Song in the Dark

A few seconds of mind-numbing panic, the taste of metal on my tongue, then I shoved the fear as far away as I could.



As Ruzzo hit the gas to take them away I kicked open Crymsyn's door, grabbed Roland, and hauled him inside. His legs weren't working, and once on the black-and-white marble tiles he gasped out a sudden halt. Blood seemed to pour from him, the scent sharp and arresting.



Before I lost all sense I bellowed for Escott to get the hell down there and rushed to the bar for towels. I was in cold syrup; nothing I did seemed fast enough or smart enough or good enough. Escott was halfway down the stairs and stopped to gape for all of a second, then also rushed forward.



The lobby lights blazed on. I whirled; this was the perfect time for an ambush, but no one was there. Myrna, then.



The lights went out, then on again. She'd done it for me once. Trying to help.



"Leave 'em on, goddammit!"



They stayed on.



"My God, how-?" Escott began.



"Hoyle. Trying for me again."



"Bloody bastard." He got Roland to lie flat while I ripped the man's trouser leg open to the knee and pressed a towel to the wound. The white cloth soon loaded up with blood despite the pressure I put on. God, if that was an artery...



"Hospital," I said. "Now."



"Is it safe outside?"



"Probably not." I turned pressure duty over to him and shot through the passage, the main room, the backstage, moving silent and fast. I'd traded solidity for speed and regained it in the alley after bulling right through the club's walls. The Nash was still warmed up and easily roared to life. I hurtled it around two corners and braked just short of ramming the parked Hudson. I'd have used Roland's car, but the Nash was bulletproofed.



The street was empty of Hoyle and his crew, and just as well for Roland, or I might have gone after them. I bailed out, leaving the motor running.



Evie was in the lobby by then, visibly upset, asking questions in her little voice and not being too damned helpful.



She was still in the vicuna coat. I told her to go out and open the back door of the brown car outside. If I'd said Nash, she might not have been able to pick it out.



"The brown car?"



"Go!"



She made a single yipping noise like a small pooch and fled outside.



"Roland?"



"Right here, sport. Remember my talk about doing this in films? Well, a make-believe bullet is much better." He forced out a ghastly grin.



Escott had cut Roland's suspenders off with a folding knife and improvised a tourniquet, which seemed to help, but the stack of blood-soaked towels had grown. "Come on, let's get him to the car."



"Yes, please hurry. This hurts like a bad review!"



I hoped joking meant he was going to be all right. When I'd been in the War-and this suddenly and unpleasantly reminded me of it-I'd seen guys cracking wise to the very end.



Opening a door on a brown car was evidently not one of Evie's talents. She'd overdone it and opened them all.



What the hell, we could manage. I had Roland's shoulders, Escott his feet, and we somehow got him into the back.



Escott slammed the door on his side, urged Evie into the passenger's, and came around to close mine on his way to the wheel.



"What the devil... ?" He stared at the warpage.



"Later," I said. "Get this bucket moving."



He got us moving.



Roland held on through the drive to the hospital, which was hair-raising enough to distract me from the fresh blood-smell. I didn't think Escott planned it that way, he was just in an unholy hurry. He skidded to a halt, missed rear-ending an ambulance, and bolted inside the hospital. As a kid he'd worked at one or for a doctor, I couldn't recall which, and would be better at raising the troops. I told Evie twice to get out and open the door. She kept blinking and saying, "I don't like this, I don't like this."



Perhaps playing to the hilt the devil-may-care suave, Roland grinned, "That's all right, my dear, you're in the best of company on that opinion."



"Huh?" She saw his smile and responded with a little laugh, the kind people with no sense of humor give when they know you've made a joke, but they don't get it, they're just being polite.



"Open the damn door!" I snapped at her, in no mood to be a gentleman. A couple of orderlies with a stretcher were on their way over, double-quick. She barely made it in time. Thankfully, Escott took her arm and kept her clear while I helped ease Roland out. The men took over, loaded up, and swept him toward the hospital's receiving area.



"I don't like this!" she cried.



This was the time for the deep-night predators to venture forth, but they would be elsewhere in the city, creeping through the cheap, run-down jungles where the desperation was greater, the victims more plentiful. I was where the victims ended up if they were lucky enough to survive. The waiting room was crowded.



I'd phoned Derner first and told him what happened and to send someone to Bobbi's hotel, then I phoned Bobbi to tell her what had happened. She was stunned for only a few moments, though.



"You need me to help with Faustine?" she asked.



