A Song In The Dark (28 page)

The light was on, as I'd left it. The dim bulb didn't use much juice. It also didn't heat the place much, as in dry out the damp. Was I in for another broken pipe?

This spot used to be cozy and safe, and it was fireproof, but still . . . I wanted to
not
be home.

Maybe if I fixed up something better, larger, took over the whole basement.

Jonathan Barrett had a great place, lots of room, book-shelves, lots of lights, but then he was richer and had a rich girlfriend who didn't mind the improvements in the cellar of her Long Island palace.

Maybe I could get my own place.

Actually I already had one. Lady Crymsyn.

And I didn't feel safe there, either.

Strome was punctual. I was on the phone with Derner within minutes of rising to find out what had happened during the day when the doorbell rang. I let Strome in and went back to my call. Shouldn't have bothered. Nothing new on the hunt for Hoyle. He'd gone to ground again and
had either found an exceptionally good place for it, or no one would admit to knowing where. With there still being a substantial number of men against my sitting in Gordy's chair, a stonewalling might be in progress. Paranoid of me, but I had a right to be so, and, without hypnosis to force things my way, I was stuck with the situation.

Speaking of stuck . . . “Is my car back yet?” I asked Derner.

“No, Boss. I got them to lay off and just do the tires, though.”

Dammit. I could have gone to Detroit and back and had a whole new car made by now. I suppressed a growl, and asked, “Has Kroun been in?”

“Not today. If he was steamed last night, he's gonna be boiling tonight.”

“Why?”

“The papers.”

“What's in them?”

“They're screaming about a mob hit on Roland Lambert.”

“What?”

“That's what they got. I didn't write it, that's what they got. Your club's all over it, your name, and they pulled out the Jane Poe case again.”

Oh, hell.
I shouldn't have talked to that reporter. I knew better. Give them one straw, and they'll spin a mountain of gold. I'd been known to do it myself. “Hoyle will know that he missed killing me again.”

“Yeah, that's gonna piss him off.”

“I'll send him flowers.”

“Hey, Boss, it's the way it is.”

“Yeah-yeah. Look, the guys who do know where he is ain't cooperating, that's plain enough. You put the word out that his location is worth two grand to them.”

He nearly choked. “But that-that's—”

Two years' income to most, a tip to others. “Take it out of petty cash. These bozos are gonna cost us five times that if they're left running loose. I'll be at Crymsyn if anything new comes in.”

I hung up before the sputtering started. The phone rang as I shrugged into my coat. My hat was gone. I suspected I'd lost it in the Stockyards during my binge.

Escott was on the other end of the line. His tone was tense. “Good, I wanted to catch you before—”

“What's wrong?”

“Bloody Evie Montana. The little—she slipped her leash.”

“Ah, jeez. How?”

“Oldest trick in the book, through the bathroom window and out.”

“When?”

“This afternoon. I should have anticipated. She'd been harping all day about wanting to go home. I think the girl is rather backward—”

“Can it, Charles, we both know she's the original Dumb Dora.”

“Yet she managed to outfox me. I'd tried to explain the situation to her, but she seemed to think—oh, bloody hell, she doesn't think. That's the problem.”

Hanging around smart women like Vivian and Bobbi had gotten him spoiled. “Well, meet me at the club, and we'll try to hash out a way of finding her again.”

“Right.” He sounded tired. Apparently a day with Evie had not been a picnic.

With a twinge of guilt I realized I should call the hospital and ask after Roland. It wasn't his fault the papers were in a lather about the shooting. I had the operator connect
me, not wanting to bother searching the phone book. Eventually I got through to the nurses' station on Roland's floor and was informed he was doing well, whatever that meant. When I asked for more details I was told when evening visiting hours were, then the line went dead. Standard replies to the standard questions. If something was truly wrong, the answers would have been different. Maybe.

“Two grand for Hoyle?” asked Strome on the way to his car.

“Yeah. You know where he is?”

He shook his head. “But I might know some guys who might know some guys who might. And they don't need to hear about the two grand.”

“No, they don't.” If Strome had been holding out on me . . . but I decided I didn't care. Whatever it took to get Hoyle in a box.

