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"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 a
"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."
"But they're all waiting to see me. I couldn't."
"Sure you can. You need to change clothes for the honeymoon."
"If there's going to be one."