A Song In The Dark (13 page)

“You're really getting good at that, babe,” I added.

I half expected one or any of them to blink in reply, but
they remained steady. There was no point asking her to shut them off. She would or wouldn't at her own whim. Besides, I could likely afford the electric bill; business had been pretty decent this month.

“See you upstairs. Maybe.” Actually, I hoped not. Some instinct within told me I was not ready to actually actually
see
Myrna. She was disturbing enough just playing with lights.

Billie Holiday's version of “No Regrets” met me coming up the stairs. Bobbi hummed along to the radio, but stopped as I opened the door. She was busy at my desk, surrounded by empty tills, piles of wrapped cash, rolls of coins, a small stack of checks, the entry books, pencils, and the calculating machine. She'd traded her fancy spangly dancing gown for a dark dress and had a blue sweater around her shoulders. Her blond hair was pinned up out of the way. She punched keys on the machine, pulling the lever like it was a squatty one-armed bandit. When its brief, important, chattering died, she peered at the printed result.

“Hi, stranger,” she said, raising her face my way for a hello. She'd gotten a ride in with Escott while the sun was still up, so this was the first chance for us to really be with each other tonight.

I kissed her on the lips, and instantly knew it was right, the way it was supposed to be, the way it had always been for us; everything was going to be fine now.

Which lasted for a few perfect, wonderful seconds.

Then I overthought it, and what began as a warm greeting went subtly and utterly wrong. The demons in my head tore gleefully at me, whispering doubts, magnifying fears, and pointing out the obvious fact that this recovery business was an impossibility, so I pulled back and smiled and tried to pretend everything was great, and the smile was so forced
that my jaw hurt, and I turned away so she couldn't see how much it hurt.

Damnation.

Whatever had been repaired and rebuilt in me came apart so fast I wondered if it had been a sham to start with or if the sickness inside was simply overwhelming in its strength.

I didn't want that.

Thankfully, Bobbi did not ask me if I was okay. We'd had that conversation several times already and kept butting into the walls of assurances, protests, and denials I put up, which she would knock down with a word or three, then neither of us felt happy. We'd accepted the fact that this would take a while, and it would not be pleasant. It wasn't her fault that she terrified me. I was ashamed of it. On the other hand, if I avoided her or went on that vacation Escott had suggested, I'd go right off the deep end of the dock. She was my lifeline. I had to keep close to her.

“Ready to go home?” I asked. Her hat, gloves, and fur coat were ready on the couch. I sat next to them.

“Almost.” She gave me a long, unreadable look, then peered at the latest printing from the machine, writing a number neatly in the account book with my mechanical pencil. “We had a pretty good night, all things considered.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You made fifty-two bucks and some change.”

I looked at the stack of cash before her. “You've got more than that there.”

“Subtract your overhead, salaries, and all the rest, and you have fifty-two bucks left over.”

“Less than last night's take.”

“Cheer up, there's not many guys who make that much in a month, let alone on a single less-than-perfect evening.
It'll be better this weekend if the weather doesn't turn sleety again. What took you away? You were gone for so long.”

“I had to talk with a gentleman from New York.”

Bobbi understood the implications. “How did it go?”

“Good and bad. I'm still running things for Gordy.”

“And what's the bad?”

“I called it right about why they sent Bristow. Kroun's on my side, now, so—”

“Whitey Kroun?”

“Yeah, the guy from the phone. You ever meet him?”

“No. Once in a while I'd hear Gordy mention him, but that's all. Just a name. I'll be glad when you're out of this, Jack.”

“Same here.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. I thought about asking if she remembered Mitchell, but held back. She didn't care to be reminded of the days when she'd been Slick Morelli's mistress. Gordy would be the best source for my idle curiosity when he was up to it.

Time for a subject change. “That was some nice act you had going with Teddy and the anniversary thing. It went over great.”

“I thought it might. We'll make it a regular item if you clear it.”

“It's cleared.”

“I'll have to look up more wedding-type music or we're going to get really tired of ‘The Anniversary Song.' ”

“How about something from
The Merry Widow
? For the marriages that aren't going so well.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don't be gruesome.”

Some of our old comfortable banter had resurrected itself. All I had to do from now on was sit ten feet away from her. “I want to have something special ready for this Saturday, if it's not too short notice.”

“Just no street parades, too cold. What is it?”

