The Vampire Files - The Dark Sleep Part 25

"Hey, I'm sorry about the stuff earlier, but I think you should leave. Jason's got a grudge on, and you don't need to be here."

"I quite agree, but not before my curiosity is satisfied about the contents of that envelope."

"The envelope?"

"The one my friend retrieved for Miss Sommerfeld. I know you're familiar with it."

"Some other time-"

"Now," Escott said firmly.

I took a half step closer and tried to look intimidating. McCallen took it as a challenge and made another move to stand. This time I caught his eye and told him to sit still and be quiet. His jaw sagged as though he was mildly startled, and he abruptly sank back to the floor.

Paterno stared down in puzzlement at his amazingly cooperative friend, then at me. I switched and gave him a brightly encouraging smile.

"The envelope?" Escott prompted.

"Uh-yeah."

"It would seem to be the source of all conflict."

Paterno snorted. "You can say that again. Listen, haven't you got some kind of confidentiality pledge in your line, like a doctor?"

"Not precisely, but I can keep a secret."

"We just don't want any of this getting back to Mary's family." He waited for some kind of promise, but Escott only raised an eyebrow. Paterno wearily gave in with a short sigh. "It's nothing illegal, but they could throw another monkey wrench into the works."

"What works?"

"What Mary and Jason have-or had-when they were working together. Since they hit the last scene in the third act it's been nothing but fight, fight, fight."

It was Escott's turn to do puzzlement. "Third act? As in a play?"

"That's it. A play."

"A play?" Escott looked like he just found half a worm wriggling in an apple he'd bitten.

"A play," Paterno confirmed. "They've been working on it for the last year."

"Miss Sommerfeld and Mr. McCallen are writing a play?"

"Were writing it."

"Until her family stepped in?"

"Nah, before that. The third act, like I said." He looked doubtfully at McCallen, who was sitting still just as he'd been told. "See, they were working on it just fine, and she's got connections in the theater and managed to get a copy of the first draft to Helen Hayes, who went nuts over it, so then this producer gets really hot to see it, 'cause with her in on it, he figures they've got the greatest thing to hit the boards since Hamlet." Escott nodded slowly. "Hamlet! Indeed?"

"The trouble is Jason and Mary got this problem with the third act. He wants a happy ending, she don't. They both got good reasons for either one, but neither of 'em gives an inch to the other, then it was fight, fight, fight all the time.

Her family didn't know about any of this until Mary starts going to the plant to talk with Jason a little too often, then meeting him at the bar to work some more. The folks don't know about the play, but they figure their little precious is getting too friendly with the wrong kind of guy, so they send her to Europe, which really delays things."

"And when she returned... ?"

"She finds Jason's been tinkering with the play without her being there to argue with him about the changes. She gets mad and sneaks it away from him, then he sneaks it from her, then she hires you to get it back."

Escott looked at me. You could almost see the other half of that worm dangling from his open mouth. I shrugged and said consolingly, "At least it's not a divorce case."

He looked back at Paterno. "And just where do you fit in the plot of this little vignette?"

"I'm their agent. And I've got a producer and these big-money investors all lined up. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get one of these birds interested in an original work by two unknowns? It's next to impossible! This may be their only chance. The investors option the play, whatever the ending, and produce it with Helen Hayes starring in it, but they won't wait forever. All we gotta do is get Mary to sign the contract, only she's not where we can find her, thanks to you two. And Jason."

"Maybe..." I said, clearing my throat. They both looked at me; Jason was still playing zombie. "Maybe you could have both endings. Play each one on alternating nights. People would pay to see it twice over, then."

Paterno put on a beatific expression. "My G.o.d, but that's one we never thought of. It could make theatrical history!

You hear that, Jason? Now, that's something that could work. Jason?"

Escott shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's late, and I suddenly feel very tired."

The beleaguered agent swung his attention back to his last hope of success. "So, would you please tell us where she is? A phone number, a post-office box-anything?"

