The Vampire Files - Bloodlist Part 15

The taxi dropped me at a row of two- and three-story buildings that looked old enough to have escaped the Fire, or had been built immediately afterward. Kids played in the quiet street, and parents sat on the steps and fanned themselves in the twilight. It was a respectable middle-cla.s.s neighborhood. It hardly seemed suitable for Escott, but then again I couldn't think what else would have been right.

I rang the bell of a brown brick building of three floors and Cal opened the door.

"Hi, Mist' Fleming. Shoe said you was coming."

From somewhere close inside, Escott said, "Were coming, Cal."

Cal grinned and said it again correctly, standing back for me. It was a small entryway, with a rack on the wall to hang hats and coats. Directly ahead were stairs leading up into shadows. On their left was a hall going through to the back of the house. An open set of double doors were parallel to the stairs, and beyond them was a cramped sitting room, where Escott was lying on an old chintz-covered sofa. He was in a deep purple bathrobe; the color made him look more pale than he was.

There were tired circles under his eyes, but he seemed glad to see me.

"Come and sit down. Will you have some tea?"

The question was for Cal's benefit; I politely declined. "You look better than last night. How do you feel?"

"Tired, but I'll live through it. Shoe invited me to stay at his place, but I wanted to come home. We finally compromised, and he let me go, but only on condition that Cal stays over and keeps an eye on me."

"Good, I was afraid you'd be alone."At second look, the place only seemed cramped. The high ceilings made the floor area appear smaller in proportion. The floor was highly polished, reflecting the lamplight and a few comfortable old pieces of furniture. Several pictures hung by long wires from the upper moldings. They were all large mediocre prints of naked women reclining on clouds with naked babies and doves, and were hardly consistent with Escott's character.

"Did this place come furnished?"

He noticed where I was looking, his eyes crinkling. "Do you like them?"

"They're... interesting."

* He didn't miss my expression. "You have excellent taste. They shall no doubt prove profitable to the junk dealer as soon as I can get around to it."

"They came with the house?"

"Yes, certainly. It has an interesting history. I have it on good account from my neighbors that the place was once a bordello."

"The previous tenants are gone?"

"Yes, the owner died some time ago, the place went for sale, and I was able to buy it quite cheaply, as no one wanted to live here. You know, I still occasionally have to turn away an old customer who hasn't heard the news yet. My life is not dull- sometimes odd, but never dull." He sipped his tea. "Shoe thinks I should talk you out of pursuing your own case and to turn it over to the police."

"You know I can't go to them the way I am."

"I know, but Shoe doesn't. He obviously has decided that I have no further interest in it because of this little incident."

"I'm not too surprised; he mentioned it last night. I am sorry about this. If I'd been faster-"

He shook his head. "No one else could have been faster, I've seen it and you did save me, after all, and I am grateful. Forget about it, I'll be up and doing soon enough."

Cal came in with a gla.s.s of water and a small bottle of pills. "It's time."

Grimacing and accepting two, he washed them down quickly to get it over with, then Cal took the gla.s.s away to the kitchen. As soon as he was gone, Escott spit the pills fastidiously into a handkerchief and tucked it into the robe's pocket. He drank more tea to wash away their taste.

"What gives?" I asked.

"They're morphine. I've seen what it can do to people, and I'd really rather endure the pain. At least I know it will go away. Clarson is an excellent fellow and discreet, but he really should know better. I had an armful of the stuff this morning and could hardly do anything for myself.''

I wondered what he could possibly feel up to doing in his condition. "Do you need anything now?"

"Only more patience."

"You aren't talking me out of this mess?"

"We're enough alike that I know better than to try."

"I'm going there soon."

"Tonight?"

'Tomorrow. I want to give them time to cool down from last night's fracas. They wanted to know who we were with. You think they thought we were Pace's men?"

"Possibly, or any of a dozen smaller gangs out for trouble. I'm inclined to think they were just naturally suspicious. What do you plan to do?"

