The Vampire Files - Bloodlist Part 14

"I couldn't be sure of her in the dark, but she is in the same spot she was in this afternoon. Morelli's on board now with his lady friend. He spends his free time there when he can."

"Must be nice."

"What does it bring to mind?"

I shook my head. "Sorry. Right now it's just another boat."

We walked on and made a big circle before coming back to the club. The alley was clear this time, but there wasn't anything worth seeing. It was wide enough for the delivery trucks, and had no more than its share of trash at the edges and the usual loading platform and steps that go with back doors. When I took an incidental breath, the place stank with a wet and used smell-nothing extraordinary-it could be found in any alley with bad drainage the world over.

I shook my head again to his unasked question. As a memory jog, the place was useless. We walked back to the car, or at least tried. The fancily dressed man must have taken a turn around the block himself. It was hard to tell who was more surprised. Automatically his hand went to his belt, where he kept his gun.

"What're you doing here? Get out!"

We were more than ready to oblige and moved away from him, but like a yapping dog, he trotted up behind to make sure we left. Things were peaceful enough until someone else stepped out the back door.

"What is it, Ed?"

"Couple of guys and they're leaving."

"Who are you with?" he said to us.

"Just ourselves, takin' a walk home," said Escott. He had an American accent now and sounded slightly drunk.

"And where's home?""Nonayur business. You want us out, we're out." Swaying, he grabbed my arm and started away.

"Ed."

Ed needed no further instructions. He came around in front of us and pulled the gun. I hoped it was too dark for him to see our faces clearly.

"What's the big idea?" protested Escott. "We're gotn'."

"In a minute," said Ed. "Turn around and keep your hands out."

He marched us up to the loading dock, the second man joining us at street level.

He also had a gun. With his other hand he was pulling out a lighter. While he rumbled to get it working, I felt Escott's muscles tighten. It wouldn't do us any good if those bozos got a clear look at us. While they were watching the sparking lighter, Escott released my arm and twisted backward, grabbing Ed's gun hand and forcing it down. I jumped the other guy and tried to do the same. He had the gun up and fired once, but I knocked it to the outside before it could do any damage. I didn't waste time pulling it away from him, but just hit the side of his head and stunned him. He went down hard and ceased to be a worry.

I checked Escott. Ed had lost his gun and they were both scrambling and rolling on the concrete to get it. I kicked it out of the way and when there was an opening in the punching and flailing, leaned in and knocked him cold. I dragged Escott to his feet, and we ran out of the alley for the car before the one wild shot could bring reinforcements. Escott had the keys out and ready. He opened the pa.s.senger door, dived in, and slid over. The Nash was started and in gear almost as fast.

He was breathless with a thin sweat on his face, but his eyes were gleaming happily. The man was crazy, he'd been enjoying himself back there.

"That was good exercise," he puffed. "At least we know they take their security as seriously as Paco."

"That could be a problem."

"But not for you, my dear chap. Thanks for the helping hand, that fellow was awfully fast."

"Anytime. Are you done for the night or do you want to take on any wandering longsh.o.r.emen just to cap things off?"

"Another time. Believe me, I did not think they'd react so suspiciously. The one on the steps must have seen through my drunk act. A pity, it went over well enough on stage. I shall have to show you my press clippings sometime. Oh, dear."

He pulled the car over fast, the right front wheel b.u.mping the curb as we jerked to a halt. He was still breathing hard and his damp skin was gray.

"Oh, d.a.m.n. Oh, b.l.o.o.d.y d.a.m.n." He pressed a hand against his left side. Blood was seeping freely between his fingers. "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had a knife." He slipped sideways against me and fainted.

Chapter 7.

DR. CLARSON WAS a small man with large brown hands that at first glance didn't look dexterous enough for the work they were doing. His tightly curling hair was cut close to the scalp. He was about fifty, but the gray at the sides made him seem older. His movements were economical, and if he had any opinions about patching up a white man in his tiny examining room at two o'clock on a Monday morning, he kept them professionally to himself.

