Dead is Dead by Mort U. Arry

                              

Yes dead is dead unless you want it to be something else, but it will cost you. 

 

 ---Al Most, Attorney at Law, and other stuff

 

Just because a man has been shot and stabbed it don’t mean a crime was committed.  Most likely it was a shaving accident while deer hunting.

 

---Sheriff Tally Hoe

 

The devil works in mysterious ways.  Can I get an Amen and another slice of that peach pie?

 

---The Reverend Sally Forth, Preacher at the Eve Was Right Church of the Garden.

 

The people deserve to know the truth, I guess.  Maybe not.  We’re still discussing it.  And what is the truth, really?

 

---TV talking head Alice Fair, The Mourning Hour

 

AnD sO It BeGaN

 

It was early evening when a figure moved through the shadows of the frigid night, one foot at a time, although he preferred hopping on one leg in time to the music that played loudly in his head that would fit perfectly into a 7 ½ sized hat, if he had been wearing a hat. Instead, he wore an XL black panty hose, with only one eye-hole, a trick he’d learned riding with The Overripe Persimmon Motorcycle Club, when Rocky “Big Eyes” Rhode caught a bumble bee in the eye and needed a flat heat screwdriver to dig it out. Afterwards he was just known as Rocky.

 

But, back to the avenger:  Perhaps he should have cut one leg off the pantyhose to keep from tripping.  He was not a quick learner and still limped from the second and third times.

 

Under his arm was a Salver model 14mQ, loaded with a full clip of 7.66 millimeter, highly polished brass cartridges with steel piercing bullets, made especially for him by the little known Happy As a Fragrant Clown Gun Shop and Ice Cream Parlor in South Philly.  The gun was so accurate he could correct a squirrel’s astigmatism at a hundred yards,  but it was another learning process. A few squirrels mistook headlights for sunrise.  Some of their friends stood on street corners, cups in their tiny claws, waiting for nut donations.

 

The target, Wiber Willright had a titanium plate in his head from a previous attempt on his life.  The first assassin tried to do the job with fossilized deer antlers, mounted on the hood of a black and red 1954 Chevy.  The killer didn’t survive the Chevy blowing a rod that pierced his heart.  With the new assassin there would be no mistakes. He was a professional and knew to keep things simple, mostly.  You find, you kill, you get paid; you spend your money on expensive whiskey and cheap women, or that was the plan.  So far he’d found no cheap women and he took this job because he was also running short of whisky.

 

Willright, lived on Casanova Avenue in a heavily gated community, if you could call one house and sheep farms a community.  The gate was so heavy it took two men and a harnessed donkey to drag it open.  The donkey would rather have been frolicking with a very cute filly in the back forty, but no one had asked him. Sadly, frolicking was still a distant dream.

 

Willwright had not previously had a heart condition, but after the near miss, his heart pounded every time the gate creaked open, or he saw deer antlers, or the donkey brayed.  Nor was he fond of 1954 Chevys.  These days, he mostly sat in his massively fortified home, in front of the TV, on a couch once owned by Roy Roger’s horse, Trigger, doing obscene crossword puzzles, asking himself questions, such as what rhymes with snore and banal pecks?

 

Not short of ideas and possibilities, his assassin reached the gate and paused to change into this boots with the soles sewed on backwards,  so trackers would only know where he’d been, made for him in London in a shop with a sign on the front that said, NO soul resides in this establishment and that means you, you soulless heathen!

 

Using an old trick he’d learned in survival camp, after he’d been lost for several days, he whistled.  Loudly.  The donkey stampeded.  The men’s attention was on the animal that had mistook the whistle for someone calling the frolicking filly.  Raging hormones pulled the gate open by several feet.

 

The assassin saw his chance, managing to slip through and stumble into the bushes unnoticed.

 

He quickly and almost silently cocked his Salver model 14mQ, especially designed with a soundlessly clicking clicker.  It was then he discovered he’d left the 14 bullet clip on his dining room table, along with his see through socks.  

 

Damn, the boots hurt his feet, chaffed his calves, making him say very naughty things. He regretted not paying the extra $600 for the double padded cheetah skin bouncy heels.  Fortunately, he had sprung for the sparking electric laces and internal, automatic athletes foot sprayer.. 

