“One of these times, I may invite you in. I don’t think either one of us is ready for that yet, though,” she said after we separated.

  Part of me was: the dumb part, the trouser snake. Another couple of drinks and I might’ve listened to it, which would’ve meant all of me was dumb. The way things were, I nodded. “You’re bound to be right,” I said, and kicked at the sidewalk. “Dammit.”

  I made her smile a big smile, which I had the feeling wasn’t so easy to do. “Take care of yourself,” she said. “My benison should see you safe from the Village, but not everything that troubles you is confined to darkness.”

  “Sweetheart, you sure got that right.” It came out of the side of my mouth, and made me sound so much like a tough-guy private eye in a bad movie, I had all I could do not to fall down laughing.

  Dora stood watching me till I almost got to the corner. When I turned back toward her again as I rounded it, she wasn’t there any more. Had she gone up the stairs or turned bat? I didn’t know then; I still don’t know now.

  Somebody who may have been a vampire took a couple of steps toward me before I got out of VV. That was all he did, though. He sheered off in a hurry, like a ship that spots the sea breaking on offshore rocks. So the benison was worth something, all right. No one else gave me any trouble till I got back to the warm-blooded part of town.

  Next morning, I went down to the US Rubber factory again. I got the feeling the god-things on either side of the entrance gave me the onceover when I walked in, same as I had the first time I did. A feeling proves nothing, of course. I wondered what a visiting wizard would say. I made a note of that; I might need to find out.

  As I’d hoped, Babs was sitting in the little receptionist’s booth again. She smiled at me as I came up. “Good morning, Mister Mitchell! What can I do for you today?” Yeah, now she knew who I was.

  “Got a favor to ask you,” I said, and put a fin on the narrow counter between us. Quickly, I added, “Not that kind of favor.”

  She looked at me. She looked at the bill. She made it disappear. “Go on,” she said.

  “The two guys from South Gate you were with at the Blue Lobster Club, I want to buy ’em lunch, see if they know anything about the missing man I’m looking for.”

  “Ray and Mickey? I don’t know why they would,” she said. I stood there and waited. She thought. “I can ask ’em if they want to, I guess. Where d’you want to meet ’em?”

  “That place right across the street, the one with EAT in the front window.”

  “Okay. I’ll ask ’em. If they don’t want to come, though, it’s not my fault.”

  “That’s fine. Thank you,” I said. Always smart to be extra polite after someone’s done what you want.

  I made it across Scrying Crystal Road without getting flattened. The way the counterman’s eyes flickered across me said he remembered me, too. I ordered coffee and nursed it. The lunch crowd wouldn’t materialize for another hour. I hoped I’d recognize Babs’s friends. At least I had names for them now.

  They were blonds like her. I did remember that. That meant I only had to worry about half the guys who came in. Some relief, huh?

  But as things worked out, I had no trouble at all. They came in together, paused in the doorway to see who was there, and spotted me about the same time I spotted them. I got up and shook hands with them, and we grabbed a table.

  Mickey was shorter and chunkier and liked to hear himself talk. Ray, taller and skinnier, kept watching his words. I ordered the pastrami again. Ray got fried chicken; Mickey, a hamburger.

  Neither of them knew Frank Jethroe. That disappointed but didn’t surprise me; the factory took up several city blocks. I tried a different angle: “Anything funny been going on here lately? Strange, I mean.”

  They looked at each other. After a pause, Ray said, “Whatever you hear, you didn’t hear it from us.”

  “You never even heard of us,” Mickey added.

  “Heard of who?” I said, deadpan. Mickey snickered. Ray gave me a sober nod, as if to show he liked the answer. After a beat, I went on, “What didn’t I hear from you, then?”

  “Nothing you can put your finger on, anyway, not for sure,” Mickey said. Ray nodded again. The stocky fellow continued, “Past few months, maybe the past year, the lights’ve been flickering sometimes, and they never used to.”

  “I worked graveyard a coupla months, and it’s especially bad then,” Ray put in.

  “You know what the place smells like, too, right? You’ve been inside,” Mickey said to me.

