"You were driving past?"
"Nah, waiting for the wedding to end. There's always someone needin' a ride after. Weddin's and funerals is always good for business, right?"
On that point I had to agree. I thanked him and trotted back to my client. The Escott Agency undertook the carrying out of unpleasant errands for those with enough cash and a need for discretion. Escott flatly refused divorce work. Finding a missing groom was a gray area, but odds favored an easy fix. He'd probably succumbed to cold feet and was hiding out with friends. Why wait until
after
the ceremony, though?
I asked Mrs. Schubert some basic questions, scribbling her answers in shorthand. Soon as I heard her maiden name a light went on.
"Are you related to—?"
"Yes, Louie Huffman. He's my father."
My interest in the case went up a few notches, along with a sudden urge to back out before things got more complicated. I knew Huffman slightly. He hung out at another club—the Nightcrawler—with half the mobsters in the city. He wasn't a big-time boss like my pal Gordy Weems, but one of the lesser chiefs.
Which still made him someone I didn't care to cross. My friendship with Gordy provided a certain amount of insurance against bad guys getting stupid with me, but it wasn't something I ever tested. Huffman oversaw debt collection, and he was very good at it. He had a reputation for being almost as handy with a baseball bat as Capone. You paid your debt or got shattered kneecaps or disappeared entirely. It was pretty simple.
That he had a daughter should not have surprised me. Many of the mugs were family men, they just kept their work well separated from their home life.
I wondered if the groom owed money to his new father-in-law. "What happened at the wedding?"
Dorothy Schubert melted a little at the memory. "It was beautiful. My favorite flowers—Daddy had them shipped up special from Florida—and the music and everyone was there and it was perfect. Jerome was so handsome; he looked just like Ralph Bellamy in that tuxedo."
An instinct within tipped me off that a flood was on the way. She made another whooping noise, but by then I'd ducked into the back room and returned with a box of tissues. I had it in front of her just as the dam burst. She tore out a handful and bawled into them.
"I—thought—he—
loved
—me!" she howled.
Crying dames are nothing to be afraid of, but for the next few minutes part of me wanted to run like hell; another said to put an arm around her and go, "There-there." A much more sensible part kept me seated until she'd recovered enough to continue.
"We'd come back down the aisle and went to the church's social hall for the reception. I was just
floating
."
"No pictures?"
"Did those yesterday. Maybe I shouldn't have let him see me in my dress before the ceremony—no, that's silly—
uh-uh-u
…" She soaked another wad of tissues and blew her nose. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. The reception?"
"We had a line and a big cake and we cut the cake and it was
perfect
. Then Jerome wasn't there."
"What do you mean?"
"I looked away for just a moment talking to someone, and he was just
gone
."
"Men's room?"
"No—I sent the best man to check. Then they all started looking for him. No one saw him leave. Some thought it was a joke. Jerome's a kidder, but he knows when to stop and this didn't stop. I stood all alone while the ushers turned the church inside out. Then I couldn't take it anymore. How
dare
he humiliate me like that?"
"Your father have anything to say about it?"
"I didn't ask. This is my problem, not his."
She dabbed at her puffy eyes, which were rather raccoonlike from smeared makeup. In the pause I heard several sets of shoes clomping up the stairs. No knock, the door was thrown open yet again with violence. The glass panel thankfully held.
The man who trundled in was Big Louie Huffman. The tuxedo did little to mitigate his fundamental toughness. He was built like a balding fireplug with a solid trunk, thick arms, and seemed to use his raw muscle to suppress the force inside. His daughter had inherited his pronounced nose and downturned mouth. On her they looked good; on him they were intimidating. He looked ready to take the building apart.
Flanking him in the now much smaller office were two large goons also dressed for the wedding. Their tailor had failed to get the padding right, so you could almost tell the make and caliber of what they kept in their shoulder holsters. Each had a hand inside the coat, ready to pull out and blast away.
I held myself very, very still. "Uh—Mrs. Schubert—?"