 

With no squirrel piercing ammo, he would have to improvise.  He tapped the side pocket of his French commando, 1959 Rothschild wine and Brie scented pants. Fortunately, he had brought his self guided Lightening Tomahawk; built in a tiny New Mexico pueblo by who else! Tommy Hawk, the noted rifle stock manipulator and gun sight schemer, known for once selling a gun sight to a blind fortune hunter.

 

As he approached the house, two robotic pit bulls growled and ran metallically toward him.  His electric bootlaces quickly shorted their circuits. They barked no longer, but began to moo and mow the lawn.  

 

One window was open.  Unfortunately it was the window to the sixteen car garage.  Then his luck changed.  Willwright appeared at the window near the eight-foot high custom made sixteen pane beveled front door. The killer had seen doors like this, made by Johnny Appleseed’s great grandfather, the apple tree slayer.

 

The quiet avenger threw the hatchet-tomahawk, which went through the window, but bounced off the titanium plate in Willwright’s  head.  Blood streamed down his shirt and he rushed upstairs to change and desperately search for his Ranger Rough Rider flintlock buffalo long rifle, purchased at a cigar store in northern Maine and kept in a locked gun case, inside a locked gun cabinet, in the locked safe room in the basement.  He could only find two keys!  Where the hell had he put the key to the save room?  Then he remembered it was in the Trust and Hope Savings Bank, in a safety deposit box, only available on Tuesday and Thursdays from 9 to 9.15 a.m.  “Well, darn it,” he said.

 

By this time, the avenger had made it through the broken window, using his 4 gauge, stainless steel, handmade window smasher and bottle opener. He quickly retrieved his Tomahawk and began climbing the stairs.

 

Willwright stood on the top step looking, bewitched, bothered and bewildered. This time the Tomahawk found a perfect resting place in Willwright’s chest.  Dang, he thought, as life ebbed; he should have remembered to put on his Kevlar vest when he was changing into a clean shirt.

 

By the time the time delayed house alarm went off and the cops responded, the avenger was long gone. 

 

Sheriff Tally Hoe and his team of detectives saw this for what it was.  Obviously, Mr. Willwright had heard his dogs mooing and gone to an upstairs window to investigate, carrying his high tech hatchet, then had a heart attack and tumbled down the stairs.  The Sheriff reasoned that since Willwright was hunting for a possible intruder, “We’ll call this one a hunting accident.”

 

Alice Fair of The Mourning Hour wanted to know, “What about the broken window?”

 

“No idea.  Windows break all the time.”

 

Al Most, Attorney at Law and stuff, asked if Willwright had an attorney.

 

Nobody knew, but Mr. Most thought he might be able to find a distant cousin and help him settle the estate, or join a profitable business venture, turning used inner-tubes into horse condoms.

 

The Reverend Sally Forth described Willwright’s passing as an act of providence, adding that Willwright never gave a cent to her church, refused to give her another piece of peach pie, and got what he deserved.  After several snifters of medicinal brandy, she dropped to her arthritic knees and recanted, ready to do the Christian thing and forgive all number of sins done by people she didn’t know and had never met, but leaving out several of her parishioners.

 

The avenger?  No one knows for sure, but a man, wearing a size 7 ½ hat and carrying what appeared to be a new, custom made hatchet, stopped at the Come And Get Me Wholesale No Tell Gun Shop to buy several boxes of dark, XL panty hose that were on sale, with no questions asked. Limit four.

* Yes, this is satire, a take off on thrillers.  If you know any of these people, don't tell me.  I don't want to know.*

 

 

Bucky Taylor

In 1934, Chicago was a hustling town, with the wind just right, you’ll catch the whiff of the stockyards spilling over busy streets and tall buildings.  Busy and corrupt fill out the description, but even though it’s better now, Elliott Ness didn’t finish the job.  Gangs and gangsters still dip their fingers into anything available.  

 

Bucky Taylor was not the kind of guy you want to meet in a bar, on the street, or anywhere else. Thick all over, and the beef wasn’t fat, or friendly.  He had a jaw ready to crack golf balls, black hair slicked back, and eyes that spoke of wanting to smash a birthday cake against a wall.

 

Word on the street had it he was connected to a splinter gang on the north side.  So many splinters in this town, these days you couldn’t keep track.  Hadn’t happened yet, but already turf wars made the back pages of the newspapers.