"I was hoping."



"Of course I will. I'll be dressed again when you get here."



"I've already sent a car to pick you up. The driver will take you anyplace you want."



"One of Gordy's?" She sounded weary.



" 'Fraid so. I have to be here. With a gunshot wound they bring the cops and... uhhh... I'm thinking you know all that."



"A lot too well. I'll get Faustine and be there as soon as we can."



"I'll see you then."



"Be safe, sweetheart."



None safer. From bullets. Insanity and rage and fear were other matters entirely.



About ten minutes later several large guys with big coats and mashed noses walked in and not for emergency treatment. They spotted me and came over. "Derner sent us," one of them told me.



"Thoughtful of him," murmured Escott. He sat with an arm around the supremely unhappy, but heavy-eyed Evie.



She was tucked up on her chair, the tan coat covering her like a blanket with just part of her face showing. None of the mugs seemed to recognize her.



"Fine," I said. "Spread out, on your toes, and if you see Hoyle try to make it look like self-defense, there's cops here."



The man smiled. "Cops." Apparently he was unimpressed. Where had Derner found this bunch? They were tougher-looking than the bouncers had been, and came across as made men. No matter, so long as they were on my side.



"No shooting civilians," I added.



He grunted. Disappointed, maybe. He jerked his head at the other guys, and they trundled away. Everyone got out of their path except the nurses.



And a cop.



My favorite cop was Lieutenant Blair, but he must have had the night off. This new guy was Sergeant Something who flashed his badge too fast. Escott patted Evie's shoulder and spoke low to her. She didn't move. Asleep, I hoped.



The sergeant got a statement from me about the shooting. I used to be a lousy liar but had since improved my skills.



I can lie to strangers better than to friends, and this guy heard one of my best efforts. He got the facts as I knew them, but I pretended ignorance of the identity of the shooters.



"You're pretty calm about it, Mr. Fleming," he noted.



"It's late, I'm tired, and I'm worried about my friend. Call it shell shock."



"Don't you want to get the guys that shot him? They could come after you next."



"I think they were after me in the first place, and Roland just happened to be in the way." There, an absolutely true statement.



"Why would anyone want to shoot you?"



"You know how this town is. I opened a great club, there's other guys jealous, they want to take me down a notch, even scare me out of business."



"Has it worked?"



"Hell, yes. I'm closing until further notice. Nobody else is gonna get hurt."



This last was caught by a guy whose job I recognized as easily as the mugs who'd walked in. I used to dress just like him. He scribbled in a notebook and threw a question at me, but the cop shooed him off like an out-of-season horsefly. I knew what that was like. No nostalgia stirred in me to go back to the simple life of being a reporter. You ask so many questions and then one day you get more answers than you really want.



The cop finished with me and skipped talking with Escott, who hadn't exactly put himself forward. I'd said Escott hadn't seen anything and had only helped with the wounded.



When the cop cleared off the reporter moved in.



"It's just a shooting," I said to him. "What's the big beef about it?"



"A shooting at Lady Crymsyn." He grinned. "You are headline material for me. After that 'Jane Poe' case-"



"That's yesterday's fish wrapper. This is nothing. I donno who did it. I just want my friend to be okay."



"Your friend being the famous Roland Lambert, star of stage and screen. Why's he tripping the floor in your place if he's such a big star?"



"He's just doing a favor for a pal. Thought it'd be a lark. He and his wife are cut-ups like that, always having fun."



It was a better story than the truth about trying to make ends meet. I shoveled a lot of bull at the Fifth Estate and made Roland an altruistic hero who'd saved my life at the risk of his own. The reporter, apparently not good enough yet to have thought up the angle himself, went away happy. If he could write it fast enough, he might make the afternoon edition.



Bobbi and Faustine turned up next with their driver, who turned out to be Strome. He hung off to one side and smoked a cigar to fill the time while I did my best to calm Faustine down and give her the same story I'd passed to the cop.



I also advised her not to mention the shooting incident she'd been involved in earlier.



"Vhy ever nodt?" She was startled enough to stop demanding to see Roland.



"I'm shutting the club down for now, but if they catch wind of any more fishiness, they could keep it that way."



"Budt de show musst go on!"



"So we all keep quiet about it."



"About vhat, doll-ink? Poof! I forgedt whole tink. Now vhere iss my poor Roland? I musst see heem. I musst see dok-tor."



Eventually we all saw Roland, from a distance. His leg was bandaged and elevated in some kind of pulley contraption, and he was too groggy to say anything. Only Faustine was allowed in with him.



