A Song In The Dark (15 page)

“Okay.” I tried not to read anything into so much insistence. “Listen, you remember a mug in Gordy's mob named Hoyle? Used to be a boxer.”

“I know him by sight. What's going on?”

“Just keep an eye out for him if you can. He's got a grudge on for me, and I don't want you or anyone else getting in the middle.”

“How big a grudge?”

“Enough so I'm sending some muscle over to play bouncer in case he shows, but—”

“Jack . . . ?”

“
But
—I think I'm overdoing it. Look, I know I've been edgy lately and this will make me feel better. The muscle is only insurance; if they're there, chances are they won't be needed.”

“For this I'll want to know the whole story.”

“Right now?” Not something I wanted to talk about over the phone, especially with Nightcrawler staff within hearing. There were enough rumors about me floating around.

“You kidding? I've got a show to get ready for, you'll tell me later.”

“Deal. And one more thing, totally different subject: you know a torch singer called Jewel Caine?”

“Sure, she's not been around much, though. Used to be good until the booze got to her. Why?”

“She needs a break. I told her to come by to see you tomorrow at three if that's okay. Can you work a short set for her into the show?”

“I think so, but are you sure?”

“She's trying to sober up and needs rent money.”

“Oh, Jack.” Her tone wasn't reproach for being a soft touch, quite the opposite. If Bobbi had been here, she'd have kissed me. I wanted that. Almost. Another part was glad she was miles away. I fought off a shiver inside my coat.

“What about a guy named Alan Caine?”

“That's Jewel's ex-husband. I don't like him, but he can sing. You going to hire him, too? He's trouble.”

“I know. I met him last night, forgot to tell you.”

“How'd you meet him?”

“He's working at Gordy's club.” Though Bobbi usually kept up with who was playing where in Chicago, she'd lately not had much time to read papers or talk with others in the business. My fault.

“Poor Gordy,” she said. “He's all grabbing hands—Alan Caine, that is. I've done some shows with him way back when. He's one of those jerks who thinks he owns a place, lock, stock, and chorus line. The awful thing is most of them go along with it because he's so handsome.”

“Except you.”

“Back then I was wi . . . well, never mind.” Slick Morelli. I recognized the avoidance. That mention of him still made her uncomfortable after all this time told me I'd done the
right thing not bringing up Mitchell's name. “But even before I wouldn't have gone near Caine. He's a big jackass, and—did you just laugh?”

I'd not been doing much of it lately. I had to be careful or my face would break. “Sounded like it. I think you must be psychic, Miss Smythe. I thought the same about him myself. He won't be playing at Crymsyn. He mouthed off to the wrong guy. Jewel seems okay, but she's had it rough from him. She's sober, but kinda fragile.” I should talk.

“I'll look after her, don't worry. We're out of dressing rooms, though.”

Huh? Oh. It took me a second to get it. Roland and Faustine weren't the top billing act—that was Bobbi's spot. But he'd had some minor leading-man work in Hollywood and British stage, and Faustine was a full-blown Russian-trained ballerina. The Depression and life in general had not been kind, but they were still higher up the status ladder than Bobbi. As a diplomatic gesture we assigned them side-by-side dressing rooms one and two. Besides, being a couple, they didn't mind sharing the shower and toilet in between. For some reason I'd not been able to figure out, Faustine's wardrobe filled up the whole space.

Bobbi had the number three dressing room; Teddy Parris had number four. I suggested bumping him out.

“Jewel deserves a higher number than four.”

“This is nuts, you know.”

“Well, I can't put her in the basement with the musicians.”

Additional downstairs dressing areas had been roughed out months back, but so far there'd been little need to finish things. It resembled a locker room with coat hooks along one wall, a standing mirror, and a couple of long benches. I didn't go down there if I could help it. Some years back someone had died in that basement, and it
would take more than a coat of paint and lights to blot out that horror.

“We can rig a curtain across one of the corners . . .”

“Impossible. I couldn't put her there no matter what.”

“Hah?”

“Jack, she used to be a big star around here, it'd be terribly insulting to foist her off in a cellar like some has-been.”

Showbiz. I was still getting used to the shifting rules of its pecking order. “Well, just don't use my office.”

“Actually, that room next to your office will do for me. If she signs on, I'll move my stuff up there, and she can have my dressing room. There, that's all worked out.”

Bobbi did have a flair for problem-solving. Concerning club stuff. Not for me so much. Which was no one's fault but my own.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “maybe you should think about turning that upstairs washroom into a real bath. You could put in a shower easy enough.”

“Hey, I'm still paying for the other ones. Let's turn some more profit first before redecorating.”

“All right.”

