Speakeasy Dead: a P.G. Wodehouse-Inspired Romantic Zombie Comedy (Hellfire Universe Historicals) (15 page)

I glanced at Gilda Gray. She was terrific, of course, but Stephen Umbridge—a beautiful but clumsy man—was clearly frightened by his famous partner. Together they looked more like a
pushmi-pullyu
out of Dr. Dolittle’s adventures than like champion dancers.

Ruth and her partner looked like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

Beau and the woman in his arms glided like angels.

“Mebbe you want a smoke?” Stoneface held out his cigarette case.

“Maybe I do.” I took one and let him light it, but if he hoped for a repeat of this morning’s gagging, he was out of luck. I’d practiced smoking while I was changing my dress.

“What can I do for you both?” I puffed delicately. “What’s this about?”

“Booze,” Stoneface said, just as my best friend uttered, “George.”

“—and how you and your sister is going to make us all rich.”

“—and what’s been happening in your basement,” Luella finished. “What’s happening everywhere in town.”

Ruth swung her partner into another couple, knocking them over.

“Everywhere?” I choked. “What is?”

“People are acting crazy,” Luella said. “Fighting,
biting
each other, falling down. It started here, Clara. Started with the first man who went into your coal room. I saw how violent he was when he came out.”

“That’s nothing.” Stoneface cut her off. “That’s no big deal. These little dustups has got to be expected when you’re peddling booze. Drunks like to fight. Ask anybody in the green-door district back in Chi-town.”

Luella and I exchanged disdainful glances.

“This isn’t Chicago, Mr. Gibraltar,” I said, pouring the mobster another brandy. “We have our own way of doing things.”

“I heard that.” He took the bottle and poured for me. “Your way gives me a pain.”

We clinked glasses, and then I matched him swallow for swallow as he emptied his drink and poured again. The man could hold his liquor. But so could I. It’s almost impossible to poison an alchemist’s assistant.

Stoneface continued, “My way of doing things, on the other hand, makes people rich.” He tossed an envelope across the table. “That’s for the liquor delivery this morning.”

I placed my cigarette on an ashtray and peeked inside. The envelope was stuffed full of hundred-dollar bills. A lot of hundreds. Enough to run the bar for months.

Too bad I couldn’t keep it.

“No one delivered anything.” I closed the flap. “You
stole
our liquor. Or rather Luella stole it which, for reasons beyond your understanding, makes it a sort of gift despite the trouble it’s going to cause.” I gave Luella one of my cousin’s reproachful looks.

She shrugged apologetically. The gangster scowled.

“But that won’t work again,” I told Luella. “You’re way behind now in funeral payments.” She’d have to bury ten or fifteen janitors to even the score. “No more raids or free booze until you catch up.” I pushed the envelope to Luella and brushed the hair out of my face. “Besides, I’ve changed the coal-chute lock.”

“I understand.” Luella tucked the envelope into her handbag. “Agreed.”

That settled things. I’d have to dream up an explanation for Priscilla, and the financial setback would hit my contest profits hard. But it was worth it to get the upper hand in our childhood booze-for-dead-bodies deal.

“If you run short this weekend,” Luella said generously, “I’ll sell as much liquor as you want back on credit.”

“Thanks.” I nodded. “We’re fine now. I might need some tomorrow.”

The Charleston ended. Couples parted, looking a bit more energetic than they’d been before. Miss Pinn wrote Beau’s partner’s name up on the board.

Two spots remaining, fifteen minutes to go. The band announced a short break before the last two songs of the quarter-finals. Beau led his partner to her table.

“All right.” Luella put the handbag on her lap. “Now that the liquor’s settled” —her voice hardened— “where’s George?”

Uh oh.

“What’s settled?” Stoneface rejoined the conversation. “Who’s settled? We settled nothing.” He spread his hands. “You’re sittin’ on a gold mine here. I want to buy more booze.”

“I’m afraid that won’t happen, Mr. Gibraltar,” I said. “It’s much too good for you.”

“Too good?” Stoneface reddened, but then he took a breath. “Okay, fair enough.” He shrugged. “What you told me this morning. About your stuff’s too good to cut with embalming fluid? Mebbe you’re right.” He held his glass up and gazed at the brandy. “This is prime hooch, no doubt about it. I know people in Chicago, New York, Atlantic city. They’ll buy it straight and pay right through the nose. You can make double, easy, what you just tossed your friend.” He jerked his chin. “And that’s your cut. Free and clear.”

“Double!” We’d be rich. Luella’s French dress would be a rag I put on for cleaning. “Wow!”

