The Dark Sleep

"A blues club named Crymsyn?" Waters gave me a cockeyed smile of wry doubt.

And spelled funny to boot. I figured it'd be memorable, not underwhelming, but he wasn't going to see me falter.

The name was good luck, and I knew it. "The club won't be strictly blues. I'm planning to have in all kinds of music, lots of other talents."

"What? Like magicians and dog acts?"

"Only if they play good music and can sing to it."

That got a chuckle. "Then I'll allow as you just might get away with it."

I decided he wasn't trying to throw a blanket on things, only being innately cautious. He didn't know me from Adam, after all. I could be some crazed eccentric out to impress a stranger before disappearing into the crowd never to return.

There was one sure way to dispel that impression; all I had to do was find the right location to put the joint.

He sipped his beer and we talked about some of the other singers and bands in Chicago that would fit the bill for Club Crymsyn. He'd been to the Shoe Box a few times with friends, and was impressed when I said I knew the owner.

"He has some prime talent playing his place, but I heard Shoe Coldfield himself was a killer," he said.

"That I wouldn't know about. He's always been straight up with me. Pulled me out of a couple jams a while back."

"What kind of jams?"

Sometimes I talked too much. Not wanting to scare him off, I trimmed the complicated and violent past down to essentials. "I had trouble with some guys not unlike this stuff going on with McCallen. Shoe came by and helped peel me off the sidewalk."

He sat back, looking shrewd as Solomon. "There's a lot you're not telling, son."

"When I know you better. And when I have more time. For right now, what I do know for sure about Shoe is that he's a businessman looking after his part of the world."

"But he's still mob."

"Does that make him much different from a banker foreclosing on a widow? He's legal, but it's wrong. Shoe looks after his own."

"Meaning he might shoot the banker but not turn out the widow?"

"Why don't you come meet him sometime and judge for yourself?"

Waters gave a good-natured shrug. "I won't say yes or no."

"Maybe I can bring him here some night. I'd like him to hear you sing."

"What you planning on? Some kind of audition?"

"That's up to Shoe. I can't make promises for him, but I think it'd be a hell of a thing to have you playing at the Shoe Box."

"A white guy at a colored place?"

"If Shoe says you're in, you're in. Turn the lights out and your music still hits the heart same as the rest."

He flapped a hand. "Sure thing. Bring him anytime you want, there's no cover, but I don't know if Moe might have a problem with a colored guy coming in here."

I smiled. "I'll have a little talk with him. He won't mind."

"Jeez, boy, but you are sure of yourself."

"That's the best way to go in this town." Of course, it does help to have a hypnotic edge over people.

"You know what kind of odds are against you for success with a new club?" he asked.

"I've been getting a pretty good idea from others in the business."

"Getting's not the same as having, and you gotta pardon me if I think you look too young to have much experience for this sort of game."

I nodded, giving him that point. My apparent youth would probably always work against me. I was getting used to dealing with it. "I know, but it's my investment to risk, my dream to bring about. Besides, I know enough to hire people who will be experienced."

"That's half of it, and I wish you luck."

"Hey, if I get artists like you coming in regular, the luck's already there."

He did enjoy hearing sincere praise. I got the impression he didn't receive a lot of recognition for his work. Maybe he'd become a fixture in this place, and no one paid him much mind because he was so familiar a sight. That would change if I had anything to do with it.

Time was short; I told Waters I had to leave and would see him tomorrow, then paused long enough at the bar to ask after McCallen. Neither the waiter nor bartender had anything useful to share about him. He came in often, usually had two or three beers along with his friends, all gathering to talk in the back room. The waiter thought they did a lot of speech making. Often when he went to check on them there would be one man reading aloud from some papers.

They seemed to take turns, then argue with each other about whatever they'd heard. The waiter never paid attention to them beyond the fact that they were lousy tippers. It was a sliver more of information than Escott had, and it reinforced Waters's communist theory. Whether it proved to be useful remained to be seen.

And that was as much as I wanted to put into the McCallen problem for the present. For the rest of the evening I had better things to do.