Sounding cheerful, she gave in a little too easy. I knew damn well now that she'd gotten the idea it would be executed into reality sooner or later.

And . . . I suddenly realized we were talking normally again. I even felt normal—until I realized it, and that spoiled the moment.

Damnation. If I could just quit when I was ahead and not overthink, I might have drawn that feeling out for whole minutes instead of just a few seconds.

“Jack?”

“Yeah?”

“I have to go get ready for the show. You okay?”

“I'm fine.” God, I hated lying to her, but over the phone she might not be able to pick up on it. “I'll see you when I get there. Break a leg.” I didn't know if civilians to the stage were allowed to wish good luck to the talent with that phrase, but what the hell. She thanked me and hung up. I stood very much by myself next to the casino bar and fought off another shiver. All the cold in the city was outside these fancy walls; why was it that
I
had to be picked out to carry a piece of it around in my flayed skin?

Distraction. I called over one of the bouncers and made arrangements with him to send some guys to watch things at Lady Crymsyn. They all had to know Hoyle, which wasn't a problem. The story about Hoyle's interrupted batting practice with me had gotten out and made the rounds. Surprisingly, his reputation was in a hole and mine was on the rise. Just when I was getting used to being unpopular. Everyone's favorite part was my breaking the revolver in his face. I hoped they wouldn't ask for an encore as a party trick.

No sign of Strome yet. Thinking I could fill the waiting time with a few hands of blackjack, I went through to the private area of the club where everyone in Chicago with money to lose was made welcome. I'd played more than a few hands here, picking up extra cash when I wanted. Thinking he might open early for me, I looked around for my favorite dealer, the one who always gave away when he had a good hand. Instead, I saw Adelle Taylor coming decisively toward me, threading between the tables. She showed off her elegant figure in a clingy dark dress with a matching hat and purse that were clearly worth more than a few months' rent in Jewel Caine's neighborhood. Adelle seemed to be a woman on a mission; she moved more quickly than usual, but didn't broadcast any sign that an emergency was on. However, her eyes were strangely fixed.

When Adelle got close enough, I saw how it was for her, figured what to do fast, and led her to one of the semiprivate gaming alcoves, one with a curtain. Soon as we were inside I swept the curtain shut then put my arms around her so she could collapse and soak my overcoat shoulder.

C
RYING
women are not my favorite thing, but sometimes you have to come through for them and weather it out. It's not too bad. Adelle wasn't one to casually lose control of herself, either, so it had to be something important to get her into this state. Most likely to do with Gordy.

She didn't make much noise, but it was a strong and violent crashing down of her protective walls. I'd never seen her like this. Adelle was always cool-headed and even in the face of surprise, quick to land on her feet. Like the night of the shooting. Once she got through the initial shock and terror of seeing Gordy drop, she'd pulled together to help out as though she'd trained on a battlefield.

That restraint was nearly gone; the only remnant was how hard she worked to smother her sobs. I could tell she really wanted to let go completely and howl. That would have drawn attention, maybe prompted the curious to come
in and interrupt. She needed release, not talk, but a suppressed breakdown was better than none at all.

Adelle knew nothing about what I'd been through with Hog Bristow, and for some reason that helped me to be stronger for her. I felt better for the giving, like my old self, and it lasted longer than a few seconds. I held her tight and murmured the often useless but frequently comforting, “It's okay, everything's going to be all right” at the top of her head.

Damned if it didn't work. After a while, she pulled away. Makeup running, eyes puffed, her whole face seemed bruised. She sat on one of the cushioned chairs and scrounged in her purse for a handkerchief—no dinky lace thing, but a large practical one—and blew and dabbed and swiped. I sat across from her, waiting to listen. Damn, the things I do for friends.

“Most men,” she said, her voice deeper, more husky than normal, “go into a dithering panic when a woman cries. They either want to run for the hills or instantly fix the problem so she stops. Or they try to kiss her or slap her. I'm glad you're the sensible type.”

“Nah, I'm a fake. I couldn't make up my mind which would work.”

She unexpectedly giggled while trying to blow her nose again and made a real mess of it, requiring another handkerchief.

I sat next to her. “If I ran, the mugs here would shoot me out of reflex. I can't fix the problem, not knowing what it is, so that wasn't the right road. If I tried kissing or hitting, I'd risk a sock in the chops from you, being shot by Gordy when he found out, being shot by Bobbi when she found out, or all three.”

Adelle put a hand over her mouth to stifle the laugh. “God, I wish you could stay with us. I need the change.”

“Maybe I can swing by later.” Gordy had been staying at her place I'd heard.

“It's all right. I know you're busy with . . . the business. There's no one I can talk to. Gordy's men are polite, but they're not . . . well . . .”

