Art In The Blood

WE SPENT A little more time talking and decided to postpone our Stockyards visit for some other night. Bobbi was physically and emotionally exhausted and I wanted her to sleep on things. My own trip there could not be put off, though. I was getting nerved up and had to concentrate on simple tasks-indications that I badly needed my long drink. After seeing her to bed, I drove straight over.



I'd purposefully overfed last time and it had bought me an extra hunger-free night. The tiny amounts I took from Bobbi also helped to some degree, but were really insufficient to maintain me. Earlier, when my lips were on her throat, it had taken a conscious effort on my part not to go in a little deeper. The temptation had certainly been present, and this time it had been very difficult to end things and pull away. When hungry, my body only knew that blood was blood, whether acquired by feeding off cattle or through sex with Bobbi. The very real possibility existed that I might lose control and continue taking from her past the point of safety. To prevent that, I wanted to be well supplied from a less fragile, more bountiful source.



Again, I parked on a different street from my last visit, ghosted in, and did what I had to do. Bobbi's logic floated through my mind as I knelt and drank. Talking things over with her made one hell of a difference; tonight was the first time I admitted to myself that I enjoyed the taste of the animal's blood. It is different from human blood, like the difference between milk and champagne: one nourishes and the other leaves you high as a kite. Tonight I'd had the best of both.



The feeling lasted until I was back on the street again and walking to my car. I was walking, seeing things, thinking thoughts, and Sandra Robley was dead, her inert body awaiting its turn for the autopsy table. Some bastard had shut her down.



God knows why; there's never a good reason to be a victim.



I got in and drove half a block on an impulse. It paid off. The lights of Escott's second-floor office were glowing. Parked near his door, just behind his own huge Nash, was one of the newer Lincolns. It was really too late for him to be interviewing clients, so his visitor was probably connected with the murder investigation in some way. I shut down my motor and softly approached the building. Beneath his window, open to catch the night breeze, I could listen in on their conversation.



"... anything, absolutely anything at all, I would be very grateful to know about it."



"Do you wish to retain my services, then?" Escott asked.



Inasmuch as you are connected with this... this terrible business."



A drawer slid open. "Very well. Here is my standard contract. It's fairly straightforward. I cannot make you any promises, and in a case such as this I am under strict limitations. If I should find evidence pointing to a specific person's guilt I am legally bound to turn it immediately over to the police." He sounded extremely formal and was uncharacteristically discouraging, an indication he was not happy with his latest employer.



" You mean you think Alex did it?"



"I have no opinion one way or another, I merely follow a line of inquiry until all questions are answered."



I lost the reply, because by then I was walking up the covered stairs to the office.



Two raps on the frosted glass of the outer door seemed sufficient to announce me, and I was inside, matching interested looks with Leighton Brett. His big frame and expensive clothes made him look out of place in the institutional wood chair opposite Escott's equally plain desk.



He was puzzled by my showing up, but it shifted into acceptance when Escott greeted me and explained I was an associate.



"I thought you were a writer," said Brett, turning it into a friendly jibe.



"Only on my days off. This is what puts bacon on the table."



"Mr. Fleming was the one who originally called me in," said Escott.



"I'm glad he did, you were the only one there talking any sense."



It seemed more likely that Escott had been the only one there willing to listen to him.



"How did things wind up?" I asked. There was no other place to sit so I hitched a leg over one corner of the desk.



Escott moved a heavy glass ashtray a little to give me more room. It contained only one dead cigarette and no pipe dottles. They hadn't been there long. "Evan Robley is in the hospital- Miss Stokes is sitting with him now-and Alex Adrian has gone missing."



"What do you mean? Is he out on a drunk or just not home?"



"The police are waiting for him to turn up at his residence."



"To arrest him?"



"Possibly. Lieutenant Blair is being especially close about his plans, but Adrian's disappearance from the crime scene does not look good."