"Don't call her that," Huffman rumbled.
"Oh, Daddy," she said, her voice creaking with the threat of more tears. "How did you—?"
"Followed your cab. Dot, what are you doing here?"
"I'm taking care of my problem myself." For this she squared her shoulders and raised her chin. "Just like you tell me."
He pushed out his lower lip, eyes going narrow as he thought that one over. "You're a grown woman, you know your mind, but we should keep this in the family."
She lowered her head and made a low noise deep in her throat. When my girlfriend made that kind of sound I knew to take cover.
Apparently so did Huffman. Even the goons backed up a step.
"I want," she said in a disturbingly level tone, "an impartial outsider to deal with this. I know you want to help, but I need to do this my way."
He thought that one over as well, then focused on me. Recognition clicked in his expression. "You're Jack Fleming—that creep from Gordy's club."
It beat being called a number of other, more colorful, descriptives. There was a lady present, after all. "Good evening, Mr. Huffman."
"Dot, we'll find another man for the job."
She rose and faced her father. With him and the others there for comparison I noticed just how tall she was, being eye-level with them. "I want
this
guy. He's got very nice manners."
"He's still a creep, sugar bun. I've heard stories."
By that point I was hoping she'd listen to her father so as to spare the office from damage, but young Dorothy planted herself, fists on her hips, feet apart, ready for a fight. My coat slipped from her shoulders. She looked just as scary as Huffman, yet somehow vulnerable.
I've got a sad and fatal weakness for dames in need. "May I suggest—"
All three men rounded on me. I could handle them more easily than Dorothy having another crying jag. "Mr. Huffman, if you would speak with Gordy he'll tell you I'm stand-up. Perhaps you've also had to deal with the burden that comes from having an undeserved reputation."
"He talks like a lawyer," muttered the older goon on the left. I took him to be Huffman's first lieutenant.
"Gordy'll give you the true blue," I said, less formally. Actually, I'd been trying to mimic my Shakespeare-raised partner. I must be getting better at it.
Huffman considered that. "I'm sure he will, young man. But just so we're clear, be aware that
my
reputation is very much deserved."
"Yes, sir." Yet another reason to be polite and not make any fast moves. I dialed the number for the Nightcrawler club's office, and one of the guys put me right through to Gordy.
That, if nothing else, got Huffman's attention. I said hello, told Gordy I had a guest with a few questions, then gave my chair up to Huffman. The goons watched, ready to shoot if I sneezed wrong. They didn't worry me. Not much. Cautiously, I picked up my overcoat, redraped it on the bride, then stood by the windows and made an effort to look harmless. Bullets won't kill me, but damn, they cost me blood, hurt like hell, and I liked this suit.
I could hear both sides of the phone conversation. Huffman identified himself.
"Problem?" Gordy asked.
"My kid wants to hire Jack Fleming for something. He said to call you."
"Your kid picked right. Hire him for what?"
"Find a missing person. It's a family matter."
"Fleming's okay."
"I don't like him," said Huffman.
"Get over it."
"He'll keep his yap quiet?"
"Like the grave." Gordy was in rare humor. He knew all about me.
Huffman cradled the receiver, stood, and gave me the benefit of a very effective glower. With a look like that he didn't need a baseball bat to make his point with slow-to-pay gamblers. He spotted the fedora and picked it up, checking the label inside. "You bought this at Del Morio's."
"Yes, sir."
He glared at the rest of my attire and the coat on his daughter. "All that, too?"
"Yes, sir."
What the hell
?
He gave a grudging nod. "All right, Dot. You can have him, but Becker and Cooley here go along, too."
She emitted another growling sound. So did the goons. No one looked pleased. She glared at Huffman; the goons glared at me. Maybe they'd heard stories, too.
"As chaperon," said her father. "For my peace of mind."
"Whatever makes everyone happy," I said.
She shot me a dark glance. "Okay, but just Cooley."
I got the impression that this father—daughter team did a lot of bargaining. Huffman agreed.