“You can't let 'em see you cry.”

“No. You're different from them. You've got a heart. To you I'm a friend, not just the boss's piece.”

“Hey, you're not—”

She waved it away. “I overhear their talk, but it doesn't matter. They can only define me by the limits of their world.”

“You lemme know which ones are being disrespectful, and I'll widen their experience. Now, what's the big problem?”

“Gordy.”

“What? He not treating you right?” No way. For all his rough side with the mob, he was always a gentleman with her, emphasis on “gentle.”

“It's not that. Oh, Jack, he's ill.”

“Ill? Pneumonia? Measles? What?” God, if he caught anything while he was still shaky from the bullets . . .

“Not that kind. He's pushing himself and he's up too soon and he's exhausting everything in him and I can't make him
listen
to reason.”

She'd work herself into another bout of tears in another second. I made calming motions. “Take it easy, I was going to talk to him about it anyway. Strome told me he was here tonight, and I couldn't believe he was outta bed again.”

“Gordy thinks if he doesn't show a strong face, it'll undermine his authority over his men.”

“He's got a point, but if he falls on his duff, it'll undermine worse.”

“It's more than that. I'm afraid it's killing him. He's so gray, and he hides it, but I know he's weak. He barely made it from the car into here, then Kroun came in, and he went upstairs like nothing was wrong. It's all a front and—”

“I get the picture.”

“You'll talk to him? Make him rest?”

“You bet your sweet . . . ah . . . tonsils I'll do that.”

“He looked awful yesterday and worse today. That Kroun's got him all stirred up. Gordy doesn't let on to me, but I hear stuff when he's on the phone or talking with Lowrey.”

“What stuff?”

“One of the things I heard . . . the boys here said Kroun was going to kill you.” She whispered the last part.

I took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “That's
old
news. We're copacetic now.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah. Guaranteed. Everything's fine there, or I wouldn't be here.” Not strictly true. If all the guys in the gang liked me, I wouldn't have had slashed tires. Then I wouldn't have been around to help Jewel and Adelle. Instead I'd have been in my upper-tier booth of my club hiding in its shadows and probably feeling very sorry for myself. Funny how things can turn out.

“I wish you could make that Kroun go back to wherever he came from.”

“Same here.” Maybe I could, if I felt up to it. “Do you need anything?”

She blew her nose. “A new head on my shoulders?”

“I'm fresh out. What's wrong with this one?”

“Gordy makes me crazy.”

That was my second time tonight to hear the same tune from a woman. Adelle made me wonder if I was driving Bobbi crazy in some way. The odds favored it.

“It's the life he's got that's doing this to me,” she said. “It forces things like that shooting to happen. I've been able to ignore it until now. At first dating a gangster seemed very thrilling, but suddenly it turned different. He's not some kind of a misunderstood hero with a dark side, he's a man with a lot of insane, vicious enemies who will cut him down at the first chance.”

“The hard part for you is that Gordy accepts that.”

“
One
of the hard parts. There are a hundred other things.”

“More like a couple thousand.”

“To him it's just part of the job. You prepare as much as you can, then go on like you think it won't happen. But it does and it did.”

“He's still here, Adelle.”

“And for how long? Oh—no, I'm sorry, that was a stupid, filthy thing to say.”

“You're scared, honey. No one blames you for that. But the fact is, whether he's a gangster or a streetcar conductor, it's all the same. Any one of us can die at any time; we don't get to pick and choose when or where, it's out of our hands.”

“I know that. But Gordy's in a business where the chances are higher against him. It's one thing to know you could get accidentally run over by a truck; it's quite another to keep standing in the middle of the road.”

“Touché and no arguments. But if he did any other kind of work, he wouldn't be Gordy. Don't kid yourself that you can change him.”

She made a “ha” sound. “I gave that illusion up when I was married to Roland.”

This was the first time she'd ever referred to him with me.

“I tried and tried, but I could
not
change that man, even when it was to save his life from the booze. Gordy's the same. I'm hoping he'll change for himself and quit the mob, like Roland when he decided to stop drinking. So many never do change, though.”

“Almost never.” I'd certainly done it, involuntarily, doing things now I'd have never dreamed about two years ago. It was about then that I'd begun thinking about coming out to Chicago and starting my life over. My hope to find Maureen was nearly gone, and it seemed like every corner of New York reminded me of her. I did a lot of thinking and boozing and selling off or hocking stuff to save up the train fare. Hard to do when I kept drinking a substantial part of the gleanings. It took me all the way until August to finally save enough cash to leave New York . . . and find death in Chicago. A slow, hard, and ugly dying.

