A Song In The Dark (17 page)

Thankfully, I didn't have to try for a second whammy to do that part. Just a hand on his shoulder, an easy-does-it shake.

He must have nodded off for real. He woke with a start, one hand automatically reaching for the inside of his coat where he wore his gun.

“Fleming? Jack?” He never called me Jack. Always Fleming. God, but he sounded tired. About the same as I felt. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. Ain't it time you took Adelle home?”

He thought it over. “I guess so. But not to her place. After Derner told me what Hoyle and Ruzzo pulled on you I should find some spot they won't look. Keep her clear of this.”

“You're worried about them?”

“You should be, too. They might not be the only ones wanting to take over, given a chance. I know Hoyle. He'll spout that he's steady for me, but he'd as soon cut my throat if it could get him in charge. Derner's nervous, too.”

This was interesting. “And here I thought I was his least favorite.”

“You think Coldfield would mind helping me get scarce so I can rest?”

I smiled. The evil-eye whammy had dangled me headfirst in hell, but it had worked. One of its influences on others was making it seem to them that they'd thought up my suggestions on their own.

“I'll call him right now,” I said. “Why don't you stretch out on the couch while I arrange it?”

“Good idea. I need the rest.”

I stood by ready to help, but he left his chair unassisted and made the journey across the room. It hurt to look at him, because he was trying not to shuffle like an old man.

Shoe Coldfield was a little surprised by being asked to play host to Northside Gordy. He'd helped keep Gordy safe before, and didn't mind doing the favor again. Coldfield gave me an address and said he'd be there in person to look after things. I knew the street. It was one of the borderline areas. One side was Bronze Belt, the other side white. Gordy and Adelle showing up there wouldn't raise as much notice than if Shoe put them in the next block over. And day or night, it would certainly be the last place where mugs like Hoyle and Ruzzo would hang around.

Plans fixed, I made a sedate and slow trip downstairs, cautious about setting off another fit. The internal chill clung to me, not as bad as before, but noticeable.

Music played in the Nightcrawler's main room. That helped take my mind off the constant annoyance. Tonight's show had been going full swing for some while now. Alan Caine's voice rolled rich and strong even through the intervening walls. It was really too bad I'd met him, else I'd have enjoyed the sound. He was singing for free for the time being, since a large piece of his pay was going elsewhere. I'd have to ask Derner how that had gone over when he'd broken the news.

I found Strome just off the backstage area and told him he'd be driving Gordy and where to take him. Strome was evidently familiar with the street, too, since his distaste for the idea was obvious. He didn't like colored people, but
happily for everyone he wouldn't have to remain there. His partner Lowrey had no such problems and would stay on to play watchdog as usual.

Adelle was at the same table, still holding her own with Kroun. During a pause in the music, I heard him talking, and almost didn't know his voice. It had gone low and pleasantly seductive. He said, “It's a great place, I can get you top billing and an unlimited run, and you can pick anything you want to do, singing, acting, dancing, radio, the works . . .”

“That's very kind of you, Whitey—”

I walked up just then, delaying her reply. “All done,” I said. “Sweetheart, you get a vacation until
you
say different.”

She immediately understood what that meant. Visibly relieved and beaming, she stood. I put my arms around her because she looked like she needed it, and just held her a minute. She sagged so mightily, I thought I was holding her whole weight, and for a second she seemed about to cut loose and sob, but being in public must have stopped that. But the holding seemed to help. Felt good to me, as well. At times that's what we need, a simple sharing of body presence, just that and no more, then you let go and move on. I patted her, told her everything was going to be fine, and when she seemed ready, stood her square again. She pulled a handkerchief from somewhere and blew her nose.

I looked her up and down. “Doll face, you're always tricked out better than a million bucks, but you should get some sleep tonight. You don't want to give the doctor a second patient, do you?”

“But I—”

Tapping my ear, I shook my head. “Oops, sorry, I suddenly can't hear anything. Happens at the darnedest times, but comes in handy. It means no one can argue with me and win.”

