A Song In The Dark (12 page)

By the time I finished my third smoke, Escott finally drove up, easing his big Nash right next to the front curb. It was a no-parking zone, but the doorman wasn't here to chase him off.

“You're in one piece,” I observed brightly as he got out. “Congrats.”

“Why should I not be?”

I shrugged. “This town.”

“Where's Bobbi?”

“Upstairs counting receipts. You don't wanna disturb her.”

“You're curious as to what transpired concerning Evie Montana.”

“Well, yeah.”

“A gentleman doesn't talk,” he said, mock-lofty.

“Come on, you know what I mean.”

“Inside, if you please. How can you not be cold?”

My overcoat was in the office. “Has to do with being dead, I guess. Sometimes I just don't feel it.”

“I wonder why that is?”

“So we don't feel the chill of the grave after escaping it?”

“Possibly, but there may be some other reason for the peculiarity. After all, not every society buried their dead. The Romans were fond of cremation, and the ancients of my countrymen practiced open-air—well, I supposed you couldn't call it interment. Exterment? If there is such a word; I'll have to look it up. They left corpses in the open air until only bones were left, which would certainly have prevented any of your sort from returning from the dead.” He drew breath to go on, but caught me looking at him. Just looking. “Ah. Well. Be that as it may . . .”

I opened the door for us, locked it behind, and felt better for it.

The deep-night world was shut outside and would require no more of my attention for a while. Escott unbuttoned his coat, dropping it and his Homburg hat on the marble-topped lobby bar, the whole time giving me one of his once-overs.

“What?” I asked.

“No holes in your clothing, no damage to the premises, and the lights are functioning. I take it your visit from Kroun ended amicably?”

“Yeah, but he gives me the creeps.”

“Must be a novel experience for you.”

I ignored that one. “Drink?”

“A very small brandy would be nice, thank you.”

The liquor was locked up, but not for long. I couldn't find his favorite kind right away, though there was always a bottle on hand; it was a standing order. It finally turned up behind several similar-shaped bottles, the label facing the wall. Myrna must have been playing again, with him as the target.

The barstools were stacked to one side to be out of the way of the morning cleaners, so we went through to the
main room. I forgot how dark it was to Escott until he bumped into a table that was slightly out of place. The insignificant amount of light coming from the small red windows above the third-tier booths was plenty for me. I turned on the little table lamp for him, reaching between a thicket of chair legs. The seats there had also been upended for the convenience of the morning's cleaning crew. I didn't care for the closed-up, dead look it gave to the club. Chairs were supposed to be sanely on the floor waiting for people to use them, not like this. I decisively moved two of them down for us, then the other two so I wouldn't get annoyed if I knocked elbows.

The place was very silent, very empty. A dust cloth was thrown over the piano, turning it into a large blocky ghost shape in the dimness. The stage gaped like an open mouth, needing to be filled with bright lights and people and music.

Listening hard for a moment I did hear music. Thin and distant.

“Something wrong?” asked Escott.

“The radio in my office is on.”

“You can hear it?”

“Yeah.”

“Your extranormal senses are quite amazing.”

“Or I could just be crazy and hearing things.”

“What song is playing?”

“Wayne King doing ‘Mickey Mouse's Birthday Party.' ”

“Ah. Then you are hearing things, and you are crazy. No one listens to that one anymore. It's all your imagination.”

“Good, I'd rather be crazy than have it real. So? Evie Montana?”

He swirled brandy, letting it get used to the air. “I took her to the Nightcrawler. Since she chose to fill the drive with detailed and enthusiastic praise of Alan Caine's
boundless talent, I was curious to see him and went in to catch the second show.”

“And what'd you think?”

“That you met a completely different fellow.”

“Huh?” I expected Escott to hate the guy on sight.

“He has an excellent voice, a commanding stage presence, and put across every song with an enlightened earnestness that was on a level with true genius.

“Huh?”
I didn't want to hear this. “The guy's a jackass!”