Escott was out cold again on the exam table. The room was too small for anyone else but him and the doctor, so Shoe Cold-field and I had to be content to cool our heels in the waiting room outside. There were six old wooden chairs, each as scarred as the matching floor, a small table that must have served the receptionist as a desk, and some ancient file cabinets, also of wood. The place was very clean, though, and smelled sharply of antiseptic. Shoe looked worried, but not overly anxious. However shabby the place was, he had trust in Clarson's medical skills.

I was restless and wanted to pace, but held it in check, trying to follow Shoe's example of patience. He sat quite still on one of the chairs, his eyes straying to the doctor and Escott, alert in case he was needed. All I could do was fidget around on my perch on the table and try not to look at the smears of blood we left decorating the floor when we brought Escott in. b.l.o.o.d.y d.a.m.n had been right, my hands and clothes were covered with the stuff. From literature I'd read in the past on the subject of blood and vampires, I should have been feeling something other than sick horror.

The blood on my hands got sticky, and I asked if there was a washroom nearby.

Shoe glanced up and led the way out to one down the hall. We cleaned up as best we could, but our clothes would be the laundry's problem.

Things hadn't changed at the office. We sat down again. I chewed on a nail, a habit I hadn't fallen into since I was a kid. It tasted lousy, so I forced my hand down with the other and kept still. I looked at Coldfield and wondered why he hadn't asked for explanations, as he was certainly ent.i.tled to do, but then I hadn't volunteered any. I looked at Clarson's back and wondered what was taking so long and if we should call an ambulance.

I had eased Escott down on the seat, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it against his side. It soaked through in what seemed like an instant, but I could see now that my reckoning of time had been distorted by fear. With his head level with his heart, he came to after a moment and said something unintelligible, then clearly said my name.

'I'm right here. I'll get you to a hospital if I can find one."

"No. Find Shoe... closer."

I had no better ideas and at least I knew where to go. Somehow I got over to the driver's side and drove like h.e.l.l to the Shoe Box.

Half a dozen dark men jumped when we screeched up outside the place, and I could hardly blame them. A couple came up to the car, and I recognized one man from our previous visit. He stuck his head in the window, his eyes going wide and curious at Escott's huddled form.

"Is Shoe around? His friend Escott's been hurt."

He wasted no time on the tableau, but straightened and shouted to someone by the nightclub door, who disappeared inside.

"How bad is he?"

"Don't know-it's a knife wound; he didn't feel it at first."

"Yeah, that's how they are." He spoke from experience, but didn't elaborate.

Escott's eyes were open, but he didn't seem aware of very much. His lips were blue and a sheen of sweat covered his cold face. I knew shock when I saw it and wished to G.o.d Coldfield would hurry. After a couple of years of pressing the sodden handkerchief, I looked up and saw his face in the pa.s.senger window.

"s.h.i.+t, what happened?"

"Knife fight. He wanted to come here."

"It's his lucky night," he said, and looked back at the club entrance and told someone to hurry. That someone was introduced as Dr. Clarson, who peered at Escott and got into the backseat, telling me where to drive. Shoe got in the other side and we took off. Three blocks later I stopped in front of a dusty stairway leading into a dark building. The street-level sign' declared the doctor's office was in room 201 and gave the hours.

Shoe took over pressure duty while Clarson went up to unlock things and turn on the lights. Between the two of us. Shoe and I got Escott up to the office, hopefully without inflicting more damage. Escott must have been in some pain by then; his gray eyes rolled up at the harsh white light and kept on going to the top of his head.

As the waiting telescoped, I became very conscious of Escott's soft breathing.

Every few seconds I had to stifle the urge to get up and check things. Leg muscles would tighten, then forcibly relax as I willed myself to stay put so as not to break the doctor's concentration. Another twitch would bring up another excuse. For something to do I pretended to breathe. In that small and very quiet waiting room, Coldfield might possibly just notice its absence as Escott had.

Escott...

When there was a long, descending sigh in the next room, Coldfield went bolt upright in his chair and looked at me.The doctor stood up straight and nodded over his work. His had been the sigh we had heard. We crowded into the doorway to see. Escott's clothes had been peeled away, leaving his trunk pale and vulnerable except for the bandages just under the line of his rib cage. Clarson washed up at a tiny sink in the corner and dried his hands carefully.