Bobbi looked like one hundred percent nitro when she greeted me at the door wearing a blazing red dress with a band of gold sequins that spiraled up around her figure from hem to neck. It had some kind of matching-scarf things trailing from the shoulders that she wound in a repeat spiral over her arms and acted like sleeves. If she slipped them off her arms, they trailed gracefully down her back. She said it was another Adrian, and I asked if dresses came in models like cars.

"That's the designer's name," she told me, getting her big coat with the high fur collar.

"So's Ford's Model A."

She shook her head and gave a little eye roll, like I'd never really get it. "Adelle helped me pick it out when we went shopping. I've decided to wear it for the broadcast."

"It's too bad only the studio audience will see. If everyone else could you'd be a star in the first minute. Now, how do I get it off you?"

"Later, Mr. Caveman. Take me to some food, I've been singing all morning and helping Adelle with the dancing all afternoon. I'm completely starved."

I took her to one of our favorite dinner-and-dance places. She wasn't in the mood for dancing, not after all the rehearsal, but the food-she assured me-was marvelous. Last night I'd called Escott's answering service and told them to make an eight-thirty reservation for me. There shouldn't have been a problem as they were usually very efficient, but something had gone wrong. I went through variations of my name and even Escott's with the hostess, who gave me an apologetic smile and said she did not have any of those in her book for this evening. A table might be made available in another hour if the gentleman and lady would care to enjoy cocktails in the bar.

She had a glacial face, but I melted it with a long, steady look. "I think if you'll check just one more time you'll find my name listed." I released her from my concentration and waited.

She checked, and her smile got very sunny, indeed. She led us in triumph to a table overlooking the dance floor and saw that we were comfortably seated.

Bobbi managed not to break up until the woman was gone. "It's spooky when you do that-but so convenient," she whispered.

"Saves on bribes, too."

A waiter with an accent soon swooped in and out with Bobbi's order. I asked for only a cup of coffee, which seemed to worry the man, but I didn't owe him any explanations. To make things look all right, Bobbi occasionally sipped from the cup so he could refill it. She was very well accustomed to the fact I would never be able to join her in eating a normal meal. On the other hand, what we often shared between us afterward more than made up for it.

"Won't that keep you awake?" I asked, indicating the coffee.

"I thought you preferred me alert."

"And kicking, but you need your rest for tomorrow."

"Then you'll just have to get me to bed early and exhaust me."

"Whew. I'll do my best."

"As always."

The restaurant had a live orchestra, not as brash as the Melodians, but good enough to get the point across for listening as well as dancing; just in case she was up to it, I asked Bobbi if she wanted to take a turn around the floor, but she shook her head.

"We can find another floor to turn around on at my place," she said, then attacked her steak like she had a grudge against it.

When we went out to eat I usually did most of the talking to start with until she'd worked her way past the food.

She would nod and make encouraging sounds to hold up her part of the conversation, then have a turn later. I told her about the Sommerfeld case and the possible communist angle.

"You make it sound sinister," she said. "Lots of my friends are communists and they're perfectly nice people."

"Even Madison Pruitt?"

"Okay, there are exceptions to everything, but it's more of an intellectual choice for them. He and the others aren't exactly building bombs in an attic."

"I doubt he even knows how to change a lightbulb."

"Oh, be fair. He's not dumb, just irresponsible."

"Which is curable, only he doesn't want to be cured."

"Maybe you could ask Madison if he knows anything useful for your case. He'll be Marza's date at the party."

"How peachy," I said.

Madison Pruitt was heir to a whopping fortune and a devoted communist-very distressing to his rich and straitlaced family. He was as passionate about his politics as he was short on social graces. He knew about manners, but eschewed them as concessions to the decadent oppressors of the workers of the world. In a young man a little rebellion is to be expected; in a guy well past thirty it's downright embarrassing. But Bobbi had a point, so unless something changed in the case tonight, I'd have a talk with him tomorrow. I don't know what her accompanist, Marza, saw in him, unless it was that fact that she was too intimidating for most men, and Madison was either completely oblivious or immune to her sandpaper personality. Though he had money enough to attract the most determined gold digger, he was fairly oblivious to them as well. His passion was for politics and food, often not in that order, depending when he'd last eaten.

