Fully 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 decor 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.
"Mrs. Caine?"
"Who wants to know?"
"My name's Jack Fleming."
"So how do you know me?"
"I'm associated with this club."
Her chin went up. "You gonna throw me out?"
"I hope not. All right if I sit with you?"
She thought it over, giving me a hard up and down, then nodded. "What do you mean by 'associated'?"
I took my hat off, put it to one side, and slipped in opposite. "I know the owner. I'm helping manage the place for the time being."
She made no reply but stubbed the old cigarette and went on to the next, her fingertips yellow from chainsmoking.
There were matches on the table. I had one lighted by the time she needed it. She leaned forward and puffed her smoke to life. "So you manage the place. What do you want from me?"
"Nothing. I just noticed last evening you seemed to have a stack of grievances against your ex-husband-"
"More of a mountain. He owes me a lot of alimony, that's the main one. It's pulling teeth with tweezers to get him to cough up anything, but I really need it, the landlord's leaning on me, and I owe for groceries. It's not like I'm wasting anything..." She shut herself down, mouth twisted with disgust. "Christ, but don't I sound pathetic."
"If he's holding out, you've a right to be upset. What about getting him into court?"
"That costs money. I can't feed myself, much less some lawyer." She sucked in a draft from her cigarette and politely vented it to one side. "Look, kid, maybe you want to help, but I've been over all the angles, and unless Alan pays up, I'm on the street in the morning. But then he'd enjoy that, the son of a bitch."
I raised a hand and a waitress came over. They knew about my temporary rise in rank. Fast service for the boss was part of the job. "What will you have, Mrs. Caine?"
Surprisingly, she wanted only water and a twist of lemon. From her behavior last night I took her to be a hard drinker.
The waitress came back quick with a glass and a bowl of peanuts. Jewel attacked them, but one at a time, yellow fingers delicate. I wondered if she'd eaten lately. She didn't look starved, but you didn't have to look it to be hungry. I was acquainted with that a little too well.
"Thanks, kid," she said, lifting her glass.
"Just call me Jack."
"Yeah. I've seen you around. Heard you run that red club with the funny name."
"Lady Crymsyn."
"Any jobs open? Or has Alan gotten to you, too?"
"What do you mean?"
"He's a big draw. Bigger than me, now. He won't sing at any club that's given me work. They always go with the money, and I get bupkis. He sees to it."
"What can you do?"
"Just about anything. I can sing, but I'll wait tables, clean the damn toilets if I have to."
"How good a singer are you?"
"I do all right with wistful throaty stuff, nothing fast." She tapped ash off. "These things spoiled my voice, put a limit on my range, but I can't seem to kick 'em. I've got plenty of songs I can get away with that aren't a strain on the cords, and I'm good with mood pieces. I can make a rock cry."
That told me she knew her stuff. "I'm booked for acts this week, but maybe can give you a short set to do."
Jewel stared, hovering between disbelief and hope. "You sure? For real?"
"That jackass is never gonna sing at my place. It's only a short set. It won't pay much."
"Kid, I'm making nothing now, I'll take it."
"Can you start tomorrow?"
"Yeah, but-"
"I'll notify my booking manager." I got my wallet and gave her a business card for the club. "Go over tomorrow around three with your music and work things out. You'll talk to Bobbi Smythe. You know her?"
"Yeah, but-"
"Your landlord? A loan, then." I had forty bucks and gave it to her. "Interest-free. You need more?"
"Christ, kid, that's two month's rent!"
"It's okay, I'll take it out of Caine's salary. He must owe you more than that, though."
"A few thousand."
"I'll set something up at this end. So long as he sings here, you'll get your alimony. It won't be permanent, all he has to do is leave for someplace else, but maybe you'll have enough to get on your feet?"
"Hell, yes." She seemed very taken aback. "Why you doin' this?"
I shrugged. "It gets my mind off my own troubles."
"Must be some troubles."