The doctor was optimistic. There was a lot of damage, and the bullet cracked, but hadn't broken, one of the leg bones, but if there was no infection, he would get well soon enough. I saw to it at least one of the mashed-nosed guys was to be within call at all times. Bobbi explained to Faustine that they were there to look after them and left it at that.



We were all told to go home, but Faustine refused to leave, and Bobbi said she'd stay to keep her company. I knew better than to talk her out of it.



She gave me a look, though. "Jack, I know this isn't your fault."



"Oh, yes it is."



"Shh! I just want to know when you get the guy who did it."



"So you can slug him, too?"



"So I know when it's safe to come back to the club."



"You'll be the first. I got eyes and ears out. We'll find him."



"They'll find him. You're not one of them, remember?"



"I'm trying, doll. I'm trying."



Escott announced he was taking Evie somewhere safe. He'd found a suitable hotel to go to ground.



"You got proof you're a Mr. and Mrs.?" I asked.



"I fear none is required for this establishment. I only hope Vivian never opens an inquiry into this."



"It's in a good cause. Call at the club if you need anything."



"You'll be asleep."



"I meant the Nightcrawler. Derner knows who you are."



"Oh, dear God."



"What?"



"Does this mean I'm your gangland lieutenant?" He said it with an "f" again. Someday I'd ask him if that's how it was spelled in England.



"Let's just keep it 'baby-sitter to dancers' and leave it at that."



"And what happened to my steering wheel?"



"I... had another... another damned fit."



"A fit." He went still, waiting for more.



But I shut down, shaking my head. "I'll get you a new one."



"You bloody well better," he finally said, then went to rouse Evie from her nap. She protested but went along with him. I had two of the mugs follow to see them off.



After a run by Crymsyn to check things (normal) and Escott's office (also normal) I had Strome drop me a block from Escott's house, telling him I'd walk from there, that I needed the fresh air to clear my head.



"Pick me up tomorrow around... oh, just come after dark." I couldn't remember the time for sunset. Dawn was my main concern. I kept track of that.



"It's freezing," he said. "You noticed? You shouldn't walk."



"Yeah, but I don't mind." The chill that had plagued me before was either gone or I'd just gotten used to it. Waiting until his taillights were a memory, I vanished, speeding along the sidewalk until I figured to be in sight of the house. I went solid and had a good look around the neighborhood, front and back.



Nothing. Dammit.



I'd been hoping, really, really hoping that since the club and the office came up empty, Hoyle would catch a case of the dumbs from Ruzzo and be lying in wait for me here.



Too bad. Pounding their heads together would have improved my mood a lot.



I ghosted inside the house, went through it for intruders (none), ran a bath, used it, shaved, put on fresh clothes for tomorrow, and dropped invisibly into my basement sanctuary.



The light was on, as I'd left it. The dim bulb didn't use much juice. It also didn't heat the place much, as in dry out the damp. Was I in for another broken pipe?



This spot used to be cozy and safe, and it was fireproof, but still... I wanted to not be home.



Maybe if I fixed up something better, larger, took over the whole basement.



Jonathan Barrett had a great place, lots of room, bookshelves, lots of lights, but then he was richer and had a rich girlfriend who didn't mind the improvements in the cellar of her Long Island palace.



Maybe I could get my own place.



Actually I already had one. Lady Crymsyn.



And I didn't feel safe there, either.



Strome was punctual. I was on the phone with Derner within minutes of rising to find out what had happened during the day when the doorbell rang. I let Strome in and went back to my call. Shouldn't have bothered. Nothing new on the hunt for Hoyle. He'd gone to ground again and had either found an exceptionally good place for it, or no one would admit to knowing where. With there still being a substantial number of men against my sitting in Gordy's chair, a stonewalling might be in progress. Paranoid of me, but I had a right to be so, and, without hypnosis to force things my way, I was stuck with the situation.



Speaking of stuck... "Is my car back yet?" I asked Derner.



"No, Boss. I got them to lay off and just do the tires, though."



Dammit. I could have gone to Detroit and back and had a whole new car made by now. I suppressed a growl, and asked, "Has Kroun been in?"



"Not today. If he was steamed last night, he's gonna be boiling tonight."



"Why?"



"The papers."



"What's in them?"



"They're screaming about a mob hit on Roland Lambert."



"What?"



"That's what they got. I didn't write it, that's what they got. Your club's all over it, your name, and they pulled out the Jane Poe case again."



