The Vampire Files - The Dark Sleep Part 9

Coldfield opened the back door, and I climbed in. "Isham, take us around the block a few times."

5

"How the h.e.l.l you doing?" Coldfield asked, settling back into the thick upholstery. "And what the h.e.l.l you doing at my sister's place?"

"Trying to give it a bad name. What's your excuse?"

"I got a call that a tall, skinny white guy dressed like a longsh.o.r.eman drove into the neighborhood. Thought it might be you."

"The h.e.l.l you say. You've got people watching the place?"

" 'Course I do, but don't let Trudence know or she'll kill me."

To say that Trudence Coldfield disapproved of her younger brother's work would be an outrageous understatement. He didn't seem to be bothered by her withering opinion, however, mostly shrugging it off and acting humble when in her presence.

"Watching as in guarding?"

"You betcha. Lots of guys know we're related. If something goes bad against them from me, they might try to get back by hurting her. Tru's plenty tough, but there's some stuff goes on that would sink her in two seconds. She's about the only family I got left, so I look out for her whether she wants it or not."

"It must be quite a setup if it brings you around so fast."

"It is, but I was out and about anyway. Heard there was a good act playing at the Hearts Club. Thought I'd see if it was good enough for the Shoe Box." That was his own nightclub. He only booked the best.

"Is that why you're in the hats?" I indicated the derbies he and Isham sported. Each had a diamond-trimmed horseshoe pinned to the band. Al Capone's gang favored pearl-gray fedoras.

"Yeah. Gotta advertise now and then, just so people know I'm around and seeing to their interests."

"You're looking better than you did the last I saw." Back in February, Coldfield had been caught in the middle of a dozen or so pounding fists and kicking feet in a budding gang war that wasn't his own. I'd waded in to help clear things. He'd emerged out of it bruised and bloodied, but with some self-respect intact. I'd dragged back one of the fleeing mobsters so Coldfield could give him a lesson in fair fighting. We left what remained at a nearby hospital for repairs.

"I should hope so. Got a knot in one arm that's been slow to go away, but the rest healed up fine."

"Glad to hear it."

"How's Charles doing?"

"Same as ever. Not too happy about pitching out all the divorce cases that keep coming in, and he's been having another bout with the insomnia."

"He should see a doctor."

"That's what I tell him. He just changes the subject. Why's he so allergic to them?"

Coldfield shrugged. "He's not allergic, he just thinks he can handle everything himself, and most of the time he can."

"People don't have insomnia for no reason. I know what used to keep me awake. What's eatin' Charles?"

Another shrug. "It's his business. If he wants to tell you he will. Other than that, he's a private man. Respect it."

I'd heard that speech before. Coldfield had once suggested I get Escott stinking drunk if I wanted to hear him talk about himself. Not an easy thing to do with only one person doing all the drinking. Of alcohol, that is.

Coldfield told me Escott just needed to get out more. "Look, it's been a while since we all socialized, why don't you bring Charles over to the club this week for some food? I just hired a French-trained cook up from Orleans." "Does he do blood pudding?"

He choked and shot me a sharp look at the reminder, suppressed a smile, then glanced at Isham. Isham did not appear to have heard. Coldfield knew about the vampire stuff and for some reason thought it to be completely hilarious that I should be in the dread ranks of the undead. "You can bring your own food," he muttered. "Or whatever."

"Or I can watch the show. Who you got in this week?"

He gave me the short version. The blues man playing there was good, but he did a couple numbers that nearly shut the place down. Some white cops had shoved their way into the club, having heard that obscene lyrics were being sung there. "Not what I would call obscene," said Coldfield. "Bo was doin' 'My Pencil Won't Write No More.' The cops were looking to make an arrest, but they listened to the whole thing and were so d.a.m.ned gra.s.s green that they didn't understand it."

I'd heard the song and it was plenty suggestive, but didn't have any actual swear words in the lyrics. "What'd they do?"