"Is Charles coming to the broadcast?" Bobbi asked.

"I talked him into it."

"Good! How did you manage?"

"I told him how hurt you'd be if he didn't turn up."

"Oh, Jack, he should come to it because he wants to, not to keep from hurting my feelings."

"He knows better, honest-but this gives him an excuse to be persuaded. I think he's practicing to be a quirky curmudgeon."

"Why is he so shy about having a good time?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's that British blood of his." And maybe he really was shy. He was sure of himself in lots of areas, from delivering a Shakespearean soliloquy to an audience of drunken lumberjacks to facing down a roomful of armed mobsters, but the idea of going to a party just might petrify him. Gordy would be there, though, so Escott would have someone besides me with whom he could talk shop.

By the time Bobbi had reached the dessert stage, I'd figured out how to get the dress off her. There was a line of tiny hooks going up one side-difficult, but not impossible. It would require a careful, light touch. The last thing I wanted was her having a conniption if I pulled a thread.

Wrong, I thought, looking up. The last thing I want is to see Ike LaCelle coming to my table.

Bobbi followed the direction of my frozen gaze. LaCelle had his hand out and a big grin on his mug. She smiled and I smiled, though it was probably rather fixed for us both.

"Well, if it isn't Miss Bobbi Smythe lookin' like a million bucks," he declared loud enough to turn heads.

Bobbi murmured something gracious while he bowed and made a big deal out of kissing her hand. She'd already gone into her voltage routine, but keeping the power low, and put on her public face for him. He turned on me next, briefly. I stood to shake hands, but didn't invite him to join us, hoping he'd get the hint. He didn't, being content to keep me standing while he gave more greeting to Bobbi. If he was steamed about me taking on his boys and winning, he kept all signs of it to himself.

"I heard that the rehearsals for the show are going great," he said to her. His pitch was such as to let people know she was some sort of celebrity. "Think you'll be all set to take America by storm tomorrow night?" Why didn't he just say she'd be on Archy Grant's Variety Hour and get the advertising out of the way?

"I think so. It should be fun."

"Fun! Sugar, this is going to put you on top. I wouldn't be surprised if there was a movie deal at the end of it."

"That would be nice." From her expression I could see she was well aware he was laying it on with a trowel. Some of the people nearby seemed to be thinking along the same lines. He wasn't doing Bobbi any favors now.

"What a beautiful dress, you need to show that off. Will you do me the honor of giving me one little dance before I go?"

The "before I go" was a good touch, implying that we would soon be rid of him if she complied. I wasn't so sure, but gave a slight shrug to let her know it was all her decision. She managed another smile and said that would be lovely. It was delivered with a damning-with-faint-praise attitude, but LaCelle ignored it. On purpose, I was sure. No one was that dense.

LaCelle was somewhat better at a slow waltz than a fast fox-trot, so Bobbi fared better on the dance floor with him tonight than at the Nightcrawler party. I watched them and boiled for a few minutes, since I'd been very blatantly ignored by him, but hauled it all in.

There was no point getting angry with LaCelle, not when I knew I could take care of him as easily as I'd done his goons. If I was in a really good mood I'd only send him off to Wisconsin; if not, then he'd wake up and find himself stranded somewhere in the Canadian wilderness with no topcoat.

The waltz faltered and stopped. Laughter rippled through the crowd, and I guessed what was coming before I saw it. The smiling orchestra leader was in the process of stepping down, having just given his baton over to a broadly grinning Archy Grant, who looked like he owned the place.

The dancers also faltered, first turning to see, then applaud as they recognized him. Grant called something to the musicians and they started up with the sprightly theme song to his show, confirming to one and all just who was in charge of things. The applause became more pronounced, and Grant waved like he was having the time of his life. The good feeling spread throughout the crowd. To give the devil his due, he knew how to play to them.