Oh, hell. I shouldn't have talked to that reporter. I knew better. Give them one straw, and they'll spin a mountain of gold. I'd been known to do it myself. "Hoyle will know that he missed killing me again."



"Yeah, that's gonna piss him off."



"I'll send him flowers."



"Hey, Boss, it's the way it is."



"Yeah-yeah. Look, the guys who do know where he is ain't cooperating, that's plain enough. You put the word out that his location is worth two grand to them."



He nearly choked. "But that-that's-"



Two years' income to most, a tip to others. "Take it out of petty cash. These bozos are gonna cost us five times that if they're left running loose. I'll be at Crymsyn if anything new comes in."



I hung up before the sputtering started. The phone rang as I shrugged into my coat. My hat was gone. I suspected I'd lost it in the Stockyards during my binge.



Escott was on the other end of the line. His tone was tense. "Good, I wanted to catch you before-"



"What's wrong?"



"Bloody Evie Montana. The little-she slipped her leash."



"Ah, jeez. How?"



"Oldest trick in the book, through the bathroom window and out."



"When?"



"This afternoon. I should have anticipated. She'd been harping all day about wanting to go home. I think the girl is rather backward-"



"Can it, Charles, we both know she's the original Dumb Dora."



"Yet she managed to outfox me. I'd tried to explain the situation to her, but she seemed to think-oh, bloody hell, she doesn't think. That's the problem."



Hanging around smart women like Vivian and Bobbi had gotten him spoiled. "Well, meet me at the club, and we'll try to hash out a way of finding her again."



"Right." He sounded tired. Apparently a day with Evie had not been a picnic.



With a twinge of guilt I realized I should call the hospital and ask after Roland. It wasn't his fault the papers were in a lather about the shooting. I had the operator connect me, not wanting to bother searching the phone book.



Eventually I got through to the nurses' station on Roland's floor and was informed he was doing well, whatever that meant. When I asked for more details I was told when evening visiting hours were, then the line went dead. Standard replies to the standard questions. If something was truly wrong, the answers would have been different. Maybe.



"Two grand for Hoyle?" asked Strome on the way to his car.



"Yeah. You know where he is?"



He shook his head. "But I might know some guys who might know some guys who might. And they don't need to hear about the two grand."



"No, they don't." If Strome had been holding out on me... but I decided I didn't care. Whatever it took to get Hoyle in a box.



Roland's Hudson was still parked in front of Lady Crymsyn, along with another car. A hopeful reporter. Strome drove around back. I let us in that way, we walked through, then I unlocked the lobby door and let him out again.



Less than a minute later the hopeful drove off at a good clip. Strome came in, his face bland. I didn't ask questions and went up to the office.



Lights and radio off. Myrna was being different tonight. I turned both on and rummaged in the desk, finding a piece of cardboard in a box of typing paper. I lettered an optimistic CLOSED, BUT BACK SOON! on it in black ink, then went down to tack it on the entry door.



The lobby phone rang, startling me. I was the one who usually called in on it. Strome kept his hands in his pockets, so I answered.



"Jack?" Bobbi's voice.



"Yeah, honey? You okay?"



"I'm fine, we're all fine. It's been rough, but I got some sleep. I was hoping to catch you. I already tried at Charles's."



"Oh, yeah?"



"I thought you should know I called everyone not to come in tonight."



She just saved me a ton of effort. "You're an angel. How's Roland?"



"He's in better shape than me and Faustine put together. The papers have been all over him. He's enjoying every moment."



"Enjoying?"



"His name is in the news, people are wanting his autograph. This is the best thing that's happened to him in ages."



"Yeah, but will he dance again?" That was a huge nagging worry I'd tried not to think about.



"He seems to think so. I wouldn't put it past him to be up and rehearsing tomorrow. I told him you'd closed the club for the time being, though. He said to tell you not to do that. I couldn't really explain that there was more going on, mostly because I don't know anything."



"I'll tell you all about it whenever you want."



"When it's over, then."



Which could be never at this rate. "It's a deal." And I hoped she didn't pick up on the pain that lanced through me just then. The false front between us wasn't going to come down.



After last night's uncontrolled debauch I knew I'd have to get away, especially from Bobbi. The longer I stayed, the worse the hurt would be for us both. Club or no club, responsibilities aside, I had to get clear of this mess before I lost my head and killed her.



"Boss?" Strome called up.



Calling up? What the ... ?



I looked around and had to steady myself. I was in my office. Didn't remember leaving the phone booth or climbing the stairs.



