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“Just a glimpse when I rounded the corner. Me an’ the lads heard shots. I told ’em to get Emma out of sight, then came runnin’. A bit late, it seems.”
“What’d she look like?”
“Little thing, didn’t seem big enough to be throwin’ furniture about.”
“You’ve no idea.”
“Where is she?”
“Look after Foxtrot. I’ll call a doctor and get Gordy over here.”
The bar in the main room was also equipped with a fancy phone, this one functioning. I hit the button for the outside line, dialed with a shaking and bloodstained finger, and had a quick, urgent chat with Gordy at the Nightcrawler Club. I told him a doctor was required and why, and that bringing along armed muscle would be a good idea and not to trust anything Gino Desanctis said.
“No problem,” Gordy replied, and hung up.
My friend was not much for words, but an expert at getting things moving. He knew I’d answer his questions when the time was right.
Before distractions started piling up, I ducked into the storage area under the main room’s tiered seating. It held bar supplies and other odds and ends, and set in the back wall was a hidden door only I knew about. I vanished and reappeared on the other side, fumbling for the light switch.
Sometimes I’d spend the day in this lightproof sanctuary. It had the necessary comforts: an army cot with an oilcloth liner holding my home earth, spare clothes, emergency cash, and books to read in the last hour before the rising sun shut my body down.
I’d recently added a small refrigerator and blessed my extravagant foresight.
Inside were beer bottles with cork stoppers, not the usual caps. Some months ago I’d cut down my trips to the Stockyards by siphoning cattle blood into bottles and keeping them cold. It didn’t taste as good or last long, but it was a godsend now.
Two bottles left, both at the foul edge of drinkability. I downed them like an alkie just in from Death Valley. If the need got bad enough, I’d have lapped the leavings on the washroom floor. As the cold red stuff flowed sluggishly through my starved body, I was glad not to have been reduced to that humiliation. Still, it was better than assaulting any of the hapless humans under my roof.
All right, with Desanctis I’d have made an exception.
Considering what was in store, he might prefer having his blood drained by a starved vampire than to face Northside Gordy.
I shed my punctured and alarmingly blemished shirt, got a replacement, and emerged from the storage room. One of the two men who had come in with Desanctis was behind the bar and gave a guilty start. He’d been examining the beer taps.
“Where’s the boss?” he wanted to know.
“That crazy Irishman’s looking after him. Where’s Miss Dorsey?”
“She’s hiding in the basement with my pal. What’s going on?”
“Nothing much. Gordy’s on his way over with the cavalry. We’re to sit tight.”
>
He looked relieved, and I liked his reaction. It saved me from punching him flat again. I switched on the tap pump and invited him to serve himself. His mood improved. I could sympathize; nothing like a drink to make you feel better.
I cleaned up in the deep sink behind the bar and pulled on the shirt.
At the basement door, I called down, and the second guy came out with Emma. She was pasty and frightened. I invited the other man to join his partner for beery refreshment and walked her around to the lounge. Riordan had its door propped open with the bar stool. Desanctis, who was still not fully awake, was trussed hand and foot with cut-up towels.
Emma stopped short. “What’s happened?”
“Your fiancé’s off the hook,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t leave you the grenade. Gino Desanctis did.”
“He—” Unlooked-for hope flooded her face. “Joe didn’t . . . ?”
