Cold Streets

The sideshow was enough to stop Adelle's performance in mid-verse. Some of the band had seen it, and their focus on the song flagged for a few seconds until the leader hauled them back to business. Adelle gamely returned but forgot her place and belted out the wrong repeat on the chorus. No one paid much mind; most of the joint was riveted on Faustine's exit. It was a doozy. If she'd been a ship, icebergs in her way would have been the ones to break up and sink.



Bobbi shot me a look; I nodded agreement. She hurriedly followed after Faustine.



Roland held to a nonplussed reaction, freely dripping. The twist of lemon clung to one of his lapels like an eccentric boutonniere. I signaled toward the bar, and a waiter hurried over with a clean towel.



"I'm most dreadfully sorry, Mr. Fleming," Roland finally said, accepting the towel and dabbing at the damage. "I assure you that this is... is... oh, hell." He sat down rather heavily.



I gave him a minute to sop up the worst, then rose. "Come on, Roland. We'll dry you out backstage."



He let me take his elbow and guide him away. Lots of eyes on us for the trip.



Not the sort of publicity I wanted, but bearable. Things like this happened in bars.



I showed him to a dressing room not in use and handed him another towel, then returned to the main room long enough to make sure the broken glass was picked up. The waiter was already there with a broom and pan. When I got back to Roland, he had his jacket and tie off and was undoing his white silk shirt. The fine fabric stuck transparently to his wet skin, showing a solid spread of shoulder muscle. No wonder he was so popular. He peeled the shirt and hung it on the corner of the bathroom door. I was out of fresh shirts, or I'd have offered him one.



"I am truly sorry about this," he said, and he did look very repentant.



"Tell that to your wife, not me." I hung back by the door, keeping clear of the dressing table mirror.



"She won't hear it. Too angry. It's my own fault. She's the jealous type. I shouldn't have paid so much attention to that autograph seeker-"



"Save the bull. Faustine knows about you and Adelle. That's what she's mad about."



Roland stared up, horrified. "But she couldn't."



"She's female. Of course she damn well knows. They all got a built-in sense about men. They always know when a man's being stupid. Sometimes they ignore it and hope the guy will smarten up, and sometimes they don't bother. Faustine won't put up with it."



"But... but I love her." He made that seem like the cure-all for everything.



"Apparently not enough."



"She knows I love her!"



"Actions speak louder than words, and the little dance you had with Adelle"-I jerked a thumb toward the star's room across the hall-"was a kick in the teeth to your wife."



"How did you-?"



"This is my place. I know everything."



He scowled, like the bad news was my fault, but I was unimpressed, having had worse from lots tougher mugs. "You going to fire us?"



"Nope. You come in to work like everyone else. If you two can't work, then you'll get fired."



That perked him, but it didn't last long. "We'll patch things up. We need this job. I'll make her see that it was nothing, that it will never happen again."



"Let her cool off first. You chase her down now, and she'll skin your face with a spoon."



"But I-"



"Roland... listen to me..."



It took a little longer than usual, he had a lot of emotion to cut through, a lot of protest, but I got to him, and we had a fine chat. My favorite kind. I did all the talking.



While the newly penitent and temporarily wiser Roland flapped his damp shirt over an electric heater, I took the back way behind the stage to get to the lobby.



Bobbi wasn't in sight; Wilton said she was in the John.



"The other blond with her, the one in the furs and oddball hat?"



"Yeah," he replied. He looked as though he'd seen such performances before.



"She was plenty upset. Rattled some lingo I couldn't make out and kept saying,



'Peeg, peeg, peeg.' What's that?"



"Her husband."



"She don't like him much tonight, huh?"



"Not much." I cooled my heels in front of the ladies' room, reluctant to breach its sanctity. Though I'd been through it on inspections during the building of Crymsyn, once we opened, I kept clear. You had the men's and the ladies' and never the twain shall meet, nor shall such havens ever be violated. A sensible code to follow, apparently based on the tribulations of real life.



The place was full of mirrors, too.



After a few minutes I put an ear to the door. I heard contralto sobbing echoing off the marble interior and "Peeg, peeg, peeg," and what sounded like babbled Russian. Bobbi's lighter voice crooned sympathetically along. "I know, honey, they're all the same, every last one of them."