"How do I handle it, Shoe?" he asked without turning.

Shoe looked at me. "You want to tell me now?"

I told him how it had happened and that it had something to do with Escott's investigation of my case. Clarson shook his head, giving his silent opinion of grown men trying to act like Sat.u.r.day-afternoon serial heroes.

"He won't be kicking off just yet," he told us. "So I guess there's no harm keeping this between us."

"What do we do now?" asked Shoe.

"Leave him here tonight, let him rest. He lost a lot of blood and got some muscle cut up, but no internal stuff or he wouldn't be here." He didn't specify if he meant the office versus an emergency room or among the living.

"What about tomorrow?"

"We'll see in the morning. I don't want him moved for now. I'm keeping him quiet for a few hours, so you two can go on. I'll call you at the club if there's any trouble."

"Do you antic.i.p.ate any?" I asked.

"Not really, infection at the most. I cleaned him up good, but knives can be dirty.''

Coldfield and I thanked him and went downstairs to the car. There was some blood on the upholstery, but it was dry now. We were just getting inside when a long, bony body lurched at us from behind. It was Cal, the skinny kid who s.h.i.+ned shoes, but now he was minus his box and easy smile.

Coldfield was surprised, which for him was the same as being annoyed. "What you doing out of bed, boy?"

"Jimmy told me about Mist' Escott."

"He's all right now-"

"Can I see him?"

"He's not even awake and the doctor says he needs rest. He's not hurt too bad, so come on and get in the car."

Cal looked wistfully up the stairs, then reluctantly got in between us. I drove back to the Shoe Box and Coldfield had me park around the back. Without being told, Cal got out and trotted ahead of us to the back door.

"He lives here?" I asked.

"Yeah, him and a few other boys his age. They earn their keep and it's respectable work.''

"What about their families?"

"Some don't have any to speak of. Cal's dad was killed in an accident and his mama works in a bar so she can be close to the booze. When she climbs out of the bottle, Cal will move back with her, but until then he's got a home here."

"In a nightclub?"

The question should have annoyed him, but didn't. "My sister looks after them.

This place is a castle compared to where they've been. I make 'em work and when they aren't working, they go to school. I don't force anything they don't want; they can leave when they like, and some do, but the smart ones don't."

The headline, "Bronze Belt Boys' Town" jumped into my head. It would make a good story, but now was hardly the time for an interview.

"Want to come in for a drink?"

"Thanks, but next time. I need to get home and clean up."

"You got a way home?"

"I can walk."

"Not in this neighborhood, you can't. Come on, my turn to drive you." We went to his newer Nash and got in. He asked where I lived and I told him. "That's a pretty long walk."

"I like to walk."

"In some parts of this town, you're better off running."

"So I've noticed." I handed over the keys to Escott's car. "Here, I won't be by till late tomorrow, you take care of them."

"Sure. You still going to mess with Morelli?"

"I have to, now."

"Take some advice and don't." He didn't mention the consequences. He didn't have to since we were both thinking about Escott.

Back in my room I packed my dirty laundry up for the staff to work on. To save trouble explaining the bloodstains I just threw the s.h.i.+n away. I spent the rest of the night flat on my back and staring at the ceiling from the bed. It was depressing having to sit through the long early-morning hours alone and not be able to watch the dawn and the change of mood a new day can bring. The only good thing was the oblivion it brought as soon as the lid of my trunk came down, and then an instant later it seemed, there was another fresh night ahead of me, as though the day had never happened.

I phoned the Shoe Box first thing and talked to Coldfield.

"You been out all day? I tried to call."

"Yeah. Call me for what? Is he all right?"

"He's weak, but insisted on going home. I thought you'd want to know, is all." He gave me a different address from the little office and I wrote it down. "You ain't going to tire him?"

"No, just apologize for putting him through all this."

"It's no one's fault but the's...o...b.. with the knife." I agreed and hung up.