I told her about helping out Escott's suit with Vivian Gladwell by throwing a “birthday” party for Sarah. Bobbi was all for it.

“But don't go overboard,” I cautioned. “You'll scare Charles.”

“Don't worry. I've done enough singing at debutant balls to know what's right for that crowd. It'll be fun, but tasteful.”

“You can tackle Charles tomorrow for details . . .”

The radio music died away, replaced by static as the station signed off. I reached for the dial.

“Wait a sec,” she said, staring at it.

I withdrew my hand and waited, the static buzz making my eyeballs itch. “What?” I asked after a minute.

“Aw, I was hoping . . . I guess she won't do anything when people are watching.”

“Myrna?”

“Yeah.”

“What'd she do now?”

“I was working and some newsreader came on. I wasn't paying it much mind, and it switched to music right in the middle of a story. Gave me a turn until I realized she'd done it. I looked, and the pointer was on a different station than before. Isn't that something?”

“She didn't scare you?”

“Not really. She just surprised me. It must be boring for her to only play with the lights. Can't blame her for branching out. Maybe she's getting stronger the more we pay attention to her.”

That disturbed me, but I kept it to myself, suspecting Myrna might cut the lights entirely in response. I didn't want dark.

Bobbi continued. “I like her company. The place doesn't feel so empty. Kind of friendly, you know? Like she's looking after us. So I talk to her. I think she likes it, must be lonesome, being a ghost.”

“What do you talk about?”

She smirked. “You, of course. Women always end up talking to each other about their men sooner or later. Of course with Myrna I have to carry the conversation. Maybe we could get that record-cutting equipment up here and see if we can hear her talk back again.”

“Maybe.” I'd recently found it necessary to record a conversation and filled the office with hidden microphones. Much to my consternation a third voice, faint and strange, but definitely female, had also been on the wax disk, reacting to what was going on. Even thinking about attempting that once more made my neck hair rise. But . . . perhaps it could get a question or two answered, help us find out more about Myrna. “Wanna go home?”

Bobbi didn't think twice. “Yes. Please.”

I put the cleaned-out tills on a table, ready for the next day while she scooped the counted cash into a bank envelope for the night deposit box. I put the change bags in the safe on top of the revolver I kept there, shut and locked, then helped Bobbi on with her coat.

As we started to leave, she swooped to one side and fiddled with the radio tuning until she found music.

“There,” she said, as Tommy Dorsey's band came through. “I think this station plays all night. Myrna might end up with farm and weather reports in a couple hours, but it'll be company until then. You don't mind?”

“Nope. Leave the light on, too.” I could sympathize all too well.

On the way out I checked the main room. The little table
lamps were dark now. We left the one burning behind the lobby bar alone.

Bobbi shivered and went
brrrrrr
during the first ten minutes of our ride until the Buick's heater was warm enough to blow something other than arctic wind. I stopped briefly to drop the money into the bank's night deposit slot, then drove quickly through the near-empty streets to her hotel apartment. Drowsy, she leaned against me for the ride, and things felt normal again. I wanted to put my arm around her but had to have it free to change gears.

She woke up as I braked in the no-parking section in front of her building, got out, and came around to hold her door, leaving the motor running.

“Not coming up?” she asked.

“You're done in, honey, and I had a lot crashing into me tonight.”

There must have been a dozen variations of protest hesitating on her lips, everything from “I could get untired in a hurry” to “That's all right, just let me know when you're ready, sweetheart,” and she didn't say any of them, including the heartbreaking “Jack, I'm so sorry.” It would have been too painful for both of us, so we accepted this nice, safe, not-quite-as-painful illusion.

I walked her through the hotel lobby to the elevator, and like well-rehearsed actors we said the familiar good-bye-until-tomorrow lines. They sounded hollow and sad compared to the cheerful call and response she'd traded with Escott earlier.

She broke, though, and stopped the automatic elevator doors from closing. “You're sure? Just for company?”

“The company is a rare and breathtaking creature of light and music and beauty who would make angels jealous, and I don't know what I did to deserve to be on the same planet with you.”

She fairly gaped. I hardly ever talked like that to her.

“But—” I kissed her chastely on the forehead and left it at that.