I didn't want to talk about what churned my guts. "How'd you two get together?"
She snorted. "Ten years back I was the big star and he was... well, you've seen him. He's a knockout. He still is."
"Not to me."
"Men." Jewel puffed, wearing her cig down half an inch in one draw. "He got to me with that big smile and those gorgeous eyes and sweet talk like it was going out of style. I went nuts over him. It's the only reason I can think of, that I was out of my mind. We got married, and it was good, and I got him singing lessons, then jobs. I wanted us to work up a duet routine, but he said he got more work as a single act. Eventually I figured out it meant he got more women that way. He was vile about it. Shoved it in my face like it was my fault."
I listened and nodded as she touched on the low points. She had a long list of bitter grievances, the usual for when life and love goes bad for a couple. Caine had gone out of his way to be a jerk, though. Jewel struck me as being able to give as good as she got, but he'd worn her down, then moved on.
She wore a kind of choker necklace made of blue beads, and when she held still the beads moved in time to her pulsing veins. I took a breath and caught the scent of blood under her sallow skin.
Not good. I shouldn't be noticing those kinds of things. I'd fed myself sick at the Stockyards, wasn't remotely hungry tonight, and human blood was off my menu, anyway. Didn't matter. I was wanting it the way I used to want a drink back when I lived in New York. Except for weekend binges when I could afford it, I had that under control. I did it then, I could do it now. Really.
"If you got any brains, you'll never have Alan perform at your place," Jewel concluded. She'd apparently forgotten what I'd said before. This sounded like something she repeated often to many people.
"I'll hire a special bouncer just to keep him out."
She broke into a smile and looked pretty for it. "You're all right, Jack."
Past her shoulder I caught sight of Mitchell, returned from someplace or other so he could watch me for some reason or other.
Jewel noticed and glanced where I was looking, snorting again. Her eyes sharpened into a glare, an odd look on her face, then she smiled again. This time it took away from her looks. "There's another one to keep clear of. Used to run with the Morelli gang before Gordy took over. You don't want to know why he had to leave town." She gave a short, unpleasant laugh.
"Of course I do. You can't do a fanfare like that and leave me hanging."
"No. It's vile, too, and I've had enough for one night. Besides, Alan just came in."
True. Alan Caine, with Evie Montana in close and adoring tow, sauntered in on the other side of the room, not noticing us. He did see Mitchell, though, and made a point of walking right by him. Caine gave him a big, disarming smile, and Mitchell went stony.
"You got a problem, Mitch?" Caine acted puzzled.
Mitchell kept shut, but clearly they had some kind of feud going, probably carried all the way from New York. Easy to understand, given their personalities. What was coming out from behind Mitchell's eyes would have melted steel.
Evie noticed and tugged on Caine's arm to move on.
"I feel sorry for her," said Jewel. "There's no point trying to wise up her type about Alan, though. She'll have to learn the hard way."
"He's gonna break her heart?"
"Yeah, but only after he's gambled off all her money and hocked everything she's got, up to and including her step-ins."
Evie seemed to be a girl not too interested in wearing much in the way of underclothes. Her satin skirt was pretty tight, and I couldn't see lines showing through. Bobbi did the same thing herself a lot of the time.
And I didn't need to be thinking about... about anything.
Caine resisted Evie's efforts to move him, continuing to smirk. The idiot must have thought his talent made him bulletproof, but there is a certain kind of mug who doesn't worry about consequences. Mitchell might be one of them.
If Caine wasn't careful, he could get a broken leg or worse. He could sing sitting down, but wouldn't be happy about it.
Not liking Caine, I wouldn't have minded letting matters take their natural course; but as caretaker for Gordy's investment, it was up to me to keep the peace. A week or so back I'd have involved myself, but didn't trust how I might react if either of them got stupid with me. Instead, I signaled to some of the club's muscle to make themselves visible to Mitchell.