I hoped she didn't include me in the crowd and made a mental note to send her flowers. The two of them would probably be there for a good long while. I could have shortened the time, using my special talent to get Faustine to forget her anger and make things up with Roland, but judged it would work better after she settled down. Whenever possible, I tried to keep hypnosis sessions short and easy. Less of a disturbance to the subject and less of a headache for me.



The hatcheck girl was more interested in the floor show than Wilton and very pleased to participate. All she had to do was let me know when Bobbi and Faustine finally came out, but she eagerly watched the rest room door like the fate of the nation depended on it. For her, this was better drama than One Man's Family.



In the main room I propped up the other bar, which was only open when we had a bigger crowd to serve, and surveyed things. Conversation was back up to normal, the waiters were busy, the dance floor in use. Good. Adelle had reclaimed her composure and was cutting through "Have You Ever Met That Funny Reefer Man?" She didn't deliver as fast a ride as Cab Calloway, but she kept it jazzed enough to get away with it. Odds were that most of my patrons had no idea what a reefer was and why this was such a popular number with the grinning band members. Nearly everyone was either dancing or at least tapping their toes to the beat.



Gordy was the exception.



He and Bristow looked a lot more serious than before, and their bodyguards seemed to have been drinking lemon juice, straight. They were eyeing one another, hard-faced and tense. I debated whether or not to make the climb up there and pretend to play host, perhaps calm things between them a little. It was fifty-fifty whether such an interruption would hinder or help.



Escott appeared just then, saw me, and came over. Dust smeared his lapels, cuffs, and knees, indicating he'd been happily grubbing around in the club's tool storage.



"Everything I'll want is on hand," he announced. "No need to send out for supplies. You've also plenty of wire, though cobbling the more specialized electric bits together is not my strong suit. I can repair a lamp, but for what you have in mind-"



"Bobbi will know what to do, or know someone who does who can bring in whatever we need."



"What did she think of your idea?"



"Haven't told her yet, she's talking with Faustine, who's having a nervous breakdown." I gave him the short version of the melodrama.



"Dear me. Where is this Mr. Lambert? I didn't want to interrupt his talk with Miss Smythe and missed meeting him."



"Drying out backstage. We had a discussion. He won't be any trouble in the future. Tomorrow night will be better for socializing. He and Faustine should be back together by then. I'll see to it."



"Handy weapon, that."



"What?"



"Your hypnosis. There are occasions when I could find it quite useful, like waiting in line at the bank. It would be most handy persuading those ahead of me to seek other queues for their business."



"Don't forget traffic tickets." I'd been stopped a few times but always got the cops to forget whatever problem they had with me. It didn't work for parking violations, but I avoided those.



"Indeed. Have you noticed what's going on?" He indicated the top tier.



Bristow was on his feet, looming over a still-seated Gordy, face red and eyes blazing. All the bodyguards looked ready to erupt.



"Yeah. 'Scuse me."



Moving quick, I got up there. Gordy and his people saw me coming; so did Bristow's guys. Their notice telegraphed to him. He threw a glance my way with enough glower packed in to confirm my influence had worn right off. He was too drunk now for a second attempt to work.



"Mr. Bristow-" I began.



"Can it, punk," he snapped. "Get the hell out of here."



Gordy remained in place, his expression even more hooded than usual; I didn't know what he wanted done. I wanted there not to be trouble. "Siddown, Hog," he said, barely audible over the music.



"Screw that." Bristow turned full on him. "I'm telling you how things are gonna be, and you sit there like a pile of shit and don't say nothin'. What're you gonna do about it?"



"I will think things over."



"You think faster-no-you don't think, you just do what I say. That's New York givin' the orders. They don't like how you're doin' things, so it's me taking up the slack. You got no choice; you get outta my way, or you get run over."



Gordy didn't respond with so much as a blink. "Sorry you feel that way, Hog."



"It ain't me-it's New York. You don't like it, you just try talkin' with them an'



see how far you get."



"I'll check first thing in the morning."



"You'll just do as you're told. You hear me? Do you? Say something!" Bristow was louder than the band, and other patrons stared curiously. My hired help, a little more knowledgeable about the situation, seemed ready to duck under the nearest tables.