"It stinks to high heaven, Charles, and we all know it." I turned to Brett. "You know him best, where would he be?"



He spread his large hands. "I haven't had much contact with him since Celia died. Evan might know, but with the condition he's in..."He didn't have to finish, but thinking about Evan gave him another idea. "I could call Reva at the hospital, she and Sandra..." Again, he did not finish.



Escott pushed his desk phone toward him and we waited as he went through the motions. While he struggled to locate Evan's hospital room and consequently his fiancee I quietly asked for more information.



"What did you get from the other tenants?"



"The people on the same floor were out all evening. Those above did hear a man and woman arguing, thought nothing of it, and turned their radio up to drown the noise. The rest were a singularly deaf and incurious lot with problems of their own. A quarreling couple is not an oddity in that neighborhood."



"And nothing on who the man was or what the fight was about?"



"Nothing at all. No one is even sure if the argument is even connected with the crime; it could have been quite another couple fighting."



"What do you think?"



"That I need more information. There was one thing which you might enlighten me about: one of the reporters there was asking after you by name."



Oh yeah?



"Extremely female, tall, with dark hair and light brown eyes; very well dressed and quite striking." Barb Steler."



"The journalist who knew Adrian in Paris?"



"The same. Wonder what she wanted."



"An interview?"



"No, thanks. As it was, Bobbi and I barely made it out of there. She probably spotted me when that photographer popped u Hash right in my kisser."



"I wonder if you left an image on the negative," he mused in a very low voice so Brett wouldn't hear.



"I hope not. The last thing I want is my mug plastered all over the morning editions."



Brett hung up and shook his head at us. "Sorry, but she said she couldn't think of anyone or any place Alex would go to. She's hoping he'll turn up at the hospital to check on Evan."



"If he left prior to Mr. Robley's breakdown, he won't know to go there," Escort pointed out.



"Yes. Damn, how could he go tearing off like this?" Brett smacked the desk lightly with the flat of his hand, then got to his feet. "I have to leave now, Reva made it clear she doesn't want to be alone anymore."



"Of course, and if I should learn anything..."



It reminded Brett of the business contract on the blotter. "I think I'll take this along for reading material. You'll hear from me in the morning."



We all said good night and Escort let him out the door. He didn't speak again until Brett's Lincoln rolled off and cleared the street.



"You've an idea?" He made it more statement than question.



"Just a small one. This assumes that Alex didn't kill her and that before he disappeared he was able to get some kind of sense out of Evan."



"Concerning Dimmy Wallace?"



"Jeez, Charles, why do I bother to think with you around?"



He took it as a compliment. "Our problem is to locate Wallace."



"No problem," I told him.



A smile briefly crossed his bony face as he understood the reference. "My phone is entirely at your disposal."



I entirely made use of it. The call took almost as long as Brett's, but I finally got through to Gordy.



"This is Fleming. I need an address."



There was a pause, because Gordy survived through caution. "Whose?"



"Dimmy Wallace."



"He making trouble again?"



"No, but I'm trying to prevent it. Someone I know might be gunning for him. I want to stop it."



A longer pause, but I knew Gordy wasn't one to waste words or time. The line was empty for a few seconds, then he came back with an address, which I wrote down.



"You never called me for this, got it?"



"I never even heard of you-and thanks." I hung up and turned to Escort. "He says it's an all-night gas station."



He glanced at my scribble. "It's on the south side-enemy territory for our benefactor, if I recall the current gang political situation correctly. His wish for anonymity is well placed."



"Wallace isn't there all the time, he's usually on the move, but we might be able to talk to the people there."



"Most assuredly you will be able to communicate with them. Please allow me a moment to prepare before we leave, though." He opened the door behind his desk and made use of the inner room it served. There he kept an old army cot and some spare clothing, among other things. When he finally emerged, he looked slightly heavier and sported an unmistakable bulge beneath his coat under the right arm.



"Ready?" I asked.



"As I shall ever be. We'll take my car."