"Is she aware of this pending contract?"

"Yeah."

"Then why is she not interested in signing if the ending doesn't matter to the producer? That dispute could surely be worked out afterward."

"Because this big lug on the floor got her mad the way he handled things, so off she went. Besides, she's a rich kid.

She has no idea what it's like to be hungry, so she's got no need to be in a hurry about anything. But me and Jason do, so I'm begging you, give us a hand here. She don't even have to see Jason; I can do all the go-between stuff like I'm supposed to do."

"Very well. I shall contact her tomorrow and see what I can arrange. Have you a number where you may be reached?"

"Here's my card, and thanks! Thanks a million! You hear that, Jason? We got some light at the end of the tunnel.

Jason... Jason?" Paterno gave his friend a shake, jarring McCallen out of his trance.

"I heard," he muttered sluggishly. "I want to talk with her."

"Only after the contract's signed. You let me do my job and we'll all be rich and famous."

Escott cleared his throat. "Miss Sommerfeld's recent experience with Mr. McCallen has been such as to give her the strong impression that she was in fear for her life. His behavior toward her-"

"He was only giving as good as he got. But he won't do any more of it, I promise. Right, Jason?"

McCallen growled.

Escott regarded them one at a time, his gaze finally resting on Paterno, the negotiator. "My contacting Miss Sommerfeld is on condition that Mr. McCallen give his word of honor that he cease and desist all hara.s.sment of her."

"Say yes, Jason, and sound like you mean it," pleaded Paterno.

A louder growl from McCallen that trailed off into muttering. "Very well. I'll leave the proud baggage alone if that's what she wants. She can have her toad of a prince for all I care." His cat, which had been hiding under the icebox, emerged and delicately walked over to b.u.t.t its head against his leg. He petted it roughly, which it seemed to like. "As G.o.d is my witness, the more I deal with women, the more I like my cat."

"Communists," I grumbled, hauling the steering wheel around.

Escott hugged his chest and braced with his feet as I took a corner too sharply. He hissed in pain, but it wasn't my driving that hurt him, it was his own laughter. He'd started to dissolve into it as soon as we left McCallen's, and he couldn't seem to stop.

Paterno had let us know the odd-looking crew that hung out in the back room at Moe's was little more than a bunch of would-be writers. The "speeches" the waiter had overheard were pa.s.sages from whatever novel, story, or play was being read aloud so the other members could critique it. The critiques often got vocal enough to be mistaken for arguing.

McCallen, because he was the oldest, had the most forceful personality, and had even published a few short stories, was their unofficial leader. He also held a steady job and could often stand them a round of beer. The rest were either students at the university or still living with their parents while they worked to make their fortune as writers.

"Perhaps they're exactly what you've been needing to stimulate your own literary efforts," Escott suggested.

"I don't think McCallen would stand for it."

"You've the means to get around him. The only foreseeable problem would be your not partaking of a beer with them, but you could get around that as well." Then he must have thought of the communist angle and again began chuckling and groaning at the same time.

I let him wheeze on without comment. He needed the laughs. Whether he'd ever admit it or not, the near miss of his own murder had shaken him, and this was a release from the tension.

After a few miles he eased up on the hysterical humor when he saw the direction I took would not bring us home.

"Why here?" he asked as I made a decisive turning into the Bronze Belt.

"Because after McCallen, Gil Dalhauser is my next choice for a suspect. If it was him, he'll have connections all over the city-except here."

"Dalhauser?"

"You know how he was staring at the party. He was throwing hot needles at you. And he's tall enough to fill the bill."

"True, but to be that angry after all this time, and then to do the shooting himself seems a bit of a stretch. Even were he so murderously minded, I should think he'd be more likely to employ muscle in his stead."

"Not if he wanted to keep it quiet. There's also the personal touch to think about. After all the grief you gave him- are still giving him since the tax guys aren't letting up-he'd find it a lot more satisfying than fobbing it off onto another."