  I nodded and mimed holding my nose. “Rubber. Burnt rubber. Fried rubber.”

  “Kinda like my burger here,” Mickey said. That had to be slander. The hamburger looked juicy. My pastrami was fine, and Ray marched through his chicken like Sherman through Georgia. I didn’t worry about it; Mickey hadn’t stopped. “Yeah, like that. It’s not too bad most of the time—they keep the blowers blowing all day and all night. But sometimes it gets worse, usually right when the lights are peculiar, too. It can be pretty nasty then, like, like ….” He scowled, looking for a word.

  I suggested the first one that popped into my head: “Brimstone?”

  “Brimstone!” He gave me a grateful look. “There you go! Just like that! Like something from Down There’s on vacation up here.”

  “I didn’t connect the way the lights and the smell matched up, but he’s right.” Something in Ray’s voice said he wasn’t used to Mickey being right, but had to admit it anyway.

  “That’s interesting,” I said, and it was, even if I had no idea what it meant. “Did you notice it Wednesday, when Jethroe disappeared? It would’ve been just after the end of the day shift.”

  “Can’t help you. We would’ve been heading out ourselves then,” Mickey said.

  “Ahh, you’re right.” I’m always mad at myself when I’m stupid. That doesn’t mean I’m stupid any less often, only that I’m mad at myself a lot of the time. You, too, probably.

  “I hope you find the guy you’re looking for. He didn’t just quit and light out?” Ray said.

  “His wife doesn’t think so. They’ve got two kids. She says he likes them, too. I don’t have any reason not to believe her,” I said.

  “Gotcha. Okay. Sometimes a fella’ll just skip, though, know what I mean?” Ray said. “We’ve had some o’ those lately, haven’t we?” He looked at Mickey.

  “Yeah, we have,” his friend agreed. “One on our tread line, one in the next one over. Makes you wonder. Pay here’s pretty decent, and I’ve sure worked at places where they drove you a lot harder.”

  “I’ve got a question for both of you,” I said. Mickey nodded. Ray made a go-ahead gesture. So I did: “When you’re coming into the plant, do those gods or angels or whatever they are on the wall give you funny looks?”

  They both started to laugh. Mickey said, “They sure as hell did when we were new hires. Now, not as much. It’s like they’re used to us, like they know they’re supposed to see us.”

  “Security system, that’s what I think it is,” Ray said.

  “Makes sense,” I said, nodding myself. “Kind of creepy, though.”

  “It is if you think about it,” Mickey said. “But when you’ve been here a while, you don’t think about it much, any more than you think about which stop you go to to catch your trolley.”

  “Like another cigarette,” Ray added. “You don’t notice lighting it or putting it out. You only notice if you have to do without it for some reason.”

  He made me want another Old Gold. But the counterman laid the bill on the table just then. I settled up at the register and left a quarter and a dime for a tip. Mickey and Ray stood up. “Back to our exciting lives,” Mickey said. “This is the stuff I forget about when I hit the clubs on Central.”

  “You got that right,” Ray said. He swung back to me. “Thanks for lunch, pal. Maybe we’ll run into each other again up there.”

  “Could happen,” I said. “I make that scene when I can.” We shook hands again. They hurried back to the factory; they didn’t want to be late. I went to the bus stop. I had plenty to think about, but no idea what it all meant, or whether it meant anything.

  I was the only one waiting for the bus. I lit that Old Gold. Two drags later, it came.

  ​VIII

  Up to the top of Bunker Hill. Again. I don’t like Angel’s Flight. Have I mentioned that? I think I may have. I didn’t like any of what I was doing. I was doing it anyway. Money’s a terrible thing, you know? You do all kinds of things you don’t like if there’s money in ’em.

  I’m sure Ray and Mickey would’ve said I was right. They didn’t like their jobs any more than they had to. I wasn’t sorry they didn’t know what I was doing up on Bunker Hill, though.

  This isn’t any of your damn business, I told myself as I neared the old house where Jonas Schmitt was staying. And it wasn’t. I knew that. But I had Lamont Smalls’s money in my wallet. It weighed me down and kept me on course, even if most of what I had so far would go to the landlady.