 

Two well-dressed and equally beefy gentlemen, standing near the entrance to the bar with their hands crossed at the crotch, put a seal on it and tied it with a red ribbon.  Their eyes were wandering searchlights and like their boss, their hair was also slicked back.

 

Not that Bucky needed protection, but then again, in this part of the city, you never knew and taking a chance might be the last thing you did.  

 

It was Capone’s town once, but no longer.  Both Capone and prohibition had been shown the door and heard it slam.  But, nature, wild or human, hates a vacuum. Capone’s Outfit was still alive, under new management, and despite the Saint Valentine’s Day massacre, Bugs Malone and his north side gang still waded in the muddy stream of corruption, along with more than a few politicians.  If prohibition was a thing of the past, loansharking, prostitution, payoffs, garbage collection, gambling, buying off police and judges were not.

 

The sun had come up on a new world. But, gangs still ruled the murderous nights in cars filled with heavy set, purposeful men wielding Thompson sub machine guns, better known as Chicago typewriters. 

 

Still, it could be a comfortable town, if you didn’t belong to a gang, and if you owned a small business and paid your tributes, or if you’re a blind cop with big pockets.  Elliot Ness hadn’t solved everything. And now he and his reputation were off to settle new scores in Texas and Ohio. It was like a doctor sewing up one patient and leaving while the waiting room was still full.

 

I’m Nigel Streak and I run a nightclub. I’m tall, with salt and pepper hair. Some say I look distinguished.  In this town, distinguished means you can read, write, keep your shoes shined, get your haircut at an upscale barber’s, and speak slowly without threating anybody.  Right now I’m sitting at the other end of the bar from Bucky.  But, unlike Bucky, I’m soft spoken only because along the way I’ve learned people have a keener ear for whispers than for shouts.

 

A big part of being a gentleman is being polite.  I look in Bucky’s direction and lift my glass, followed by a polite nod, while I take a light and leisurely sip of seltzer water with a twist of lemon.  All I get in return is a stare as friendly as the barrel of a smoking gun.  I broaden my smile.  This is my club and my part of town.  Bucky Taylor can snarl and puff his chest as much as he wants; he is still the intruder.

 

Tommy, my doorman, gives me a look.  I nod my head that everything’s ok. He walks back outside.

 

I knew Taylor hadn’t chanced being outside of his swamp for the whiskey. Although I hadn’t seen it myself, I’d heard the rumors.

 

Fiona is a tall, bleach blond cocktail waitress with a pretty face and sculpted body that would make a man chew his lower lip until it bled.  It was past Fiona’s regular shift.  I knew heads would turn when she made her final appearance and swiveled her way to the door. 

 

I really don’t care whom Bucky is teaching to do the horizontal tango, if that’s his only purpose for being here.  Being territorial doesn’t solve any problems, and besides, my club sits close to the dividing line.  So what if Fiona and Bucky were bound at the pelvis?  Matter of fact, it could be useful.

 

No jealousy involved. I don’t have eyes for cheap women, or gold diggers, who are just a more expensive version.  Running a club takes all my time and all my dawn-to-dusk energy and doesn’t leave time for a full social life. I live in a small apartment and can’t remember the last time I had a visitor.

 

There is Clara, of course, but putting business first only leaves enough time to see her infrequently.  I have no idea what she does with the rest of her time and couldn’t care less.   She’s a librarian and looks it, minus the glasses. Doesn’t matter that her husband is a cop. Sometimes that’s also an asset.

 

The man seated at bar beside me lights a Lucky Strike and we both watch the plume float heavenly upward to join its friends in the cloudy darkness above the chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling.

 

The barkeep leans across.  “Mr. Streak, may I refresh your drink?” 

 

I slid the glass forward.  “Same as always.” 

 

Movement at the other end of the bar catches my attention. Taylor is leaning close to a man I don’t recognize; a skinny, older guy two sizes too small for his gray suit, with thinning hair and a pencil style mustache. From the intense looks, it’s a serious conversation. Taylor is doing most of the talking, with the other man nodding, now and again leaning closer to whisper, his prominent Adam’s apple bouncing as slowly as the notes to Dancing in the Dark. The soft jazz version coming from the bandstand and the routine noise of the customers prevents me from following the conversation, but as long as both of them are buying drinks and not causing trouble, they could be planning murders, or swapping phone numbers for all I care.  

