Under Occupation by Alan Furst

 

Under Occupation by Alan Furst

 

I don’t usually offer two book reviews so close together.  My three faithful readers may disapprove….until they see this is another Alan Furst World War II spy novel!  Then, they’ll pour a generous snifter of Cognac, settle into a comfortable chair, and, be swept back to the cold, rainy, maelstrom in unsafe, cobbled streets of occupied Paris, 1942.

 

The main character, Paul Ricard , is not a spy, he’s a spy novelist, at least  until one dark and stormy night, on his way to the café Saint-Germain, one of his countrymen streaks past him, a shot rings out, then another.  Ricard rushes to help the fallen stranger, and before the man dies, he manages to thrust a folded piece of paper into Ricard’s coat pocket.

 

Two things about Alan Furst. He doesn’t leave your conscience alone, with the twists and turns of uncertainty.  His sense of time and place become a web that captures your imagination.  Ricard is only one of the sharply drawn characters that suffer under the pressing heel of the Nazi  jackboots  Listen closely.  Do you hear the crack of their pistol shots, the shrill blast of the sirens, shiver when they are arrested, thrown in the back of a black Citroen, and taken to the basement of Paris’ infamous Gestapo Headquarters?

 

At war with a heartless enemy, intent on silencing decent, and killing all opposition. Parisians lived in a bitter world of mistrust, gathering the mental strength to fight back in a desperate city, where a neighbor’s or a colleague’s smile and handshake could be the poisonous fangs that send you to a slow and torturous death, exposing your friends , colleagues, and even your family, just to put an end to your gut wrenching pain.

 

And yet, writers, shop keepers, normal men and women still stood proudly in opposition to the overpowering enemy, meeting at night in quiet, smoke filled bars and cold apartments, gaining and passing secrets, organizing routes of safe passage, and continuing to bring the fight to the Nazi war machine that terrorized one of the most beautiful and civilized of cities.

 

Furst leads the reader on a remarkable journey of dark alleys, and nights of thinking any moment could bring a knock on the door that spells doom.  He brings home high voltage fear, raw courage, and the bravery it takes to persevere despite the cost.

 

Alan Frust will take you to 1942’s Paris, if you can stand the journey.

The Old Gods Are Still With Us!

A sky full of gods.

Zeus,the ruler of all the gods on Mount Olympus, and also the Greek God of thunder and lightening.

 JJ’avais beau me poser des questions,

je n’avais aucune idée d’à quoipouvait ressembler le Diable. Puis, je l’ai vu! Comment aurais-je pu me douterque le Diable puisse ressembler à ça! Il se baladaitdroit devant nous... immense, la peau rouge, des cornes gigantesques et arrondies, des yeux rouges et des sabots à la place

The Old Gods Are Still With Us! 

 

Let’s take a look.

 

The word sun comes from the Latin, sol, carried over and changed by old German, old Dutch and old English, with sol finally becoming sun.  The ancients worshiped the sun, especially the Egyptians, but also the Greeks and Romans.  Hey, look at the beaches in our own age! 

 

Today, the world sol still appears in modern English, as in solar.  And, although we’ve tossed the ancient gods aside, we still use phrases such as “I pray for sun,” and refer to people as “sun worshipers.”  And, of course, we keep Sunday as a holy day.  

 

The planets are also the realm of the old gods.

 

Mercury – Roman messenger god

 

Venus – Roman god of love

 

Earth – the only planet Not named after a Greek, Roman, or Norse god

 

Mars – Roman god of war

 

Jupiter – The Roman god of gods

 

Saturn – the Roman god of seeds and agriculture

 

Uranus – Greek god of the skies

 

Neptune – Roman god of the sea

 

Pluto – the Greek god of death, also called Hades.  No longer a planet?  It is to me!

 

 

Days of the week.

 

Sunday – Sun’s Day, and the sun has been an object of worship and a god since the days of ancient Egypt. No doubt in pre-history, humans also worshiped the fiery orb in the sky.

 

Monday – Moon’s Day – long worshiped in ancient times and among many ancient religions.

 

Tuesday – from Tiw or Tiu, the Norse god of war

 

Wednesday – Woden, the chief Anglo Saxon god, also Odin, the Norse god

 

Thursday – Thor, the Norse, spear chucking god of thunder and lightening

 

Friday – Feyda, the Norse god of love

 

Saturday. – Saturnus, the Roman god of sowing, or seeds.