  Up the stairs to the front porch I went. I rang the bell. After a while, the door opened. There she stood, narrow-faced, wattle-chinned, disapproving. Of me. Of everything. “Yeah? Waddaya want?” Her voice mixed anger, fear, and wariness.

  “Good morning, Missus Parrott,” I said. That was her name, Carlotta Parrott. So help me. I’d checked this time. As far as I could find out, there was no current Mr. Parrott. Widowed? Divorced? Can’t tell you; I didn’t look that hard.

  “Waddaya want?” she repeated. “I don’t buy from no door-to-door salesmen.”

  I’d wondered if she’d make me. No sign of it. I was in my gray suit now, not an electrician’s duds. That makes a difference. And I’ve already told you, I’ve got one of those faces that can look like almost anything. I can look like I belong in your neighborhood, for instance, no matter where your neighborhood is.

  “I’m not trying to sell you anything. I’m investigating a case here.” I handed her my card. For good measure, I unfolded my wallet and flashed a fancy badge, all chrome and polished brass, that looked like one a cop would carry but said PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR instead.

  The card was the real deal. It had my license number and everything. The badge? It cost me sixty-nine cents plus postage from a costume company in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. It always impresses people more, though.

  It sure did with Carlotta Parrott. She made as if to shove the card back into my hand. “I didn’t do nothin’!” she gabbled.

  “I’m sure you didn’t,” I said. I’m sure you did, I thought, but whatever she’d done wasn’t anything that had to do with me. “I want your help, though. I’m willing to pay for it.”

  “Pay for it? How much? What do I gotta do?” She understood the key point, all right, and got down to brass tacks in a hurry.

  “One of the people who lives here is involved in a divorce proceeding,” I said, which wasn’t true yet but would be soon.

  And I didn’t have to go any further. “I bet it’s that Schmitt critter,” she said. “You never can trust a musician to keep it in his pants.” Then she cocked her head to one side and looked at me like a chicken sizing up a bug. “That gal he’s pumpin’, she really white or just high yaller?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” I said. She took it the way I hoped she would, that I didn’t know or the work I was doing wouldn’t let me pass on what I knew. But I wouldn’t have said boo to save my life. It was the first time in the whole nasty business that I sympathized with Marianne Smalls.

  “So what do I gotta do? Tip you off when they’re rollin’ in the hay so’s you can get your dirty pictures?” She’d seen too many movies or read too many spicy-detective magazines. The hell of it was, she was right. I didn’t like getting sucked into one like this, but here I was.

  “That’s about the size of it,” I said.

  Carlotta Parrott didn’t mess around: “How much’ll you gimme?”

  “A hundred.” I knew she’d raise me. That came with the territory. No matter what I said first, it wouldn’t be enough. This way, I had room to maneuver without cutting into my own take.

  Sure enough, she looked at me as if I’d told her a dirty joke that wasn’t even funny. “You gotta do better’n that, pal.” Her voice dripped even more scorn than it had when she asked about Marianne Smalls’s bloodlines. “You’ll never hear from me again for less’n a yard and a half.”

  If I said yes to that, she’d jack it up again. Have I ever played these games before? Oh, once or twice. I screwed my face up. “I’m not made out of greenbacks, you know. I could maybe go a yard and a quarter, but that’s pushing it.”

  “Yeah, an’ rain makes applesauce, too,” she said. “You ain’t gonna get nothin’ without me, an’ you know it. A yard and a half or you can go peddle your papers.”

  “You’re costing me money,” I whined. Unlike the rest of this deal, the lie didn’t hurt my conscience one little bit. Mrs. Parrott folded her arms, waiting for my next move. I made it: “A hundred and forty, and that’s it.”

  She swatted that away like John Ostrowski swatting one over the left-field wall at Wrigley for the Angels. “The whole yard and a half, or I don’t play. I can always tell Schmitt somebody’s on his tail, y’know.”

  “Yeah, go ahead,” I jeered. I was ready for her there. “Wait till he finds out you’ve already let me into his place.”

  “I never—” She broke off. She looked at me, not my clothes. It took her a while, but she added two and two. “You were that guy!” she said in dismay.