 

In a few minutes, Fiona would be off work and out the door, no doubt with Bucky Taylor walking as close as her tight skirt.  The bright side is, keeping her close makes Bucky vulnerable and a vulnerable man can be an extra ace in the deck.

 

Mornings are quiet in the club.  I’m sitting at the bar, sipping a milky, slightly sweet coffee, slowly tapping my fingers, my mind cluttered with the usual business thoughts.  Fred, the barkeep, has left a half filled snifter of deep amber Cognac beside the white, ceramic coffee cup. I haven’t touched it, although it’s looking more and more inviting.  

 

Something disturbs me about last night.  When Bucky Taylor and Fiona left, one of the hefty bodyguards followed them out.  The other one stayed, walked to the bar, sipped something dark over ice, his eyes sweeping the place.  After an hour and another round, with what was left of the ice still in the glass, he left.  Well dressed, but a big blundering bull of a man, his arms and chest stretching the dark blue suit enough to test the seams.  On his way out he swung his arms in an exaggerated style.  A couple of people quickly stepped out of his way.

 

My thoughts of last night told me things didn’t quite add up.  In my business, you can’t be too careful or get too comfortable.  Business was good, which was also made my club a target for all sorts of reasons especially considering where I’m located. I’m camped in no man’s land . 

 

Taylor dropping into the club could have been anything.  Maybe, all he needed was the one drink, and Fiona to tidy up the evening.  According to Tommy the doorman, the two of them had been picked up in a swanky sedan and sped off into the night.  Alone, except for the one bodyguard who stayed at the bar. Maybe he stayed to make sure Taylor hadn’t been followed. The skinny guy Bucky had been talking to also left at some point. Maybe he and the bodyguard were getting the lay of the land.  Then again, maybe I was being cautiously suspicious.  Maybe they had just decided to stop for a drink or two.  Unlikely.

 

“Hey, boss!”  Chucky Shaman, a short, heavy assistant manager, walked over, carrying a worried expression on his round face, his brown vest unbuttoned, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up, and his red and white, flowery necktie hanging loosely around his fat neck.  “Boss, we got a problem.”

 

“What kind of problem?”

 

“A booze problem.”

 

I give him a blank look.

 

“The booze shipment that was supposed to be here this morning, ain’t here.”

 

“How low are we?”

 

“I’m guessing we have about two, maybe three days worth.”

 

I sigh and take another sip of coffee to strangle the anger that I feel boiling up.   The coffee worked. “We’re supposed to have a full week’s worth.”

 

“Yeah, Boss, I know.”

 

“And?”

 

“Last week’s shipment didn’t come in either.”  Chunky stuffs his hands in his pockets.  Sweat has broken out on his high forehead.   “I know,” he said quickly, eyes downcast.  “I shoulda toll you, but the distributor called it an oversight and promised a double delivery this week.”

 

“You can call him by his name, Charlie Fingle. And you know who Charlie works for.”  I say it evenly, keeping the emotion out of it.

 

“Yeah, Boss, Bobby Martin.”

 

My mind was already moving down the road. “And you know who really handles Martin’s distribution.  And it’s not Charlie Fingle!”

 

“Sean Mahoney.”

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Want me to call him?”

 

“I’ll call him,” I say and stare down at the snifter of brandy.  The rich flavors whisking past my nose, making the invitation to take a sip more inviting.

 

Mahoney and crowd are a small outfit from the north side, about as small time, as I am.  Not big enough to ever cause much of a stir.  Never been any problems, but in this split city, there is no telling when or where pressure would come from.

 

It was a brisk phone call.  “It’s about time you got out of the Club business,” Mahoney said.

 

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

 

“I think you should think it over.”

 

“Are you making me an offer?”

 

“I’m not, but somebody else is.”

 

“This somebody got a name?”

 

“Somebody who was at your club last night.”  My mind snapped to thoughts of Bucky Taylor.  Then I began to wonder.  Plenty of people gamble at the club.  Some of ‘em lose big. Then, there was the guy talking to Bucky at the bar.  It stretched my memory to remember who’d been gambling.  Marion “Rosie” Pastelli.  Johnny “the Mallet” Marcelli. Michael “Mickey” McConnell.   All but McConnell were south siders.