 

Random English words derived from the old gods:

 

Atlas – according to legend, Atlas was condemned by the gods to carry the heavens on his shoulders.

 

Cloth – from Clotho, the youngest of the three fates who spun the thread of life

 

Chaos – from the Greek myth of Khaos, the void from which all life sprang

 

Charity- from Charis, one of the graces, the goddesses of beauty, kindness, life, creativity, and nature

 

Erotic – from Eros, the Greek god of love and sexual desire.  Check out the statue to Eros in the middle of London’s Piccadilly Circus.  Circus comes from the Latin word circus for roundness or round, and is spelled the same as our English word.

 

Echo – from the Greek nymph, Echo.  Zeus, the king of the Greek gods, fell in love with Echo, which angered Zeus’ wife, Hera, who cursed Echo to speak only the last words that were spoken to her.  Why can’t Zeus fall in love with my wife?

 

Europe – Europa was a beautiful princess and Zeus fell in love with her, too.  Busy boy was Zeus.  Europa was lucky Hera didn’t find out.

 

Fury – from the Greek Furies, the well named female goddesses of vengeance

 

Hypnosis – from Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep

 

Morphine – from Morpheus, one of the sons of Hypnos

 

Music – from the Greek Muses, goddesses of the arts and science

 

Nectar – the favorite drink of the Greek gods

 

I could go on and on:  nemesis, ocean, panic, phobia, psychology, tantalize, typhoon, and so many others came from the gods of old.

 

And how about our modern celebrations?  Are they really modern?

 

People have celebrated the winter solstice for thousands of years.  The Scandinavians celebrated Yule on 21 December and made a fire from Yule logs that celebrated the return of the sun, with each spark of the fire representing new birth of piglets and calves in the New Year.

 

Germans used the mid-winter holiday to worship Oden, the chief Norse god.

 

In the Roman times, Romans celebrated Saturnus, the god of agriculture.

 

The Bible doesn’t say when Jesus was born.  Many believe Christianity chose the winter solstice to draw celebrants from those who honored the old gods.

 

How about Easter?  Easter falls on the Sunday after the first full moon after the spring equinox, once again a blend of Christianity and Paganism.  Eostre was a pre-Christian English goddess celebrated at the beginning of spring.  And let’s not forget, Jesus was a Jew, not a Christian, and celebrated Passover, which occurs in March or April.  The symbol of new birth at the Passover Seder is a roasted egg.  Hence Easter Eggs? 

 

The word Easter may come from the German/Norse Eostra or Ostara, the goddess of spring, who by the way, changed her pet bird into a rabbit to amuse the children. 

 

I frequently utter:  Everyone wants a change, but nobody wants to change.

 

The old gods are good examples.  They’re all around us, in our language, our science, in commerce (Hermes messenger service).  In fact, it’s hard to get away from the old gods.  But, you may say, we don’t worship them.  I beg to differ.  I’ve been told by a Greek man, but have not been able to confirm, that in a Greek court of law, they still swear on Zeus to tell the truth.   

 

And the truth is, we still honor the old gods in so many ways, even when we don’t realize the connections.

 

 

Morpheus, a Greek God of Sleep

 

 

 ’avais beau me poser des questions,

je n’avais aucune idée d’à quoipouvait ressembler le Diable. Puis, je l’ai vu! Comment aurais-je pu me douterque le Diable puisse ressembler à ça! Il se baladaitdroit devant nous... immense, la peau rouge, des cornes gigantesques et arrondies, des yeux rouges et des sabots à la placedes pieds

The Spies of Warsaw - A book review

 

Read any Alan Furst?  I just read The Spies of Warsaw and found it intriguing, and so well written.  I cheerfully admit to being a spy addict,  especially of the World  War II variety.

 

One aspect frequently ignored is the cloud of events leading up to the war.  And, if you add to that, the points of view of other participants in the coming conflict, you have a really intriguing plot.

 

Europe has always been a web of intrigue, with friends spying on both friends and enemies. 

 

Alan Furst takes us back to Poland, 1937, with a French Colonel Mercier, a spy master, assigned to the French embassy in Warsaw, poking his nose into the affairs of Poland and Germany and Russia, trying to collect enough pieces of the puzzle to surmise what is coming next and the best ways for France to react.  And not only are other spies in the picture, but the undeniable intrigue within the bowels of the bureaucratic French high command. 