"I was a journalist two weeks ago...I'll just check things out like it was any other story and see what happens." Vague at best as an idea, but it had worked for me on other occasions and had turned into acceptable copy. I was hoping to turn this into my missing memory.

Escott was visibly tired, so I wished him well and left, walking around the city for a couple of hours. Coldfield was right about some places being dangerous, but I was a big boy now and could take care of myself. I was looking things over, getting acquainted with the streets and the personality of each block, slowly working toward the Stockyards and my inevitable stop there.

By now I had ceased to be too squeamish about the blood drinking. That oddball reaction had hit me on my second visit there. My first feeding had been done in a kind of panic; "you must do this or die." It had been quick, dreamlike, and with no time to think. My second visit had been more leisurely, and when it came down to bra.s.s tacks, I almost balked. The thought of opening an animal's vein with my teeth and sucking blood from the wound was nauseating, but out of necessity I had to push the thought from my mind and get on with the business. Intellectually, I still had trouble handling the process, but by now I was at least getting used to it. It helped to think of it in terms of a habit, like brus.h.i.+ng one's teeth; boring, but it had to be done.

The blood completely satisfied my hunger and gave me strength, but its ingestion was a far cry from sitting comfortably around a table with friends and socializing into the small hours over real food and drink.

Leaving the yards, I wandered a long time until I found an all-night theatre and went in. Leslie Howard pined after MerleOberon in The Scarlet Pimpernel, and I watched it three times in a row, until I was rooting for Raymond Ma.s.sey to win. He never did, so I went home and read the papers until dawn.

The personals still carried my question to Maureen, but had no reply. I told myself again I was a fool to hope after all these months and should just give it up. As always, I gave a mental shrug. It wouldn't hurt for just one more week, it really wouldn't.

But it really did. The trick was to ignore the hurt and keep hoping.

The tuxedo fit well enough. 1 was one of those lucky ones who could buy things right off the rack, even pants. The new patent leather shoes were a bit snug, but they'd be well broken in tonight. A mirror would have been useful, for I was interested in how young I appeared. I'd fed heavily last night to obtain good color as well, as I planned to pa.s.s myself off as Gerald Fleming again.

I transferred some cash into a new wallet and worked the stiffness from it. The rest of my money was locked in the trunk with my other personal papers. The wallet had a little pasteboard card with lines for printing one's name and address. I filled it in with the name of Gerald Fleming, a phony out-of-town address, and the name of Jack Fleming as someone to contact in case of an emergency. As a legal ID it was totally useless, but better than nothing at all. I draped the white silk scarf so it hung in front, and finished things off with the top hat.

I left by the back door, partially from paranoia, partially from the idea that if anyone in the lobby glommed me in this memorable getup they'd raise my rent. A few blocks away I caught a cab and had it take me to the lion's den.

Tonight the windows of the Nightcrawler were bright, and fancy people were streaming in and out even at this early hour. I paid the driver and trotted up the wide steps in order to slip inside with a knot of revelers, but found my way suddenly blocked by an agile mountain disguised as a man in a tuxedo. He had short blond hair, small eyes, and a chronically grim set to his mouth.

"Good evening," he said civilly. I mumbled a reply of some kind, noting he was giving me careful study. His eyes flicked to some grillwork set like an oversized vent in one branch of the U-shaped entrance. The darkness of the small room beyond wasn't quite adequate to hide the man with the gun who sat there. He nodded and the mountain stood aside and let me by. I pretended not to notice this exchange, as they decided I wasn't a dangerous character. It was favorable to be underestimated. 1 looked young and hopefully innocent-all that was needed was a touch of stupidity.

Considering some of my antics from the past, that would probably be very easy.

The doorman did his duty, but I paused at the threshold with a brief attack of doubt and insecurity. Though it would have been too dangerous for him, I wished Escott was along. I missed his confidence. Despite the advantages I had now, I could still get scared. For just one second I nearly turned back, but a silly-looking woman with frizzed black hair and too much makeup caught a look at me and whooped h.e.l.lo. Her party had preceded me coming in and were already more than a little drunk.

