Castle Murders (9 page)

"Could he have been near your husband when you heard the viscount grunt?"

"Yes, I suppose he could have been."

Tyrene drew a long breath. "And who was this person?"

"The king's brother. Prince Trent."

 

 

 

The Pelican Club

 

In an office on the second floor of a big nightclub, a huge vanadium steel vault door opened and a man stepped out. He wore a black dinner jacket with black bow tie, boiled shirt with onyx studs, cummerbund, striped trousers, and black patent leather shoes. A white carnation boutonnière adorned the jacket's left lapel. His dark hair was slicked back, highlights glistening in the track lighting.
 

He looked sharp as a tack and twice as jaggy.

The office was lavishly furnished in blond wood and chrome, the floor a meadow of plush white carpeting. He sat at the expansive oval desk and reached for a silver box, from which he withdrew a cigarette. Lighting it with a silver lighter, he inhaled deeply. He shot smoke into the still air.
 

He lifted the receiver of a white desk phone and dialed three numbers. After waiting a moment he said, "I'm here. What's up?"

He listened.

"Where? At the bar? Uh-huh. Who is she?"

He nodded.

"Right. I'll be right down."

He got up and went to a bar that fronted a mirror. Selecting a bottle of whiskey, he poured himself two fingers, then hit the stuff with a shot or two of seltzer. He swished the mixture around, then drank it off.
 

He put the glass down and took a look at himself in the mirror, angling his head one way, then the other. Satisfied, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
 

 

The piano player was on between sets, doggedly plugging away at standard ballads. Nobody was listening. There was a big crowd, and they were noisy, awash with drink, giddy with laughter. Wreaths of smoke hung in the air. Smells of liquor and perfume and cigarette butts. Ice tinkled, silverware rattled. Busboys bused, and waiters waited.
 

He came down the curving staircase slowly, one hand in his pocket. He paused midway, took the cigarette from his mouth, and surveyed the floor.
 

A woman waved. He flashed a smile and raised the cigarette hand.

A man shot his arm up. "Johnnie!"

He waved back. There were several tablefuls of people he knew. He came down the stairs and wound his way over.

The woman who had waved met him halfway. She had short dark hair and a pale complexion.

"Dara, darling."

"You big lug. Where have you been sequestering yourself?"

"Don't ask personal sequestions."

"Ho-ho, you're fast tonight. Always the verbal quick-jabber, aren't you? I like the way you handle your litotes, kid. How'd you like to fight for me?"
 

"Would I have to take a dive?"

"One and a half gainer into a dry witticism."

"It seems to me I haven't seen you around here lately."

"Too fucking busy and vice versa," she said.

"Still writing for the magazine?"

"On and off. Book reviews, the occasional casual, or the casual occasional. Not much, really. Mostly I drink and stare out windows."
 

"How's that novel coming?"

"I did three whole pages two years ago. I'm a sprinter, John."

"Some of those shorts of yours are superb."

"I'm blushing. But what's this 'some' stuff?"

He laughed.

She pecked him on the cheek. "Everybody's here tonight," she said. "Too many friends in one room is boring. There's no one to talk about behind his back."
 

"I'm glad I'm here."

"You I say only good things about. I'm going to apply some powder to this hooter of mine. See you later."

"It will be my pleasure, Mrs. Porter."

"Don't go sappy on me."

He walked over to a group of tables, recognizing many faces: Gerald and Izzy Goldfarb, Oliver Lebanon, Rafe Larimer, Geoffrey S. Katzman, Monk Calahan, Rupert Bartleby, Walston Alcott, and Ephraim Skye Fitzhugh and his wife, Selma, among others.
 

"Hi, everybody!"

"John Carney, as I live and breathe," the rotund Walston Alcott said.

"Don't hold your breath," Katzman said with acerbity.

"No winter tan," Alcott said, scrutinizing Carney through small round spectacles. "You weren't in jail, so far as I know. Did you join a monastery?"
 

"No," Carney said. "But I hid out in a big castle."

"I've heard you're having problems."

"That's why I came back, not why I hid out. Everybody enjoying themselves tonight?"

Yeas all around.