He called something else to the musicians, they nodded back, and he returned the baton to the leader. Grant stepped up to a microphone and began singing a love song. LaCelle slow-danced Bobbi over close, allowing Grant to sing the song just for her. All they lacked was a spotlight, though it was hardly necessary. They were very much everyone's center of attention.

If Bobbi felt unsure about the manipulation that was going on, she didn't let it show. It looked like a crazy publicity stunt, and I might have approved but for knowing better. The whole romantic business was designed to bowl Bobbi right over, and might have worked a dream on any other girl but her.

Grant came to a stopping point in the song lyrics, but signaled for the music to keep going. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm Archy Grant. I just had to stop in and say hello and introduce you to my beautiful guest for tomorrow night's Variety Hour-Miss Bobbi Smythe!"

Several photographers appeared out of nowhere and flashbulbs went off, freezing the moment. I had no doubt some of those pictures would find their way into tomorrow's paper.

She gave a bow, and people cheered like they knew who she was, and maybe some did if they'd been to see the club show.

As though he'd rehearsed it, LaCelle bowed and stepped away from Bobbi, applauding. Grant bounded lightly off the orchestra steps and caught her up in his arms, taking her for a smooth spin around the floor. Other dancers fell back to give them room, like it was a Fred and Ginger movie. Bobbi looked delighted with things, but that was still her public face. She played along with Grant's game as they danced, but I knew the difference between her real smile and the one she used for a performance.

Too bad Grant didn't.

I heard someone approach and looked up. Gil Dalhauser slid his long form uninvited into Bobbi's chair. It was shaping up to be a perfect evening. He didn't say anything for a while, just watched me steadily with those soulless arctic-blue eyes.

"Yes," he said to my unasked question. "Ike arranged all this."

"Just to get Grant next to Bobbi?" I supposed the rehearsals weren't as good a setting for romance as a pricey restaurant.

"It's gonna happen whether you like it or not, kid," he said with a minimal nod toward the dancers.

"What about whether Bobbi likes it or not?"

"She'll like it well enough. Archy can boost her up the ladder a lot faster than you ever could."

"That's nothing to do with this."

"It's everything to do with it. All she has to do is make Archy happy and he gives her a hand up. Happens all the time."

"And she's got no say in it?"

"She'll know what's good for her and say yes."

"She'll tell Archy to go to hell."

"Not before the broadcast she won't."

He had a point there. Bobbi would be able to hold Grant off for that long, but afterward he could make a nuisance of himself. "If he gets insistent, she'll let him have it between the eyes. I've seen her in action."

He was amused. "That would be a career killer."

"She can survive it. Archy Grant's big, but not that big."

"But Ike LaCelle is. He knows everyone in show business, kid, who hires, who fires. If that girl makes the wrong move, he'll put the word out against her. She'll be lucky to end up as a singing waitress in a chophouse."

"Why should Ike go to so much trouble for Archy?"

"They've made each other a lot of money. Archy's been a good investment for Ike, so Ike's gonna keep him happy."

"Regardless of what Bobbi thinks of the deal?"

"She's just another broad. There's more where she came from. When Grant gets tired of her, he'll give her a diamond bracelet and say good-bye. But I guarantee you she'll be better off than she was before. He always leaves them happy. He's nice that way."

"A real saint, I can see it from here."

"And if you know what's good for you, you'll just back off until it's over. You'll get your girl again. And she'll be a lot more rich and famous."

"Or Ike'll send more goons like Shep Shepperd and his boxing friend after me?"

Dalhauser's cold eyes flickered.

I'd hit him square with that one. They were probably still wondering how I'd managed that little gag. "Maybe you should have a talk with Gordy, then instead of wasting time warning me, you can be telling Ike and Archy to lay off."

"Think you're hot stuff, do you?"

I didn't bother to answer. He wasn't the only one who could stare for effect.

He blinked once, slowly. "I got news for you, Ike's already spoken with Gordy. He said you were trouble and not to mess with you, but I wouldn't put much stock in his protection. Ike's got a lot more friends, and they're pretty powerful. You wouldn't stand a chance."

