P. N. Elrod - Vampire Files 11 - Song in the Dark

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SONG IN THE DARK

Vampire Files 11

By

P. N. Elrod

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

This book is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over

and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

ACE is an imprint of The Berkley Publishing Group.

ACE and the "A" design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First edition: September 2005

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Elrod, P. N. (Patricia Nead)

Song in the dark / P. N. Elrod.—I st ed.

p. cm.—(The vampire files)

ISBN 0-441-01323-6

. Fleming, Jack (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Private investigators—Illinois—Chicago—Fiction. 3.

Chicago (111.)—Fiction. 4. Vampires—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3555.L68S66 2005

'.54—dc

200504322

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

To my good friends

Ian Hamill

Roxanne Longstreet

Roxanne Longstreet Conrad

Roxanne Conrad

Rachel Caine

AND ESPECIALLY

Julie Fortune!

Stand-up buds, all!

Chapter 1

Chicago, January 1938

I slouched in the backseat of Gordy's Cadillac, the one that had just slightly less armor than a German

tank, keeping clear of the rearview mirror out of habit, not because I cared one way or the other. The

driver, a stone-faced guy named Strome, probably wouldn't have said anything about my lack of

reflection even if he'd noticed. He almost certainly had other things on his mind, like whether or not he

would be the one delegated to kill me tonight.

It was really too bad for him, because I got the idea that he'd begun to like me. I already had his respect.

A scant few nights ago Strome had seen me apparently dead, an ugly kind of dead, then had to contend

with my quick and mystifying return to good health. I gave no explanations to him or any of the others

who were aware of my experience, and soon he'd accepted that I'd somehow survived. So far as he

knew now I was still healing from that bloody damage, yet able to walk around and carry on with what

passed for normal life, which in his eyes made me without a doubt the toughest SOB in Chicago. Strome

couldn't have known about my supernatural edge; anything to do with vampires was well outside his view

of the world, which was fine with me. Like others of his ilk, even if specifics about the Undead escaped

him, he was aware that I was dangerously different. He knew which questions not to ask, and that made

him a valuable asset to the mob. And me.

Most of the time he and his partner, Lowrey, were bodyguards to their gangland boss and my friend,

Gordy Weems. We all tripped and fell down on the job a few nights ago, leaving Gordy with a couple of

bullets in him. He'd survived, too, barely.

While he'd been out for the count, his lieutenants decided that someone had to step into his shoes to deal

with the running of their mob during the crisis and elected me to take his place. I thought it to be a

singularly bad idea, but took on the burden for Gordy's sake. I wouldn't have been any kind of a

stand-up guy to have ducked out when he needed the help. I'd been too cocky assuming the mantle,

though. Because of my edge, I'd come to believe in my own indestructibility. I thought I could handle

anything.

Circumstances and a drunken sadist named Hog Bristow taught me different.

I got my payback on him. Bristow was dead. Ugly dead. I'd killed him, and now I had to give payback

to someone else about my actions. Even Gordy couldn't get me out of this one. It was serious gang

business, the resolution of which would take place in his soundproofed upstairs office at his nightclub.

Or the basement. I'd been there once or twice. Not on the receiving end.

"Turn on the radio," I told Strome.

He obliged. Dance music flowed from the speaker grille. "You want this or something else?" he asked.

"That's fine." Music helped to distract me, to seal over the fissures inside. I had lots of those going deep

down into blackness full of sharp, cutting horrors along the way. If I focused on the radio noise, then I

didn't have to think about certain things, like what Bristow had done to me after hanging me upside down

from a hook in a meat locker.

That's what this ride was about: the repercussion over what I'd done to him once I'd gotten free.

It wasn't fair that I was being called on the carpet for that bastard's death, but the mobs had their own

rules and ways of doing things. Bristow had powerful friends back in New York; they'd give me a few

minutes to give my side of the story—Gordy had wrangled that much for me—then I'd die.