"Except for that funeral music," Jerry Goldfarb said, scowling.

"You think you can do better?" Carney scoffed.

"Does a whale pee in the ocean?"

Carney waved to the piano player, then pointed at Goldfarb. The piano player nodded and stopped, got up. Goldfarb dashed to the baby grand, sat down, and launched into a medley from his new show, jazzing it up with brilliant improvisation. He sounded as if he had four hands.
 

"You've got Goldfarb music for the rest of the evening," Izzy said. "Free of charge. Enjoy."

"I like a Goldfarb tune," Rupert Bartleby said. "How about you?"

"I pay the Composers' Guild a bundle every year," Carney said. "Jerry'll get his nickel."

"But you're not getting the best part," Izzy said with a grin. "The words."

"Izzy, get up there and belt them out. They're your words."

"Me? I should have a bucket to carry Jerry's tunes."

"I'm going to write a show," Oliver Lebanon said, "and it will be vastly better than anything you two could scribble."

"Ollie, you've a wicked tongue," Izzy said.

"Well, I've tried to lead a wicked life to match."

Skye Fitzhugh got up and spoke into Carney's ear. "There's one of Tweel's dengs at the bar. With a woman."

"Yeah, I know. Going over there in just a bit."

"Your boys were afraid to tangle with it."

"No, they're under orders to take it easy, for now."

"Right. What kind of woman would take up with an incubus?"

Overhearing, Selma said, "Didn't you know that dengs are supposed to be extraordinarily well-equipped?"

"That's an old wives' tale," Fitzhugh retorted.

"I'm an old wife."

"You're a kid. You're not thinking of leaving me for a deng, are you?"

"I might, you never know. A woman likes to raise a little hell, too, now and then."

"Have another drink, Selma."

"I will."

Carney said, "Dengs tend to use up women fast. An affair with one is life-shortening."

"Short," Selma said, "but sweet. Unlike the present one, which is just nasty and brutish."

Fitzhugh said, "Selma's not as unhappy as she sounds."

"Speak for yourself."

Skye Fitzhugh shrugged helplessly, sat back down, and tossed off his drink.

"See you people later," Carney said. "Have some business."

"Don't sign anything in blood," Monk Calahan warned.

"At least not without your agent," Geof Katzman said.

Carney waved casually and left, threading his way across the floor. He saw Tony Montanaro coming toward him.

"Boss! Hey, you finally showed up. We got trouble."

"How's my nightclub doing, Manager?"

"'S okay. Tweel can't move in on us here, though I bet he's gonna try."

Tony wore a white dinner jacket and a red bow tie. He had longish graying hair combed back with a part down the middle. For all the silver in his hair, he still looked young. His eyes were dark and his eyebrows almost met over his nose — but there was something delicate about his face, almost babylike.
 

"Howie told me about Tully and Curt."

"Yeah, that was nasty. But they shoulda known. When you mix it with dengs without magic backup, you might as well have your candelòtto in your hand." Tony made a motion. "You know what I'm sayin'?"
 

"I know whereof you speak. What else has been happening?"

"Things are happening all over town. Duke Holland got zotzed."

"Tweel?"

"Word's out on the street that that's who it was. He's movin' in on everybody, not just us. All over town, everybody's got trouble from Tweel."
 

"He's got the muscle. He feels he has to use it."

"He's got the dengs. Not too many bosses have a line to the real power."

"Duke Holland had some pretty good voodoo going for him," Carney said. "His protection spells were first-rate. Tweel must have moved up a notch on the infernal scale. Down, I should say."
 

"Tweel's dengs zotzed Holland's zombies. Holland wasn't exactly a great human being, but I feel sorry for the guy. He sells his soul, then he finds out too late he got rooked. Imagine setting up a protection circle, and then, there you are, looking like a big
chichrool
."
 

"Embarrassing. Well, I guess we have to deal with our visitor."

"Yeah, he's emptied out the bar, and he's running up a hell of a tab."

"I'll deal with him. How's the action in the back room tonight?"

"House has the odds, as usual. Business is good."

"Fine. By the way, is Father Sealey here tonight?"