Roland's Hudson was still parked in front of Lady Crymsyn, along with another car. A hopeful reporter. Strome drove around back. I let us in that way, we walked through, then I unlocked the lobby door and let him out again. Less than a minute later the hopeful drove off at a good clip. Strome came in, his face bland. I didn't ask questions and went up to the office.

Lights
and
radio off. Myrna was being different tonight. I turned both on and rummaged in the desk, finding a piece of cardboard in a box of typing paper. I lettered an optimistic
CLOSED
,
BUT BACK SOON
! on it in black ink, then went down to tack it on the entry door.

The lobby phone rang, startling me. I was the one who usually called in on it. Strome kept his hands in his pockets, so I answered.

“Jack?” Bobbi's voice.

“Yeah, honey? You okay?”

“I'm fine, we're all fine. It's been rough, but I got some sleep. I was hoping to catch you. I already tried at Charles's.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I thought you should know I called everyone not to come in tonight.”

She just saved me a ton of effort. “You're an angel. How's Roland?”

“He's in better shape than me and Faustine put together. The papers have been all over him. He's enjoying every moment.”

“Enjoying?”

“His name is in the news, people are wanting his autograph. This is the best thing that's happened to him in ages.”

“Yeah, but will he dance again?” That was a huge nagging worry I'd tried not to think about.

“He seems to think so. I wouldn't put it past him to be up and rehearsing tomorrow. I told him you'd closed the club for the time being, though. He said to tell you not to do that. I couldn't really explain that there was more going on, mostly because I don't know anything.”

“I'll tell you all about it whenever you want.”

“When it's over, then.”

Which could be never at this rate. “It's a deal.” And I hoped she didn't pick up on the pain that lanced through me just then. The false front between us wasn't going to come down.

After last night's uncontrolled debauch I knew I'd have to get away, especially from Bobbi. The longer I stayed, the worse the hurt would be for us both. Club or no club, responsibilities aside, I had to get clear of this mess before I lost my head and killed her.

“Boss?” Strome called up.

Calling
up? What the . . . ?

I looked around and had to steady myself. I was in my
office.
Didn't remember leaving the phone booth or climbing the stairs.

“Oh, God . . .” I sat on the couch, my knees gone weak.

No scent of roses for comfort. Just me alone and crazy in my own skull.

“Boss? Mr. Kroun's here.”

I must be in hell,
I thought.
Or a nearby neighborhood.

“Be right down.” My voice sounded frighteningly normal, like there were two of me. The man who worked the front and kept things moving and the guy in the back who was losing himself in wholesale lots to the darkness within.

Stood up, squared my shoulders, and started to shut down the radio before leaving, then changed my mind. Maybe Myrna would like to have a little music going.

“I'm off to see some bad guys, Myrna. Keep an eye on things, would you?”

I collected my coat, wrapping up and pulling on leather gloves.

That's when I noticed the gun on my desk.

For several mad seconds I froze completely. I could not think how it had gotten there. It was the same Colt Detective Special I'd acquired once upon a time. How in hell . . . ?

I picked it up, hefting the solid, otherwise reassuring weight and broke it open. Fully loaded, with the brand of bullets I favored, still smelling of its last cleaning, it was definitely the same gun. I went cold all over, put it down and backed away, the flesh on my nape going tight.

Had I somehow opened the safe, taken the gun out, placed it on the blotter, and totally forgotten? If that was true, then I really was crazy, and in a much more serious way than before.

A table lamp next to the couch went on and off suddenly. I twitched and whirled to face it.

Oh, jeez . . . what a time for . . .

“Myrna?” I whispered. “Was this your doing?”

No more light play, but I knew the answer, however impossible it seemed. She switched vodka and gin bottles around as a joke, and cut lemons up to help Wilton, but this was a first. A big first. Was she getting stronger? And how far was this kind of thing going to go?

“Thanks, honey,” I said to the air.

I made myself relax and put the gun in my overcoat pocket. At least I'd not been the one who'd done it and forgotten, so I wasn't all that crazy. Just haunted.