Strome drove to the back-alley entrance of Gordy's club, the Nightcrawler, which was the normal ingress

for bosses. The front was for the swells come to see the shows and try the gambling in a strictly private

section of the club. The gaming was the main difference between my own nightclub and this one. If the

stage shows were a bust, then Gordy was still guaranteed to make a ton of money from tables and slots.

He thought I was nuts not having some as well as a backup, but I chose early on not to take that road.

Sure, I had an accountant who could cook the books to a turn and, with Gordy's influence, could

manage bribes and all the rest, but I wouldn't risk it even for that kind of money. All it'd take was one

raid, one arrest, one daylight court appearance with me not there, and that would be the end of it.

Maybe I did some sweating when profits were thin or nonexistent, but that was better than losing the

whole works.

Not that any of it mattered much to me now.

Strome parked. I quit the car, sliding across the seat to get out on the driver's side, slamming the door

harder than was necessary. It drew attention. Despite the cold there were a number of guys hanging

around the Nightcrawler's back door. Two of them were Ruzzo, brothers in Gordy's outfit, strong arms,

bad tempers, and not much brain. Being too hard to tell apart, they went interchangeably by the one

name.

A few nights back, in order to assert my authority as temporary boss, I'd had to punch them both out to

make a point. Now they lurked close enough to force me to notice them. Both looked like they'd shared

the same bad lemon. Ruzzo the Elder had a split lip; his brother had a black eye. Two ways to tell them

apart. They must have thought my number was up and were already figuring how to get me alone for

some payback of their own before the boom lowered.

Ruzzo the Younger showed an exceptionally hard glare. It effectively distracted me from his brother.

Who threw a punch toward my ribs as I walked past.

Bad move.

I took it solid, but didn't collapse the way I was supposed to; instead, I sliced out sideways with my

forearm and slammed him broad across the middle. I'd seen something like it on a tennis court, only

you're supposed to use a racket.

The Elder staggered backward halfway across the alley, folding with an oof noise onto the cold

pavement. The Younger blazed in to kill, pulling out a gun.

Which I plucked away from him almost as an afterthought.

He stared at his empty hand.

Strome finished up. He had a blackjack ready and swiped it viciously behind the man's left ear. The

Younger dropped.

I held the gun out to Strome, addressing him loud enough for the others to hear. "These dopes shoulda

kept in school. They could have found out how rough the big boys in first grade played. Maybe learned

something."

His turn to stare. "You okay? He caught you a good one."

I pretended to shift uncomfortably. "Yeah, he did. Let's go."

We climbed the loading-dock stairs to the club's kitchen, but instead of turning toward the stairs up to

Gordy's office, Strome led the way to the main room of the club. Band music, live, played there, though

the place was still an hour or so from opening. A last-minute rehearsal for their big star seemed to be

going on.

"Have to wait here," said Strome, gesturing at a ringside table. It was the one usually reserved for special

guests of the boss. It was also the farthest from any exit, and my being placed here was no coincidence.

A glance around confirmed I was expected to stay put. All the doors were covered by at least two mugs,

armed, of course. Strome sat with me, keeping his hat and coat on. I did likewise.

"How long?" I asked.

He gave a small shrug. "Donno."

No need to inquire whether word had been sent up about my arrival. That would have happened the

instant we parked. I was supposed to sit there and stew about my fate.

Instead, I watched the rehearsal. Nothing else to do. As with the radio, the music kept me from thinking

too much.

Things seemed to be running late and going badly. This week's big star was Alan Caine. I'd heard him on

the radio, and he was a popular name in Broadway revues. He'd done speciality numbers in

short-subject films I'd never seen. He had a stadium-filling voice and was presently using it to hammer at

the red-faced bandleader.

"Three in a row—you going for some kind of record? Read the damn music, if you can, and give me the

right damn cue!" Caine wore his tuxedo pants and suspenders, an undershirt and dress shoes. He was so

handsome that even men looked twice at him, and with women it was a foregone conclusion they'd faint if

he gave them a half second's glance. The line of dancing girls behind confirmed it. Instead of being put off

by his tone, they all looked to be in a giggly, flirty mood, eyes bright.