"Did Gordy make it clear that he didn't want Miss Smythe to be bothered by Archy?"

"He did. But if she's willing to go along, that's her business, isn't it? I heard she's done it before with Slick Morelli, so this won't be anything new to her."

"She's changed. And Slick's dead, you know."

"I think you're getting the wrong message out of this," he said, leaning forward on his elbows. "I'm still trying to do you a favor."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Mostly to cover things with Gordy. That way he can't say I didn't warn you."

"I'm touched."

He snorted, all contept. "Listen up: I've seen hotshots like you trying to go up against Ike. He looks soft, but he isn't. They always lose and they lose bad. Those two mugs he sent before are Boy Scouts compared to the real muscle he can call in."

"I'm sure they are. It only means I need to talk with Ike myself, then we can all avoid having problems."

He sat back. "Okay. Go ahead. He's not against a little payout to the boyfriend if it makes everyone happy."

I went very still. Inside me something colder than death and full of abrupt rage twisted like a stung snake. I had to struggle to hold it in check or Dalhauser would have a broken neck before he took another breath. He must have seen it in my face, because he suddenly went pale and straightened, his hand going inside his coat. For the first time since I'd met him he seemed alarmed.

Then I remembered who I was dealing with and made myself calm down again. He was a mug, a little smarter than most, but still in the same club, and to mugs Bobbi was just a piece of goods to be bought, used, and sold. He didn't know any better and never would.

"I want to talk to Ike," I said very softly. "Just talk. Go tell him."

Dalhauser didn't relax one inch. Still staring at me, he slipped from the chair and went away.

Bobbi and Grant continued dancing. Whenever he turned her in my direction she shot me a serious look, the rest of the time she smiled. Holy Hannah, but even from here I could see she was mad enough to chew nails. It must be costing her one hell of an effort to pretend to be having fun.

Ike sauntered over from wherever he'd been and looked down at me in a benevolent way. This time I didn't bother to stand, but did motion for him to take the empty chair.

"Gil tells me you're a little upset about the way things are going," he said with a sympathetic smile. We were such good friends now. "Did he explain it all fully?"

"Yeah. My girl sleeps with Archy and he gives her the world on a gold plate. Meaning you're the pimp?"

He only hooked one side of his mouth in brief amusement. "I'm just doing a favor for a friend."

"Then do Archy another favor and tell him to back off."

"Hey, I don't tell him what to do. If he happens to see something he likes, I just grease the wheels."

"Ike, look at me and listen hard: you're going to tell Archy to back off."

LaCelle's face went blank for a moment, then he shook his head, fighting my influence. "Who the hell do you think you are, punk?" he demanded, but his words were slurring.

"I'm the son of a bitch who's gonna turn your face inside out if you don't fix things the way I want." I locked my gaze onto him again and stepped up the pressure until it felt like a rope was tied tight around my head. "You hear me, Ike? You hear my voice? You can only hear my voice now, can't you?"

His mouth sagged. Dead-fish time. And I had him hooked solid.

I gave him the works. Not too easy at first, because I'd gotten hot under the collar, but I kept it under control.

The more orders I gave to LaCelle, the better I felt; there wasn't much danger of me driving him insane. That was a distinct problem if I hypnotized anyone while I was angry.

When I finished with him everything was crystal clear in his mind about talking Archy Grant into cutting short his Romeo act with Bobbi. He could be friends with her, joke and flirt if he liked, but anything more than that would only bring him grief. If Archy had any questions on this change of mind, he could come to me for answers. The same went for Dalhauser.

And the radio show would go on with Bobbi as scheduled.

I was skating close to the edge with that last one, considering the promise I'd made to her not to interfere. But in this case I was only making sure things stayed as they were, not changing them in her favor.

LaCelle was as primed as I could make him. I let him go and checked the dance floor. Bobbi and Grant weren't there.