"It's late, Hog," Gordy said evenly. "Real late. It's even later in New York. The bosses there don't like this kind of interruption to their sleep. I'll call in the morning and fix things. It'll be made right, I promise."



"My way. You do as you're told."



"Everything."



Bristow didn't seem the type to accept such an easy victory, but he couldn't do much else with Gordy agreeing with him. Neither spoke for what seemed like a couple of hours; then Bristow jerked his chins, and his men slowly rose. Gordy's remained seated, taking their cue from him.



"First thing," Bristow repeated. "By noon I'm in charge, or you're dead."



Gordy made no reply.



"Say something!"



I don't know what Gordy might have said. The little lamp on the table suddenly flickered, forestalling his response. It was an instant's distraction, throwing all of them. The light flared, dimmed, then exploded, glass flying.



Of all the rotten times for Myrna-



The two men closest to Bristow saw and knew it was nothing to sweat over, but the third one only heard something like a shot. His gun was out, and he went for Gordy.



Things blurred; I seemed to be the only man moving; the rest were statues.



Before the others could react, I was on him, dragging on his arm with one hand and wresting the gun away with the other. When the world started rotating again the would-be shooter was facedown on the floor, holding his arm and cursing.



"What the hell... ?" began Bristow, just becoming aware something had happened.



Another of his guys started to reach inside his coat, but I had his friend's gun aimed at his belly. He changed his mind, showing it by holding his palms wide.



The third one found himself surrounded by Gordy's men.



"Everyone take it easy," I said. We did just that until I was sure they would be sensible without the threat of me putting holes in them.



"Put that away," said Bristow. He didn't look quite as drunk as before.



"When you leave."



"You don't order me around, punk."



"You're in my place, Hog. I don't allow this crap here." I tried to capture his full attention, but despite the shift in his manner, there was still too much booze in the way. Fortunately, his remaining guards were stone sober. "Clean your pal off my floor, then take your boss home and put him to bed."



The one I was ready to belly-shoot woke up quick and did as ordered. This didn't go well with Bristow, but he couldn't figure how to fix it. He made noises, snarled a final order at Gordy to do as he was told, and backed away. His men got the fallen to his feet, and they unsteadily departed, working their way to the stairs and down, hands inside their coats. Nearly the whole place saw the parade, and even if my customers didn't have the full story, they were able to recognize trouble on the hoof and get nervous. Once Bristow was out of sight, people visibly sagged and resumed talking. I expected many would wait a few minutes, then leave. It must have showed when I looked at Gordy.



He gave a small shrug. "Sorry for the trouble."



I shoved the gun in my pocket where its weight messed up the hang of my coat. With the table light gone, we were in a shadowy patch, giving me a small hope that few had seen the finer details of the incident. "What now?"



"I call New York. Tell 'em their boy is annoying people."



"Then what? That noon deadline-"



"I'll think of something."



Which was Gordy's way of telling me to butt out. Fine, so long as whatever he thought of didn't take place on my doorstep. No need to ask if he understood that.



Since Lady Crymsyn was supposedly neutral territory, he'd be careful to respect it. I got the impression he was highly embarrassed about Bristow's behavior.



Drunks in clubs were normal, a familiar difficulty easily handled, but edgy guys like Bristow and his pals had too many added complications.



"You need anything?" I asked, so he'd know there were no hard feelings.



"A phone."



"My office or the lobby booth."



He looked at Strome. "Lobby. Call the other boys. Meeting tonight at the Nightcrawler. They go there and wait for me."



"What about Bristow?" Strome asked.



"We're mostly safe 'til noon, but we keep our heads down."



He nodded and left.



I said, "You want me along, too?"



Gordy made one slow shake of his head. "Thanks, but we're covered. You don't need to be in this mess."



Very true. Better to stay clear and let Gordy fix the problem. I had more than enough to keep me busy. Annoyed with the weight of the gun, I gave it to him to look after, wished him good luck, and followed Bristow's route down. Escott was still parked at the bar on that side.



"Negotiations fail?" he inquired, keeping a bland face. He'd have seen everything.



"You're a mind reader."



"Bad timing with that light."



"Myrna was trying to be helpful, I think."



He took that in and chose not to comment. "I heard Mr. Bristow's rumblings of dire threats against Gordy and all his relations as he and his men made their departure. It does not bode well. I say, you're rather more pale than usual."