He eased into a gap between two of them, pasted on a huge, absolutely sincere smile and froze, waiting.

The band, for the fourth time, swung into the prologue for his number, and must have gotten it right.

Caine and his leggy troupe stepped and strutted smarter than smart for eight counts, then the girls

retreated, leaving him out front to sing the rest of his song. I didn't like him on sight, but he had a hell of a

voice.

"Wanna drink?" Strome asked.

He got a blank look from me. Taking requests from the condemned man? Or was he in need of fuel for

what was to come? So far as I knew he would be the executioner. He was like Bristow, a killer. Unlike

Bristow, Strome didn't make a big thing of it, and if he enjoyed the work, kept it to himself.

"No thanks."

Strome signed to someone I didn't bother to look at and got a draft beer, the glass opaque with frost.

They knew how to serve things up right at the Nightcrawler: song, dance, drinks, girls, gambling, and

death.

Alan Caine broke off in midnote. The dancers continued their routine for a few steps; the band continued

as well until the leader caught on that he'd committed another sin. I'd been listening and hadn't heard

anything wrong. Caine heard different and laid into him on the brass being too loud.

"They're paying money to hear me, not you," he stated, his sincere smile on the shelf for the moment.

"What the hell do you think you're doing trying to drown me out? That's my name on the marquee, not

yours. Get your people in line or get another job."

I waited for the leader to lay into him right back, but he just nodded and began the play again, starting a

few bars before the interruption. This time the horns were softer, and Caine's voice went right to the

corners of the room.

"Is he always like that?" I asked Strome.

"Since he got here."

"Why does Derner put up with it?" Derner was another of Gordy's lieutenants and also the general

manager for the club.

"The guy packs in the crowds."

"No one's worth that kind of crap."

"This one is. He gets every seat filled and has a standing-room line at the bar. Even on the weeknights we

can charge a two-fifty cover, and they come in herds."

"Two-fifty?" That was unheard of; some clubs in New York got away with charging so much for their

cover, but less so in Chicago. You only did that on weekends and only when it was a real Ziegfeld-style

spectacular. Nothing so elaborate was going on here with just Caine, the band, and eight dancers. There

was no stage decoration, either, just the usual long curtains backing the musicians and someone to man

the lights and keep the spot on the star. "He's worth it?"

"Depends who you talk to. The bookkeepers say yes, the performers say no. Bookkeepers win."

"He must be blackmailing someone."

"Hey!" Caine stopped the show again, this time his attention squarely on our table. He broke away from

the dancers, striding over to glare at us. He was teeming with sculpted cheekbones, graceful jaw, and a

perfect nose. Anger on him didn't look at all threatening. Maybe a little with his baby blues steaming up.

He narrowed them, arching a too-perfectly shaped eyebrow. "I'm trying to work here. If you two can't

put a lid on it, take your romance to the men's room."

A week back I might have reacted to him; tonight I had no reaction at all, just stared. I chanced to take a

breath and caught a powerful whiff of booze from him, as though he'd just gargled with it. "Just do your

song and dance, Caine," I said, hardly raising my voice above a whisper.

"Do I know you, punk?"

He was in his late thirties; I looked to be in my twenties. I was well used to the penalty of perpetual

youth. "Be glad you don't."

"A tough guy, eh?" He could belt a song, but delivering dialogue didn't quite work for him, especially

when it came out of the wrong kind of films. He should have stuck to showbiz stories and not tried

imitating movie gangsters.

"That's right. Go back to work."

"Where's Derner?" he demanded, switching focus to Strome. "I want this punk tossed out on his ear. Go

get him."

"Sorry, can't do that, Mr. Caine. I'm working, too."

Caine saw the beer at his elbow. "Nice job." He swung around, eyes searching. "You there! Go find

Derner and bring him here."

The mug he addressed registered puzzlement at being ordered around by the stage talent.

Strome craned his head. "Never mind, Joe. Mr. Caine was just joking."

"Joking? We'll see who's laughing before the night's out."