A wash of unease went through me because I wouldn't put it past him to actually kidnap her. It changed to vast relief when she came back to the table from a different direction. Her color was high and she was seething so much she trembled.

"I'm ready to leave," she whispered, holding tight to a thin, unnatural smile. Her public face, because people were still looking on.

I tossed an outrageously generous ten on the table and escorted her out; we retrieved our coats, the valet brought my car around, and I got her inside. I didn't say a word while driving, giving her a chance to work through things, to get calm enough to speak.

It took her a good five minutes, and when she did speak it would have made a marine blush. She had quite a few names for Archy Grant, and an equal number of things that he could do with himself after he went to hell, along with several creative ways she would be glad to use to send him there. Her fury seemed to fill the whole car. I found an empty parking lot and pulled into the middle of it. Soon as we stopped, she said a terse thanks, then launched out and stalked up and down for a while, still cursing.

I held hard to the wheel and hunched down. She wasn't mad at me-God help me if I ever worked her up into such a state-but the force of it was such that all my instincts said to take cover until the storm passed.

Eventually the pacing in the cold April wind got her cooled down to the point where she could come back inside again. When she was settled in I shifted gears and drove toward her hotel at a sedate pace.

"Thanks," she said.

"You're welcome," I returned, with a touch of uncertainty.

"That's thanks for not asking anything obvious until I could talk without biting your head off."

"Am I safe now?"

She breathed in deep and let it out slow. "I think so."

I waited so she could draw in a few more gallons of air, then ventured to ask what had happened on the dance floor.

"You saw all the goings on up there?" she asked.

"The showstopper stuff, yeah."

"It was his way of flattering me. Get me out there, throw in a surprise, make me the center of attention so everyone thinks I'm really important."

"You are important."

"I know that, but I also know where I am in the world with it and how few people have actually heard of me.

Archy was trying to improve things, which is great as far as it goes, but he's doing-doing-" She broke off, gulping a lot before hitting the side of her fist against the door. "I could kill that rat. I could dangle him over a vat of acid and lower him in an inch at a time. How dare he!"

We were getting close to the hotel. I took an early turn.

"Where're you going?" she asked, her flare of temper interrupted.

"Around the block until you're okay. You don't need to take this inside your home."

She gaped a couple seconds, then fell on me, planting a solid kiss square on my mouth. I nearly swerved up onto the curb, but hauled us straight again just in time. She seemed not to notice any of it, but was slightly more relaxed when she flopped back to her side of the seat.

"Now," I said, "what's the rest of it?"

"I can't quote him, it's jumbled up in my head, but he was smooth and amusing and really, really focused on me. If there's one thing a girl likes, it's to have a man act like that with her, but not so he's overdoing it. Archy knows just how to play that game and make it be like he's never tried it before with anyone else. He makes you feel happy inside about yourself. That's what he was doing to me, an A-one first-rate, head-to-toe seduction."

"All that during a short turn on the dance floor? With me looking on?"

"He's good, Jack. And it seemed like forever to me."

"What'd you say to him?"

"The way he did it, there wasn't a lot I could say. He didn't come right out and ask me to go to bed with him, but it was all hiding there under his words-like a worm under a rock."

That description was reassuring to hear.

"The way it ended I pretty much told him I needed time to think."

My reassurance wavered. "Think?"

"And talk to you. Oh, don't worry, I was just giving him a line, but I had to act like I was interested and leaving the door open."

"Until after the broadcast."

"Yeah. He's smart that way. He won't use the broadcast against me. It would be pushing things too much to say if I don't sleep with him, then I don't go on. He's going to use it to make me grateful to him instead, and then dangle other gifts under my nose to draw me on."

"Like more guest spots on his show?"

"Probably. If not that, then something else. I'm not going to go with him, but he got to me, Jack!"

I kept watching the road. "How so?"

"With all that. He knew exactly what to do and say to make me like him or at least be grateful and friendly. It was as if he'd been crawling around inside my head like some kind of a swami mind reader and picked out all my weak points to use them against me. Am I that transparent?"

"No, but he's had a lot of practice."