Her hazel eyes were wide a moment, then she made a little dive at me, wrapping her arms tight around. We held close for a solid minute, and I felt my body responding to hers, felt the rush of warmth, the first build of pressure above my corner teeth, the desire to slowly remove all her clothes and settle in and come up with old and new ways of exhausting her and myself thoroughly before dawn swept my consciousness into its shallow grave.

Resisting while I still could, I gently pulled clear. “Get some sleep,” I said softly, backing off. I turned away before seeing whatever look might have been on her face.

The doors knitted shut and took her up and away from me. I hurried to the car, hit the gears rough, and shot clear, taking corners too fast and abusing the gas pedal on the straights. Before I alarmed any cops, I found a space in front of a block of closed shops and pulled in, decisively cutting the motor.

Then I waited.

I'd
wanted
to go up with her, and not just for company. Still wanted. Ached for it. Was sick for it. Wanted to go back even now and surprise her, make love to her. I would hold her close and warm and bring her to the edge of that wonderful, feverish peak and oh-so-gently bite into her throat, and it would just
happen
and she wouldn't fight me, wouldn't even think to, and then it would be too late, and like a mindless, greedy animal I would gorge on her blood as I'd done on that cow, unable to stop . . .

The tremors began their fast rise from within, an icy tide come to drown me. I hugged my ribs and groaned like a dying thing and keeled over across the seat.

F
ULLY
clothed, still in my overcoat, I lay flat on the army cot in my pseudotomb in Escott's cellar, waiting for the dawn.

It's really better than it sounds.

I had heat and light—always leaving the lamp on since I hate waking up in the dark—and it was profoundly quiet. My bricked-up alcove wasn't the overwhelming large space of the club, nor so cramped that I'd get claustrophobic, and I could put my back to a wall.

For now my spine was stretched tense on this cot, and between it and the canvas, protected by a layer of oilcloth, was a sufficient supply of my home earth to keep the daymares away. Without that piece of the grave with me I would spend the sunny hours being consumed by an endless pageant of inner horrors.

As though the ones I experienced while awake weren't enough. In the car I managed to cut short my latest bout into
hell. I'd felt a scream beginning to rise, and before it went full force I denied it breath and a voice box by vanishing.

The awful cold shuddering melted into soothing grayness, and I let myself float like that for a very long time. To vanish meant to physically heal, and I'd hoped it would work again, with a different kind of healing. One for my soul.

But no such luck. I returned to solidity weak and drained and shivering.

And helpless and terrified, don't forget about those.
My body and mind had both turned on me, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do about their betrayal.

I'd been so tired afterward I could not recall driving home, only coming back to myself while parked out front in my usual spot. While other guys could drop into bed and shut off their minds after something like that, there would be no sleep for me. Until the rising sun finally knocked me out I was in for a bout of Undead insomnia.

What I missed about being a normal man was the kind of sleep where you know that you
are
sleeping. When you drift through it, maybe skimming close to the surface of waking, then contentedly turning over to dive back in again. You have a sense of passing time, that you're getting actual
rest
. My daylight drop into death left me very rested, but it's not always satisfying.

Like now. I was still terrified, which would be exhausting to anyone, and the fear would be there when I woke again.

I lay on the cot. Waiting. Sensing the approach of the sun that would take my life away. Some part of me wanted utter oblivion, the kind from which you never awoke.

That
would solve a whole lot of problems for me. All of them, in fact.

Out.

And return
.

I'd felt it come and shut my eyes in time. They were open now. Another day had rushed over my unheeding head. The only way I could tell for sure was to glance at my watch. Yes, lots of hours were gone for good, with me not in any of them. Winding the watch, I made myself remember that the trembling fits were last night's old news. Hadn't Escott told me time would fix things? Time had passed, so I shut down the internal whining, then vanished and floated, rising through the floor to go solid in the dim, quiet kitchen. My hat was where I'd left it on the table so Escott would know I'd come home.

Damn, but I still felt cold despite the overcoat. “Charles?”

No reply, so he was probably already at the club. He was being a hell of a friend to look after his work and mine. I'd have to find some way to thank him. Bobbi would know what to recommend, besides putting him on the payroll. He was going to have a surprise pay packet come Friday. His own business might be suffering for all the time he'd been putting in helping with mine. He would help for free, but compensation was only being fair.

I went to bring in the mail, but the stack on the hall table told me Escott had been and gone. There was nothing for me, which was fine. I wasn't up to writing chatty correspondence.