"Oh, God..." I sat on the couch, my knees gone weak.



No scent of roses for comfort. Just me alone and crazy in my own skull.



"Boss? Mr. Kroun's here."



I must be in hell, I thought. Or a nearby neighborhood.



"Be right down." My voice sounded frighteningly normal, like there were two of me. The man who worked the front and kept things moving and the guy in the back who was losing himself in wholesale lots to the darkness within.



Stood up, squared my shoulders, and started to shut down the radio before leaving, then changed my mind. Maybe Myrna would like to have a little music going.



"I'm off to see some bad guys, Myrna. Keep an eye on things, would you?"



I collected my coat, wrapping up and pulling on leather gloves.



That's when I noticed the gun on my desk.



For several mad seconds I froze completely. I could not think how it had gotten there. It was the same Colt Detective Special I'd acquired once upon a time. How in hell... ?



I picked it up, hefting the solid, otherwise reassuring weight and broke it open. Fully loaded, with the brand of bullets I favored, still smelling of its last cleaning, it was definitely the same gun. I went cold all over, put it down and backed away, the flesh on my nape going tight.



Had I somehow opened the safe, taken the gun out, placed it on the blotter, and totally forgotten? If that was true, then I really was crazy, and in a much more serious way than before.



A table lamp next to the couch went on and off suddenly. I twitched and whirled to face it.



Oh, jeez... what a time for...



"Myrna?" I whispered. "Was this your doing?"



No more light play, but I knew the answer, however impossible it seemed. She switched vodka and gin bottles around as a joke, and cut lemons up to help Wilton, but this was a first. A big first. Was she getting stronger? And how far was this kind of thing going to go?



"Thanks, honey," I said to the air.



I made myself relax and put the gun in my overcoat pocket. At least I'd not been the one who'd done it and forgotten, so I wasn't all that crazy. Just haunted.



"Look after the place, okay?"



No lights flickered in reply as I shut the door.



Kroun was in a shut-mouthed mood, which suited me just fine. He'd parked behind Strome's car, driver's side to the curb. When it was time to leave he slid across the seat. I didn't think he was tired of driving Gordy's car, but only I knew where we were going, and this way minimized conversation.



Strome said he was going to go someplace and see someone, and I hoped it meant turning up Hoyle.



I took a lot of unnecessary turns on the ride toward the Bronze Belt. Kroun would probably know where we were on arrival and could find his way back again, but this way I could tell Coldfield that I'd made an effort. I took one final corner onto a street lined with parked cars and spotted a single opening halfway down. It seemed suspiciously clear, and I expected to find a fireplug, but Isham, one of Coldfield's lieutenants, stepped from a little grocery store next to the space. I parked Gordy's tank and got out.



This was one of the border areas of the Bronze Belt, where the whites and coloreds had to intermingle as dictated by geography. Despite the presence of so many vehicles, it was a hard-knock area; the Caddy stood out.



Isham nodded at the car. "Shoe said there'd be you and Kroun. That him? Everything okay?"



"Pretty much."



"Where's your Klansman?"



He meant Strome, who did not behave well in mixed company. Isham had made a hobby of baiting him. "He wet the rug, so I tied him in the yard."



Isham chuckled, and I went back to the car. Kroun slid across the seat again to get out on the curb side. He tried his stare out on Isham. Isham looked past him in such a way that he had to eventually turn to see what was so interesting. There were suddenly a lot of guys visible that we hadn't noticed before. They were in doorways or coming out of other stores or the alleyways. They all had the look.



Kroun grunted, almost smiling. "Peachy."



We followed Isham into the store, which was a smalltime husband-and-wife operation. The couple stood behind the counter, watching the parade with flinty faces. I'd been through there before on a case for Escott and politely saluted the lady since I was minus a hat. Neither of them reacted.



Isham took us out the back door, turning right down the rear alley, then went into another door, this one to an eatery. I got a partial whiff of grease and stale coffee, then made a determined effort not to inhale accidentally. Food smells made me nauseous, even the expensive stuff.



We didn't bother going to the front, but through an inside door to a small washroom. Isham opened a closet door, revealing a narrow space with a mop and bucket and shelves crowded with cleaning supplies and junk. He pulled on one of the shelves and the wall-rather a door fixed to look like a wall-swung out. A bare hall, badly lighted, lay within.



Kroun paused. "Jeez, what kinda place you got here?"



"The kind that's safe," said Isham. "Fleming knows the rest of the way."



