do it."
"He very nearly did, if not for your intervention."
"He still could. I won't let that happen."
"Jack... it would be best to deal with this before it ever goes to court."
"I'll try the evil eye again, really press things. See if I can make it last long enough for him to sign a confession."
That snagged me a doubtful look. "If you think it worth the effort."
The idea behind the confessions was to wholly eliminate the need for a jury trial. The kidnappers were supposed to admit their crime, tell the judge to throw the book at them, and bring the mess to a swift end. But it promised that Dugan and his family would fight and fight dirty, and with enough money thrown around, even this serious a charge could be dodged.
Thinking of Sarah Gladwell on the witness stand turned my guts. A halfway good lawyer could make mincemeat of any sixteen-year-old, but one with Sarah's mental state had no chance at all. He could play up the fact that she'd been drugged, was too feebleminded to be believed, or make it look like she'd been in on the crime herself as a prank, not knowing any better. The star witness against Dugan and the rest would get pity or sympathy but no justice.
"It'll be worth the effort," I said. "Let's call it eliminating a possibility. I was tired last night. The work I did on the other guys gave me a headache. Maybe I was punchy by the time it was Dugan's turn, took things for granted, got sloppy with the work. I'll give it another try, see what happens."
"And if it doesn't work?"
I didn't want to think about that. Escott apparently read it in my face. We went quiet for a while, not the comfortable kind. I cleared my throat and stood. "Well, I got a saloon to run. Why don't you come over? See the show, blow away the cobwebs. Bobbi would love to see you again. She thinks I'm a big hero on this case; you can tell her different."
He shrugged, not saying one way or another, frowning at his empty glass.
The phone rang again. I answered it. Another reporter who'd bluffed his way in. Jeez, when I'd been one, I had no idea how irritating we could be. "Wanna do an interview?" I called toward the front room.
Escott barked a short laugh. "I've left for London. A flying visit to see a certain Lady Crymsyn."
I told the man Escott was off crime-busting illegal pinochle games in Timbuktu and hung up.
As the evening settled firmly on the city, lights kindled bright in the houses and stores, making me feel less alone in my head. People and cars clogged the streets.
It would be hours before they thinned out and finally emptied, and by then my club would be hopping, a second home to other night people.
We took my Buick to Lady Crymsyn, arriving an hour earlier than necessary.
After parking in my slot, we walked a short block to a diner where I bought Escott a decent meal, keeping him company. The smell of cooked food tended to inspire nausea in me, but the only way I could be sure he'd eat was to watch him. I was hungry myself, but that feeding would have to wait. To look normal, I ordered a cup of coffee, stirring a spoon in it whenever the waitress passed by.
Once Escott started on his plate he didn't stop, packing the stuff away like a starved miner. The last couple weeks had left him gaunt; I encouraged him to a second dessert. I did the talking, avoiding the subject of Dugan, keeping strictly to business about the club. This included a lengthy mention of Roland, Adelle, the exotic Faustine, and the so-far-unaware Gordy.
"Bobbi said to keep my nose out of it," I told Escott. "And I know she's right, but I don't like the potential for trouble."
"Then you'd best retire to a very distant and deserted island. Any patch of earth on this planet with people on it has that potential."
"Screwy world. Why can't we be more sensible?"
"I'm sure the Almighty has been asking that very question for several ages now.
We are creatures of spirit and body, both in frequent conflict for supremacy, when we should seek a balance between the two."
"Where'd that come from?" I'd never heard such ideas from him before.
"Mrs. Gladwell and I had some rather remarkable conversations about many things, including certain forms of philosophy. I tried to get her to talk to pass the time and keep her mind from dwelling too morbidly on the fate of her daughter. It seemed to help her bear up under the burden."
"How's she doing now?"
"Oh, worlds better with young Sarah back."
"Is she all right? Those drugs they gave her..."
