An Old Friend Of The Family (Saberhagen's Dracula Book 3), Fred Saberhagen [best large ereader .txt] 📗

    “All right, go on, sorry I interrupted.”

    “Well. He turned out to be kinkier than I had thought, that’s all. And it wasn’t until after my clothes were off and had been misplaced somewhere that this was fully explained to me. Hell, why am I telling you all this?”

    “Because it bothers you.”

    “That’s for sure. Then there were arguments. There were some other people around, by that time…not Kate, no one as nice as Kate, I’m sure. Oh, I’m dead. I don’t know if I’m going to fall asleep first or start to cry.”

    “You can do either one. Or both. But eventually I think you ought to tell me where you live, really live, so I can see that you get home.”

    “I don’t think so. Oh, damn. Every time I shut my eyes some tears come squeezing out.”

    “I do think so. Really. Is home that bad?”

    “No,” she said, surprising him a bit. “My parents live right in Chicago, actually. All right, let me give them a call.”

    “Help yourself to the phone.”

    She went into the bedroom, and he could hear her dialing. Now soon she would be gone. He didn’t quite know exactly what he thought of that. He drank some coffee. He thought he heard her once say Daddy on the phone—he couldn’t make out what else she might be saying, but at least it didn’t sound like a fight.

    In a couple of minutes she hung up and came out again, looking more relaxed than he had seen her yet. “Joe, can you give me one more ride? It’s only about ten minutes away.”

    “Okay. Were your parents glad to hear from you?”

    “Oh, you know how it is. But that’s a silly thing to say, isn’t it? Maybe you don’t know how it is at all.”

    He smiled at her. “No, I guess I don’t.”

    Back in the car, she directed him toward the Near North Side. It was actually the same general area as the half-abandoned building where Kate had been found dead, an area in which a few blocks one way or the other made a big difference in what the city was like.

   ENCHANTRESS COSMETICS, said the sign, discreet but expensive bronze. It was on a modern gray concrete building, two stories high,  that occupied almost half a square block.

    “You live here?”

    “It’s the family business, or the office and laboratory ends of it anyway, with living quarters attached. My folks think it’s a lot neater than commuting, or living in one of those high-rise apartments.”

    He had heard of a few other wealthy people in the area, advertising agency owners and such, who had made similar arrangements. “It sounds neat.”

    A private automobile entrance was blocked by a great openwork gate of what looked like blackened steel and ebony. This rose up out of the way when Carol worked some kind of miniaturized electronic device she brought out of a pocket. Good thing, Joe remarked to himself, she hadn’t lost that in her recent adventurings.

    Inside, below street level were private parking spaces, one or two out of a dozen of them occupied. From the sunken garage a large but fancy elevator very silently raised them to the floor above.

    At the far end of a small, carpeted hall, another doorway was fitted with a wood-and-metal gate. This one stood open, and beyond it a luxurious though badly lighted apartment was visible. Silhouetted in the doorway was a man, very large, well-dressed, smiling at them both.

    “Goodbye,” Joe said to Carol, taking her hand just briefly.

    “Don’t say goodbye.” Her smile was warm.

    “So long for a while, then. How about that?”

    “Not even that,” she said. “You must come in for a visit.” She turned to flash the well-dressed man a merry wink.

    Joe looked from one of them to the other. He wanted to smile at them but couldn’t quite. “Your father?” he asked, then realized that the man who was strolling toward them looked too young for that.

    “Oh, goodness, not at all.” Carol’s green eyes danced, as if with some joke soon to be revealed. “Does the name Enoch Winter mean anything to you, Joe?”

    “Enoch Winter. No.” The huge man was looming beside him now. A joke was coming. Or something was—

    “Then how about—Leroy Poach?” And she giggled brightly, watching the slow progress of his reaction.

* * * * * * *

   On the threshold of the luxurious apartment Carol and the giant man had laughed at him. Still laughing, the giant had reached for Joe in a leisurely, careless way. There had been nothing at all funny in the power of the grip that closed on Joe’s right arm. He had let go at once with the left hook that landed square on the other’s jaw. The only effect was a shock of pain through Joe’s fist, as if he had hit a wall. With that Carol stepped in and caught Joe by the left arm. She was still amused. Between them the two of them carried his kicking figure into the apartment as if he were an obstreperous two-year-old.

    Inside, a vista of elegant though poorly lighted rooms seemed to stretch away for half a block. Carol closed a solid wood-and-metal door behind them, while the man held Joe by both arms. The man stood in front of him, grinning, daring him silently. When the girl left them, walking unhurriedly into another room, Joe tried again. Wrenching free was hopeless, clumsy though the other’s grip appeared to be. When Joe tried for a kick, the man with overwhelming power simply forced him lower. Joe’s knees buckled.

    “Yeah, I know you’re a cop, sonny,”