"It's okay," I said, going in first. Kroun doubtfully followed. It was only twenty feet, not enough to make me nervous, and the opposite door also opened into a storage closet, this one full of bed linens and towels. I pulled on the light cord. The bare bulb above us went on, and I carefully shut up the passage behind. It clicked softly into place and once more resumed looking like a back wall supporting a couple coat hooks. A work apron dangled limp from one of them.



"Up and through," I said.



"Then what? Secret ladders?"



"Nah, just stairs."



Outside was a regular back hallway, no frills. Shiny linoleum, plain white walls, a hotel maids' cart shoved to one side. At the end were service stairs, and we went up two flights.



"Where the hell are we?" Kroun was puffing. You'd think a mobster would be in better shape.



"Somewhere in the next block from the car. You saw the neighborhood. It wouldn't do for a couple of white guys to be seen going in and out of a colored hotel."



"Why'd you bring Gordy here, then?"



"Is this where you'd ever look for him?"



"Huh. That's good. How'd you fix it?"



"Connections and a donation or two to a good cause."



Dr. Clarson and those of his colleagues who took care of Gordy were being well compensated, as was the owner of the hotel, but that we were here at all was Shoe Coldfield's doing. Without his blessing and help, Gordy might have been a sitting duck even in his own territory. Coldfield would have done it anyway as a favor to me and Escott, but he was also doing himself a favor. With someone like Gordy owing him in such a big way, a gang boss could get a lot of things done for his turf.



When we reached the right floor I knocked twice and pushed slowly on the service door. A guy a little shorter than Isham stood with a revolver in his fist. He knew me by sight but didn't put the gun away. I slowly emerged, my arms out a little. Kroun did the same.



One of Gordy's boys, Lowrey, came up and said we were okay. The other man nodded and retreated a few steps, watchful.



Lowrey and another trusted man had taken turns standing watch since all this began. Strome might have been here to help, but he wasn't much of a mixer with color. Lowrey didn't give a damn one way or another, it was just a job.



Most of the real guardianship was done by Shoe Coldfield's people.



Lowrey took us along the length of the hotel hall and up another flight. This floor had rooms with open doors, plush carpeting, and people, but nothing noisy. It was almost like a library. So long as it didn't turn into a funeral parlor.



Adelle Taylor emerged from one of the rooms, apparently expecting us. She was soberly dressed, not in her usual film-actress style, but everything looked nice. She gave me a smile.



I bent a little and bussed her cheek, then gave her a good looking over. "Woman, you have him get on his feet pretty soon, or I'm gonna start asking you out."



She reacted well. "Is that a promise or a threat?"



"Both."



At the sight of her Kroun underwent an amazing transformation. He dropped the dour face and blazed out with his charm once more. "A pleasure again, Miss Taylor. You're looking very fine tonight."



"Thank you, Whitey. It's so much better here. Like a weight's been lifted."



"I'm glad to hear it. If you need anything, absolutely anything at all, I'll make sure you have it."



"You're very kind." She beamed, and I could tell that made Kroun's whole week.



I was on her side-whatever put him in a good humor was good in turn for her boyfriend.



"The doctor's with Gordy now," she said. "We can wait in the hall."



She led us a little farther, pausing just short of an open door halfway down. A table outside was stacked with medical-looking junk and a food tray. I ventured a whiff of air and got the unmistakable scent of chicken soup.



Within the room I heard Dr. Clarson asking a question, then responding to the murmured answer with a heavy sigh.



"Well, Gordy," he said sadly, "you're going to die. Just not today."



Adelle shifted next to me, gaze raised toward the ceiling. She was not an aficionado of the doc's sense of humor.



"Fine by me," came Gordy's reply. There was a hint that his usual low rumble was returning.



"And you don't go waking me up for the rest of the night. I've had a tough day like you wouldn't believe and need my sleep."



"No problem."



Clarson emerged, wearing the white coat of his craft, the sterile white in sharp contrast to his dark skin. A similarly clad and dark-toned nurse came out, carrying a tray that she put on the table. Clarson looked us over.



"You may have two minutes," he said. "I'll be out here with my watch."



"That'll be fine, Doc," I answered for Kroun. I put my head around the door. "Hi, Gordy."



He was in bed, propped up on a lot of pillows, with the sheet and blankets pulled high, almost to his chin. One bare arm was out, the other tucked under the coverings. He was pale, but that awful hollowness looked more filled out than before. " 'Lo, Fleming."



