A Song In The Dark (6 page)

He held to a snarling expression, but his eyes flickered. He must have picked up from my voice that I was being literal.

“You got lucky, Hoyle. You didn't kill anyone, so I don't have to kill you. But I
am
annoyed. If I get even a hint that you're only just
thinking
about being stupid again, you will be walking on stumps. Now pick these saps off the mat and stay outta my way.”

“Or what, you tell Gordy?” He'd reduced serious business down to schoolyard-level snitching.

Logic would never work on him, only pain. I knew a lot about pain. I hit him again, plowing tough into the hard shell of his middle. A strike from a bare fist is different from the boxing gloves he'd been used to; the force is more concentrated. Some men hold back to spare their hands. That
wasn't anything I needed to worry about. I stopped short of rupturing his insides, but only just.

“Or,” I said, talking quietly right into his ear, “
I
will kill you, Hoyle.”

He was doubled down, and when he managed to suck in air, it came out again as profanity. Weak-sounding, though. No breath for it.

Couldn't let him get away with even that much. I dragged him up again and pulled his gun from my belt. He favored a revolver. I clapped it against the side of his skull to get his attention, then shoved the muzzle into his nose.

“I will kill you, Hoyle. Same as you just tried on me—only I won't miss.”

To drive the point home, I threw him on the ground and quick-fired close to his head, using up the remaining three bullets. The gun didn't seem to make any sound at all, but for Hoyle it must have been a hell of a roar. Arms up, he convulsed away from where the lead struck snow inches from his face, then held still, staring at the gun, not me. He must have known it was empty, but a jolt like that is not easily shrugged off.

“What will I do, Hoyle?”

Trembling, he looked up blankly.

“What will I do?”

“Y-you'll kill me,” he whispered.

“You're gonna remember that every time you think of me, every time you say my name, every time you
hear
my name, that's what you will remember. I will kill you.”

I broke the gun open, tipping the cylinder clear. Shell casings rained out. Grasping it in one hand and the frame in the other I gave them each an opposing twist that hurt even my hands, but it was worth it. The metal held for a second,
then abruptly snapped. I dropped both pieces on either side of the astonished Hoyle.

“
Every
time.”

I slouched across the Caddy's backseat for the return trip to Chicago, a strange reprise of how the evening had started, just a different mood. Playing tough was getting easier the more I did it, but afterward the reaction would set in, leaving me surly and almost as torn up inside as the people I'd leaned on. Of course, I couldn't show any of that to Strome. My breaking the gun in two had breached even his expressionless reserve, and I didn't want to lose what awed respect had been gained. Not that I didn't already have it in spades.

I wanted Gordy on his feet again real soon. Some number of the boys in the gang were like Hoyle, resenting an outsider giving them orders, but they'd behaved themselves out of respect for Gordy. That Hoyle had a grudge against me for taking the big chair wasn't news, but he'd given no hint till now about making an open challenge. It wasn't only against me but Gordy as well, which was a few miles past stupid, but brains were in short supply for some of them. Hoyle had thrown down the glove, mob style, and I'd beaten him silly with it. Would that and my promise of death be enough to hold him in place?

“Is Hoyle going to be smart?” I asked Strome, interrupting the long silence of the drive.

Strome didn't answer right off, which boded ill. He thought it over a while. “He might.”

“But . . . ?”

“He might not.” He gave a minimal shrug, which reminded me a lot of Gordy. “He could get over his scare and
try something else. You shoulda scragged him. Or at least sent him onna vacation like you done others.”

I had a reputation for persuading stubborn people to do very unlikely things, like suddenly running off to Havana. None was aware they'd been forcibly hypnotized. It was part of my edge. I used it to get out of troublesome situations, like earlier tonight with Kroun. But after that head-busting agony I wasn't about to try anything fancy so soon. Hoyle wasn't worth the pain. I'd broken the gun to keep from breaking him. Which I could have done all too easily. It's a frightening thing to find out what one is capable of when the restraints are gone. Hog Bristow taught me that.