"The doctor is optimistic about a complete recovery. Fortunately, she remembers little of her ordeal, though the poor child has had nightmares. They moved her bed into her mother's room for the time being. She feels safer there. I dare say Vivi-Mrs. Gladwell is also the better for it. She never lets Sarah from her sight. There's a nurse with her at all times. Mrs. Gladwell is taking great pains to keep the troubles of the outside world distanced from the household, the best thing for them. She's remarkably perceptive. And erudite. Some people have libraries for show, but she's read hers. All of it. Quite an achievement with that many volumes."
I made noises like I was interested and got another earful about Mrs.
Gladwell's virtues. Escott was impressed with her mind, which was a rarity.
Usually a woman's looks first hooked him, then if she had some kind of artistic talent like singing or acting. He had a mile-wide streak of frustrated creativity with no time to indulge it because of the demands of his agency, but he liked talking shop. A woman who appealed to him on an intellectual level was a rarity. There were brainy women all over, but those who crossed his path in business never hung around long enough for anything to happen.
He seemed more relaxed and less exhausted when we strolled to the club, and I unlocked the front. The staff was already at work; Wilton had let them in by the back door, and Myrna was there, of course. The lobby bar light didn't go out, but it did flare inexplicably brighter for a few seconds.
"Hello, Myrna," I said, looking toward the bar. I never saw anything, but it was a general point of focus.
"That's damned unnerving," said Escott.
"You used to say that about me."
"Only when you abruptly appeared out of thin air. She's not appeared at all."
"Would you be happy if she did?"
"I doubt it. Have you thought of hiring a ghost-breaker?"
Before I could reply, all the lights in the place went out, and I mean all of them.
Only a little street glow filtered in from the red, diamond-shaped windows high above, plenty for me to use, but no one else. Startled exclamations came from the staff in the main room. I shot a sour look at Escott that he couldn't see, so I put it in my tone of voice. "That ain't gonna happen. Myrna stays."
He shifted. "Jack, have you just vanished?"
"No. Why?"
"Because I'm bloody freezing all of a sudden."
I addressed the general air, which had gone strangely cold. "Take it easy, Myrna, he didn't mean it. You're welcome here for as long as you want."
"I'm very sorry, Miss Myrna," he added, sounding humble.
"That was unconscionably rude of me. I apologize."
It was hard not to laugh. I held it in and waited. Eventually, the lobby bar light came on. None of the others, though.
"It seems there are good reasons not to speak ill of the dead." Escott had gone bone white, and I could hear his heart thumping. What I had come to take for granted had left him seriously shaken.
"Mr. Fleming? Is that you?" Wilton came out of the main room, his flashlight beam bouncing as he walked. "What happened?"
"Mr. Escott just has a misplaced sense of humor."
"Huh?"
"You know where the switchbox is?"
"Yeah. Reebie's down there now. Good thing you got these everyplace or we'd be breaking our legs." He lifted the flash. It had only been prudent to keep several scattered throughout the joint; all the bars had at least two, and every fire extinguisher had one next to it mounted on a clip.
The lights came on again. Escott remained pale and chagrined. "I think I should like a short walk," he announced. "Work off this chill."
"Chill?" said Wilton. "It must be thirty degrees outside."
"Thirty-four. Should warm me up nicely. Back in a tick." He turned on his heel and all but bolted out the doors.
"What's with him?"
I shrugged and took off my coat and hat. "Let's open."
Wilton followed me upstairs for the register cash, then left me to wrestle with last night's paperwork. It didn't take long; out of pure self-defense against being shown up too often by my bookkeeper, I'd bought an automatic calculating machine, which speeded things. Escott said I'd lose the ability to add sums on my own, but I wasn't overly bothered. Anything just so the books balanced, and more often than not they did. With a warm feeling of triumph, I wrapped the cash, clipped the checks together, and sealed both in a heavy envelope. There was a bank with a night-deposit box only a block distant. When I had a spare moment, I'd walk over. I never worried about thieves, though Wilton had other thoughts.