 

Furst takes us to embassy cocktail parties and dark streets that are scattered with bits and pieces of people’s lives. Some want to defect and others have black hearts, still others just want to survive.

 

There are diplomatic rules to observe and ignore, things that ‘just aren’t done,’ but are done to suit the national purpose. And in the background are love affairs and attempts to flee the coming conflagration.  Hearts are broken, and lives are lost in the unreadable tangle of political espionage.  Today’s friend may often be tomorrow’s enemy and vice versa.

 

Nothing is certain in this incredible story that leads the reader through the labyrinth of unlikely paths.  Instead of a page-turner, I would call The Spies of Warsaw, a thought provoking wonderland of then and now.  After all, does the political climate, in the broad sense of the term, ever really change?  National interests coincide then and now, friends change sides, both in the personal and national sense.   In fact, The Spies of Warsaw could also be an allegory of our personal lives.

 

But, if you don’t want to get into the depths of analysis, The Spies of Warsaw is also just a damn good, well written spy novel, full of all the twists and turns that shock and confuse to the very end, just the way you want it!

 

Time for me to grab another spy novel by Alan Furst!  Fortunately, there are many.

Butternut Squash Super Soup

 

Like all thinking people, I have my prejudices.  They’re special.  I treasure them.  That’s particularly true with food.  I regard health food as a waste of good manners and a grand reason to embrace fasting, with starvation as a viable alternative.  

 

So when the bell of hunger tolled loudly at the famishing hour of 3 p.m. my first, second, or third thought was not the local heath food store.  I pictured dried tofu dressed up as impoverished chicken fingers, a gluten-free waste of the baker’s art, and plates of salt free kale braised with raw cabbage juice, with Saint Nibbler, the patron saint of emaciation, chuckling with glee.

 

However, my great hunger, and addled brain ravaged by a lack of sustenance, and a further lack of all alternatives, drove me to swing into the parking lot of a health food store.

 

Yes, the menu echoed my every prejudice and then I spotted butternut squash soup.  I like butternut squash, and prayed it hadn’t been sautéed with milk of goat-weed, or the bark of the monkey pod tree.

 

As you may or may not know, butternut squash is also known as butternut pumpkin in Australia and New Zealand.  After all, it is the same family as what we call pumpkin.  Another name for butternut is crook necked squash.  

 

This squash’s natural home is in the heartland of Argentina, near the Andes.  Well, I thought, what’s good enough for the indigenous people of the  Andes….

 

I must admit, the butternut soup was not a good choice.  It was a superb choice! Silky smooth and with flavor galore, I forgot all about my hip flask of Spanish brandy and concentrated on my agile dexterity with a spoon.

 

After lunch, I strolled up to the chef, who was working away on eye of newt and muskrat melon, and asked if I could have the recipe.  He eyed me cautiously.  “Yes, but first you must fill out a comment card and include words like Stupendous, Handsome, the flower of manhood, would rather eat his food than chase willing women.” 

 

Hey, no problem.  I can lie with the best of them! But, it’s been a while.  What exactly is a willing woman?

 

On to the matter of delicious, tongue-tantalizing soup.

 

Ingredients:  (Butternut squash comes in a variety of sizes, so you may have to adjust the ingredients.)

 

1 mid-sized butternut squash, peeled, seeded, and cut into 1 inch cubes

1 sweet onion, chopped

2 stalks of celery, thinly sliced

1 large carrot, or a handful of baby carrots, chopped

4 cups of either vegetable or chicken stock (I used chicken)

Salt, pepper

1 tablespoon vanilla extract

1 cup (or more) heavy cream

1 cup of shelled and salted pumpkin seeds

¼ cup olive oil

 

Spices according to taste, but start with these, then add more if it suits you:

1 teaspoon each: cinnamon, ground cloves, nutmeg, 

 

Puttin’ it together:

Put the vegetables in a large stew pot with a lid, and pour in the chicken or vegetable broth.  Place the pot over medium heat, cover and bring to a boil.  Turn it down to a simmer and cook until the vegetables are soft.

 

Add the salt and pepper and spices.  Mix thoroughly.