"Whatcha waitin' for, a streetcar? Come on in, cutey," she shrilled.

I couldn't stand this kind of drunk, but went in before I started thinking again.

She latched on to my arm.

"Isn't he cute? Hey, Ricky, isn't he cute, isn't he?"

Ricky said, "Yeah," and swayed a little. How had they qualified getting in if the watchdogs had been so careful with me?

"That's how I like 'em, tall 'n cute," she told Ricky reproachfully. I hadn't been cute since I traded my short pants in for an older brother's hand-me-downs, but let them drag me inside. Stepping away from the door, I heard the men behind us chuckling. Good. If they found my situation something to laugh at. they might also think me harmless.

As politely as possible under the circ.u.mstances, I detached myself from the lady's grip and checked my hat and scarf in with the first of the many stunning blonds that worked there. Platinum was the dominant color, apparently a requirement for employment. They wore short black dresses decorated with silver sequins in the pattern of a spider's web. Over their hearts were black, red and silver pins of stylized spiders, all of which were a nice gimmick to tie in with the name of the club.

With difficulty, I turned my attention from the girls to the rest of the place. It was very noisy. The barrage of conversation trying to be heard over the bra.s.sy orchestra was like a riot in a large dog kennel. With that image in mind it was easy to categorize the patrons. There were a few high-cla.s.s ones with pedigrees, but the overwhelming breed represented were the mutts; well-dressed, but mutts all the same.

Another blond came up and led me to a table the size of a dinner plate and told me the waiter would be by shortly. The place was surprisingly busy for a weeknight, but well organized. In less than a minute a young man appeared and took my order for Irish coffee, which also appeared in less than a minute. I pretended to sip, though bringing it to my lips was an act of will, and I had to stifle a gag. For distraction I looked around and caught several unescorted young ladies giving me a hopeful eye. I wasn't that handsome-they were working girls. I had no inclinations for that at the moment, so my gaze slid past to the swaying couples on the floor below. The band wound up the music, the dancers dispersed, and the lights went down. A single spot picked out another platinum blond leaning against the grand piano. She was in something long, white, and silvery, a nice contrast to the brief black skirts of the other girls and a perfect complement to her long s.h.i.+mmering hair.

She sang something sad and shallow in a voice that was surprisingly good, filling the room and hus.h.i.+ng even the worst drunks. As with any woman I noticed, I was comparing her to Maureen, looking for something wrong, but for once the lady was holding her own. She finished her song, and the lights faded and came up, but by then she was gone, leaving her audience wanting more. The band cut to another number and couples began to venture onto the floor again. I looked up and saw a pretty girl smiling at me, holding a tray full of tobacco products.

"Bobbi always knocks 'em dead," she observed with a nod toward the stage. I made a business of picking out some cigarettes and got her to talk a little. In two minutes I found but where she lived, when she got off work, the time of Bobbi's next number, the location of the gambling rooms, and the requirements to get inside, which were specifically a-lot of cash and the willingness to lose it fast. Her interest cooled and she moved on, apparently having had experience with gamblers. I'd seen the type as well; men who would rather gamble than make love, more fool they.

And here I was trying to imitate them. I abandoned my table and drifted over to a guarded door marked PRIVATE. The large man there asked my name. I gave the one I was using that night and was slightly disappointed to get no reaction. He consulted a telephone, a buzzer sounded, and he opened the door wide.

It was another big room, but much quieter, lit by crystal chandeliers and dimmed by cigarette smoke. I'd been in places like this before, but never when they were in one piece. Usually I was hot in the wake of a police raid making a written account of the destruction and noting down who had been arrested for what. Prior to tonight I had never been able to afford this sort of decadence. It felt great.

At the money cage I bought two hundred dollars in chips, blanching inwardly at the small pile they made in my pocket. For something to do, I lit a cigarette and studied faces. Not one of them was familiar, which was all for the best, since I didn't want to be noticed right away. I wandered around, looking for Slick Morelli. He was either not there or my memory was not cooperating the way it had at Frank Paco's.