Back in the kitchen, I phoned the Nightcrawler office and got Derner. “How'd things go today?”

“Pretty much normal, no problems.”

“What about Kroun? He gone home yet?”

“Still in place.”

The phrasing gave me the idea Kroun or Mitchell might be in the room with him. “You treating him right?”

“Red carpet all the way.”

That was reassuring. “What about Hoyle? Any trouble?”

“Haven't heard from him. If he's gone, I donno where.”

“Find out. Keep it low and easy.” I wouldn't feel comfortable until I knew where he'd landed. “What about Ruzzo? They behaving?”

“They turned up looking like they had a gas attack to go with their shiners. One of the boys thought they were trying to find Hoyle, but not for sure. They know they're on the outs, but you want I should fire them, too? The hard way?”

That meant something fatal. Execution was the normal mob response for what Hoyle tried to do to me. “That'll be up to Gordy when he's back.” He'd probably get rid of them, but I couldn't be bumping off all the guys in his gang who didn't like me. There wouldn't be a lot left.

I hung up and went to my second-floor room for a fast shower-bath and a change of clothes. Usually I preferred to sit and soak in a near-boiling tub, but didn't have the time. Too bad, it might have warmed me up. A hurried soaping with the water slopping past the cellophane curtain would have to do.

Shaving, as always, was a touch-and-nick adventure. I'd switched from a straight to a safety razor in the army, same as all the other guys, and once more blessed that change. If I still used the folding cut-throat device my older brothers had introduced me to, I'd probably have lopped my head off by now. Still, I made mistakes, but a quick vanishing fixed that.

What it did not fix were the long threads of scarring that covered what I could see of my chest and arms and certainly my back. I tried to avoid touching them; the white ridges along already pale skin always felt colder than the rest of my flesh. Those scars collected in my lifetime before my change
had gradually gone away, even the one from the bullet that had killed me. But not these, no matter how many times I vanished. And I didn't know why.

Most of my physical healing from the damage had taken place that same night. To replace my lost blood I'd fed from Bristow. He'd been dying; my feast had simply hurried the process. I'd gorged—shameless, mindless, desperate.

And enjoyed it.

It hurt to heal then. I had been unable to vanish, and it hurt a lot. Left me shaking like an epileptic. Maybe that was the origin of my fits, just as my out-of-control draining of Bristow was similar to how I'd fed from that cow last night. Though the ordeal was past, some part of me kept me there, like replaying a record over and over but with the sound down low so you don't consciously notice that it's repeating and driving you crazy. I had to find some way to switch it off.

I'd reluctantly talked to Escott about going to a head doctor, but how in hell could any of them help me with this problem?

Hey, Doc, I get blindsided by these shivering fits and drink blood until I'm sick. You got a pill for that?

I didn't think so.

And another less-than-perfect evening began with the discovery that the two street-side tires of my Buick were flat.

The problem didn't register at first. I walked around my car, unlocked the door, and was about to open it when the impression of what was wrong met up with the memory of what was supposed to be right. The car was lower than it should be. I backed off and stared and couldn't believe and stared and couldn't believe; and then I got pissed and
wanted to hit something, only that would have left a dent in my blameless vehicle.

I was certain Hoyle or Ruzzo had done it. A kid's vicious prank.

It wasn't anything that could be proved. Not ordinarily. If I confronted Ruzzo about it, they'd happily lie in my face. I had my own way around that. Our next talk was going to be very unpleasant—for them. They would also be paying for the new tires. Four, so they'd all match.

Then I'd probably beat the hell out of Ruzzo. For some guys logic or threats never work. You have to kick their asses to get your message to sink in.

I called Derner again and explained the situation.

“We got garages, don't we?” I asked.

“Thirty-three, not counting the wrecking yards—”

“That's good. Find one close to my house and send someone over. I want the tires on my Buick changed out to four new ones.” As long as the mob boys called me “boss” I might as well benefit from the position. “Have that done before tomorrow evening.”

“Right, Boss.”

“And I need a car until mine's fixed.”

“No problem,” said Derner. “You can use Gordy's. Strome'll drive you. He's away now, but can be there in an hour.”

“Nah, I'll cab over and wait at the Nightcrawler. In the meantime I want Ruzzo. Both of 'em. Hoyle, too.”

“I'll send out the hounds.”

“They can cough up cash for replacement tires unless I take it out of their hides.”