"You better?"



"I'm better."



This time I believed him. "Mr. Kroun's here."



"Send 'm in."



Adelle moved off to another room, by now well schooled to be scarce when business was afoot. I would have liked to have heard what Kroun wanted to say to Gordy; but if it concerned me, I'd find out later, and if it didn't, then I didn't give a damn. Instead, I asked Clarson for a verdict on Gordy. He didn't want to get optimistic about his patient, having seen too many others carried off.



"He's much better, and that's as far as I'll say, 'cause I don't want to jinx him."



"If there's anything I can do..."



"Have that fine little lady of yours come up and visit Miss Taylor tomorrow. She'd do better for some company.



Everyone else keep clear so Gordy can rest."



"I'll see to it."



"Then that's all right."



Something about the arrangement of the bed coverings nagged at me. A familiar outline...



"Doc? Is Gordy's sleeping with a .45 in his fist part of your remedy?"



He snorted. "Not really. He usually has it on the night-stand, but that company you brought in... he felt better having some heat close."



Hell of a world, I thought.



"Out the way we came in," I told Kroun when he emerged two minutes later.



He hesitated, looking past me toward Adelle's room.



"What, you want her autograph?"



He continued to hesitate. "We can come back later, right?"



This guy was a pip. "When she's not as distracted."



We retraced our steps without escort, but in the alley between the buildings Kroun paused. "You know what that was about?"



"You'll tell me if I need to."



Kroun snorted. "Smart boy. I can see why Gordy likes you. He looked like hell. I thought he'd be better than he was."



"He'll be fine," I said.



"If he isn't, there's gonna be changes. He asked you to step in for him as a temporary thing. You say you don't want the job, which means somebody else takes over."



"Derner."



"Uh-uh, Mitchell."



A flare of real anger rose in me. "Mitchell?"



"If the worst happens, Mitchell's taking over. He knows the ropes. The boys won't object to him the way they've been doing with you."



"They won't, but I might. You pulling another Bristow here?"



For a second I thought he was going to slug me. His dark eyes blazed a moment. "Listen up, Fleming. You say you don't want to be boss, but you sure as hell don't mind throwing your weight around when it's convenient. You handled yourself okay dealing with that Alan Caine mess, and you got lucky surviving those hits from Hoyle; but when all that clears away and you're standing in the sweet spot, you still don't have what it takes to be a boss."



I kept my anger belted down tight. I had to hear him out. There had to be some way of getting Mitchell off the list of replacements. Gordy was improving, but next week he could be hit by a bus. "What am I missing?"



"The guts to kill and to order a killing. That's not in you. Mitchell can do a piece of work and not think twice about it-but you think too much. You're a stand-up guy, but not for this kind of job."



On one hand I agreed with him. I'd killed before, but I didn't like it. Some nights I carried those souls around on my shoulders like a flock of carrion crows. Kroun must have seen it. He was the kind to read people. "What about Derner? Why not him? He and Strome are both made."



"They follow. They don't lead. Not enough imagination."



"And Mitchell's got that?"



"You don't know him. If you're worried about him making trouble with your girl or you, I can get him to lay off, and that's a promise."



I didn't have much confidence that Mitchell would obey, though.



"He was supposed to have Chicago in the first place."



"That's what he told you when Morelli died?"



"Yeah. But Gordy moved in faster. He turned out to be good at the business, so we kept him."



"Mitchell didn't like that?"



"Nope."



"He got a grudge on?"



"Not that I've seen."



Hardly a reassuring answer. But I nodded like it meant something. "But all this is just so much eyewash. Gordy's better. You and Mitchell will eventually go home, and we all settle back to business as usual."



"Yeah. But if that changes..."



On our return the small grocer's was empty except for one very large man in a custom-tailored overcoat. He threw a dark, impersonal glance at me, then pretended to study a stack of canned goods. I walked outside with Kroun and Isham, getting partway to the car, then excusing myself.



"Just remembered I forgot something," I said, and motioned for Kroun to go on to the car. He shrugged and kept going, opening the front passenger door, but not getting in. He leaned against the body of the car and watched the guys in the street who were watching him.



I turned back to the shop, but Shoe Coldfield was already emerging, filling the doorway a moment. The building seemed smaller with him in front of it.



"So that's the man," he rumbled in his deep voice. "He ever on the stage?"



"Don't think so."



"It's a wonder he's doing what he does. It's too easy to pick someone like him from a lineup. Makes an impression."



"Unless you got a lot of intimidation going for you."