And no chances; he wanted his bulletproof vest, gun, and the armor plating of the Nash between himself and the unknowns that Dimmy Wallace represented. I approved. Chicago could play indecently rough at times.



Escott handled his big tank of a car, along with its extra weight in steel, the way Astaire danced with Rogers. He very obviously derived a lot of pleasure from driving and my guess was that if he loved anything, he loved his Nash, bullet dimples in the doors and all.



We were up to the speed limit, but he didn't seem to be in a hurry to arrive. That kind of urgency was missing from his attitude. We took a few turnings and though my knowledge of the city was still sketchy, I knew we weren't on a direct route to the south side.



"What's up, Charles?"



"Someone is following us," he said with quiet interest.



The hard blue glare of the streetlights struck his chest, traveled up to his chin and vanished as our car moved forward. It reminded me that whoever was behind us would see my outline if I turned around to look, so I didn't.



"Can you tell who they are?"



"Unfortunately, no. Their headlights are in the way."



" What d'you want to do about it?"



"There are a number of options open to us."



"I'm all ears."



His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror, then back to the road. "I can lose them..."



Aren't we a little too big for that?"



"Shoe Coldfield did somewhat more than add special glass and armoring when he owned this particular vehicle. There were some slight modifications to improve engine efficiency as well."



"Why is it that I'm not very surprised?"



"Haven't the faintest. Now the problem with losing them is that we may never know who they are, and such antics are liable to arouse the curiosity of the local constabulary."



"What other options have you got?"



"We can pretend to be unaware of them and lead them to a spot convenient to us, and-as it is so colorfully put in westerns-get the drop on them."



"I like that one. Got any particular spot in mind?"



"Yes, I'm heading for it now."



"Had it all worked out beforehand?"



"More or less, but it seemed best to keep moving until I'd discussed things with you. I'm so glad our decisions are in accordance."



"What if they weren't?"



"I'm not sure, but since they are, it hardly seems relevant to speculate over might-have-beens."



That was true. I was just nervous and he was being polite and not pointing it out to me-not in so many words. Escott ought to have been the nervous one, as he was physically far more vulnerable than I, but he liked this kind of work. He seemed to feed off tension the way I fed off cattle.



"I plan to rely on your speed and other special abilities," he told me.



"Okay."



"I'm going to take a turn into an alley ahead and go slow enough for you to get out. When the other car comes through, I'll have stopped at the far end. Chances are they will also stop, and you can improvise from there."



"And if they don't follow you in?"



"Then we'll go to plan B."



"Which is... ?"



"I'll let you know when I think of it."



I shook my head, but it didn't matter much. If this stunt didn't come off no doubt he would think of something else.



He made a leisurely turn into a narrow space between two long buildings. Dark walls of brick and useless, soot-stained windows slipped past and slowed as he took his foot from the gas and shifted gears. There was enough room to open the door, but I didn't bother. When we were down to ten miles an hour I dematerialized and slipped out.



Smack in front of me was the solidity of the right-hand building, which I used to orient myself. Turning and pressing my back (such as it was in this state) to the wall, I very slowly eased into the world again, but only a little. I was mostly transparent, which meant that unless I moved around or lost concentration and went whole, the party in the other car couldn't easily see me. On the other hand, I could still get a very good look at them.



Their headlights were dark as they turned into the alley. They saw Escort's car far ahead of them, but slowed to think things over. It gave me a good chance to identify the driver.



I cott had said to improvise, right now I was torn between anger and curiosity.



When the first wave of it passed, they were halfway to me. I could wait for them, rush in, and do my Lamont Cranston imitation, or I could find Escott again and tell him to get us lost. Both were equally tempting.



Now they were within ten feet of me and sailing slowly past, so I made a decision, materialized, grabbed the passenger-door handle, and yanked it open.



I n the crowded confusion of the front seat of the car, I wasn't sure who screamed the loudest at my sudden appearance: the young photographer clutching his camera or Barbara Steler clutching the steering wheel.