Caine didn't appear to be drunk, but my instant-hypnosis act likely wouldn't work on him; besides, he

wasn't worth the headache. I looked past him, hoping to spot the stage manager, but no such luck.

However, a fierce-faced woman in a poisonous green dress and black fur-trimmed coat came barreling

toward us from the front entrance. It was still too early to open. I wondered how she'd gotten in.

So, it seemed, did Caine. Genuine surprise flashed over him. "Jewel, what the hell are you doing here?"

Her lip color was so dark a red that it looked black, matching her hair. Two lines framing her mouth cut

themselves into a deep, hard frown of contempt. Her eyes were wild, the pupils down to pinpoints. She

braked to an unsteady stop. "The alimony is three weeks overdue, why do you think I'm here?"

He recovered composure, shifting to pure smarm. "You'll just have to wait till I'm paid."

She went scarlet, her whole body seemed to swell from outrage. "That's what you said three paychecks

ago, you bastard!" She hit him with a green purse the same shade as her dress. He got an arm up to

block any blows to his face and unexpectedly started laughing like a lunatic, which just made her madder.

She cursed, he giggled. Funny on a movie screen, not so much ten feet away when all parties are dead

set on inflicting damage, each in their own way.

It went downhill from there.

Not inclined to interfere, I watched the domestic drama with an equally unmoved Strome, content to let

other guys rush in to bust things up. Several of the bouncers who'd been on the exits moved remarkably

fast for their size. That would have been the ideal time for me to make an escape, just dart to the front

lobby, duck around the corner phone booth, and vanish. It was one of my specialties. Instead, I kept my

seat and wished I could still drink beer. A cold one would have gone down good about now.

It took three bouncers to remove Jewel Caine: two on her left side for her shoulders and feet, one on her

right for her middle. She didn't make it easy for them, bucking and cursing the whole way as they carried

her bodily from the room like a log, green purse and all. So far Lady Crymsyn, which was my nightclub,

had suffered no drunken rows on this level, only comparatively mild, easily dealt with skirmishes. I could

count myself lucky.

Alan Caine, grinning wide, called after her: "Why don't you get a job?"

She heard. "I'll kill you, you son of a bitch! I'll cut your throat if you don't pay what you owe me!" The

rest was incoherent and, from the tone, likely obscene. Closing doors spared us from more opinions and

threats.

One of the chorus dancers trotted up. "Alan, that was awful. Are you okay?"

"Yeah-yeah, Evie." He waved her off. "Back on your mark, let's get this over with."

She seemed disappointed he wasn't making more of a fuss over the disruption and visibly swallowed

back the load of comfort and sympathy she must have had ready to pour out. Evie was just about the

cutest little doll I'd seen in many a week and affected a tiny Betty Boop voice. I thought she could do

much better than Caine. "Well… if you're sure …"

"I'm sure. C'mon, bub." He turned her around and gave her a light swat on her nicely rounded rump. This

cheered her up, and she went trotting back to her envious and/or amused sisters. They formed their line

again. Caine called a cue to the band, and they began in midstanza, this time making it to the end. He cut

an exaggerated bow to them. "Finally!"

"About damn time," muttered Strome. He wasn't one for offering much in the way of comments. His

beer, which he'd drained off, must have loosened him up.

"How's that?" I asked.

"He's been at it all day. If he was a dame, he'd be one of those primer dons. He better pray he don't ever

lose his voice. That's all that's keeping him alive. Derner's been busy just holding off people from busting

him one."

"Yet he packs the club?"

"He keeps that mean side away from the audience. With his looks they think he's an angel. People in the

business know he's a jerk-off but they put up with it. He's got enough push from bringing in cash to get

them fired."

"Or tossed out."

Strome spared me a look. He must have thought I was referring to myself, not Caine's ex-wife. "Derner

woulda talked him out of it. Caine don't know who's who in this town yet."

"In my case it doesn't matter."

His stony face had almost become animated, but shut down at the reminder of why we were here. "It's

just the business," Strome said. This was the closest he would ever get to making an apology to me for

whatever was to come.