Derner's “yes” sounded oddly faint, and I wondered why before realizing my own poor choice of words. He'd seen me hanging skinned from that meat hook, after all.

Next I called the lobby phone of Lady Crymsyn. Wilton answered. I told him I'd be late on account of business and to open as usual. He said okay and no problem, unknowingly echoing Derner. At least some pieces of my life were still in place. Then I phoned for a cab.

I was still too mad to let the tire slashing go. Directing my driver to the Nightcrawler, I blew off steam to him. We both heartily agreed that crime was completely out of hand in this town and, united against the world by our mutual righteous outrage, were fast friends by the end of the ride. He got a dollar tip for my two-dollar ride, since by then I felt almost good. Maybe I didn't need a head doctor, just a lot more taxi trips.

The outer bar was open, but the Nightcrawler's main room was still being readied for the evening show. I sent someone up to tell Derner I was here, then settled in at one of the tables, breaking one of the rules for surviving in the mob: sitting with my back to the door. If I'd had vulnerable company along, I wouldn't have made such a slip, but while on my own I really didn't give a damn. The mugs watching the front were on my side. Sort of. They'd spot trouble and deal with it. I kept my coat and hat on. For some reason I just could not shake the cold tonight. All in my head, probably. Everything else was, so why not?

Without being asked, a girl brought a glass of water to me and inquired if I wanted anything stronger. I said no and shooed her off with a neutral smile. More waitresses in short spangly skirts hurried to and fro and traded talk loudly across the breadth of the room. I had waiters for my place. In the early days I hired on a few girls to come in on the busier nights. They had red velvet skirts to match the décor and were cute as bugs. Many of the male customers liked their looks as well, taking them to be part of the after-hours
entertainment. Some of the girls followed through on it, and made a hell of a lot more money in the parking lot than they did collecting tips in the club.

On one hand I didn't mind, but out of self-preservation had to cut them loose. If something went wrong, it would reflect on the club and me. Gordy could take that sort of heat from the local vice squad; I just didn't want the grief. Bobbi was still trying to figure out what to do with the leftover costumes.

The Nightcrawler's talent trickled in. They weren't supposed to use the front, but did anyway, leggy dancers heading backstage, musicians setting up, everyone busier than me and consumed by their own concerns. I liked that.

Whitey Kroun walked in. People paused to look up; I felt the draw, which is why I turned to see who'd arrived. Even here he filled the place. Some types were like that: actors, singers, politicians. Bobbi had that electric quality, but she only threw the switch when working because it sometimes left her tired out afterward. Kroun's seemed to be going all the time, and if he was aware of it, he didn't let on.

He took off his hat, brushed a hand through his hair. He used the gesture as a means to look around, spotted me lounging, and sketched a casual wave. I returned it, half-expecting him to come over, but he continued on through the casino door. Only then did I notice Mitchell in his wake like a plain-Jane pilot fish.

He gave me a look.

Make that more of a glare.

It must have been inspired by my stay-away-from-Bobbi message of the night before. He seemed the type to stew about things. On one hand Mitchell was only doing his job. A good lieutenant is supposed to make life miserable for anyone who could potentially annoy his boss. But I was
getting bored with this one. If he didn't leave for New York soon, I'd be inclined to inspire a sudden interest in ice fishing so he'd go away for the rest of the winter.

I just looked back, again not blinking, not giving a damn about his obvious dislike of me. He finally got bored and went elsewhere. I returned to watching the club's opening routine. It was much the same as my place, but with more money.

Jewel Caine, the obstreperous ex-wife of this week's star performer unexpectedly appeared, beelined to a booth with a view of the stage, and hunched down in its depths. Under her black coat, which she unbuttoned, she was all in blue from hat to stockings. It suited her better than the previous night's green. One of the casino bouncers passing through finally noticed her while she jerkily plucked off her gloves. It was no business of mine, but I signed for him to lay off.

She pulled out cigarettes and grimly smoked, watching the stage with needle-sharp eyes. A woman with a mission, I thought, trying unsuccessfully to read her mind. Sometimes you can tell what's in a person's head by his or her carriage. Now that she wasn't screaming threats she showed some good looks. Hoping she might be in a reasonable mood, I picked up my glass of water and ambled over. I was still boss. Maybe if I found out what her plan was, I could head off trouble, breakage, and hospital bills.