I was riding my motorcycle over the hard, frozen earth, feeling with each bump the tug at my shoulder where the leather strap of the courier pouch had been threaded under one epaulette. Often the pouch contained mail or routine dispatches. This morning it held special orders for the battlefield commander. I grabbed the rag from my pocket and took a swipe at my goggles, trying to squeeze a bit more light out of the leaden sky. The road ahead looked clear so I throttled up a notch, feeling the crisp November air whip at my face. I knew I was going to hit the landmine soon, but somehow I couldn’t make myself veer around it. Harold Draymore sprang suddenly up from the ground in front of me, dressed in the uniform of the enemy. His eyes glowed bright red through the lenses of his spectacles. He threw a fireball which struck at the same instant I passed over the landmine. The impact of the blast knocked me off the motorcycle and I was flying through the air for what seemed like a long time. I hit the hard earth and started tumbling, the shrapnel in my left thigh pushing in deeper as I rolled.
I sat up breathing hard, the bedsheets cold and soaking against me. I grabbed my wristwatch off the night table (three-thirty a.m.), then padded into the kitchen for a glass of cold water from the pitcher in the refrigerator. On a shelf was the half-eaten salami that had probably caused the nightmare. I downed the water in three swallows and poured more, staring out the kitchen window into the dark. I’d had the dream before, of course. Not so often in recent years, but it still pops up now and then when I’m wound up about something. There are variations (Draymore was certainly a new addition), but the basic elements are always the same: riding the motorcycle, the feelings of urgency and impending danger, the mine blowing up beneath me, the fear.
I finished my water, put the pitcher back in the fridge, and headed back down the hallway to the bedroom. Was this dream trying to tell me something, other than not to cap off a late night out with cold salami? No, I decided, it was just some shadow of a distant morning, come to haunt me once again. I went into a handstand against the bedroom door and did a few slow pushups, then stood up, rolled my shoulders, stretched my back, and climbed into bed.
I must have needed the sleep, because it was almost ten-thirty Sunday morning when I woke up. I drove over to the gym and took some exercise and a steam, finishing with a hot-and-cold shower before driving back home and preparing a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon. Dishes put away and coffee still on the burn, I refilled my cup and settled in at the kitchen table with some blank pieces of paper, a few pencils, and Copy Two of the coded notebook. If I was right about Quinn’s and Lundquist’s names appearing in the book – and I was reasonably sure I was – that gave me eight letters decoded. Eight down, eighteen more to go, I thought. Well, not necessarily. There was no reason to believe that all twenty-six letters of the alphabet had been needed here.
I picked up a pencil and copied down all of the sequences that contained any of the eight decoded letters. Next, I crossed out the coded letters I knew and wrote the actual letters above them, underlining blank spaces above the letters I didn’t have yet. I used scratch paper because I still might have to pass off one of the notebook copies as the real McCoy, and it wouldn’t do to have pencil marks all over it. It was slow going. Even with more than half a dozen letters of the code broken I still had the same problem: I wasn’t working with a famous quotation or a lyric from a popular song here, just jumbled letter-strings, most of which were probably people’s names.
All afternoon I played around with random substitutions in the blanks and got nowhere. Since I already had the N, T, and I from LUNDQUIST, I scanned through the pages several times, slowly. None of the sequences could be decoded as TRIANNA. I repeated the process for DRAYMORE, but that didn’t fit any of the sequences, either. There were at least a couple of six-letter strings that could be GRAHAM, but it was impossible to say for sure without having any of those letters. I didn’t waste time with the sequences that didn’t have at least one of the eight decoded letters; without something to cross-check them against, I’d be back to chasing my tail.
I stood, stretched, emptied the ashtray, grabbed some more coffee, and lit a cigarette, eyeing my notes upside down. I tried looking at several pages of the notebook that way as well. Nothing. I paced around the kitchen, smoking and thinking. What did I know so far? That Quinn’s and Lundquist’s names were in the book, which was no more than I knew yesterday. If I didn’t know what was in the notebook, what did I know about it? I knew three powerful men were pretty desperate to get their hands on it. Joe Trianna had as much as admitted to me that he gave Craig Carlton the notebook as leverage to muscle his way on board as Graham’s new business partner. Graham had admitted the notebook may be the reason he and his family were being threatened (had he ever mentioned by whom?). Carlton had taken pains to hide the notebook so carefully that the police searching his hotel room hadn’t found it.
The gaps in my knowledge were starting to make me pretty annoyed with myself. Why hadn’t I insisted Graham tell me who exactly was threatening him? I’d avoided bringing any of this up with Melinda, telling myself I didn’t want to frighten her, drag her in any deeper, but maybe I was being soft there as well. Lundquist, Draymore, Quinn, even Trianna, surely there was more I could have wheedled out of at least one of them. Instead I was stuck here with a pocket notebook full of gobbledy-gook and eight lousy letters. I slapped the notebook against my palm in frustration. Discipline, Caine, discipline. It’s a fast slide from identifying your mistakes to berating yourself for what’s already done, and I didn’t need to waste that kind of mental energy.
Okay, so I didn’t have a whole hell of a lot of facts. What about deductions, conclusions, or just theories? I went into the living room for a change of scenery. It’s a habit I developed long ago: keep showing your eyes something different, force your mind to examine new images. I looked out the living room window for a minute, watching cars drive by in the street, then turned my attention back to the notebook. I knew I had to be looking at a list of payoffs, and the way they were arranged, the menu layout, told me I was looking at a very detailed list indeed. It seemed likely the payoffs had to do with Graham’s construction business. Perhaps the headings for each group represented a certain building or project, or a specific part of one. Bribery in the construction business is about as rare as old ladies in bingo parlors, but that doesn’t make it any less illegal if you get caught. It’s the same as being pulled over by a traffic cop for speeding – no matter how many other people do it all the time, you still get the ticket.