"No kidding."



"And your shoulders are up about your ears. Relax, old man, before you frighten the whole room. After all this time, you should be used to such rows between rivals."



"Don't mean I like 'em."



"No, of course not."



Until now I'd not realized just how stiff my neck and shoulders had gotten. I told Escott what I'd heard. "Hope to God we don't have another damned war."



"Bristow's forcing the situation. Very foolish of him. One must wonder why."



"He got drunk, got pushy, then couldn't back down."



"Perhaps. Or his position is so secure he's confident of his success."



"Either way or whatever else, Gordy's not letting him take over."



"Then a war is inevitable."



More likely it would be a very carefully accomplished, well -concealed execution. Though there were still spectacular exceptions, a lot of the truly violent mob games were more often than not played on the quiet. It was bad for business to leave bloody corpses all over the city sidewalks.



"So long as they include us out."



He went with me to the lobby, which was thankfully clear of Bristow and his friends. The check girl was on watch, shaking her head to indicate Bobbi and Faustine were still in conference.



"I'd really like a drink," I announced to no one in particular. Before my change, I'd have had several by now. At times like this I really missed the booze.



"Yes, sir," said Wilton. He was ready to serve up anything.



I waved his offer down. "I'd like one. I could use one. Doesn't mean I'll have one."



"A typical night at Lady Crymsyn," said Escott.



"Jesus, I hope not."



Escott and I were in my office making a practical start on my plans for Gilbert Dugan when Bobbi and Faustine finally emerged from the ladies' lair. The check girl came to tell me, but by the time I made it down again, Faustine was gone.



"Where is she?" I asked Bobbi. She looked tired.



"I put her in a cab and sent her back to her hotel. No shopping tomorrow.



We'd only end up in a hardware store buying axes or shotguns or something.



Where's Roland?"



"In dressing room three the last I saw."



"I wanna murder that son of a bitch. Do you know what he's done to her?"



"Tell me all about it, but not here." I took her to the main room and an isolated table, disappointing Wilton and the girl. They'd just have to speculate.



Bobbi gave me an earful, none of it too original, the gist being that when Roland went on the wagon, he substituted women for drinking. To him, they were even more addictive than booze. "He just can't keep his pants buttoned," she said.



Several times.



"Faustine didn't know that about him?"



"She thought he'd change for her. She thought marriage would make a difference. Poor kid."



This didn't sound like a curable problem, no matter how many times I slapped a whammy on Roland. "She gonna divorce him?"



"Not with her religion she won't. There's the other thing, too. She wants to be an American. She pretty much admitted it was one of the reasons she married him.



She loves him and all, but..." Bobbi trailed off with a drawn-out growling sound, replete with disgust. "Men," she said in conclusion.



I remained diplomatically quiet. Now was not the time to remind her I was a member of the opposing party. "I had a talk with Roland. He's going to behave himself for the time being if he wants to keep their job here."



"You're letting them stay on?"



"Why not?"



"It's pretty generous of you."



I shrugged. "Everyone needs to work. I recommended plenty of groveling, apologies, and that he not beg for forgiveness."



She clouded over. "He should. Why didn't you?"



"First he needs to say he's sorry a lot. Asking to be forgiven lets him off the hook. To forgive is to forget. He needs a dose of responsibility along with the kick in the pants."



After thinking it through, her face cleared. "You're pretty damned smart."



"I read it in a magazine."



"Which one?"



"The kind you find in a dentist's office. Years ago." The story had ended with the forgiven two-timing husband running off with his secretary and his wife drowning herself. None of it had been too satisfying. After that I decided to stick to mysteries and stories like those in Weird Tales, where the bad guys generally got what they had coming. "You okay?"



"After listening to all her stuff about Roland, I feel like a punching bag. Poor Faustine. She doesn't have any friends here. Looks like I'm elected."



"You can't expect her to be pals with Adelle."



"God, no. Remember when I didn't think it'd be a good idea for you to get in the middle of this? I've changed my mind."



"No problem."



"Can you talk to Faustine tomorrow night?"



"If there's time. Something's come up."



"With Gordy?" She glanced toward the third tier where Gordy was still parked.



Flanked by two of his men, he sat well away from his table, back firmly against the wall. Though the exploded lightbulb had been replaced, he was in shadow.