"Yeah."

A business where a guy like Strome could come up to me, his former temporary boss, and tender an

invitation to take a ride that I had to accept. He'd been so sure of the end result that he'd left the motor

running in the car when he walked into Lady Crymsyn to deliver the summons. We eyed each other in the

yet-to-open lobby, as though either of us had options. He had to bring me in, and the gun he carried

under his arm was the last word on the subject. I glanced around at my people, who were getting things

ready for the evening, oblivious of any threat. Strome shook his head, letting me know they weren't on his

list.

He wouldn't use them against me. I liked that.

I got my hat and coat and went along, turning the opening of Crymsyn over to one of the bartenders.

There was no point putting things off. This way I had some control over the situation. If the bad guys

insisted on killing me for killing Hog Bristow, it would be at a safe distance from friends who could get in

the cross fire.

The men who took away the acrimonious Jewel Caine returned, two of them resuming their posts, the

third pausing to glare at the empty dance floor. Caine and the chorus line were backstage, getting ready

for the night's performance. The third guy shifted his glare toward me, but whatever bothered him was

none of my doing, and he got a blank look in return. I was getting good at those.

His name was Hoyle, and like the brothers Ruzzo, I was not anyone he liked. He'd resented my taking

over for Gordy. Hoyle thought he should have been the one to pinch-hit, but his name never once

cropped up. If I'd turned down the job, then Derner would have taken in the slack. Hoyle didn't see it

that way, and I heard he'd started blaming me for everything up to and including the Depression itself.

Some people have too much time and not enough to do.

After a minute Hoyle got tired of trying to intimidate me and moved on to the bar, snapping his fingers for

a drink.

Strome's partner, Lowrey, emerged from a door with a private sign on it and came down to us. He was

shorter and wider, with a cast to one eye and few enemies. Live ones, that is.

"Boss wants to see you, Mr. Fleming," he said.

I was surprised. "Gordy's here?" He was supposed to be anyplace else, resting, healing from his gunshot

wounds.

"In the casino." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

The two of them followed as I hurried though the door into the Nightcrawler's illegal but extremely

profitable gaming room. The lights were low, the place gloomy and strangely quiet, like an empty church.

I spotted Gordy at the far end by the back exit, seated in one of the semiprivate alcoves favored by the

cardplayers. He was fully dressed, and his girlfriend—nurse for the time being—was nowhere in sight.

My escorts hung back as I went forward and slipped into a chair on the other side of his table and nearly

echoed Alan Caine's question. "What the hell are you doing here?" I kept my voice low, swallowing

anger. Shouting didn't work on Gordy.

His skin was sallow, sagging, but his eyes were clear. I didn't like that. His doctor had him on pain pills,

and they tended to dull everything about him. Clear eyes meant he was hurting. "It's business," he said.

"You can deal with things on the phone, and Derner and I do the rest. You're still supposed to be in bed.

Where's Adelle?" She'd been looking after Gordy since the shooting.

"She went to the stores to get some stuff, so me an' Lowrey scrammed to here. I had to give her the slip

for a couple hours. Makes me crazy, lying around and her playing nursemaid like I was sick."

Adelle Taylor, actress on stage, screen, and radio, and sometimes a headliner singing at my club and his,

would throw a fit when she found out. I said as much to Gordy, who gave only the smallest of shrugs. He

was a big man and didn't have to move much to make a point. "I left her a note."

"She'll come straight down here. Loaded for bear."

"I'll be done by then."

"With what, exactly?"

"You. Maybe."

"If you wanted to see me, I'd have come over, there's no need to—"

"Wasn't my doing bringing you here. I've been stalling them. They wouldn't stall no more."

"What? Who?"

"New York. Bristow's friends."

"You been running interference for me? In your condition?"

"I'm better off than you were, kid." Gordy knew my real age, which was about the same as his, but

sometimes he seemed a lot older. When it came to mob business, he was decades my senior.

P. N. Elrod - Vampire Files 11 - Song in the Dark

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