Out of reflex, she hit the brakes and the engine stalled. The kid with the camera made an abortive attempt to push me out, but I got my left arm inside in time and pushed him against the scat hard enough for him to lose his breath. The arm remained, to hold him up and to give him something to think about.



Barbara tried the starter, but their car was flooded now. She looked up-fear flashed through those huge bronze eyes for a second until she recognized me-then she slammed her hands on the steering wheel.



" Damn it! Where in hell did you come from?"



I'd meant to give them a good scare and couldn't keep the grin off my face. "Ask my mother, she knows all about it."



"You never had one, you bastard."



"Temper, temper. Maybe you'd like to tell me why you're following us around."



"You used to be in the business. Work it out." She put a palm to her forehead and tried to slow her breathing. The adrenaline surge caused by my entrance had them both shaking.



"Barb..." this from the photographer, in a slightly strangled tone. My arm had slid up to his neck. I eased the pressure but kept the same position.



She saw what had happened and suddenly threw her head back and laughed. The kid joined in, but not too enthusiastically. When she recovered, her body was less tense and she had an air of being in charge of things. She opened her door and got out, walking around to wait in front of the car. I told the kid to stay put. He was still wobbly and content to do as he was told without any special influence on my part.



Barbara was in somber black, right down to her kid gloves and silk stockings. It brought out the ivory of her skin and made me want to see more of it than was decently possible under any circumstances. Her full lips were softly curved into the kind of smile a woman gets when she correctly reads a man's mind.



"This is hardly the perfect place to talk," she began.



"Good, because you won't be getting any interviews."



"Darling Jack, don't be offended, but I don't want to interview you, I just want you to help me arrange one."



The endearment was interesting, considering what hadn't happened during our last encounter. "Who did you have in mind?"



"Alex Adrian, of course."



"And you think I know where he is?"



"Or your friend, Mr. Escort. He must be getting impatient waiting for you down there." She indicated the far end of the alley. "Why don't you run along to him and continue on your errand?"



"Only if you back out and go home."



"But it's such a long drive from here, I couldn't possibly return empty handed."



"Force yourself."



"My dear, you of all people should know I never force myself."



The alley suddenly felt very close and warm. "Yes, well, there's a first time for everything, Barbara-"



"I mean it. Jack, I want to see Alex." Her manner shifted to a more serious tone and I wondered if she were lying again. This time I couldn't tell.



"Why?"



"Because the police are after him for walking out on the scene of a murder. I talked with them. He's in very serious trouble. He needs help-" She stopped and straightened, as though she's said too much for her own comfort and regretted the words.



"You still love him?"



She wasn't happy that I knew that and her eyes flared, then shifted away. "Think what you like, but please take me along." Women who love Alex always seem to come to a bad end. Are you sure-"



She moved as fast as a striking snake, her palm cracking sharp and loud. Outrage rolled from her like a wave, more tangible to me than the slap. She looked ready to add a verbal insult to the injury but was too mad to think of one acid enough to suit the occasion.



"I guess you're sure," I said, rubbing where she'd hit my cheek. It hadn't hurt.



She turned on her heel to go back to her car.



"Barbara, wait a minute."



"No."



"I'm sorry I said that, but I had to know where you really stand."



She paused at the door. "I'll find him myself."



"Not alone, you won't."



"How else, then, if you-"



"Maybe I will help you."



That stopped her cold.



"I'll talk to my partner."



It was my turn to walk away and I felt her eyes on my back all down the length of the alley. Escott had the motor running, ready for us to bolt if necessary. He shut it down when I came up on the driver's side and started talking. He wasn't happy about my request.



"I'm reluctant to involve anyone else in this, especially a member of the fourth estate."



"She wants to come for her own reasons. Her paper has second place this time."



"I understand that, but are her personal motives going to get in the way of things? I've no wish to expose anyone to unnecessary risk."



