Part 11 (1/2)

”So?”

Under Kroun's dark stare, he subsided again, dropping into silence like it was a foxhole.

Doing a good impersonation of civilized gentlemen, we rose and strolled to the lobby. Kroun thanked me for my hospitality, and I walked them outside. We stood under the canopy while Strome went to get the Caddy. The sleet had stopped, but the streets were still wet, the wind bitter. For a moment it was eerily similar to the night of Gordy's shooting, and I couldn't help but look around, antic.i.p.ating another hidden gunman.

”What is it?” Kroun asked, picking up on my nerves. His eyes were sharp. No sign of whiskey in them at all.

”Just feeling the cold.”

He nodded, removing his hat to brush a hand through his hair. It seemed to be an unconscious gesture, always on the left side where that streak was. ”Yeah, you'd think those bandages would keep you warmer.”

He got a look from me. Was he playing games or just showing a weird sense of humor?

”Ease off on yourself, kid,” he said sotto voce so Mitch.e.l.l couldn't hear.

”What d'you mean?”

”I mean I know what kind of h.e.l.l Bristow put you through.” ”Oh, he skinned you alive, too?” I was jumpy enough to give him lip. Not smart. He just stared. Nothing hostile in it, but I wasn't about to ascribe anything like sympathy to the man. Guys like him were born without or had it burned from them early by life in general.

He leaned slightly, talking close to my ear. ”I know what he was and what he could do.”

”And you sent him.”

”Yeah. I did that. It was supposed to be between him and Gordy alone, and somehow you got in the middle. But you survived. That makes you the stronger. Then you put Bristow exactly where he belongs.”

”Yeah,” I echoed. ”I did that.”

”So... ease off on yourself.” He straightened and settled his hat firmly against the wind. ”He was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but you beat him.”

A pep talk from a killer? Some of it skated close to being almost apologetic. And how did he know about what was in my head?

On the other hand, he thought we were friends. Maybe this was how he was with them. He couldn't have had many the way he put my back hairs on high. I didn't get a chance to find out; Strome drove up, Kroun and Mitch.e.l.l got in, doors slammed, and off they went.

Lady Crymsyn was officially closed for the night. Except for my Buick, the adjoining parking lot was empty, everyone gone home or off to unwind themselves at places that kept even later hours. The neon sign above the red street canopy was dark, but lights showed within. Of course, that didn't mean anything with Myrna in residence.

Sometimes she'd have them blazing, including the neon; other nights she would only leave a small one on behind the lobby bar. She was the most consistent with it, wanting it lit nearly all the time.

I stood under the shadow of the canopy, not quite smoking a cigarette. My lungs refused to tolerate inhaling the stuff, so I puffed for something to do and watched the occasional car drive past. Chicago was too big to ever completely sleep. Someone was always up and around.

Humankind was roughly divided into daytime folk, night people, night owls, and the creeps of the deep night. Most of the latter, unless gainfully employed or with some other reasonable excuse for being out during the truly G.o.d- forsaken hours, lived down to their name. If not for my job I could be counted as one of them-two jobs, to include the help I gave Escott when he needed it. Three, to include Gordy.

It was coming up on the beginning of the deep night. Lonely time for me since everyone was usually asleep. I was uncomfortable standing out here, not from the cold, but being by myself and out of range of some kind of distraction.

No radio, no band playing loud, happy music, just the wind in my ears and the infrequent pa.s.sing car. This was me testing the demons in my head; I was trying to get better at not thinking, not remembering.

By the time I finished my third smoke, Escott finally drove up, easing his big Nash right next to the front curb. It was a no-parking zone, but the doorman wasn't here to chase him off.

”You're in one piece,” I observed brightly as he got out. ”Congrats.”

”Why should I not be?”

I shrugged. ”This town.”

”Where's Bobbi?”

”Upstairs counting receipts. You don't wanna disturb her.”

”You're curious as to what transpired concerning Evie Montana.”

”Well, yeah.”

”A gentleman doesn't talk,” he said, mock-lofty.

”Come on, you know what I mean.”

”Inside, if you please. How can you not be cold?”

My overcoat was in the office. ”Has to do with being dead, I guess. Sometimes I just don't feel it.”

”I wonder why that is?” ”So we don't feel the chill of the grave after escaping it?”

”Possibly, but there may be some other reason for the peculiarity. After all, not every society buried their dead. The Romans were fond of cremation, and the ancients of my countrymen practiced open-air-well, I supposed you couldn't call it interment. Exterment? If there is such a word; I'll have to look it up. They left corpses in the open air until only bones were left, which would certainly have prevented any of your sort from returning from the dead.” He drew breath to go on, but caught me looking at him. Just looking. ”Ah. Well. Be that as it may...”

I opened the door for us, locked it behind, and felt better for it.

The deep-night world was shut outside and would require no more of my attention for a while. Escott unb.u.t.toned his coat, dropping it and his Homburg hat on the marble-topped lobby bar, the whole time giving me one of his once- overs.

”What?” I asked.

”No holes in your clothing, no damage to the premises, and the lights are functioning. I take it your visit from Kroun ended amicably?”

”Yeah, but he gives me the creeps.”

”Must be a novel experience for you.”

I ignored that one. ”Drink?”

”A very small brandy would be nice, thank you.”

The liquor was locked up, but not for long. I couldn't find his favorite kind right away, though there was always a bottle on hand; it was a standing order. It finally turned up behind several similar-shaped bottles, the label facing the wall. Myrna must have been playing again, with him as the target.

The barstools were stacked to one side to be out of the way of the morning cleaners, so we went through to the main room. I forgot how dark it was to Escott until he b.u.mped into a table that was slightly out of place. The insignificant amount of light coming from the small red windows above the third-tier booths was plenty for me. I turned on the little table lamp for him, reaching between a thicket of chair legs. The seats there had also been upended for the convenience of the morning's cleaning crew. I didn't care for the closed-up, dead look it gave to the club. Chairs were supposed to be sanely on the floor waiting for people to use them, not like this. I decisively moved two of them down for us, then the other two so I wouldn't get annoyed if I knocked elbows.

The place was very silent, very empty. A dust cloth was thrown over the piano, turning it into a large blocky ghost shape in the dimness. The stage gaped like an open mouth, needing to be filled with bright lights and people and music.

Listening hard for a moment I did hear music. Thin and distant.

”Something wrong?” asked Escott.