"One of these days you're gonna get clobbered, Mr. Fleming," he'd say. "Take your car and one of the guys along."
"I'll be fine. This way only one man gets clobbered." The would-be thief if he was dumb enough to tangle with me.
As I slipped the envelope into the desk safe and locked it, heels clacked purposefully upstairs. Her color high from the cold, Bobbi burst through my office door, wrapped tight in her fur-trimmed coat, a funny kind of hat slouching all over her blond head. Her arms were full of the latest papers, which she plopped before me. She came around my desk for a kiss and hug hello, then pointed to the newsprint.
"Have you read those? What they're saying about the kidnap case?"
"Charles did. Gave me the lowdown."
"It's infuriating! Doesn't anyone remember the Lindbergh baby?"
"Apparently not today. Why don't you write a letter to the paper?" I held up the worst of the stack. Its headline proved muckraking was still alive and kicking, high circulation being the owner's golden calf.
"I should have dinner with the editor of that rag, then hit him in the face with the main course. Gordy knows him; maybe he can get him to write sense. What is this world coming to? How did this happen? I thought the gang were all going to confess."
I gave her a short version of what Escott and I had speculated about Dugan's hypnotic resistance throwing a really big left-handed monkey wrench into the works.
Bobbi paced up and down the office, picking her gloves off with short, jerky movements. "If that Dugan gets away with it-"
"He won't. I promise."
A pause in her course. "Really?"
"Scout's honor, spit in his eye."
That pleased her, and a lot of the tension went out of her body. "Good. I'm glad there's someone around like you who can fix messes like this."
"Just the few that sock me in the face. Charles came over tonight, but took a walk. When he gets back, would you keep him company? He can use cheering up."
"I'd do that anyway." She opened the liquor cabinet by the windows, poured a small liqueur into a shot glass, and sipped delicately from it. "How is he?"
"Tired and antsy. Myrna spooked him." I told her what happened earlier.
Bobbi thought that funny but was sympathetic. "How is it he can room with you but have problems with a ghost?"
"Ask him sometime. I've wondered that myself." When she came close enough to my chair, I pulled her onto my lap. She finished her drink, putting the glass on the desk, and draped her arms around my shoulders. Very chummy we were.
"You smell good."
"I should, I pay plenty for it."
But what I wanted was under her perfume. Intense hunger plucked at me on several levels. I forced it off to the side. "Did you talk to Adelle?"
"Not yet. No opportunity today, and I'm not going to bother her with this before her show."
"How about after?"
"If and when the time's right."
Her voice that told me I should back off and let her figure it out. No problem.
"How did things go with Roland and Faustine?"
The after-lunch meeting with Roland Lambert had been on time and was all business, which impressed her. Completely professional herself, Bobbi looked for it in others and respected the ones who came through. "We're set up for the weekend. The band has copies of their dance music, and I've got ads placed in tomorrow's paper announcing them."
"Remind me to put you on the payroll."
"Already am." True. She was on the clock like the rest whenever she came in to help.
"Then I should give you a raise."
She squirmed on my lap. "Feels like you've given yourself one already."
"Oh, no, that's your fault." I kissed the inside of her wrist, lips lingering on the pulse point, eyes closed to better listen to her heart. Its dark rhythm was inspiring in all kinds of ways.
"Hey, you're not giving me any chance to seduce you."
I pulled back, more than ready to cooperate. "A woman with ideas. I like it."
She moved off me, going to the windows. The curtains were open, as were the blinds. The glass was an inch thick, layered with wire mesh. It distorted the view of the outside a little, but after an incident last summer involving a grenade being lobbed through, I didn't mind the warping. Bobbi let the blinds down.
"I thought you were the exhibitionist type," I said.
"Only when the audience is blocks away, not just across the street." She shut and locked the door. "I wanted you to see my new dress."
"Sure." I looked forward to getting her out of it.
Coat flung off, she did a turn. "Isn't this just the cutest thing?"