Maybe I was expecting too much from my traumatized brain.

Giving it a rest, I found an isolated corner and got into a blackjack game, winning ten dollars and losing fifty before realizing I could cheat without getting caught.

The dealer's face had about as much expression as a dead fish, but he had no control over his heart rate. When the immediate noise level occasionally subsided, I could just hear it. Every time he dealt the house a good hand it beat just a little louder and faster, and after some concentrated practice at sorting out the internal signals my rate of winning rose marginally. I didn't win every time, that was impossible with the other players and the natural fall of the cards, but I had enough of an edge to win more than lose. In an hour I left the table a thousand dollars ahead, excited at the prospect of a new vocation in life.

Circling the room again, I looked at the new faces, checking out the suckers at the roulette tables and slot machines. One of the machine patrons was the singer, Bobbi.

She looked just as good, if not better, close up as she did fifty feet away on stage.

Now she was wearing a black sequin-trimmed wrap over her bare shoulders. It must have been to provide some modesty to her stage gown, but since the black material was practically transparent it had just the opposite effect.

She pushed a coin into the slot and hauled the lever down with just enough precise force, indicating long practice. She got a cherry and two lemons. Her face revealed no disappointment.

Her moves were automatic: push in a coin, yank the lever, and wait, push in a coin... I was getting hypnotized. She won a small pot, added the money to the stack she kept ready, and started over again. I wondered if she'd rather gamble than make love.

She noticed me out of the corner of her eye. Just my luck, the first emotion I inspired in her was annoyance. "The floor show's in the next room, ace."

"Sorry, didn't know I was intruding."

"You shouldn't look over other people's shoulders."

I moved around to her front field of view and angled so I could look out across the room. Tapping out a cigarette, I offered her one.

"They kill the voice and stain the teeth," she told me, pulling the lever down with decidedly more force. I put my props away unlit and offered to buy her a drink.

"No, thanks, and before you ask me why I'm here, I'm supporting my crippled mother down on the farm."

At least she was talking to me. She didn't say anything I wanted to hear, but she was talking. I watched her play the machine. There was more strength than grace in her automated movements, but the view was very absorbing.

"You know Slick Morelli?" I asked.

She kept up the rhythm, but her eyelids flickered. "Doesn't everybody?"

"Where is he?"

"Somewhere around."

"Can you point him out?"

"You think I'm the party hostess or something? Go talk to one of the boys over there.'' She jerked her head in the direction of the door. The movement dislodged a wisp of hair. She paused long enough to brush it with her fingertips, using the gesture to glance at me before going back to the machine. I tried to keep my smile neutral and non-threatening.

"I heard that yacht of his is for sale," I tried. "The Elvira."

She laughed. Another coin, down came the lever. I didn't see the result. She put in another coin.

"Why not? He needs the money."

This time the lever stayed up. Her eyes slid over to mine. I expected blue, but they were hazel. She studied my face, trying to fit me into a category and finally deciding; it was anything hut complimentary. "What do you want?" she said wearily.

"An introduction to Slick?"

She almost asked why, but thought better of it. "Go talk to one of the boys."

"They're not as pretty. My name's Gerald Fleming... I think Slick will want to talk to me about my brother Jack."

The names meant nothing to her, which was a relief.

"Jack met him two weeks ago, they were aboard the Elvira."

Her heartbeat went up suddenly, but she kept her face straight.

"He's built just like me and much the same in the face, but he's in his mid- thirties."

Nothing new, she was still reacting to the mention of the yacht.

"Frank Paco and a guy named Sanderson were there, too. Fred's dead now and Paco is headed for a nuthouse..."

She went white at those names, but still tried to cover it with a kind of defiance.

"So what?" She wore a soft flower scent, but underneath the roses I could smell fear.

I asked her why she was afraid. She didn't deny it. "Death and taxes, what else?"

Slick Morelli or me?