 

Use an immersible blender, or standing blender to blend to a creamy consistency.  Now add the heavy cream and stir.

The final touch:  fry the pumpkin seeds in the olive oil.  When you serve the soup to your ravenous guests, add a spoonful of oil and pumpkin seeds on top.  I warn you, when you serve this soup, you may get proposals of marriage.  Offer glasses of white wine instead.  It’s less expensive.

 

Greens, Ham, and Cream Soup

 

Greens, Ham, and Cream Soup

 

I’ve heard it said, less is more, more or less.  And this soup has a lot of less.  I’ve also heard that simple is good.  This soup is simpler and gooder.  If it got any gooder, I simply wouldn’t eat anything else.

 

Other soups have asked me, what has this soup got that I don’t got?  My answer really steamed ‘em.  Honey, you just ain’t got the goodness.

 

Shall I go on?  I’m starting to hear boos from people in the back row.  Ok, I’ll stop before I get dismembered.  Don’t remember the last time I was dismembered….  Yes, I do; got dismembered from my Golf Club.  Fortunately, I found it.

 

But, enough of the serious chat, let’s get back to a good simple soup that you’re going to love.

 

Greens, Ham, and Cream Soup

 

Go ahead and call this chowder if you wish.  It’s thick enough to live up to the name.

 

Ingredients

 

1 bag frozen chopped spinach

1 bag frozen chopped collard greens

A big handful of fresh spinach

1 lb slice country ham, cut into thumb sized bits

1  sweet onion, peeled and chopped

1 tablespoon coarse sea salt

1 ½ teaspoons turmeric

2 medium russet potatoes, peeled and chopped

2 tablespoons butter

1 cup heavy cream

a good toss of cracked black pepper to taste

thinly sliced green onions for garnish

 

Putin’ It Together

 

Use a large stock pot over medium heat and add 10 cups water.  Add the salt,  and greens and cook for about 50 minutes.

 

Drain the greens, reserving the potlikker.

 

Rinse the pot and put it back on medium heat.  Add the ham and cook until it the fat is rendered.  Add the chopped onions and butter in with the ham and cook until the onions are soft.  Add the turmeric, 3-5 cups of the reserved potlikker, and the potatoes.  When the potatoes are soft, add the greens, heavy cream and black pepper.  Bring to a simmer and serve.  Garnish with the thinly sliced green onion.

I served it with corn bread.

I’d offer a wine pairing, but nobody is going to put their soup spoon down long enough to take a sip.

Do Bobcats Bob?

 

Do bobcats really bob?

I’m sure that I don’t know,

But, bobcats are quite fast and 

Bobbing is quite slow.

 

Do elephants ever catch a cold and sneeze?

I’ve never been quite near them

But, I would guess that if they did

I’m sure that I would hear them.

 

Whom are the mockingbirds mocking?

The hole in the woman’s silk stocking?

Or perhaps it’s the man’s red hat.

He really is quite fat.

 

The jaybird sits smugly high in a tree

With a very full belly it seems to me.

So, where do the a, b, and c birds sit?

I suspect that j’s consumed all the alphabits.

 

The vultures have gathered to eat a dead buck.

Who was out for stroll and got hit by a truck.

He is tasty indeed say the birds as they feed

Most folks must go hunting, but for us there’s no need.

 

A frog on a log sits still as can be

Apparently there is nothing to see

Then comes a fly and out flies his tongue

To give a tongue-lashing, oh goodness, yum yum.

 

A bass in a brook is looking to feed

And all of a sudden just look what he see’d.

A bright shiny hook and a tasty young worm

But, when the bass bites, he starts to squirm.

 

If chickens had teeth they’d be harder to grasp

To get chicken dinner you’d have to be fast.

It’d no longer be just a squawk from beneath

As they turned their head smartly and sank in their teeth.

Dogs are man’s best friends they say

But then again, the other day

A large, furry brute bit-me by design

And suddenly he was no friend of mine.

 

I do not think a groundhog could be a tidy chap

His face is all unshaven and he always takes a nap

When finally he awakens and shows his face unclean

He just goes back to sleep again. Do you see what I mean?

 

Watch the monkeys eat bananas high up in the tree,

Play a little random tag and maybe scratch a flea.

Then they start to frolic, it all seems very witless

I  have yet to understand the time for monkey business.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.