Her new favorite movie-which we'd gone to see three times now-was Snow White, and the dress was covered with colorful pictures of all the film's characters. I'd never seen anything like it: cockeyed, but on her, terrific.
"They had it in brown silk with the prints, but I thought the white background worked better. You don't think it's too springtime?"
"On you it's good for any season." She did look cute. "Now I get the hat."
"You noticed? It's called a Bashful hat."
It did resemble the hood things the dwarves wore. "You, my dear, are anything but bashful. C'mere."
"I should eat an apple first so you can wake me from the spell."
"We only have lemons on hand, but if you want I can go find-"
"Nah, stay here with me. It's cold outside."
She came over and pressed me into the chair. It was the plain, straight-backed kind with no arms. Bobbi hiked her new dress up and straddled me where I sat.
God, I loved it when she got new clothes.
She had on a slip and a garter belt to hold up her stockings, but nothing else underneath; any encumbrance between us came from my side of things, but she was already helping to loosen my pants. We'd discovered that making love while still partially dressed was very arousing for us. Once in a while I wondered why, but not to the point of trying to figure it out. It worked, and that's what really mattered.
With some shifting, we got my pants shoved down; the activity, along with quick, anxious kisses stolen in between, proved to be more than inspiring. She laughed softly, eyes bright and wicked, and eased onto me, going slow now. Her position put her throat at just the right level for more kissing. She had a thin silk scarf wrapped there to hide the marks I'd left from past encounters. I unwound it and held her steady as she rocked against me, taking her time. My corner teeth were out, but it was better when I waited. Not long, though, the way she was riding, her moves speeding up, her breath deepening for that final release.
She didn't have to tell me when. I sensed it, felt it, pulled her close, and seized it. She covered her mouth to muffle her cry, then went still, panting a little, her whole focus on what was happening to her body as I supped on her blood. It filled me, completed me. I had a different set of sensations, no less euphoric, and gave myself up to them for an unguessable time.
Bobbi gradually slumped. Worn out from the pleasure, I lazily thought. The liqueur she'd drunk imparted a unique taste to her blood, and I relished its rarity. It went to my head, as though I was slugging it back straight from the bottle. Filtered through her body, taken from a living human vein, there was nothing else quite like it.
But she wasn't dozing. Something was wrong. I made myself wake from my own ecstatic trance and stopped what I was doing. Her head lolled, eyes shut.
Ob, damn.
My heart swooping with near panic, I got us untangled and carried her over to the couch. She was completely limp, passed out. Blood seeped from the wounds I made. Too much? I didn't know. I pressed my handkerchief against them and said her name.
"C'mon, honey, don't do this. Bobbi?"
She was a long, long, awful minute coming around. In that time I got the office liquor cabinet open, grabbed a bottle, and returned to kneel next to her. My fingers trembled as I smeared brandy over her lips, touched a few drops to her tongue.
She moved a little, making a face.
"That's it, sweetheart. Come back. Wake up."
"Mm?" She tried to move her head away.
"It's all right, you're all right." Please, God I hoped so. "Just stay put, and you'll be fine."
Her eyelids fluttered but didn't come all the way open. She looked sluggish and puzzled. "What... ?"
I caught up her hands. They were icy. "I'm sorry."
"Why? What's going on?"
"I took too much from you. Made you pass out."
"Oh, don't be silly." But she saw I was serious and tried to sit up. "Jack, it's nothing, don't make a big fuss."
She wasn't in the mood to listen, so I stood and put my clothes into order again, needing the distraction. My hands shook so hard I could hardly tuck in my shirttail.
"I'm fine, Jack. Really I am."
Impossible to look her in the face. "I could have killed you."
A pause. "No, you wouldn't."
She didn't understand. Once with another woman I'd come close to going over the edge by taking things too far. I'd been so lost, was so drunk with the feeling of it that I very nearly-
Bobbi didn't know about that. She never would. "Look, it got out of hand. I should have gone to the Yards last night. It keeps my hunger in check, keeps me safe with you."