 

Mahoney skipped over my question.  “I’m not independent anymore.”

 

“What’s going on?”

 

“I just told you.”  He hung up.

 

Later that day, I called Chunky Shaman into my office, a place I seldom entered except when there was a need for privacy.  “Chunky, we need to find another distributer, and fast.  North side has closed us down.   Check with the Scarlatti boys.”

 

“Already did.”

 

“And?”

 

“Mickey…er Mr. Scarlatti told me to tell you….he wants fifteen percent.”

 

“Raising the price on us?  Pay it.”

 

“No, boss.  Not touching the price.  Wants fifteen percent of the business.”

 

“Hummmm….did he laugh when he said it?”  Scarlatti would never have mentioned something so preposterous without knowing something was going down.

 

Chunky shook his head no.  Then he shrugged, palms up.

 

“Tried Jackie Thompson?”

 

Chunky nodded, and used a white handkerchief to wipe beads of sweat off his brow.  He had good reason.  Capone’s former south Chicago empire, The Outfit, wanted to buy us out and the north side wanted the same.  It was only a question of time.

 

Just before her shift, Fiona walked into the club, wearing dark glasses and a broad brimmed, beige straw hat that partially covered her face.

 

“Fiona, let’s go back to my office.”  As soon as the door closed, I told her to take off the hat and glasses.

 

“I’d rather not.”

 

“I’m pretty sure I know why.”

 

Fiona didn’t say anything.

 

“Fine,” I tell her, “A woman with a bruised face can’t work here anymore.”

 

“You’re firing me?”

 

“What did you tell Bucky about the club?”

 

“I didn’t tell him anything.”

 

“Why’d he do this to you?”

 

“He didn’t…” she hesitated.  “Johnny, the big guy who left with us last night did.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Bucky offered me a job.  I turned him down.  He asked me to reconsider.  These aren’t all the bruises. I was naked when I told him no.

But, if you’re going to fire me, you still owe me my wages.”

 

I called Chunky in.  “How much do we owe her?” 

 

“I’d have to look, but I’d guess about a hundred bucks.”

 

“Fine.  Give her five hundred and have Fred drive her to the bus station.”

 

The shock registered on Fiona’s wilting face.  “Where will I go?”

 

“Somewhere where you don’t have to wear dark glasses when you come to work.”

 

I never thought I’d see the day when I’d want Elliot Ness back in town, but I sure as hell wanted him now.

 

A lot of new bars and clubs opened after Prohibition ended on December 5, 1933.  Looked like easy money, but quickly the seemingly dormant mobs roused themselves and shortly after Agent Ness moved out, they moved back in like black fungus, ready to creep into any little societal crack.  I should have expected it.  Any club that packs ‘em in every night, had a casino in back and a full team of beautiful waitresses was making a fortune.  Sitting where it does, my club is as perfect as a ripe apple and both sides wanted mine and others in their basket. Paying my dues to the Outfit should have settled it. Distribution was handled north of the border.  Everybody had a piece of me and that should have settled it. Foolish me, thinking compromise could be a  solution when both sides want it all.

 

I dialed reporter Perry Simmons and tried to keep it casual.  “How’s business?”  

 

“As always, booming and deadlines are looming.  So say what there is to say and keep it quick. I’m betting you didn’t call to wish me a happy birthday.”

 

“What do you hear about the battle between the north and south?”

 

“I hear it was over about seventy years ago.”

 

I let the wisecrack go.  “….since Capone….”

 

“Pretty much the same as it’s always been.  Ness cut off the head of the big snake, but this is a reptilian town.”

 

“I think some of those slippery devils know where I live.”

 

“I owe you a couple.”  There was a pause.  “I’ll ask around…..but, I’m not making promises and you’re going to keep it to yourself.”

 

“Thanks, Perry.”

 

I sat and thought for a moment, while I sipped my coffee.  If Perry came up with anything, what the hell am I going to do with it?  Hire my own band of desperadoes?  Tell the police?   The department is better than it had been, but I still felt like a one legged blind man in a strange room.  I pick up the snifter of brandy and down it in one gulp. I needed the burn. I still have more questions than Socrates, but at least it’s good brandy.