"A most logical argument-but to wake Shoe up at such a late hour..."

"I don't think he'll mind. You need a place to lie low."

"I'll be safe enough at home-"

"Like h.e.l.l."

"-because Dalhauser will think I'm dead. He saw me fall."

"But there won't be anything in the papers on it, the cops won't have a report, and no hospital will have heard of you. He'll be watching for those. When he doesn't see 'em, he'll figure he missed or only just wounded you and we got away."

"Very well, I'll concede those points. If he is the one, and if I am the target." He touched the holes in his clothing lightly. "These could very well have been meant for you. People have mistaken us one for the other before."

"Not this time. The shooter had plenty of chances to see me coming and going when I took that walk, and in my shirtsleeves he'd be able to tell me from you easy enough." Knowing that, I still had to suppress a shudder. He'd been standing dark and unmoving in the deep shadow of that doorway watching the whole time, patient, patient, patiently waiting. "Besides, I don't have anyone mad at me, except maybe Archy Grant, only I took care of him, so he's no threat. Ike LaCelle had a beef but slipping me a Mickey was his payback. He wouldn't expect me to be up and around to be shot. Unless you can think of anyone else you might have mortally offended at the club, it must have been Dalhauser coming after you."

"At the club? Oh, yes, of course, whoever it was would have followed us from there. But why kill me and leave you alive to spread tales?"

"Gordy warned him off."

"But both of us are under his protection."

"Me more than you because of the business with Bobbi. Dalhauser must had thought if he let me go, Gordy might allow him to get away with b.u.mping you off. The score he tried to settle tonight dates from long before Gordy's order."

Escott frowned over that one. "It's not impossible, but I don't see it as very likely. He would surely expect you to avenge me or for you to demand that Gordy do so."

"Maybe. By doing that, then all bets are off. If I went after him he'd be able to kill me, claiming self-defense."

"It does make for a neat package. But still..."

"What?"

"If he'd shot both of us at the same time, then no one would be left to accuse him in the first place. We'd have simply been the targets of some other person's revenge."

He had a good one there. "Meaning maybe it wasn't Dalhauser, but someone who would know I'd suspect him?"

"Then either you or Dalhauser or both of you would eventually be removed. I'm sure he has plenty of enemies who would like him out of the way, and one of them could be clever enough to use you to do it."

"That's just too complicated and open-ended. But if a mug in mob business is going to be killed, always look at his friends first for a motive, not his enemies. It's a little something I learned from Gordy."

"Wise man. I shall have to speak to him tomorrow about it."

I pulled the wheel left, then right, and eased off the gas. The Shoe Box Nightclub was just half a block away. It was dark, but there would be people on watch to notice our arrival and let us in. "You know, it could be someone completely outside of all this, the club, and the rest. Who else would want to kill you?"

"Not many, actually."

"I thought in your work you'd have hundreds lined up."

"The advantage of being a private agent rather than a conventional investigator is that most of my cases have nothing to do with life-and-death matters. Certainly I have enemies, but they're more likely to do me a minor ill turn such as LaCelle tried with you, not risk hanging to kill me."

"You can't think of anyone?" I found a s.p.a.ce by a fireplug and parked.

"Not at the moment. Give me a bit of time." Escott shifted on the seat. "d.a.m.n. It feels like a bowling ball's been smashed into me. I hope Shoe has an aspirin on the premises."

Since he owned a bar, Coldfield had something better than aspirin available; it was just too bad for me I was unable to have any. I could have used a nice, numbing drink.

We were semi-familiar figures to some of his people, but two white guys turning up in the dead of night still inspired a lot of caution. We were in the process of being given a slap-down search when their boss arrived and called them off.

"What the h.e.l.l's wrong?" he demanded, hurriedly descending the stairs from his rooms on the second floor. He wore a bathrobe and his feet were bare, but he looked alert and ready to take on anything.

"We've only a minor favor to ask-" Escott began.