Apparently he was taking Bristow's threats seriously. There was no sign of Strome, in here or at the lobby phone.



"Nothing like that," I said. "Gordy's got some business going, but he's taking care of it. This is to do with me. The brains behind the Gladwell kidnapping is getting cute."



"That society guy, Dugan?"



"Yeah." I told her everything. It took a while, but she was a patient listener, and it provided a distraction from the triangle crisis. She went a little sick-looking when I told her about getting shot. She didn't interrupt, only put her hands over mine.



"That explains why you changed suits," she said when I'd finished.



"Are you all right?"



"Mostly. I'll be fine once I turn Dugan inside out a few times."



"What does he want from you?"



I shrugged. "Charles and I worried that one to death. We'll know tomorrow night at seven. Between now and then I need the both of you to do me a favor."



"Name it, sweetheart."



I named it, going into detail. "It should work, but you know more about that stuff than I do. Will it?"



Her eyes were bright. Really, really bright. "Jack, that has got to be the craziest thing I've ever heard of-and yes, of course it'll work!"



"You know how to hook things up? Have you got enough time to do all that?"



"I'll call a guy I know to help. He'll have the equipment we need. Between him, me, and Charles, we can have everything ready for you in a couple of hours."



It sure felt good to grin again.



I wasn't as skilled at carpentry as Escott, but made up for the lack by carrying tools and other things up to my office for him. This I accomplished by sinking straight through the floors to the basement and back. It was work and didn't feel good, but neither of us wanted people noticing extra activity on the chance that Dugan might learn about it. We'd spotted his cousin Anthony and his friends, but there might be others lurking around we didn't know about.



Escott got busy drilling holes in the walls, writing out measurements, and muttering to himself a lot. I was used to it from the times he worked on the house and stayed out of his way so he could concentrate.



Bobbi came in to watch, and he paused to consult with her. They had a mild debate about drilling holes in a side table. She was against it, but I said it was okay. I could always buy another one.



If some parts of the evening were rough, the remainder was nearly business as usual without additional floor shows, impromptu fast draws, or the lights going funny. I stopped to visit customers, smiled to everyone, and fended off questions about the tough guys they'd seen leaving.



"Just a misunderstanding; you know how it is," I'd say, which seemed to work since no one wanted to admit otherwise.



Adelle closed with her usual song; the band played "Good Night, Sweetheart"



to a nearly empty room. Strome returned since the last time I looked and was talking with his boss. If I'd not been occupied with my own troubles I've have tried to listen, but instead went backstage.



Roland was gone. No telling when he'd taken a powder, but it was convenient.



I knocked on Adelle's door, which was half open. She said to come in.



As with Roland, I lingered out of range of her dressing table mirror.



"Hi, Adelle. Good show tonight."



An elegant woman with dark hair, milky skin, and an understated manner when not performing, she turned at my voice, a touch startled. Maybe she'd been expecting Roland or Bobbi. "Hello, Jack. Thank you."



I gave her a moment to say more, thinking she'd ask about the water-throwing, glass-breaking blowup that had interrupted her set, but she didn't, which told me a lot I already knew. "You handled the disturbance very well."



"What distur-oh, that. I was hoping you'd forget it. I certainly wish I could.



Dropped a whole stanza. What an embarrassment. It won't happen again."



"I know," I said amiably.



And about two minutes later I left, absolutely certain of that fact.



By the time Gordy came down from his perch to collect her, she was in a great mood. They said good night to me, and off they went in his bulletproof car.



Adelle was wholly focused on him.



Two down, one to go in my brand-new triangle-busting business.



At dawn I went to bed; at dusk I was back from the dead again, having no conscious memory of the short winter day's passage. I was rested and ready to start the night and wasted no time getting to my club. The parking lot had only one other car in it, Escott's big Nash, slotted in next to my reserved spot, meaning he and Bobbi were already there, which wasn't part of their normal routine. If Dugan saw and objected, he could take it up with me at seven. I let myself in and trotted up to the office.



"What do you think?" Bobbi asked brightly. She was at the desk, fresh-faced in one of her severely cut business outfits; Escott lounged on the couch. He was in his usual banker's clothing, not a speck of sawdust marring the sober lines of his dark suit.