 

I met Clara at Leon’s Coffee and Creamery.  It’s something we do maybe once a month.  Meeting and being less than surreptitious is no doubt chancy, but Leon’s is out of the way, on the other side of town, away from her husband’s precinct. She told me he’s a jealous guy, even though there’s no reason to be.  Clara and I talk about books, non-matrimonial personal problems and such.  It’s the closest I come to letting down my hair.  Chatting with someone intelligent helps to relieve the stress. Maybe for her, too.

 

Long story of how we met, but the shortened version is, high school, in a round about way.  We weren’t in the same high school or the same grade.  She’s a year older.

 

Her high school class and mine had a reunion in the same hotel.  She and I met in the bar and ended up discussing mystery novels.  Her husband, a detective, wasn’t there and I’ve heard he’s missing a few chapters from the detective’s handbook, which makes him dangerous. Never met the guy and he isn’t on my Christmas list.  

 

No matter. Clara and I only speak about conversational things anyway. We were just speaking of her new passion, a hardboiled mystery by Dashiell Hammett, The Maltese Falcon, when the man I never wanted to meet, stomped in, slamming the door open and like he was interrupting a holdup.  Astonishment appeared on more than a few of the customer’s faces.

 

“And what the hell is this,” he shouted, loud enough to silence a group of howler monkeys.  He roughly grabbed Clara’s arm and practically dragged her to her feet.  I leapt up. 

 

The staff stopped what they were doing, waiting to see where this one was going and expecting the worst.  One of the men, probably the manager, asked nobody in particular if he should call the police.

 

I look at him and nodded, yes.

 

By this time customers were in a quandary whether to duck or run.  A few had crouched down and taken a knee, using a table as a shield. Gunplay is not a novelty in this town.

 

“I am the police!” her husband shouted in a way that dared anyone to contradict him. With one hand on his wife’s arm and the other braced on the back of her chair, he didn’t try to show his badge.

 

“Hey, take it easy, Mac!” I said.

 

He let go of her arm, pulled his gun and pointed it at me.  “I ought to shoot you right now!”

 

I keep several catchy lines handy for times like this, some of them very funny, but my mind suddenly went blank.

 

“It’s ok,” Clara said in a voice close to tears, as he jerked her arm again and pulled her to the door. They went through the door in an instant, waking down the sidewalk and out of view.

 

“Call the police,” I tell the manager.  “Tell them one of their detectives came in here waving a gun!”

 

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said, which I think meant the last thing he wanted was the cops to show up, find dirt on a window ledge, or a chip in one of his coffee cups, and close the place down.

 

Still unnerved by the confrontation, I took a taxi back to my office and hadn’t been there fifteen minutes when the phone rang.  “You stay the hell away from my wife,” said the voice, with enough venom to kill an elephant.   I don’t say anything.  When a rattlesnake is about to strike, you don’t stick around and try to talk him out of it.  I hang up.

 

Clara called me the next day.  Worried.  Scared. “I don’t know what he’ll do.”

 

I could have asked her a thousand questions.  Did he hurt you?  Has he done this before?  In this case I could expect only half-truths anyway.  So, I told her, “Grab whatever you need, pack a suitcase and head to the Grand Royal Hotel. There’ll be a room waiting for you.”  

 

It pays to have contacts, especially in this town.  The manager’s brother is the chief of police.  I don’t say he flies straight as an arrow, but he owes me.

 

When she hung up, I called Perry. “What do you know about a detective named…” then I paused, trying to think of his name.  Her last name is Withers, but no idea about his first name….”A detective Withers.”

 

“What precinct?” 

 

“No idea.”

 

“I’ll call you back.”

 

He doesn’t waste any time.  “Been suspended twice,” he says, “and the last time his commander had to cover his ass good.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“He damn near beat a man to death.”

 

“What for?”

 

“Apparently, the guy bumped his wife as they left a restaurant and didn’t apologize to his satisfaction.”

 

“You learned all that inside of fifteen minutes?”

 

“Don’t ask me to revel my sources.”

 

Yes, I’m caught in the middle of north and south, and now I can add a lunatic cop whose temperament resembles a sharpened machete.

 

The next day, Bucky Taylor paid me a visit, along with his goons.  “I’ve never liked you,” are the first words out of his mouth.

 

“Wonder why, Bucky. I always hoped we could be pals.”

 

“Let’s go in your office and have a chat.”  He motions to his heavy set escorts to stay behind.”