“Keep an eye on Hoyle,” I said. “See to it he leaves town and have someone keep tabs where he goes and what he does when he arrives. If you think he'll step out of line, I wanna know before he does. The same for his goons. You tell me, and we'll take it from there. If I'm not available, use your best judgment and take care of 'em yourself.”

“Right, Boss.”

“And don't get caught.”

“Right, Boss.”

It was just that easy to put a death sentence on people. God, what had they twisted me into? I wasn't supposed to be like this. I was a normal guy with parents in Cincinnati, friends, a girlfriend, my own business. I liked flashy clothes, reading dime magazines, and was trying to turn myself into a writer one of these nights. So what that I was also a vampire? Killing people wasn't part and parcel with the condition. Hell, I didn't even have to kill to eat, just drain a little blood from cattle that could spare it . . .

Bad line of thought, that. Head it off. Quick.

“Strome. What happened back at the club? How'd you know where to go?”

“One of 'em clobbered me from behind, only he didn't make a good job of it. Knocked me down but not out. I saw them toss you in the back of the truck, then some piled into a car with Hoyle and took off. Good thing it was Ruzzo driving the truck, too.”

“Why's that?”

“They got into a fight over who'd drive. By the time they figured it out I was able to get up and into Gordy's car. Then I just followed.”

“You did good, Strome. Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“Your head bad?”

“I'll live. How'd you get outta the truck?”

I stole the idea from him. “With Ruzzo driving? I just let myself out when we stopped. I kept low. They didn't see a thing.”

Thankfully, he accepted it. He nodded. “Before all that, I was gonna say something to ya about Mitchell. That you should look out for him.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“He didn't like what Kroun did. Letting you off.”

Mitchell had been poker-faced and then some through the whole session. The only time he showed anything was when I refused to display my war wounds. Such as they weren't. “How could you tell?”

“Used to see him around. Here. Back when Slick Morelli ran the business.”

I did my damnedest not to react. Morelli had been one of the bastards who helped murder me. “How far back was that?”

“Couple years. When Gordy took over, Mitchell left for New York. He didn't mind being third fiddle when Slick
was in charge, but he wouldn't stand for being second fiddle to Gordy.”

Strome was revealing new depths. I never thought the man was so musically inclined. “He was that high up? Third in line?”

“He was in there, but mostly in his own head.”

“Was Mitchell ever up for Slick's job?”

“Not that I heard. There was a hell of a mess with Slick and Lebredo suddenly both gone, but Gordy stepped in and kept things smooth, and that's what the big bosses wanted. No waves. Mitch didn't like how it turned out, so he moved to greener pastures.”

So there was a very good possibility that Mitchell remembered me from then, which might better explain his initial reaction. It wasn't my looking young, but that I was the same Fleming who'd been around when Slick Morelli and Lucky Lebredo killed each other.

That's how we made it
look
, anyway.

I didn't specifically remember Mitchell from my encounter with Morelli's gang. Aside from Gordy, who was too big to ignore, I hadn't paid much attention to the muscle. The most I could say now was that Mitchell probably hadn't been one of the guys who actually crowded me at the time, though he might have been on the fringes looking on.

“Gordy can tell you plenty on him,” said Strome. “More than me. He knows the real dirt.”

Gordy could have mentioned something when we'd been talking in the casino. On the other hand he hadn't been feeling so well. He couldn't think of everything, and when Mitchell arrived it'd been too late to give me a heads up. Then again, Gordy might have held back so my attention
would be on Kroun, not his lieutenant and bad memories about my own murder.

“So I should keep an eye on Mitchell?”

“I was just sayin' he didn't like what happened up there. Don't see what diff it should make to him. It's just something to know.”

“You talk like Gordy.”

He took it as a big compliment, nodding. “Thanks. You worked it okay with Kroun. I didn't think you'd get out alive.”

“Neither did I.”

“Sure you did. You knew before going in you'd walk clear. I could tell. I thought you was wrong, but you knew.”

“The power of positive thinking.”