"Safe? What the hell are you talking about? I'm perfectly fine. I just passed out from it is all, I've done it before."
"Not like this."
"Jack, it's nothing to go crazy over. Will you settle down? Please?"
I sat on the couch next to her, staring at the floor. "I think you should have a doctor check you tomorrow."
An exasperated sigh. She reached for my hand and held tight. "What's going on?"
"I just had the bejesus scared out of me. Scared to death I'd hurt you."
" Well, I'm not hurt."
I resolved to never forgo future trips to the Stockyards to feed. Even if things were as she said, I would never allow the risk to recur. No more complacence.
She moved closer and held me.
I grabbed her back as hard as I dared. "God, if anything happened to you, I'd lose my mind."
"I know," she whispered. "But the bad old days are gone. Nothing's going to happen to either of us. The bad stuff's over now. I'm fine. What we were doing was completely wonderful and just overwhelmed me is all, and let me tell you, I love it. So stop being afraid."
Fear was a good healthy thing to have, so long as it didn't paralyze me. It was my changed nature that was so terrifying; no escape from that. If I respected the rules and kept my head, she'd be safe. If not, then I had no business being with her. Animal blood fed me, but human blood held so much more: nourishment, intoxication, addiction, the potential for obsession. Give in to it, and the woman I loved would die.
"Hey." She gently tapped my nose. "Wake up; you're too quiet."
"Fear and guilt," I said. "They'll talk to me all night if I let them. They make a hell of a team."
"There's no room for them in this league. Tell 'em to take a hike."
Her hazel eyes could see more inside me than I ever could. They saw all of it, accepted, loved. She made me want to be a better man, made it feel like I'd already gotten there. "Do you know how much I love you?"
"Yeah." A smile, a little crooked, warm as heaven. "I do."
About half an hour later, I was in the lobby, trying to get back to business as usual by glad-handing the first customers coming in. The normality of it helped push my fear away, but not too very far. I wanted to atone, apologize, grovel, whatever it took to make it up to Bobbi. Except she didn't want any of that. All right. I'd play it how she wanted, but I would be more careful. Before I touched her again, I'd go to the Stockyards and take care of my deadly appetite.
It was still only a weeknight; I wore a dark suit, not a tuxedo, but Bobbi said I looked flashy as a new car. Mirrors being useless to me, I relied on her judgment when it came to clothes and grooming details.
Along with some new faces, a few regulars turned up, delighted to see me.
Each and every one of them got the smile and handshake, and the brief instant of eye contact where I told them they would have a great time here tonight. Hypnosis stuff made my head hurt, especially when I was hungry, but it was worth the discomfort for the boost in business. I gave a nod to Wilton to confirm drinks were half price until the show started.
Bobbi had gone to the backstage area to make sure the band and the rest of the talent were ready. If she hadn't had aspirations of her own to look after, I'd have hired her permanently as my general manager. More often than not, she had singing work at other clubs but was happy to help with bookings when she had the time. Otherwise, it was up to me, and I didn't have nearly her experience, nor was I up and about during the day for auditions. Things would run more smoothly if not for that restriction, but my alternative to having half a life was being all the way dead, so I never complained, even to myself.
She came out front, still amazingly fresh in her Snow White dress with the cartoon characters all over. I'd never look at that movie the same way ever again.
"We're all set to go," she said, slipping an arm through mine.
"Great. The drummer still sober?"
"Like a judge on election day. Roland!" She smiled past me as the doorman ushered in Roland Lambert. He was natty in a vicuna overcoat and a big smile, his hair lounge-lizard slick. You could read by the shine on his shoes. "You didn't say you'd be by again."
"I wanted to get the lay of the land," he said as we shook hands. "Always helps the act to know the routine of a place."
"Where's Faustine?" I asked.