"Yeah, I think I saw him." Tony looked. "Over there, by the bandstand. He's got a cute little number with him."

"Tony, do something for me, will you? Send to the bar for a seltzer bottle and have a boy bring it over to the father's table."

"Seltzer? Yeah, okay. But the father takes his hooch straight up."

"I know."

"Sure, boss, sure."

"And after that, get out of the monkey suit and into street clothes. I want you to drop me somewhere."

"Okay, boss. I'll get Andy to take over."

Carney crossed to the bandstand. Jerry Goldfarb was still banging away on the baby grand. A crowd had gathered around him, raptly attentive, some people singing along with the show-stopper he was currently into.
 

Father Sealey was entertaining a young lady. She was pretty — short brown hair, short gold lamé dress.

"John, long time no see," Father Sealey said, smiling, his bald pate shining in the pinspots. He rose and extended a chubby hand.
 

"How's it going, Father?"

"So-so. I'm still without a parish, temporarily. The bishop still equivocates about assigning me."

"He doesn't know what a good man he's toying with."

"Thanks, John. But His Excellency and I differ on where the souls are, the souls that need saving. They're here, not in the churches. Old ladies in babushkas have their tickets stamped already." He waved around. "Whereas these jokers don't know where the boat docks."
 

"They just might have a boarding pass to Charon's dinghy."

"That might be true. John, may I present my niece, Shauna Sealey. Shauna, Mr. John Carney, the owner of the Pelican Club."

"Hello," Shauna said with an engaging dimpled smile.

"Hi." Carney took her small hand. "City University?"

"How'd you know?"

"Let's see. Sorority. Omicron Upsilon Kappa?"

Shauna was mildly amazed. "O. U. Kid. You guessed it."

"Majoring in . . . mathematics."

"History. But I changed from math!"

"Your boyfriend's name is Chuck, and he's in engineering. He likes football, and he gave you a huge stuffed teddy bear for your birthday, along with that gold friendship ring."
 

Fingering the ring, Shauna shook her head. "You must be the magician they say you are."

Father Sealey laughed.

Carney said, "Your uncle talks a lot about you."

Shauna reddened slightly. "You're a bit of a tease." She turned to the priest. "But how did you know about the teddy bear? I never mentioned that."
 

Nonplussed, Father Sealey lifted his shoulders.

The boy arrived with the seltzer bottle.

Carney took it and set it down. "Father, I wonder if you'd do me a favor."

Over at the bar, Tony Montanaro was practically spitting into the deng's face:

"I said, you're shut off. You hear? No more!"

"What's it take to get a stinkin' drink in this joint?" The demon's voice boomed deeply. He added a few choice profanities.

He — or, if you prefer, it — was about six feet six inches tall, massive frame swathed in a black gabardine suit with wide lapels. Black shirt, white silk four-in-hand. The face was strangely distorted; lantern-jawed, bony-browed, it was not quite normal, and the skin was tinted faintly green. For all that, there was something forcefully masculine, not to say compelling, about its looks. The ears were pointed, the only straightforwardly anomalous feature.
 

"For you, deng-breath, it's impossible. Now, move on out of here!"

"So that's how you treat your customers? How do ya like that, babe?"

The "babe" was a small brunette with heavily lined dark eyes and full red lips. Despite all the makeup, she was attractive. She had on a black cocktail dress and was smoking a cork-tipped cigarette. After blowing smoke at Tony she said, "I've gotten thrown out of better places."
 

"Who's throwing
you
out, honey?" Tony said. "You can stay.
He
goes."

"You're gonna haveta prove it, human."

"Prove it? Whaddya talkin' about, prove it? Get the dung out of your pointy ears, deng. I said you're shut off. No more hooch! You can sit there all night for all I care."
 

The deng swore again, this time obscenely and at great length and elaboration.

"Watch that filthy hole you call a mouth, mister," Tony warned. "There are ladies around."

The babe laughed.

"You and what bunch of human pantywaists are gonna stop me?"

Tony took a bottle of bourbon by the neck and raised it threateningly.

"Tony."

Reluctantly, Montanaro put the bottle down and sidestepped away.