“Maybe. But you got Kroun on your side pretty fast. He's seen men hurt before. Looking at what Bristow did to you ain't gonna bring a guy like him out in hearts and flowers. How'd you do it?”

I gave a minimal shrug like I'd seen Gordy do a hundred times. “There was stuff going on under the talk. I could see Kroun didn't want me killed. That would create more problems he didn't want to bother with. He just needed a reasonable way out and took the one I offered.”

“Who'da thought it?”

Me. Just now.

“Radio,” I said, not wanting more questions. “Put it on.”

“Got it.”

Strome turned the knob and fiddled the tuning until I said stop when he found a comedy. We listened to the remaining ten minutes of Jack Benny. The stuff was funny enough that Strome actually smiled once. I thought his skin would buckle and crack under the strain.

I lay back, well out of range of the rearview mirror, and
shut my eyes against the growing brightness of Chicago. The jokes and puns and sound effects washed over me, and I didn't have to think about anything.

I couldn't sleep, of course, not until sunrise, and then it's a different kind of sleep, a shutdown of everything, dreamless, silent, too peaceful to last. I longed to be able to voluntarily conk myself out like that whenever I wanted, but the night wouldn't let me go.

The next program was longhair music, so I had Strome find a station with another comedy going. It was good to hear familiar tinny voices talking about ridiculous situations that had nothing to do with my own personal disasters. I was too isolated inside myself to be able to appreciate the humor just yet, but maybe in a couple weeks . . .

Or months. A couple years. Maybe never. But could I live with never?

My girlfriend, Bobbi, one of the reasons I was still more or less sane after Bristow's damage, would have something unsympathetic to say about that kind of thinking. She had plenty of caring for me, but no patience for self-pity. It was sometimes hard to know the difference between it and honest pain. I used Bobbi's probable response to my unspoken thoughts as a way of keeping the balance. Angst or honesty? Hell, she'd just tell me to flip a coin about it, then walk away from the result without looking.

Sensible gal, my Bobbi.

We were well into Chicago when the comedy ran out, replaced by a weather report. The announcer mentioned sleet, which roused me enough to look outside. Yeah, nice and wet and miserable, cold, but not to the point that the frozen rain glazed the streets yet. The stuff was smaller than rice grains, ticking gently against the windows, clinging for a moment, melting, sliding down, gone. This was a night to
be inside next to a fire. I could arrange it, but couldn't trust that the thoughts keeping me company would be the warm and cozy kind.

I asked Strome to find another radio show. A broadcast of
The Shadow
was on, so we listened to it. I liked that guy. Life was simple for him. All his troubles could be solved by clouding a man's mind or shooting him—the kind of stuff I'd fallen into—but Lamont Cranston always made a fresh start with each episode. He didn't have to think about consequences to himself or others in between or carry them along all the time with him like a lead suitcase full of bricks.

We headed north a few blocks until I directed Strome to go east.

“You wanting Escott's place?” he asked.

My occasional partner's office was in the right area. Close enough. It didn't surprise me that Strome knew the location of the business. “Yeah, there.”

The Caddy had special modifications to support the extra weight of the bulletproof windows and armor, but you could tell from the ride there was something different about the car, especially the heavy way it had of taking corners. That gave a nice feeling of security. Escott's Nash was similarly smartened up, but not to this degree. I'd have to take him for a ride in this one while the opportunity was available and watch his reaction.

Despite the fact the car was half tank, Strome took short cuts, moving quick enough for the evening traffic because of the powerful engine. It swilled gas and oil like a drunk guzzling cheap hooch, but daily stops at a filling station seemed an even trade for the smooth running and safety.

There seemed to be a lot of stop signals, and they were all against us. Being a man of careful, attention-avoiding habits
Strome didn't miss any of them or go over the speed limit. He braked in midblock before the stairs leading up to the Escott Agency.

This was where my friend ran a business that was a close cousin to private investigation, though Charles W. Escott insisted he was not a detective but a private agent. He sometimes referred to himself as a glorified errand runner, doing odd jobs for people who would rather not touch the chore themselves. The private-agent angle earned him a living, and I helped him out on cases when he needed it.