A Song In The Dark Read Online Free PDF Page A

craggy face. He couldn’t have been much into his midforties, his brown hair going iron gray except for a surprise streak of silver-white that cut oddly across the left side of his skull, obviously the source of his nickname. He spent a long slow time scrutinizing me, which I imagined was supposed to be unnerving, but I’d long grown immune to that kind of thing.
    Certain protocols were to be observed, though. He was the big boss. So as not to let down Gordy in his own place I had to show respect.
    â€œMr. Kroun.” I took off my hat, holding it straight at my side. Humble.
    â€œFleming,” he said. No “mister” in front, but that was all right. I knew his voice, which was deeper for being undistorted by the long-distance wires.
    â€œGlad to meetcha.”
    â€œWe’ll see.”
    Opening courtesies—such as they were—finished, the guys standing nearest made more space around me. There was one chair square in front of the desk that was evidently to be my very own hot seat. It put about seven feet between me and Kroun, hardly suitable distance for a private conversation. Maybe he was going to go for a public dressing-down. It didn’t seem to suit the situation unless he wanted plenty of witnesses to see me killed as an object lesson.
    Hoyle and Ruzzo were nowhere in sight for the show, but I spotted Derner, who was the club’s general manager and also in charge of the day-to-day running of this mob’s business. Since the run-in with Bristow, Derner and I had had discussions over what to say about it. Derner would stick to the script we’d agreed on; it was in his own best interest to let me take the fall for him, too. He’d probably already been questioned thoroughly while I’d been down in the main room. He was projecting total neutrality. Smart guy.
    Strome stood off to my left, hands clasped in front of him. Mitchell was behind me.
    â€œSit,” said Kroun. To me.
    I unbuttoned my overcoat, put my hat next to the radio, and took the chair. The immensity of the desk was before me, and looking across that dark ocean of wood, I realized that Kroun was not overwhelmed by it; he had a surfeit of authority packed into his lean frame. It wasn’t anything physical, but you could feel it coming from him like the low hum a radio gives when the sound is down.
    More staring. He was good at it. No one moved. It was disturbing, like being in a zoo cage with a lot of meat-eating animals who’d figured out I was on the menu.
    â€œYou’re just a kid,” Kroun finally said. To someone with his no-doubt colorful past giving him more than enough experience at life and hard times, I would be young—ridiculously young—to have been placed in charge of Gordy’s organization.
    I lifted one hand a little, palm up. “I’ve proved myself. Ask them.”
    Some of the men stirred, possibly reluctant to admit anything in my favor.
    Strome jerked his chin. “ ’S true, Mr. Kroun.” That was asurprise. He’d been told to keep shut, the same as Derner. I’d not expected any volunteered support. “He’s stand-up.”
    â€œOh, yeah? How so?” Kroun continued to study me, his dark eyes almost hypnotic.
    â€œHe took the worst Hog Bristow could dish and came back swinging.”
    â€œSo I heard. Swung so hard he killed him. The other guys, too.”
    â€œHog went buckwheats on him. I saw. Fleming—”
    â€œBuckwheats,” Kroun repeated.
    â€œYeah. Ugly.”
    This was news to a few of the men and sparked a whispered reaction among them. Giving a guy the buckwheats treatment was to kill him slow and painful. It was an object lesson, not so much to the victim, but to others who might dare to cross the mob. But sometimes it was for the satisfaction of the killer.
    Bristow had thoroughly enjoyed trying to turn me into a permanent corpse. My changed nature had worked against me, keeping me screaming