“If so, then it's not when he's performing. He really should be singing opera, not wasting himself with popular songs in a club.”

“What's with you? You gonna send him flowers next?”

He sipped the brandy, amused by my annoyance. “One can have an admiration for a performer's talent, if not for the performer himself. He's truly gifted.”

“And a jackass.”

“I'll believe that when I see it.”

“Fine with me. Go by tomorrow before the show and watch him rehearsing.”

“One only has to know how to deal with artistic temperament.”

“Just don't go recommending him to Bobbi for this place. I'd end up strangling him.”

“Or you could simply rearrange his mood for the duration.”

I'd been known to do that with troublesome talents. Escott was unaware of my going temporarily on the wagon from whammy-work. No need for him to know, either. He'd just give me one of those worried looks I was sick of seeing.

“Mr. Derner came by my table. He had a message for you,” he added.

“Oh, yeah?”

“A negative one. Some of the boys thought they'd found Dugan, but it turned out to be a false alarm. Not all of them were convinced, though, and might be coming 'round to claim the remainder of the bounty. Mr. Derner assured me he would take measures to prevent your being bothered by them.”

I grunted and wished I could drink real booze again, even the cheap stuff, which was all I could afford back in my reporter days. “The guy they thought was Dugan—he okay?”

“So far as I know. He was dragged to the Nightcrawler, produced sufficient evidence to prove mistaken identity, was given a drink and an apology, and returned to wherever they found him.”

“God, I'm gonna have to call it off. Those mugs are too stupid to be let loose.”

“You don't think they'll find him, do you?”

“Dugan could be halfway to Hong Kong by now. I know I would be there if I had me after me.”

Escott blinked a few times. “It's far too late for that to have made sense, and it did.”

I glanced at my watch. The evening was getting into the deep-night hours. “Bobbi should be done with the receipts by now. I oughta get her home.”

“Sounds to be an excellent idea for myself. That is, if you don't require me further?”

Escott really did like to help out at the club. “You've done above and beyond. Thanks.”

He got up. “No problem.”

His time in the States had corrupted him. He sounded just like Gordy.

In the lobby he boomed a loud good night toward the upstairs. Bobbi answered back, asking if I was around.

“Yes, he'll be up directly.”

“Okay. Drive careful.”

“Thank you, I will.”

Theirs was a call and response thing like you hear in some church services. They'd done it several times now at closing, a comfortable form of reassurance. I hadn't been the only one left shaken by Bristow's work on me.

Escott let himself out using his own key. It would be a dark and chill ride home until his Nash warmed up again.

“Drive careful,” I muttered, suddenly aware of the emptiness of the building. Were I here on my own, I'd have made like Myrna and turned on all the lights. Certainly I'd have gotten some music going to push back the silence. The stuff seeping thin through the walls from my office radio wasn't enough.

Thank you, Hog Bristow. Thank you so very much, you goddamned son of a bitch, and please, please do be screaming in a really deep, sulphur-stenched pit burning merrily away for the rest of eternity.

“Jack . . . ?” Bobbi's light voice jarred me.

“I'm here.”

“Okay.” She sounded like she was a few yards from the office door, ready to come down if invited.

“I'll be right up, honey, gotta make a phone call. Private.” That was the word we used that meant I was busy with mob business. She knew it was a necessary task and to help Gordy, but preferred to ignore my moonlighting for the time being.

“Okay.” Her tone was serene, almost singing, which meant I really should hurry. Her heels clacked down the hall, followed by the office door shutting.

I levered into the lobby phone booth, paid a nickel, and dialed very carefully so as not to wake up an honest citizen cursed with a number similar to Shoe Coldfield's nightclub.
To my growing concern it rang nine times before someone came on halfway through the tenth.

“Coldfield, what is it?” he growled. Since it was his office, not his home, I knew I'd not wakened him, but phones going off at such hours never portend happy news.

“It's Jack. Charles said to say hello.” I hoped in this way to tip him that all was well.