"She could also act as backup for us. She can drive and be safe enough in your car. That sporter they're in wouldn't hold up to a good rainstorm."



"A good point, but are you sure you couldn't tell her to go home?"



"I could, but I don't want to."



"Is she immune or something?"



"No, I just want her along."



Humor and frustration mixed in his expression and then vanished with a shrug.



"Very well, but no photographer. That's the prerequisite I place upon her coming with us."



I ducked out before he could change his mind.



Barbara accepted the offer with ill-concealed astonishment. "Why-I mean-after I-oh, never mind, we'll be right behind you."



"Hold on, Charles said only you could come, so don't insist on having a saddle with your gift horse."



She looked ready to contend the point and visibly worked to change her mind. It took a little more than logic to talk the kid into it, though. He was anything but crazy about letting her run off to pans unknown with two strangers; that was his main argument. Unspoken was the simple fact that he didn't want to be left out. Barb smiled, though, ran a well-calculated finger down the side of his face, and all his determination melted into an ineffectual puddle in less than a second. He took over the driver's side and solemnly promised to take the car back to the newspaper offices for her.



She kissed her fingertip and tapped it on his nose, and that, made his whole week. Then I stepped in and caught his attention. I didn't do much more than repeat his promise back to him, but from the slackening of his expression I knew for certain he'd keep it.



"My, but you're suspicious," she commented as we watched him back the car out of the narrow space. "Did you think he doesn't understand plain English?"



"Like you reminded me, I used to be in the business. Neither of us would want a breach of trust at this point, would we?"



"Darling, it's the farthest thing from my mind."



"Good. Keep it there."



She slipped a friendly arm into mine as we walked up to Escott, who got out to meet us. When I introduced them, she flashed him the kind of smile that could knock over a bank vault. They exchanged pleasantries as though we were at some fancy tea party and not a dank alley just off the river with God knows what lurking around the next corner. Escott was apparently not immune to the charm of someone he'd described as "extremely female."



"We must have some ground rules," he said, finally bringing up business. "It is not likely we'll even find anything tonight, but if we do, you follow our orders."



She murmured agreement, maybe a little too readily for my peace of mind, but if it became necessary, I could enforce things as I did with the photographer.



He held the door for her and she stepped into the backseat like a queen going on a tour. "Lock the doors and if we tell you to duck, don't ignore it," he suggested.



Something in his tone got her attention and she banked the charm down for the time being and nodded seriously.



I got in, Escott got in, and we moved back out onto the street. He put a few extra turns in our route south, just to make sure no other cars had been waiting for us.



None were, so he made a beeline to the address.



The gas station we wanted was a solid-looking cinder-block structure sloppily coated with dirty white paint. It sported two battered pumps out front and a garage on the left of a tiny office. Parked in front of the garage door was a well-dented open-bed truck. The fenced back area contained a broken-down carriage, dozens of rusting fifty-gallon drums, and stacks ol balding tires. It wasn't the kind of place a mother would take her kid to for a rest stop.



Escott pulled in and we waited for someone to emerge and sell us some gas. I got out to do what I hoped was a passable imitation of a man stretching his legs.



Barbara remained quietly where she was, her big eyes wide open and watchful.



A cadaverous old man with half a cigarette growing from the corner of his mouth squinted at us from his sanctum by the cash box, deciding if it were worth his while to leave it. He finally concluded we were staying and levered to his feet. As he drifted past, I could almost hear the pop and creak of his joints. He leaned into the driver's window and muttered something in a rusty-saw voice that might have been a question. Escott apparently had a gift for translating obscure dialects and asked for a few gallons of gas. The old man hawked and spat- without losing his dead cigarette-and did things with one of the pumps.



He kept a cold eye on me as I wandered around. A suspicious person might think I had designs on the cash box, so I avoided the front office, if not the suspicion. The garage part was closed off, but something about it had my attention on a gut level and I moved closer to listen.