"And I'm in charge. What I say goes," she added.
Huffman nodded again. "Fair enough. Got that, Cooley?"
Cooley grunted. He was about the same age as Huffman, made from the same brand of tough. Becker had half as many years and looked frustrated at not getting picked for the job. He settled for giving me a threatening stare. Eager beavers annoy me.
"Now what?" asked my client.
I fished my car keys out. "Let's go to church."
"STEP ON IT, WE HAVE TO HURRY," DOROTHY said as I pulled my coupe away from the curb. Cooley was a silent presence squashed between us, hard to ignore.
"Why?"
"Because the Pullman I reserved to get us to Niagara Falls leaves at midnight. I'll be on it with my husband or know the reason why."
"Could have mentioned that earlier. I can't guarantee we'll find him in time."
"If you don't, then I'll take my mother instead, I'm not wasting a perfectly good reservation. She likes Niagara. She went there with Daddy for her honeymoon. You married?"
"Not yet." I had hopes.
I'd proposed a number of times to my girlfriend, but she always turned me down. My being a vampire had nothing to do with it. With her singing and soon an acting career to look after, a boyfriend was okay, but not a husband. Apparently they take more work.
After one proposal too many she let me know the subject was closed, and if I opened it again she would get mad. Since she knows how to use a blackjack, most kinds of handguns, and even a crossbow, I decided there was no percentage in pressing things.
For the time being.
One of these nights she just might be in the right mood to say yes. When that happened I'd whisk her off to the nearest justice of the peace before she could change her mind.
"Your father gets his clothes at Del Morio's?" I asked.
"Uh-huh. He thinks very highly of Mr. Del Morio. If you buy there, then you're in."
"In what?"
"Daddy's good books. Mr. Del Morio doesn't sell to just anyone."
He hadn't sold to me, either, not knowingly. Not showing up in mirrors makes buying clothes awkward. Since my change I'd gotten into the habit of sneaking into the store after closing, helping myself, and writing up a sales receipt. I'd leave it and cash on the manager's desk with THANK YOU FROM LAMONT CRANSTON printed in block letters on the envelope.
I was a blood-drinking creature of the night, not a thief.
ST MICHAELS CHURCH WAS IMPOSING YET APPROACHABLE, WITH a picturesque steepled clock tower and white stone trim against red-brown brick walls. I drove past the front and got a good look at the big statue of St. Mike himself in its alcove above the main door. Must have been a tough job to get him in place. If I wasn't so chicken about heights I'd be tempted to float myself up for a closer look at the art.
The surrounding streets were choked with cars, but Dorothy directed me toward the back where lights showed in some windows on the ground floor; the wedding reception was still going strong. A few must have left early; I found a space.
As I slipped into it, Huffman and his remaining goon parked at the curb by a door and went inside first. He said he'd give some excuse to everyone.
"I hope he doesn't tell them Jerome and I had a fight," she said. "We never fight. What are you doing?"
I'd gotten out and was checking all the cars within view. A LaSalle parked a dozen yards away had steam on the windows. "What does Jerome look like?"
"He's handsome, like Ralph Bellamy, and wearing a tuxedo."
I looked at Cooley.
"Black hair, twenty-five, medium build, dime-size brown birthmark here." Cooley touched a finger to his jaw just under his right ear.
I crossed to the car with the steamed-over windows and yanked open the back door. The couple within screamed in unison, first shock, then outrage. Given my night vision the dim interior was no obstacle. The man did not look like Ralph Bellamy and lacked a birthmark—at least under his right ear. I tipped my hat, told them sorry, and slammed the door shut. The woman snarled, and there were loud clicks as someone belatedly locked things.
Dorothy emerged from the coupe, pulling my overcoat tight around her.
"Wasn't him," I reported.
"But Jerome would never—"
"Just covering the bases, Mrs. Schubert."
"I'm not used to hearing that. Call me Dorothy."
"What d'ya know, that's my favorite name tonight."
"And you're—"
"Jack." I started toward the church. "Inside."