That raised a crooked smile from her. “All right, Jack. I'll get him home and turn in. I feel like a zombie.”

“Strange, you felt like all-girl to me.”

“So that's why Bobbi keeps you around. Good night and
thank you!
” She pecked my cheek and shot away, perhaps worried that Gordy might change his mind if she didn't hurry. He would let her know where they were headed. I didn't think she'd care where they stayed so long as he got better.

Kroun stared after her, then at me, questions all over his craggy face. “What's the deal? Are you an' she . . . ?”

“We're just friends.”

“Friends with a dame? You funny or something?”

I let that one pass, still feeling good about being helpful. That hug made all the pain worth it.

Watching her leave, Kroun sprouted a smile of unabashed pleasure that lingered while she was in sight. “I heard Gordy was dating a looker, but didn't know she was Adelle Taylor. What a woman. She just made this whole trip worth it.”

We apparently had some things in common. Maybe I should be worried.

He suddenly snapped his fingers. “Damn! I shoulda got her autograph and had the camera girl here to take a picture. Think you could get her back?”

“She won't be in the mood for it. Another time.”

“What a woman,” he repeated, like a prayer. He leaned forward, arms crossed on the table. “Lissen, Fleming . . .”

I sat at the table to better to hear. He'd lowered his tone, and Caine and the band were going loud. “Yeah?”

“Seeing's how you're such good friends with her, you think . . . you think she'd go out with me if I asked? Asked nice?”

I pulled back, gaping, and was tempted to poke him one in the eye. Kroun held to an utterly serious face, waiting. Then he blinked, head cocked, eyebrows high and innocent, and I finally realized he was pulling my leg. An unexpected laugh popped out of me, lasting a whole two seconds. It sparked an equally brief one from him in turn.

“You're a pip,” I said, thinking a little late that that might be getting too chummy with the big boss, but he didn't seem to mind. Against all sense and good judgment I was starting to like him. That suggestion I'd slapped on him about us being friends was working fine, but had it become a two-way street with me not knowing? With the nervy stuff going on inside my head, I could believe it.

“What was that about, anyway?” he asked. “Something with Gordy?”

“She said you were working him too much. I talked him into some time off.”

Kroun shrugged. “I don't twist his arm about needing to do business, but it wouldn't hurt him if he hit the mattress.”

There were two ways of taking that statement. When a gang war was on, the mob boys dragged their mattresses onto the floor to be out of the line of fire from through-the-window shooters. The other way meant just getting some sleep. Kroun's relaxed attitude led me to figure he meant the second definition.

Good. Real good. I had enough worries. “She hugged you pretty hard,” he said. “Didn't that hurt?”

He was too observant for my own good. “I got a pain shot earlier.”

“What kinda shot? Morphine?”

I was far too alert to be on morphine. Best to be vague. “Donno. Stuff works okay.”

“It sure must.” He held my gaze for a moment, his dark
eyes nearly all pupil in the low light, then nodded at the stage. “You like this singer?”

Alan Caine had a spotlight song going. It made me wonder how Jewel Caine might have done the same number with her dark, husky voice.

“He sings okay. Don't like him much,” I said.

“Not a lot of people do, only the ones who haven't met him.”

“You met him?”

“I've managed to avoid the honor.”

“Probably for the best. He's like sandpaper on a burn. Wouldn't know it to see him.”

Caine, flashing perfect teeth, drifted along the edge of the dance floor, stirring up the women as he sang to them. He skillfully kept just out of reach while giving the impression he wanted to move closer. It was all a sham, but they ate it up and grinned for more.

“Quite a gift he's got,” Kroun added. “Wish I could get women to fall on me like that. Well, actually they
do,
but only 'cause of who I am. Don't matter to them what a guy looks like if he's got money and power. I mean, look at Capone, for cryin' out loud. Face like a nightmare and built like a whale, but the women were all over him. You think it'd have been the same for him if he worked in a butcher shop like some regular guy? Not for a minute.”