Didn't work. “Damn, kid, no one calls this late unless it's an emergency. You okay?” He traded the rough annoyance for rough concern.

A few days ago Escott had informed him about my recent experience; apparently the basic facts had been augmented with a mention of my problems recovering. “I'm fine.” I tried to sound normal, whatever that was.

“Charles told me you were, and I quote—‘a touch wobbly'—and you know how he understates things.”

“Ah, he was just being optimistic.”

“Well, you didn't call just to pass on a hello. What's up?”

“One of the New York bosses came to town. The one who arranged Hog Bristow's visit. A guy named Whitey Kroun. Know him?”

“With a name like that? You kidding?”

Coldfield, in addition to running his nightclub, some garages, and a few other businesses, also controlled one of the biggest gangs in the Bronze Belt. Unless it was assigned to him as a joke, any man nicknamed Whitey would not readily blend into the crowd.

“I'll take that to mean no. What about a soldier called Mitchell? He was in Morelli's gang about the time I first came to town.”

“Nope, sorry. You know the colored and white mobs don't mix except when they can't help it.”

“Yeah, but you generally know who's who.”

“Only the local big boys, not the soldiers.”

“Okay, one more item. A collector here named Hoyle is on the outs with me along with Ruzzo.”

“Those bedbug-crazy brothers?”

“The same. You know Hoyle?”

“By sight. Tough guy, used to box. What happened?”

“He tried to play baseball, with me as the ball. I took his bat away and nearly made him eat it.”

He wanted more details, so I gave them. Coldfield liked a good story. As before with Escott, I left out the ugly epilogue in the Stockyards. Even thinking about it threatened to make me queasy.

“You've had a busy night, kid,” he said. He knew my real age, but couldn't be blamed for forgetting most of the time. Now and then I would shoot him a reminder, like mentioning something from twenty years back when I was in the War, and he'd throw an odd look my way for a few seconds.

“You don't know the half of it,” I said.

“About this Kroun, I can ask around if you want.”

“Nah, not that important. Charles can dig. He thinks it's fun.”

“Kroun's not giving you any trouble is he?”

“Nothing like that, just me being curious. I figure he'll be going back to New York soon.”

“Better hope so. No one likes when the boss drops in to nose around. Just ask my people.”

Coldfield did run a tight ship, but I'd not heard of anyone trying to kill him lately. I thanked him; he told me to get some rest and hung up.

I remained in the booth, wanting a moment of quiet. The vast emptiness of the club was easier to handle in here. I liked having a place where I could put my back to a wall.

It couldn't last. I had to boost out and go upstairs, or
Bobbi would come looking, and I'd have to assure her that my sitting shut into a phone booth without phoning was a perfectly reasonable occupation. Before my buckwheats session with Bristow she might have accepted it as absent-minded eccentricity. No more.

But I
did
seem to be better. The meeting with Kroun had gone very well. After that inner revelation, seeing those who would kill me as being no more than food, I'd been in control with not one wild, trembling muscle to mar the event. Maybe that's all I'd really needed to restore my confidence. Sure, I was still nervous about some stuff—like now—but there were lots of people didn't like big empty, quiet, dark places.

So perhaps I should get off my duff and see my patient girlfriend. I'd been procrastinating with no good reason other than a vague and ridiculous trepidation that she would see all the stuff I wanted to keep hidden. Bobbi was closer to me and much more perceptive than anyone else I knew. She was the one person I couldn't lie to even when I successfully lied to myself.

Well, maybe she'd take a good look, and if she pronounced me miraculously cured of my waking nightmares, I could believe it.

I pushed the booth's folding doors open in time to hear a click, followed by several more, coming from the main room. A familiar sound, but out of place at this hour. Curious and cautious, I went through the curved passage.

All
the little table lights were on. Spaced at regular intervals along the three wide horseshoe tiers, they made a grand sight even with the upside-down chairs, and I said as much out loud to Myrna.