I looked around the room and didn't see anything different except for a bunch of hothouse-grown flowers in a vase on the side table. Usually it only held an ashtray. "What's with those?"



"Disguise stuff," she said, glancing impishly at Escott, who nodded satisfied agreement. He had his pipe fired up; the place was thick with the fragrant tobacco.



I checked the flowers more closely. They were packed tight with lots of green leaves mixed in, the better to hide my surprise for Dugan. The vase held no water and never would since it had no bottom.



"This is a disguise as well," Escott added, lifting the pipe. The air."



"Air?" I sniffed. It was pretty dense. He must have been smoking for hours, but it was a pleasant, sweet mixture.



"Do you smell anything else?"



"That's kinda impossible."



"Exactly. No fresh paint, no drying plaster."



I gave a short laugh. It was a detail I'd have overlooked. "Great, but couldn't you have opened a window?"



"Not without drawing notice; it's too bloody cold out. I brought a fan from the basement to help air things. Fortunately, very little paint was required, only a dab or two, but it is such small giveaways that can make or break a scene."



"Charles has been telling me about when he used to be on the stage," said Bobbi.



"Those days are not over yet, my dear. The performance has merely permutated into something considerably more interesting." He was extremely pleased with himself, so much so that he seemed ready to pop a vest button if he didn't get a chance to talk.



"Okay," I said. "I'm impressed. Now show me what's been done, and I'll give you a standing ovation."



"Hah!" he said and proceeded to point out everything. The three of us went to the next room over, which was ordinarily a storage area, and I got a look at the specialized equipment. It was bulky, but Bobbi assured me that it arrived in a plain crate by way of the delivery doors opening on the back alley, the same as the club's other supplies. Anyone on watch wouldn't know what was inside.



"You can work this?" I asked.



"We both can," she said. "Tested it out today. Here, listen." She flipped a switch.



I listened. And got impressed all over again. "Jeez."



There wasn't much to do until seven. The normal ritual of opening the place dragged like a snail, but I got through it, and none of the hired help picked up that anything else was going on. In a perverse way I was looking forward to my meeting with Dugan. Escott had the addresses of Dugan's friends for me to tap if things went wrong, but I was feeling optimistic.



The papers wrote nothing new on the Gladwell kidnapping case, just stirring what they already had into a different order to fill the columns. There was still staunch support for Hurley Gilbert Dugan, with quotes from his lawyer and Cousin Anthony. They both agreed that Dugan was a victim of the gang as well and agreed about it to every paper that would listen. He was nowhere to be found, having secluded himself from the hubbub. His lawyer read a statement from him that expressed his sympathy and regret to the Gladwell family with the hope that they would hear his side of things and know he also suffered. It was enough to choke a goat.



Escott said things were quiet at the Gladwells'. Reporters yet hovered by the closed gates, but it was a cold, fruitless, wait. Vivian was content to look after Sarah, who seemed to be recovering, patiently teaching her how to play cards.



Apparently the girl was fast becoming a killer at "go fish."



With some satisfaction, Bobbi reported that rehearsals went well for Roland and Faustine's exhibition dancing. They brought their music on some records and with those playing over the club loudspeakers were able to work out what was and wasn't possible on the dance floor. They showed a civil face to the world, but it was clear that Faustine was still mad. Roland was the soul of contrition, very attentive to her, focused on the job, and stayed within her sight the whole time. I did not envy either of them.



Adelle turned up for work on time, along with the band, and Gordy was with her, which surprised me. When she went off to her dressing room, I took him up to his table. Strome and Lowrey were with him; the third guy was off parking the car.



"I thought you'd be busy," I said, once Gordy was settled.



"I was," he said back.



"What about that noon deadline?"



"It didn't happen."



"What did?"



"Nothing. Bristow had too much to drink and too much hangover. He forgot about it. He's coming back tonight for more talk."



I didn't care much for that.



Gordy accurately read my expression. "Don't worry, we ain't wrecking the joint."



That was for damned sure.



Keeping to my routine, I stood post in the lobby, greeted customers, saw to minor problems, and otherwise did my job. When Bristow came in, he was as abrasive as before, but I got around that for a few crucial seconds. He went into the main room in a remarkably good mood, which again puzzled his men. One of them hung back from the rest to have a private word with me. He was the one I'd had the gun on last night, and from the hang of his suit was still packing heat.