"I'll say he has. Everything he did tonight should have worked-would have worked. Most of the reason why I got so mad was that not so long back I'd have let him sweep me off my feet and to hell with the rest of the world. That's what happened with Slick, what he did for me. I was set up to do it all over again with Archy."

"But you didn't."

"I might have. That's what's so upsetting. If I hadn't met you, I might have."

I shook my head. "No, you wouldn't."

"Why d'you say that?"

"Because you're not who you were anymore. You've grown up past Slick and that kind of trap."

"With your help."

"Maybe I speeded things up a little, but you do it yourself, you just don't always realize it. The important thing here is that you nailed Archy on what he was up to, and you're not going along with it."

"Damn right I'm not. But he isn't going to like my answer. I've heard stories about how Ike LaCelle arranges things for him. All this tonight-he fixed it up. And I think it was my fault."

"It's not your fault he's a jerk."

"But it is that he knew where to find me tonight. He overheard me talking to Adelle about the date I had with you."

"He was at the dance rehearsal, too?"

She made a growl of exasperation. "He was everywhere today. He wasn't intrusive or anything, but just around, acting friendly, not overdoing it."

"What's Adelle think of this? She keeps a close watch on him."

"Not now. She's read the writing on the wall and shifted her attention to Gordy."

"Has Adelle got a diamond bracelet? A new one?"

Bobbi shot me a surprised look. "Yes, she was showing it off last night. What's that got to do with things?"

"I heard from Gil Dalhauser that that's Archy's standard good-bye gift to his girls."

Now it was a distinct snarl of exasperation, and she hit the side of the door again. "So it's the queen is dead, long live the new queen-meaning me? How dare he expect me to fall right into line'?"

"Because he's a rat?"

"If I'd just kept my mouth shut-"

"No, it's better this way. You know for sure he's a rat and can be on guard against him. I figure he told Ike where you'd probably be tonight and he got there ahead of us and arranged the whole thing with the band and the photographers."

"That had to be it. While that was going on I saw you talking with Gil Dalhauser and then Ike."

"Yeah, Gil tried to warn me to fade from the picture, then Ike came by to fix a deal with me to get out of the picture, but he changed his mind. He won't be fixing anything else for Archy with you."

"What'd you say to him? And how?"

"We came to an understanding. He's not going to do any more favors for Grant as far as you're concerned."

"Jack, you didn't-"

"Yes, my dear, I gave him a triple evil-eye whammy-but not one word of it had to do with your career."

She relaxed slightly.

I told her what Dalhauser had told me, then what I'd put into LaCelle's head.

"He'll get with Archy and

thoroughly discourage him about bothering you again, but make him think it's not coming from you at all. Or even me. Gordy's already warned Ike to leave us alone, but Ike decided to ignore him. This way it just seems like Ike is the one who changed his mind." She thought that one over a long time. "It'll work fine for Ike, but I don't think so for Archy. If you'd heard the way he talked to me, you'd know. He's determined enough to not listen to Ike, I'm sure of it."

"I trust your call. Will you be able to put him off until after the show?"

"Since there's no need to worry about reprisals from Ike, yes."

"How in hell are you going to be able to work with Archy knowing all this?"

"Oh, that's nothing. It's just being professional. I'll get through it without a hitch. It's afterward that things will get sticky. He'll have expectations. I can handle it... but I don't want to. I can give Archy the air and do it easy so we're all friends, but it'd take a while. I don't want to be around him, have to play the game he's set up or give him the chance to know more about me than he already does. He'd just use it against me. Besides, whenever I think of him I want to knock his block off."

"Would you like a shortcut?"

She looked at me, big hazel eyes full of wistful appeal. "Yes."

My heart instantly turned into mush. "One triple-deluxe evil-schmevil, mind-changing whammy at your service, ma'am," I said. "If he's awake and sober-even if he's only sober-I can have him doing a tap dance on the Wrigley Building during a lightning storm."

"Holding golf clubs?"

"Wearing a suit of armor."

She threw her arms around me for another kiss; this time I prudently stopped the car.