 

“Drinks are on me,” I say over my shoulder.

 

His is a short, one-way conversation.  I’ll remain the manager, but Bucky is the new owner.  I will do what I’m told, when I’m told. When I don’t say anything, he lights a Habana and lets the thick and fragrant smoke curl across his arrogant face.  He tells me to move, then sits behind my desk. Then he gives me his victor smile and props his thick legs on the Corinthian leather top.

 

He can tell from my look and lack of support that I’ve given in.  Surrendered.  What’s mine is his.

 

I ask if I can pick up some paperwork.  He doesn’t stop me, so I lean forward, over the desk.  Still smiling, his eyes meet mine.  “Sure,” he says and makes no move to stop me.  Why should he?  What could I do?  He’s in charge now and he knows it. I scrape together the envelopes on my desk and the letter opener, then stand up straight.

 

“That’s a good boy,” he says, with that same self-satisfied smile.  “Now, boy, take care of the office trash.  And, while you’re at it, bring me a drink.”

 

I hesitate and he leans back and snaps his fingers, his legs still propped on my desk.

 

With all my strength, I drive the letter opener through the calf of his right leg and leave it embedded it in the leather top.  In a panic, his body slams forward and he grabs at his bleeding calf. I use the palm of my hand and ram his magnificent stogie into his mouth. Burns my hand, and stops him from screaming.  He is grappling with the letter opener, choking and trying to get it out of his leg when I step smartly around the desk and catch him with a straight fist to the jaw. Once.  Twice.

 

His body melts.  He keeps moaning.  I have a sadistic streak.  A blow to the throat stops the moans.  Suddenly, breathing tops the list of priorities, but only for a few seconds.  His eyes are still open wide, but they’re no longer seeing anything.

 

There’s a knock on the door.  “You ok in there?” Fred asks.  He sounds a little concerned.

 

“Everything’s fine.  How about out there?”

 

“The powder did the trick. They’re both sleeping like babies.”

 

Fred stepped through the door, his eyes glued to the dead man behind my desk.

 

“Good job” I say.  “Get Mickey Scarlatti on the phone.  Tell him he now owns fifteen percent of the business, if he still wants it.  And tell him to get the booze over here today!  Then I want you to get Tommy to help you take the two sleeping beauties and drop them off in front of Scarlatti’s Bar and Grill.  They’re really fond of north-siders there.

 

“And Mr. Taylor?”

 

“We’ll take care of him later.”

 

Letting The Outfit be my partner is wise and foolish.  I’ll be safe for a while, but no telling if Bucky Taylor’s friends will decide to make it personal. Maybe they think I can be a target as long as they don’t mess with the club, or it’s cash flow.  A manager disappears?  Could be lots of reasons for that.  No trouble finding a new one.  Might even make everybody more comfortable to have one of The Outfit’s personal picks.

 

On the other hand, why make me disappear and take a chance on causing trouble.  Then again, Bucky has family and as long as they keep it personal and don’t drag Bugsy Malone into it, it’s easy to make amends, keep things quiet, and everybody just moves on.  Except for me.

 

I get another phone call and this one I especially don’t want.  “What have you done with my wife?”

 

I wave my hand while I speak.

 

“Oh,” I say, “is this the wife-beating cop?”

 

“I’m going to make sure you don’t dare go out on the street,” he says.

 

I call Clara and tell her to get out of town, fast!  I know it’s only a matter of time before the detective detects.  

 

“I’ve got to meet you first.”

 

“Why?”

 

“I have something to give you.”

 

“What?”

 

“It’s important.”

 

Half an hour later, she calls me from the train station.

 

“Don’t tell me where you’re going,” I tell her.

 

The next day, I go to the train station to catch a train to Tulsa, via Philly, Charleston, and Atlanta. Chicago is too hot for me right now, but it’s my hometown and I’ll be back.

 

Before I head to the tracks, I stop by the lost and found and ask the lady for a red purse that my wife may have left there.

 

There’s a key inside.  I go to a line of dark green boxes, find number 249 and open it.

 

When I get to Atlanta, I find a phone booth and call Perry, then mail him a packet, sent special delivery.  Inside are times and dates of payoffs, along with bank deposit receipts.  A certain detective’s life is about to unravel.  Librarians are notoriously exacting record keepers.