"What was that about?" he wanted to know.



"What was what?"



"You looking at the boss like that. What did you do?"



I gave him a demonstration-which he wouldn't remember-along with some very specific instructions on how to behave in my place, then told him to send his buddies out front to see me, one at a time. Even the guy whose arm I'd damaged fell into line. Gordy could wheel and deal all he wanted and any way he liked, but there would be no trouble here tonight.



When the time came, I introduced Adelle to the audience, and she launched into her first set. Couples got up to dance, and the rest enjoyed their half-price drinks.



At ten to seven, Anthony Brockhurst, Marie Kennard, and the other high -



hatters unexpectedly came in. They all gave me the eyeball and got one right back, but without any whammy behind it. Time enough for that later. I wanted to save my hard-hitting for their resistant friend. They reminded me of a bunch of college kids crashing a party at a rival fraternity house, smugly daring their disinclined host to do anything about it. I chose not to; they weren't worth the effort, and for the moment were likely part of Dugan's strategy to protect himself. If anything bad happened to him, he had six witnesses on hand to swear that I'd been the perpetrator.



At five to seven I went outside and pretended to smoke in the windy cold, but it was really an excuse to check the street. It was still early enough for traffic; any of the cars parked in front of the shops and the diner could belong to him. He could have ridden along with his cousin's party. I tossed my cigarette at the gutter and went back in.



Seven o'clock came and went; so did five after seven. By then I was convinced he was pulling the same thing with me that he had with Vivian Gladwell and the ransom drop water hauls. At ten after I went up to my office, thinking he might phone.



The upper hall was dark, but my office light was on, the glow seeping from under the door. I distinctly recalled turning it off, though. Either Myrna was having her fun or some-one more corporeal was where he shouldn't be. Listening, I heard enough to decide it was the latter. Myrna played with lights and swapped bottles of booze around on the shelves when no one was looking. She'd never shown any interest in opening and shutting desk drawers.



I twisted the knob and went in.



A familiar face. Dugan was at my desk, working with a lockpick on the panel that covered the built-in safe. He managed to jump less than a mile at my abrupt entrance, but he was definitely caught flat-footed and red-handed.



"Ah," he said. A smile came and went, seeming to linger because of the shape of his mouth. He had one of those innocent faces, the kind people automatically like and trust on sight. "Hello, there. I suppose you'll want an explanation."



I shut the door behind me with a good loud click. "I don't want anything. What you want is to give me a reason not to break your neck."



"Ah. Well, yes, of course." The smile flickered again. He gestured at a chair in front of the desk as though he was the host. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Fleming?"



The bastard had nerve. And arrogance.



I didn't like either one. He'd recovered his full composure lightning fast. Was that naivete, stupidity, or lunacy? I'd dealt with crazy guys before, but each one had been different.



Dugan watched me, probably waiting to see what I'd do. Most guys would have a pretty strong reaction to being invited to sit in their own place by an unwelcome intruder. I kept cold and tried to imitate one of Gordy's dead-eyed stares. It was usually an effective ploy. You wait long enough, and the one you're staring at gets uncomfortable and starts talking to fill the silence. This was also the perfect time to attempt hypnosis again.



It's a potent power. Even when weak and on the edge of death, I'd been able to trust its strength over others.



Providing they were susceptible.



I focused hard, concentrating until a band seemed to constrict around my temples. There was no sense of contact with Dugan, no change in his eyes. I kept at it, time and silence stretching between us, kept at it until my head felt ready to explode. He returned my look, fully alert, perhaps even amused. That made me mad, helped me to press harder. Emotions fed the force of it.



But this time... nothing.



The only others immune to it besides crazy people and drunks were my kind, vampires. Dugan had a strong heartbeat going, though. His lungs pumped away nice and regular; he wasn't in the union. What I had not six feet in front of me was some not-so-ordinary two-legged insanity.



"Please." He gestured at the chair like he owned it. "Let's be civilized about this."



From a standing start, I moved faster than he could react, taking the distance and the desk in between in one flying lunge, hitting him square. He slammed bodily against the wall with a grunt and dropped on his face. I was set to throw a sucker punch or three to soften him some more, but he was too busy gasping for air to fight.



"Let's not," I said, standing up and brushing my knees.