From the stories I got from Gordy and others, Capone actually had been something of a butcher, but he also knew how to have a good time. That wasn't an observation I felt like sharing, though. I wondered if Gordy was downstairs yet, on his way to Coldfield's neck of the woods. Coldfield was supposed to phone Crymsyn when his guests were settled. If Strome came right back to drive me over, there was a chance I could catch the call.

But . . . Escott or Bobbi or even Wilton could take care of that; I didn't
have
to be at Crymsyn. It just felt
odd
being someplace else.

“Don't you have a club to run?” Kroun asked, still watching Caine.

Damn, was he psychic or something? “Had to take a detour here. Car trouble. Strome's driving me over later.”

A waitress came by. Kroun didn't want anything, still focused on the show. I waved her off and lighted a cigarette for something to do. Kroun glanced over.

“You smoke?” He seemed mildly surprised.

“Yeah. That a problem?” Everybody smoked. The club's air was thick from it. The spotlight on Caine fought through a slowly shifting blue haze.

“No. Just—”

“What?

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

Maybe he was one of those fresh-air types. I could have told him that smoking actually exercised and strengthened the lungs. I'd read it in a magazine ad someplace. Of course I couldn't inhale, so none of that applied to me. Jewel Caine must have lungs stronger than Walter Winchell's.

Alan Caine's number ended on a big, heartbreaking, and beautifully clean note. I was no musician, but knew enough about how hard that was to pull off. No wonder Escott was impressed. The spot winked out, and the houselights came up. Caine had delivered; the audience wanted to let him know about it. His voice had filled the room, and in the wash of adulation for that talent he glowed. He graciously smiled and humbly bowed, and whatever magnetism he had going sent them wild. The women called his name over and over, blowing kisses, waving handkerchiefs. It was crazy. I'd seen something like it in a newsreel, but the film had been
about Hitler. Just as well Caine wasn't in politics. We didn't need an American version of Germany's most famous house painter.

Caine made a last bow and dashed lightly off to get behind the curtains. They didn't quite close, and I saw him visibly shut down his performance personality the second he ducked backstage. He wouldn't need it until the next show. He had thirty minutes for a costume change, going from a black to an all-white tuxedo for the second set. Plenty of time to swap clothes, have a belt of booze. Or gargle. I glimpsed a flash of spangles beyond the curtain: Evie Montana trotting eagerly past to catch up with him. Yeah, there was time for her, too, if she didn't mind rushing things.

I suddenly shivered in my overcoat. Couldn't help it.

“You cold?” Kroun asked.

“Yeah. I must be in a draft.”

“Or it's that medicine you take. I heard some of that stuff can do weird things.”

“Or I'm catching cold.”

Kroun's deadpan look returned. “A cold?”

I'd not been sick from an ordinary illness since my change. Didn't know if I
could
get sick in the ordinary way. For all I knew this could be the Undead version of the Spanish influenza.

“Maybe you should get more sun.”

Most of the guys who worked these nightclub jobs were fish-belly pale. I fit right in. “Nah, I'm allergic to daylight.”

“Ya think? Never heard that one before.”

The band swung into dance music, and couples moved onto the floor for some fast fox-trotting. That was one way to work off the extra energy Caine had built up in them. The waitress came by again, got waved off again. After a few tune changes I checked my watch. Bobbi's first set was over,
and Teddy Parris would be stepping from the wings. I could almost see and hear it in my mind. After his set and their duet, Roland and Faustine's red-washed dance—

Shut it down. Quick. Better to not make pictures of anything in my head. I might go fragile, which could get humiliating. Strome should have returned by now. Maybe he'd gotten sidetracked backstage. Plenty of cute girls there, and this was their break time.

Kroun's attention wandered around the club, then he looked at his watch.

“Expecting someone?” I asked.

“Mitchell. He said he was catching up with some friends here. You?”

“Strome's due. Maybe they're having drinks.”

He snorted. “Not likely. Mitchell said friends. Those two are oil and water. They only mix when they have to.”