“Look after the place, okay?”

No lights flickered in reply as I shut the door.

Kroun was in a shut-mouthed mood, which suited me just fine. He'd parked behind Strome's car, driver's side to the curb. When it was time to leave he slid across the seat. I didn't think he was tired of driving Gordy's car, but only I knew where we were going, and this way minimized conversation.

Strome said he was going to go someplace and see someone, and I hoped it meant turning up Hoyle.

I took a lot of unnecessary turns on the ride toward the Bronze Belt. Kroun would probably know where we were on arrival and could find his way back again, but this way I could tell Coldfield that I'd made an effort. I took one final corner onto a street lined with parked cars and spotted a single opening halfway down. It seemed suspiciously clear, and I expected to find a fireplug, but Isham, one of Coldfield's lieutenants, stepped from a little grocery store next to the space. I parked Gordy's tank and got out.

This was one of the border areas of the Bronze Belt, where the whites and coloreds had to intermingle as dictated by geography. Despite the presence of so many vehicles, it was a hard-knock area; the Caddy stood out.

Isham nodded at the car. “Shoe said there'd be you and Kroun. That him? Everything okay?”

“Pretty much.”

“Where's your Klansman?”

He meant Strome, who did not behave well in mixed company. Isham had made a hobby of baiting him. “He wet the rug, so I tied him in the yard.”

Isham chuckled, and I went back to the car. Kroun slid across the seat again to get out on the curb side. He tried his stare out on Isham. Isham looked past him in such a way that he had to eventually turn to see what was so interesting. There were suddenly a lot of guys visible that we hadn't noticed before. They were in doorways or coming out of other stores or the alleyways. They all had the look.

Kroun grunted, almost smiling. “Peachy.”

We followed Isham into the store, which was a small-time husband-and-wife operation. The couple stood behind the counter, watching the parade with flinty faces. I'd been through there before on a case for Escott and politely saluted the lady since I was minus a hat. Neither of them reacted.

Isham took us out the back door, turning right down the rear alley, then went into another door, this one to an eatery. I got a partial whiff of grease and stale coffee, then made a determined effort not to inhale accidentally. Food smells made me nauseous, even the expensive stuff.

We didn't bother going to the front, but through an inside door to a small washroom. Isham opened a closet door, revealing a narrow space with a mop and bucket and shelves crowded with cleaning supplies and junk. He pulled on one
of the shelves and the wall—rather a door fixed to look like a wall—swung out. A bare hall, badly lighted, lay within.

Kroun paused. “Jeez, what kinda place you got here?”

“The kind that's safe,” said Isham. “Fleming knows the rest of the way.”

“It's okay,” I said, going in first. Kroun doubtfully followed. It was only twenty feet, not enough to make me nervous, and the opposite door also opened into a storage closet, this one full of bed linens and towels. I pulled on the light cord. The bare bulb above us went on, and I carefully shut up the passage behind. It clicked softly into place and once more resumed looking like a back wall supporting a couple coat hooks. A work apron dangled limp from one of them.

“Up and through,” I said.

“Then what? Secret ladders?”

“Nah, just stairs.”

Outside was a regular back hallway, no frills. Shiny linoleum, plain white walls, a hotel maids' cart shoved to one side. At the end were service stairs, and we went up two flights.

“Where the hell are we?” Kroun was puffing. You'd think a mobster would be in better shape.

“Somewhere in the next block from the car. You saw the neighborhood. It wouldn't do for a couple of white guys to be seen going in and out of a colored hotel.”

“Why'd you bring Gordy here, then?”

“Is this where you'd ever look for him?”

“Huh. That's good. How'd you fix it?”

“Connections and a donation or two to a good cause.”

Dr. Clarson and those of his colleagues who took care of Gordy were being well compensated, as was the owner of the hotel, but that we were here at all was Shoe Coldfield's
doing. Without his blessing and help, Gordy might have been a sitting duck even in his own territory. Coldfield would have done it anyway as a favor to me and Escott, but he was also doing himself a favor. With someone like Gordy owing him in such a big way, a gang boss could get a lot of things done for his turf.