"At our hotel, resting. She spent the day shopping and wore herself out. I slept late, so now I'm ready for something to do. We'll be neck and neck again for our debut, though. Will you be at our rehearsal tomorrow?"
"Tied up elsewhere, but Bobbi said you were great, and that's enough for me."
He cut her a little bow. "I'm honored and forever grateful, good lady."
"Hm, you have been in England, haven't you?" she said, pleased.
"For far too long, I'd forgotten just how charming American girls can be." He served this up with a smile and an eye twinkle. The way he did it made it more flattery than serious flirtation. Bobbi seemed to like it just fine. I wasn't worried about her falling for his line, but had it worked on Adelle?
"Before things get too crowded, let me find you a nice table," she said. She slipped an arm through his and led him off. I had a feeling she'd work Gordy and Adelle into the conversation at some point. Hopefully, he'd get the right idea from it.
Escott came in, his face red from the cold, which suited him more than that sheet-white he'd shown earlier.
"Feeling better?" I asked, as he shrugged from his coat and handed it and his hat over to the check girl.
"Much improved, thank you. I just wanted a bit of air."
"Sure." Might as well pretend to go along with him. He'd been gone nearly two hours, which is a hell of a lot of air for anyone in Chicago in January. "Like a little something to warm up?"
"A small brandy would not be unwelcome. Thank you."
I gave Wilton a high sign, and he poured out a generous shot of our best. Like the rest of the staff, he knew Escott's drinks were always on the house.
"It will be a bit of a wait warming this," he said, cupping the snifter in his hand.
His fingers and nails looked blue. "Left my gloves at the Gladwell house. I'll call and ask if they've been found. May I have the use of your office phone?"
"Help yourself."
He gave a genial nod and went upstairs, almost as at home here as in his own place. Apparently he'd forgotten Myrna's not-so-subtle presence for the time being. I wondered about the gloves business, whether it was genuine or just an excuse to talk to Vivian. Probably both. I silently wished him luck and shook hands with the next group of customers coming in from the cold.
Right behind them were two of Gordy's top bodyguards, Lowrey and Strome.
Well, I'd been warned there would be more talks tonight.
They weren't as big as Gordy, few men were, but they made up for it with weapons and they would have some brains. Normally, I don't welcome guys wearing overly padded suits meant to hide their shoulder holsters, but these were almost family. In a sideways kind of direction.
" 'Lo, boys. Anything up?"
"Just checking things, Mr. Fleming," said Strome. He'd been with Gordy for a long time and had early on learned to call me mister. He didn't know about me being a vampire, only that I now and then helped his boss out on special jobs, and that I was extremely dangerous to cross. Gordy had passed on to me the gossip about my reputation with the gangs. I'd found it to be both amusing and daunting.
I liked their respect but didn't care for the possibility of having it tested by some wiseacre. Strome was a prudent sort with nothing to prove.
"Gordy on his way?" I asked.
"Yeah."
"Bristow, too?"
"Yeah." Strome was as loquacious as his boss.
"How are negotiations going?"
Lowrey shrugged. Cut from the same block of granite as Strome, his dark eyes both looked made of glass, the effect reinforced by the fact they were not quite in line. It was a subtle thing; sometimes I didn't know which eye to look at.
They checked their heavy overcoats, the girl staggering off under the combined burden. The doorman ushered in two more men of the same type, Bristow's boys from last night. The four bruisers looked at one another, faces dead, arms loose at their sides, with me in the middle like the referee at a free -for-all match. You couldn't cut the air between with a diamond drill. I almost heard growling. No love lost among this bunch.
The girl came out again and read the mood right. Her big-eyed gaze hit me with a question on what to do; I smiled and jerked my chin, silently indicating for her to scram. She scurried back to her checkroom. Wilton seemed ready to duck behind his marble bar.
Hog Bristow chose that moment to bull in, making everyone jump. He instantly noticed the tension and settled an accusing, bloodshot glare on me.
"What the hell is this?" he demanded.
The lobby lights flickered and went out.