"Took ten bucks apiece from me not to break heads and went away. Wasn't even their beat. I made a phone call to the police captain I pay to keep this kinda thing from happening. He said they'd stay outta my territory from now on."

"Think they will?"

"If they know what's good for everyone. I can't have white cops taking graft that ain't theirs. It upsets the balance of everything when guys like that strike out on their own."

I made commiserating sounds.

"Besides, that captain knows if others come in an' take from me, then there's less to pa.s.s on to him."

"What a world."

"It's the way things work," he said, sounding remarkably like Gordy. "You wanta come along to the Hearts and see that act?" He knew I liked blues.

"I'm not dressed for anything fancy. I wouldn't want to lower the tone of the joint. Next time. We'll make a night of it."

"Yeah, being seen with you like this would be bad for my reputation. What's with the getup?"

"Charles had a job for me tonight. I finished, got paid, and swung by here to throw some cash at your sister's place."

"That's mighty nice of you."

"Bread on the water, I figure. She helped me in a big way that time. I owe her."

He snorted. "If she'd let me I could really help her with that half-a.s.sed soup kitchen she runs." Trudence had very strict rules about allowing riffraff into her haven, and that included her own brother. "She just can't see that it don't matter so much where the money comes from so long as it ends up in a good place. I tried telling her I was kinda like Robin Hood, but she wouldn't have any of it and told me I should leave Sherwood Forest and get a real job in Nottingham working for the sheriff. That woman..."

"It might be a little difficult," I conceded.

"Ha! 'Cept for some acting experience and knowing how to s.h.i.+ne shoes I got no skills the rest of the world wants, but I am good at this." He gestured at the car and the neighborhood beyond. I took it to mean his organizational abilities at running his gang. He could have taken those skills anywhere in the business world and done well for himself-if he'd been white.

Coldfield dropped me at my car and drove off after I promised to tell Escott about the French cooking. He was out when I returned to the house; the news would have to wait. I got into a suit, and went to the Nightcrawler in time for the last of the second show. Things were much the same as before, lively, but without the tense, worried energy of an opening-night crowd. The performance was getting good reviews and the customers were getting their money's worth, so everyone was happy.

Walking into the lobby, I skipped checking my hat and coat when I saw some familiar faces and spent some time saying h.e.l.lo. Most of them were mob and had business dealings with Gordy, but pretty nice guys when they weren't working. Gil Dalhauser was at the outer bar, his long frame slung onto a stool, his sleepy-looking eyes missing nothing. He nodded at me, so I went over.

"Have anything?" he asked, ready to signal the bartender.

"Thanks, but later. Can I stand you one?"

"I'm fine with this." It was a double, and he could nurse one of those for an hour or more. I'd seen him do it at the party.

"In for more fun and games?" I asked, meaning the show.

"I came with the others. They're inside."

"Who? Grant and LaCelle?"

Dalhauser nodded. "Came over here with the Taylor dame. Gordy took her into the private club an hour ago."

Interesting. "I heard she was engaged to Grant."

"She thinks she is."

"What's the real story with them?"

He shook his head, which said a lot to me, mostly that Bobbi had been right and Grant wasn't interested in Adelle.

And that it was hard for me to make conversation with a man who was obviously related to a clam. Things might have been different if I could have joined Dalhauser for a drink, but that was impossible.

"I don't want to miss what's left of the show," I said. "I'll see you around."

"Fleming."

He stopped me just as I turned away. I turned back. "Yeah?"

"Watch out for Grant."

"How so?"

"Just keep clear of him. Consider it a friendly warning."

"You can't tell me something like that and not give details."

"Actually, I can." Nothing came out from behind those cold blue eyes. He took a drink and lowered the level in his gla.s.s by an eighth of an inch.

I looked hard at him. "Explain."

His expression clouded for an instant, then rea.s.serted itself. Too quickly. Great, slow drinker or not, he'd had enough booze tonight to make hypnosis difficult. If I pressed any harder it would attract attention or put him on guard if I failed. I eased off, frowning.