  “I sure was,” I agreed. “Tell you what I’ll do, though. I’ll give you the yard and a half. But you’re gonna earn it fair and square, understand me? You let me know when I can do what I’ve gotta do, and no more stupid talk about blabbing to Schmitt.” I peeled one of Lamont Smalls’s C-notes out of my wallet. “Here. This now, the rest after I get my pictures.”

  The way she grabbed the bill was a sight to behold. “That tramp, she usually shows up Wednesday nights, okay? She’s around other times, too, but that’s the regular one. So all you gotta do is come over then, an’ I’ll let you know when she goes in.”

  “I can do that.” It made things a lot simpler, in fact. If I could be waiting, we wouldn’t have to work out getting hold of me at short notice. I added, “I know she stops by other times. I saw her here one afternoon.”

  That was a mistake. Her narrow eyes narrowed some more. “You was the fella messin’ with the light pole!”

  So she did notice things when she set her mind to it. I needed to remember that. “How do you know?” I asked.

  “On account of it still didn’t work after you went away,” she said. Now, I would’ve figured the city repairman didn’t know what the hell he was doing. For that matter, I would’ve been surprised if a city repairman showed up at all in the part of town where I live. But Carlotta Parrott had it right this time.

  “What time does she usually come?” I asked.

  “Prob’ly about fifteen minutes after they start.” She cackled. I managed something that might have been a laugh. She went on, “She’s mostly here about half past eight, a quarter to nine sometimes.”

  “I’ll be here at eight on Wednesday, then,” I said. “You have someplace close where she won’t see me when she’s going to his room?”

  “You betcha. Broom closet right across the hall,” she said.

  I hadn’t noticed it when I went to Schmitt’s place before, but what does that prove? You don’t notice broom closets most of the time. I nodded. “That should do it.”

  “You’ll gimme the other fifty then?” Mars. Parrott knew what was important to her. You bet she did.

  “If I can. If things don’t go nuts. If I can’t, I’ll get it to you. I don’t stiff people for the fun of it.” I wasn’t lying. I’d stiffed plenty when I couldn’t pay ’em, though. Little by little, I was catching up. Getting all the way there would take a while.

  “You better,” she said.

  “If you aren’t happy, give me back my hundred and we’ll forget the whole thing,” I answered. Give back money? The way she looked at me, I might’ve asked her for some other kind of unnatural act. I touched the brim of my fedora. “See you Wednesday at eight.” I got the hell out of there.

  I breathed the usual sigh of relief after I lived through Angel’s Flight one more time. Then, as long as I was up near downtown anyway, I went to Al Harris’s dirty-book emporium. Nobody ever admits to reading or looking at any of the stuff he peddles. He makes a good enough living to stay fat just the same.

  When I walked into the little shop, that same old rush of dull embarrassment made my cheeks flame. I wasn’t even a customer. All I wanted to do was talk with Al. I’m not saying I never saw anything like his stock in trade; anybody who says something like that is probably out to snow you. But if somebody who knew me spotted me there, or if I saw somebody I knew …

  Guys were looking at whatever they were looking at. Nobody paid any attention to anybody else. Somebody bought a magazine with a gal showing off how limber she was on the cover. Al took his money and put the magazine in a paper bag without showing he had any idea what the fellow’d chosen or why he might want it.

  We’re all animals. Most of us don’t like to admit it.

  After a while, I got a chance to sidle up to the counter. “Waddaya know for sure?” I said.

  Al’s eyes darted back and forth behind his narrow bifocals. “I know I been shaken down twice since the last time I seen ya.”

  “Shaken down? By who? The mob?” I wouldn’t’ve thought a little place like his was important enough for them to notice, but you never can tell. They try not to leave any money on the table if they can grab it.

  But he shook his head in disgust. “I wish it was the goddamn mob. I can deal with those boys, and they don’t try and put ya out of business. They’re like vampires—they want ya nice and fat so they can keep bleeding ya. No, it was the vice squad, a sergeant named Jackson. Elmer V. Jackson. Said he was gonna shut me down and chuck me in the calaboose unless I paid up.”