He saw, if Caine didn't, and strolled off, Caine laughing at his back. Even from here I could pick up on the booze tone in his voice. This time Evie Montana succeeded in dragging him away.
"Men." Jewel gave a deep, derisive sigh. "Alan's a damn fool. Never does know when to quit. He's the kind of guy who drinks and pretends he doesn't."
"If he's too drunk, you could have a job here tonight," I said, half-joking.
"He's smart enough to never miss a cue. But I should have this job. Instead, I got bills and this." She lifted her glass of water. Sipped.
"That mean something?"
"Yeah. It was easier being married to him if I stayed drunk all the time. Trouble was, after the divorce I kept on being drunk. Thought I should warn you... in case you want your money back."
"You're having water now, though?"
"I'm on the wagon. You might as well know I'm going to Alcoholics Anonymous. Someone told me they can really help, and so far so good. I've been sober two weeks. Two weeks and six hours."
"Congratulations."
"Thanks. Though when I look in a mirror and see what the sauce has done to me I think maybe I should go back to it so I don't care anymore."
"You look just fine."
She smiled and patted my hand. "Sweet of you to say so, kid. I used to stop traffic in fog at midnight. Don't mind me. This is how I feel sorry for myself when I'm sober. It's better than when I'm drunk, though."
By this time she'd finished off the bowl of peanuts. "You hungry?" I asked. "The kitchen'll do you up a steak on the house."
She hesitated before giving an answer, but finally nodded and smiled. "Thanks. You're too decent a guy to be in this joint."
"No, I'm not. This is exactly where I'm supposed to be." I flagged a waitress, and she wrote down Jewel's order, then whisked off to the barely opened kitchen.
"You got a girl, don't you?" asked Jewel.
"How's that?"
"A guy as nice as you has a girl somewhere. Hope she's treating you right."
I felt myself going red. "Far better than I deserve."
Strome walked in the front, saving me from having to come up with another change of subject. I waved him over and explained about needing the car until mine was fixed.
"No problem," he said. "Except Kroun wants a ride back to his hotel when he's done here. I can get you another car."
"I'll wait." Strome might pick up things of interest from Kroun and Mitchell he could pass on. They'd likely be too smart to talk openly in front of him, but you never knew. "Why's Kroun still hanging around?"
"More business with Gordy. They're talking now."
What? "Gordy's here?"
"In the casino."
"He's supposed to be resting, dammit."
"Try telling him that. When the big boss says jump, you ask how high. That's how it works."
Hell. I got my hat and stood, excusing myself to Jewel, adding an apology.
She took it in stride. "Men," she said, lighting another cigarette.
I went into the not-quite-opened casino, but Gordy wasn't there after all.
Strome only shrugged. "Means they're up in the office. You might wanna steer clear."
"Why?"
"The more people in a room talking business, the longer it takes to finish."
That bordered on the genius. "Yeah, okay. But have someone tell me when they're done. I want a word with Gordy, too."
"Sure."
"Anything new on Hoyle?"
"He ain't left town yet. Donno why."
"Where is he?"
"Donno that, either. Dropped outta my sight, but some of the other boys have seen him."
"Doing what?"
He lifted his hands. "Sayin' good-bye?"
"See if you can find out more. I'm getting so I don't like that guy."
Strome's face almost twitched, and he moved on toward the back exit, presumably heading for the office to watch for the meeting to break up.
I found a phone and called Crymsyn's lobby to check in.
Instead of Wilton, Bobbi answered. "You're not backstage?" I asked.
She sounded a little breathless. "I just came down with the cash tills. Something told me that was your ring. You need to put a phone behind the bar."
The place already had one official phone in my office; I didn't see why we needed more, but this wasn't the time to discuss it. "I should be there to help, but I got sidetracked."
"I know, 'business.' We're fine here, Jack, there's no need to worry. Take a vacation why don't you?"
"At another nightclub?"
"Sure, see different faces for a change. Charles is helping me open, everyone's in on time. We're fine here."
"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.