The wide door had two filthy windows. They were dark, but only because of the black paint smeared on the interior side of the glass. Maybe the station owner had a legitimate reason for such aggressive privacy. Maybe.



I moved along the front of the garage with my ears flapping, but between the wind stirring things around and the gas pumping away I couldn't pick up anything on the inside. Escott was trying a little friendly conversation with the old man and kept him busy checking the oil and cleaning windows. While they investigated something or other under the hood, I went around the corner and pressed an ear against the building.



What I got for my trouble was a dirty ear. If there were any people inside, they were so quiet about it that I'd have to go in to find out.



Brick walls are no real trouble for me-I'd found that out the first time I discovered how to vanish-but filtering through one like coffee in a percolator was not my idea of fun. High up, just below the roof overhang, was a long row of fly-specked windows. It would be easier to slip through any existing gaps in their casements; they'd be small, but better than the wall.



Once I'd gone transparent and floated up, I could see from all the rust that they hadn't been opened in years, and the corner of one of the panes was beautifully broken away. Grateful at this piece of luck, I disappeared completely and slipped through the three-inch opening like sand in an hourglass.



My hearing wasn't much better inside than out, though I thought I heard some kind of scraping sound. In my immediate area I was lodged between the wall and a series of thick surfaces curving away from me that I couldn't identify. The ceiling was only inches above, and down where my feet would be I couldn't feel anything but air.



I hate heights.



Then I definitely heard voices and forgot about mental discomforts.



"Lay that off, you dummy."



"But it's gettin' thick."



"So put in more water."



The scraping stopped. "Why don't he get rid of 'em?"



"Shuddup."



It was like trying to listen through a load of blankets. One cautious degree at a time I sieved back into the real world, just enough to hear and see and hopefully not be seen. The curved things turned out to be a rack of old tires and I was hovering between them and the wall. The more solid I became, the heavier I got, and it took no small effort to maintain my half-transparent state. Being fifteen feet over a cement floor without any other support than air and willpower did not help my concentration.



The garage had two doors; the big one in the front for the curs and a regular one that served the office. The remaining three walls were lined with rows of tires, and below these were greasy workbenches and a confused scattering of tools and supplies. A man had the office door open a crack and was keeping an eye on the outside. His back was to me, but I was sure I didn't know him. He wore a dark purple suit with orange pinstripes, and nobody I knew outside of a circus would have been caught dead in such a getup.



Standing just behind him, trying unsuccessfully to look over his shoulder, was Francis Koller. Since the other man was bigger, Francis gave up and went back to stirring a shovel around a large, flat container shaped like a shallow horse trough. He was trying to be quiet about it, but the shovel would sometimes go its own way and scrape along the bottom. The viscous, cold-looking gray stuff in the trough was cement.



"I said to lay off," the other man hissed, not turning around.



Francis laid off.



"Where the hell is the other bozo?" he griped.



Francis deduced it to be a rhetorical question and didn't bother to answer.



The other bozo had to be a reference to myself. Until I returned to Escott's car, whatever they were up to would have to wait, but Escott would be running out of stalls by this point. There were only so many he could try before they became too obvious.



I shifted a little, taking care not to bump the tires. My view of the garage widened.



The center of the floor was broken up by the grease pit, its wide rectangular opening covered by a metal grid. Standing against the opposite wall were a half dozen rusting fifty-gallon drums with various faded labels on them. One of them had been pulled out from the rest and its cover removed. It was positioned exactly under a heavy-duty block-and-tackle arrangement used to lift motors out of cars. A thick, taut chain ran from the supporting framework above down to a steel hook. Attached to the hook was a knotting of rope and hanging from the rope by his wrists was Alex Adrian.



His slack figure was motionless and his head drooped down on his chest. I couldn't see his face. The toes of his shoes dangled just over the open mouth of the metal drum. Enlightenment came with a fast and sickening twist of the gut. I suddenly knew what they were going to do with all the cement.