"That's true. I expect he's one of that type. Knew a few, but they were all onstage. Could play meek and mild, then open up and cut you in half with it. Good actors they were, the ones who knew how to control it."



"I don't think Kroun's in the meek-and-mild club."



"No he is not. I've done some checking around since getting his name, and he can be damn dangerous if you don't watch yourself."



"He's leashed." Sort of. I'd come to think the suggestion on friendship was wearing off faster than it should.



Coldfield approved. "You're just playing with him?"



"Not for long. I'm hoping he and his boy go back to New York tomorrow. Soon as I get them clear I've got other things to work on."



"Like that singer who got the noose?"



"Yeah."



"I'm sorry about that. I saw Caine perform once. Hell of a talent."



"It's less for him than for his ex-wife, Jewel. She's got the blame for his death, and she didn't do it. That's not right."



"Yeah, Charles filled me in today about all the trouble. Said you were looking dangerous."



"Only to the killer."



"That's what's bothering our mutual friend. You're planning to kill the killer."



"I haven't decided yet."



"Charles thinks you have. He's on your side for it."



"I thought he might be."



"Well, the fewer criminals walking around, the better is how he likes it. Of course, I'm the exception to the rule."



"I've wondered about that."



"So have I," he admitted.



"If Charles likes the idea, why's he bothered?"



"It's not over the killing, it's you. He's not been too happy about your state of mind. He's worried what it'll do to you. He doesn't say it like that. He dresses it up in a hell of a lot more words, but that's what it is boiled down."



Escott had a valid point. "I've been shoved against the wall on this kind of business before, and I've learned I can live with it."



"Uh-huh. But not too happily."



"Shoe, I know you want to help, but what's going to work best is for me to find the bastard who killed Jewel and make him pay for it. No, I won't be happy afterward, but it'll be better for me than if I did nothing at all."



"I know what that's like. On the other hand..."



"What?"



"Have I told you lately how I really hate scraping you off sidewalks?"



"I'm on the lookout. I know who I'm after, and so far they don't know I'm after them."



"Who would that be?"



"A troublemaker named Hoyle is the odds-on favorite, two idiots named Ruzzo-"



"Oh, God, them?"



"You've met 'em?"



"Yeah. Two brains and not a mind between them. They're stupid, but cunning and faster than rats when they need to be."



"I won't turn my back on any of them. Hoyle's the favorite for this job. I gotta find him, ask a few questions, then make a decision."



"As in just how to bump him?"



"You reading minds?"



He shrugged. "I've been doing this a while."



"With any luck I'll settle it tonight, then we can try and"-I almost said "forget it" but that wasn't going to happen-"get back to what passes for normal around here."



"Yeah, my guys are getting their noses out of joint for all the extra marching around in the weather."



"Listen, I don't want you putting yourself out-"



"Forget it, it's good for them. Walk some of the fat off their shanks. They're keeping a sharp watch on Gordy.



There's no white people come within a hundred yards of this neighborhood we don't know about. He'll stay safe."



"I appreciate it, Shoe."



"It's good for business to look out for him," he said.



I didn't gainsay. If that's what Coldfield had to put about to seem to have a tough, practical front for his troops, then I was all for it.



"That movie star mutt of yours looks like he's tugging at the leash."



Kroun had begun to pace up and down a few times, looking my way impatiently.



"If he's cold, why doesn't he get in the damn car?" Coldfield asked.



"Probably thinks I'll forget him if he's out of sight. I better go."



"All right, but watch yourself. I'm fresh out of brooms and scrapers."



I walked toward the car, the wind picking up and pushing at my back. Kroun saw my approach, putting on an



"it's about damn time" face. He dropped into the front seat and hauled the passenger door smartly shut.



It made a hell of a lot louder noise than it should have. Rather than a metallic bang, there was a deafening krump, then it was like the sound itself slammed me in the chest. I was hurled backward, right off my feet, not understanding why. I glimpsed smoke suddenly blacking the windows of the Caddy on the inside before I hit the pavement. Some instinct told me to keep rolling. Each time I saw the car a different view presented itself.



Smoke flooding from under it, thick and black.



Another explosion, the boom too loud to hear, only feel.



The rear end suspended five feet in the air and nothing holding it up.



The heavy body abruptly crashing down on all fours, flames engulfing the back.



The tires ablaze, adding smoke and stink to the picture.



Pieces of metal shooting by like hot hail.



A tumbling wall of fire and blackness roaring toward me like a train-