"Only trying to do you a favor, kid," he said.

Maybe Gordy would have a line on this. "Yeah, thanks a lot."

I left him and went on into the club proper.

The lights were down except for those on the dance-floor stage. I didn't have much trouble navigating the smoke- filled dimness; I never do. Bobbi wasn't on just yet; the Melodians' crooner was doing his solo part, singing to some overdressed dowager who looked happy enough to burst. The teacup number was yet to come.

Gordy's table had a different set of people tonight. I didn't know any of them and figured he'd left it free for paying customers. Ike LaCelle had a spot off to the right on the second tier. There was a blond woman next to him who sort of looked like Carole Lombard but just a little plump. She was dressed flashy and laughed too hard at everything he whispered to her, and he laughed too hard back. They were having a fine time. I didn't want to sit just yet and parked myself behind an empty spot on the third tier rail to watch the show.

Just as I was wondering where Archy Grant might be and speculating why I should be wary of him, the crooner ended his song, and Ted Drew got his Melodians to strike up a familiar fanfare. The crooner turned and started clapping, looking upstage, and the spotlight swung from him to the right-hand wings. Archy Grant, looking fresh and thumbtack sharp, burst from them waving both arms and giving his signature grin to the rising applause as he was recognized. The music, which was the theme number to his radio show, faded as he stepped up to the microphone and introduced himself. To judge by the loud response, everyone knew him. He explained how he thought The Shanghai Review was so good he had to get in on it to bring it down to his level.

This got a laugh, then he said he'd wanted to join in on the fun for just one song if no one minded. n.o.body did, and he launched into one of his standbys.

Grant was a good showman, practiced and polished, with a knack for making it look unrehea.r.s.ed. He played to the audience, using his own brand of energy to get each to think he was singing only for them. By the time he finished the song most of the women looked like they'd just fallen in love with him. He bowed, grinned, and thanked everyone, then told them all to give a big welcome to the real star of the show, Bobbi Smythe. The lights went out, and when they came back, the crooner stood in Archy's place, ready to begin the teacup number. Bobbi and her sailor costar came out with the chorus and went to work.

I stayed and watched to see if there was anything new about it-there wasn't-and to just enjoy the performance.

When it finished, I threaded through the crowd to get into the gambling room. Quite a few customers were ahead of me; the guard at the door just nodded as I eased past on the side.

While some were busy getting chips, I strolled by tables, checking for familiar faces. Adelle Taylor was at one of the roulette wheels, staring hard as it turned. She had quite a stack of chips before her, and her face was glowing. She had every right; at a rough count she must have had four grand in front of her. That struck me as strange, since the odds favored the house-in this place more than most. Then I spotted Gordy standing alone off to one side, watching her win his money. His normally impa.s.sive face bore a pleased expression.

So that was the way of things. I hated to interrupt his daydreaming, but went over.

" 'Lo, Fleming," he said when I got close enough.

" 'Lo, yourself. Another big night on your hands. I saw Archy Grant put in an appearance."

"His idea. I'm not gonna turn him down. How'd it go?"

"He livened things up. Made a big deal over Bobbi when he turned the stage back to her."

"Good. Real good."

"I saw Dalhauser. He gave me some kind of c.o.c.keyed warning about staying away from Grant. I tried to get him to explain why, but he wouldn't."

His gaze went from Adelle to me. "Warning?"

"He said for me to stay out of Grant's way, called it doing me a favor. The way he said it was like Grant could be a threat to me."

Gordy's mouth stretched slightly. Any more effort and it might have turned into a chuckle. "That'll be the day."

"Any ideas why Grant would have it in for me?"

"He likes Bobbi. You're her man. You wouldn't be the first guy he asked Ike to take care of so he could have a clear field with a woman."

"LaCelle an enforcer?" I snorted. "Come on, Gordy."

"Ike wouldn't do it himself, but he'd know where to find guys who would."

"Grant could have had his pick of any of the girls last night-"

"Except Bobbi."