Stoneface grinned broadly and stuck out his hand. “So, it’s a deal?”

I almost took it, but a deal? No Woodsen ever underestimates the power of that word.
A deal with Harry Gibraltar and his mobster friends?
Priscilla’s warning rang in my mind. Her fear the Feds would get involved and anger Eleanor.

I wanted money. I wanted cars, and jazz music, and painted shoes, and dresses of shimmering beads and silk.
But what you need
, my inner cousin counseled,
is to stay out of trouble
.

“I’m sorry.” I pulled my hand away. “My family doesn’t permit me to associate with hoodlums.”

“Clara,” Luella said warningly.

“Hoodlums?” The big hand clenched in a fist. “Permit?”

“Harry,” Luella said, “don’t make a scene.”

The man’s brow lowered. “Whaddaya think I am, some sorta pedigreed mongrel youse people can shoo away from your door?”

“No,” I replied. “I don’t believe mongrels have pedigrees.”

“Harry, don’t—”

“Don’t make a scene!” His fist shook the table. “Don’t cut the booze,” he growled. “I’m pretty sick of taking orders from little girls. Who put you onto this bootleg caper?” He challenged Luella. “Whose boys are out on the street right now loaded with gats? This five-foot-tall female bootlegger? Or me?”

“I’m five foot three,” I corrected him.

“Who’s got your empty-headed cousin?” Stoneface asked me. “Empty, that is, until one of my boys decides to fill his skull with lead.”

My eyes narrowed. “Are you threatening to kill my cousin, Mr. Gibraltar?” I asked slowly.

Luella choked. I turned my gaze to her.

“Is your family letting this bozo threaten to kill my cousin?”

“Of course not,” Luella said hastily. “Bernie’s fine, I swear!”

She thought she had the gangster on a leash. I’d trusted her to leash him. Had I been wrong?

“Harry’s frustrated, is all. He doesn’t mean it.
Right?
”

The gangster twitched as if he’d gotten a sharp kick on the shin.

Stoneface growled. “You know it, I’m frustrated.”

“He doesn’t understand,” Luella said, as much to him as to me, “about handling things neatly.”

“Neatly,” I said in warning tones, “without my cousin getting hurt.” Maybe the time had come to call in Gladys.

“Clara, Bernie’s all right. Honestly.” Luella clasped my hand on the table. “Look,” she leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I left Gaspar with him, to make sure.” She raised her chin, displaying her throat. The leather cord she’d always worn, the one holding her wooden ankh, was gone.

“You loaned Gaspar to Bernie?” I breathed a careful sigh of relief. “Honestly?”

Luella nodded.

“Okay.” I swallowed, surprised and touched. Gaspar was part of Luella. Not physically, but at a deep, emotional level. I’d never heard of a host and her spirit guide splitting apart.

Maybe Luella did have things under control. I glanced at Stoneface’s heavy forehead. How hard could it be?

“Okay.” I squeezed her hand. “Thanks.”

“Clara, Bernie
saw
Gaspar,” Luella said earnestly. “Does that mean what I think it does? That you two
did it?
”

Stoneface made a disgusted noise.

She meant, summoned a demon. I’d been dying to tell her. “We did.”

“You two did
it
?” The gangster’s brow wrinkled. “
It, it?
You and your cousin?”

“It wasn’t…?” Luella’s voice trembled. “You didn’t…not with George?”

She thought I’d sacrificed her brother? “Of course not! No!”

King Oliver’s band took their places for the last two songs. Beau eyeballed me for the first time in hours. Then he looked pointedly at Ruth and offered another lady his arm.

“Then where is George, Clara?” Luella asked urgently. “Why didn’t he come back?”

“He’s…upstairs,” I answered carefully. “Resting. You got him awfully drunk.”

Luella had the grace to look guilty. “I sort of tricked him. He wouldn’t help me otherwise. I’m afraid the Jacques hit him pretty hard.”

“Well, he obviously needed a rest. So I—
er
—tucked George Junior into a bedroom to sleep it off.”

“But why not send him home?”

“Because—” Nothing came out. You’d have thought, by now, I’d have prepared a lie.

Fortunately, Stoneface interrupted. “Enough hen gabble!” His palm slammed the table. “No more. Now listen!” The gangster turned toward me. “I don’t care how much you and your cousin is makin’ whoopee.”

“Bernie?” I stared. “Whoopee? With me?”

“Or if your whole damn family sleeps in a bed of snakes!”

“Only two coven members,” I answered coolly. “And it’s more like a cot.”