And if I had stayed in New York, what then? I'd be a thirty-seven-year-old reporter rapidly drinking my way to forty-seven, which was about when I could expect Bright's disease or some liver problem or a car crash to do me in, if not sooner.

Looking at it that way made it almost seem like I'd been a different man whose unfinished biography I had read a long time ago. A man who had indifferently squandered his all-too-finite life by spending it feeling sorry for himself.

“Jack?” Adelle touched my hand.

“Yeah?” I hauled myself back from the might-have-been wreckage.

“What is it?”

“I was thinking that once in a while life makes the change, not the man, but whether it's for good or bad is usually up to the man.”

“Or woman.”

“You got it. Listen, Angel: Gordy has to do the kind of tough dealings you never want to know about, but where you're concerned he's a good man and always will be.”

“I've felt that. But I'm not enough. He's already talking about when he gets back to work, the things he's going to do. . . . They're apart from the business, though. He says he wants to set me up at his club like you have with Bobbi. A regular headliner, the big star, Chicago's favorite. I like the life, but I don't know if I like it as much as I used to.”

“What, you planning to move to the country, maybe buy a chicken farm?”

She laughed a little. “That sounds pretty good about now. But it would drive me quite rollicking mad.”

“So long as you know.”

“But I do wish . . . I just want a world that doesn't have this in it.” She made a sideways gesture as though to take in gangland and all its grief.

I could wish the same.

With more waiting to do for the both of us, we left the casino for the outer bar. Adelle looked like she could use something to steady her down. I could watch while she drank it.

Jewel Caine was gone by now. I checked with her waitress. The lady had engulfed her meal and departed backstage. I couldn't imagine why she'd talk to Caine unless she wanted to let him know part of his check would be going to her as alimony. Not smart. He'd raise a stink and could find a different club to sing in, cutting her off. I sent a bouncer to go find Jewel; he came back to say she was backstage visiting girlfriends in the chorus. She was nowhere near Caine, or there might have been a ruckus.

Adelle and I parked at the house's best table and watched the place gradually fill up. The band started earning their
keep and couples made forays onto the dance floor. A few people came by to say hello, and a woman asked for Adelle's autograph, which lifted her mood.

Then Whitey Kroun emerged from the back, saw me, and came over. Mitchell was with him, still doing his glaring game. He would seriously bore me in a minute. Strome walked through, heading for the front entry. I wondered if he ever got tired of all the driving.

“You might want to leave,” I told Adelle.

“Should I? This is my chance to meet the big boss.”

“I thought you had.”

“Gordy likes me gone when there's business to conduct.”

“Why do you want to meet Kroun?”

“The face of the enemy,” she murmured darkly. She was all charm when Kroun stopped at the table.

I stood up and started to introduce them, but Kroun beat me to it, taking her hand and looking deep into her eyes.

“Miss Adelle Taylor,” he said, making a pleased announcement of it, as though to confirm it to himself. That personal wattage he had going went up a few thousand volts. Adelle actually blinked from his surprisingly warm smile. “This is an honor and a very great pleasure, Miss Taylor. I knew you were in Chicago, but never expected to meet you. Knock me over with a feather, I'm in heaven.”

For a second I thought he'd kiss her hand, but he settled for holding it just long enough to make his first impression on her memorable, then released. Somehow, without being asked, he was sitting at our table. Thankfully, Mitchell remained standing, but on the other side. I wouldn't have wanted him looming over my shoulder.

“Mr. Kroun,” Adelle said, in turn, graciously.

“Please, call me Whitey. You can see why.” He brushed a
hand through his hair, combining the gesture with an ironic but genial, invitation-to-intimacy smile. Special friends only.

She didn't fall for it, but did ask him about the white streak. “It's very striking.”

“Well . . . I can't exactly take credit for it.”

“Really? I thought it was natural.”

“Anything but. I was shot there.” His tone softened what should have been alarming news down to the level of amusing anecdote. “Some guy got too frisky and tried to take my head off, but he just missed. The bullet cut this into my thick skull. When the hair grew back . . . well, you can see what happened.”

“How horrible for you.”

“I didn't feel a thing.”

“What happened to the man?”

“They're still trying to figure that one out,” he said, which wasn't really an answer.

Adelle was savvy enough to know when to stop.

Kroun smoothly filled in the gap. “I just want to say I am a
great
admirer of yours. Soon as your movies hit town I'd watch three and four times in a row. Couldn't get enough of 'em. Why don't you make some more? You're terrific.”

“Why, thank you!” She instantly warmed up. He'd struck one of her favorite chords. “Tell that to the producers in Hollywood. The casting is quite out of my hands.”