“You are selling me that liquor.” Stoneface reached out and slapped my cheek. Hard. “Starting tonight.”

My skin blazed hot. He hit a lot harder than Priscilla.

I threw my glass of brandy in Harry Gibraltar’s eyes.

Luella blanched. The gangster seemed—briefly—to turn to genuine stone.

The gangster’s hand moved to his pocket. So did mine. I grasped my hellfire.

Magic, so I’m told, is mostly focus and imagination. Just at that moment, I had a vivid picture of Stoneface living the rest of his life on a lily pad.

But the mobster only drew out his handkerchief.

“Try that again.” He mopped brandy off his face. “And your cousin’s dead meat.”

I should have bargained with him. Offered a deal. But I was too angry.

“And don’t expect that kitchen maid of yours to save him,” Stoneface continued. “The one with strong fingers. Because we took her, too.”

“You took…Gladys?” I asked, astonished. “You took our…maid?”

The conversation flip-flopped like a trick picture—one of those things that looks either like ladies dressing or clowns riding bicycles, depending on how you squint.

I laughed out loud. The man was definitely a clown. “You actually believe you took a gol—
er
—Gladys prisoner?” Not even Eleanor was brave enough to try a stunt like that.

“Harry.” Luella looked like she’d swallowed a gopher. “Harry, it’s time to go.”

“We offered her 500 clams to go for a ride in the country.” Stoneface put his handkerchief away. “My boys has been taking good care of her.” He leered. “Or maybe by now, that Swedish pancake has taken good care of them.”

“Harry.” Luella rose abruptly. “We need to discuss this. In private.”

“Your men offered Gladys
clams?
” I shook my head. “She thought you meant
real clams
. Clams she could cook.”

“Let’s go, Harry.” Luella took the gangster’s arm. “I told you—”

“Yeah you told me.” Stoneface lumbered to his feet. “But you know what? I’m gettin’ mighty sick of being told!”

“Harry, listen—”

“No, you listen, you little brats. Both of youse.” He clutched Luella and started for the door. “Do this! Do that! Sneak here, hide liquor there. Like this whole business is some kinda goddam kid’s game.”

I skipped after them. “Are you all right?” I asked Luella.

She nodded and rolled her eyes in disgust.

“But this is not a game.” The gangster opened the door and hauled Luella onto the sidewalk. “This is serious.” Beyond him, the Hollywood Grand sparkled, golden against an indigo, twilight sky. “This is the grownup world. And one way or other, you kids is gonna play ball.”

“Baseball’s a game too, Harry,” I couldn’t resist saying. “And I know how to play. You swing a bat and kick the pitcher if he’s dumb enough to make you miss the ball.”

“You’re crazy. You’re absolutely nuts.” Stoneface released Luella and offered her his arm. She took it, with just a trace of misplaced admiration in her eyes. Luella has always liked forcefulness in a man.

“Take care of George,” Luella turned back to me. “As soon as he’s done
resting
I’ll send Bernie home.”

“Sure thing,” I lied.

The music inside the building halted. I turned and ran full-tilt into the bar. There was one song, and one space on the blackboard, remaining.

“Care to renegotiate our deal?” Hans slithered to my side.

“To what?” Across the room, Beau Beauregard’s cool gaze met mine. His face was thoughtful. Angry. Deeply sad.

“Forget the dance contest,” Hans offered. “You keep your blood. I’ll cure all the zombies—except for Beauregard.”

“In exchange for my soul?”

“That would be lovely.” He chuckled. “But no. Why don’t you sell me your cousin?”

“Sell Bernie?” I kept my eyes on Beau. “How could I? He isn’t mine.”

“Oh, not his soul,” the demon said casually. “Not even his body, which I haven’t the slightest use for. Sell me your interest in him. Simply agree to cut all family ties.”

Beau walked over and spoke to Gilda Gray. The band, the room, everything held its breath.

Sell Bernie?
I shook my head. The man might be a dope, but he was still my cousin.
Sell Bernie?
“Forget it.” I clutched my vial of hellfire. “No deal.”

“I will kill you,” Hans warned darkly. “You’re a fool to waste your life over something so small.”

“Maybe.” Beau turned his back on Gilda. I felt a flair of hope. “Or maybe not.”

The zombie caught my eye, shrugged grudgingly, and offered Ruth his hand.

King Oliver leaned forward. “All right, everybody,” he called, “this is our final number. Later tonight, we’ll be in the Hollywood Grand ballroom, playing with our good friend, Paul Whiteman. So here it is:
‘The Chattanooga Stomp!’”