So what could you do with information like this? Plenty, if you knew the right people. Hell, you could just drop it in the mail to the district attorney’s office. A cash bribe can be pretty tough to trace, but if you have names, dates, and amounts, it makes it a damned sight easier. You could subpoena bank records to find matching cash deposits made on or near certain dates. You could try to drum up corroborating witnesses, start with the smaller fry in the book, see if any of them were willing to turn rat to save themselves. A hungry D.A. could gather a lot of proof with what I had in my hand. He’d have the time and money to hire a dedicated staff, including a slew of professional code breakers who could turn this into Dick and Jane in a few days. And since most people don’t declare bribes they receive as income, the Internal Revenue could get mighty interested in a piece of this action as well.
Okay, so this was a coded list of bribes that could crumble at least the construction side of Ronald Graham’s empire, possibly even land the man in jail. How had Trianna gotten hold of this information? Someone on Graham’s staff, most likely. Lundquist? His name was in the book, which put him at risk as well. Then again, if he knew ahead of time that this was only to be used as leverage, that it was never intended to come to light, would that bother him? I couldn’t make it fit, though. Lundquist gave off no signs of the dissatisfied employee, resentful at being under-appreciated. Indeed, Graham seemed to value him highly, and what would Lundquist have to gain by selling Graham out? More money? He seemed perfectly capable of negotiating his own raises, assuming Graham was careless enough to let him need to.
I thought about Felding and dismissed him even more quickly. While I was sure a man in his position picked up a lot, I doubted Graham or Lundquist were careless enough to let him overhear this much detail. Besides, you can pretty much hang up your gumshoes once you start spitting up baloney like “The butler did it.” (I wondered idly how many butlers in the world get away with murder for this very reason.)
I sat down and put my feet up on the coffee table. Graham’s reason for wanting the notebook was obvious: it could break him. Trianna’s reasons were a little cloudier. If he or his people put this notebook together and gave it to Carlton, then Trianna already had all this information, in its original, unencoded form, even. I chewed my lower lip for a moment. Was Trianna afraid someone else might find the notebook and use it before he could, negating all the hard work that had gone into it? Or was somebody not supposed to know he’d done all this, somebody higher up the chain maybe? And what about Draymore? Did he plan to return the notebook to Trianna as part of some private deal, or was he hoping to blackmail Graham for his own purposes?
The telephone started ringing and I picked it up. Speak of the Devil and he will appear. Think his name and apparently he dials your number.
“Mr. Caine?” I recognized the high-pitched voice instantly.
“Mr. Draymore.”
“Am I disturbing you?”
“No, I finished with church hours ago. What do you want?”
“I’d like to meet with you to discuss your progress on our business agreement.”
“I already told you, Draymore, there won’t be any progress if I don’t get some breathing room.”
“You mean you’ve accomplished nothing so far?” I pinched the bridge of my nose and let out a sigh. I was really starting to hate rich men. Spoiled, snotty bastards, every one of them.
“I meant there won’t be any further progress. To date, I’ve managed—”
“Not over the telephone, please,” he cut in sharply. “Can you come to my hotel for dinner tonight? Around eight?” I mulled this over for a moment.
“No. Meet me at Liberty Memorial in one hour.” I hung up the phone.
I walked into the kitchen and looked over my notes. Barely anything there worth saving, but I transferred what little there was to one small sheet of paper and burned the rest in the ashtray. I folded the lone sheet, slid it inside the notebook, and put it away, then made a sandwich and sat down at the table to eat it. I wouldn’t bother getting to the meeting early; it wasn’t likely Draymore was planning another ambush. He’d bring Swelk with him, of course, but cutting rough with me wouldn’t get him the notebook any faster, not unless he knew I already had it (and if he knew that, he wouldn’t be calling ahead). Arranging to meet in an open, very public place was being cautious enough. I finished my meal and pulled my old leather jacket out of the closet, slipping it on over the open-collared shirt I was wearing. I grabbed my hat as I headed for the door. And my gun, of course.
¥ ¥ ¥
I parked my car along Memorial Drive and walked up toward the court, my hands shoved into the pockets of my jacket. Some of the Sunday crowd had thinned by late afternoon, but the place was hardly deserted. When I came around to the far side of the tower, I saw Draymore standing with his back to me, looking out over the cityscape. Just where I’d seen Carlton two weeks ago. I sidled up alongside him, turning my head to look over the crowd.
“You needn’t bother looking,” Draymore said, staring straight ahead. “Mr. Swelk is close at hand.”
“That's just jake with me,” I shrugged. “I brought someone, too.” He looked at me for a second and I added: “You won’t see him, either.” We waited silently for a couple of people to stroll by, keeping our voices low when we started speaking again.
“Have you found the notebook?” he asked without looking at me.
I nodded. “Graham has it.”
“Where is he keeping it?”
“In a safe deposit box at one of his banks.”
“Which bank?”
“You want to know? Give me the twenty grand now, you can go get it yourself.” He turned to look at me again and the setting sun glowed red in the lenses of his spectacles. I felt a chill, remembering the dream I’d had last night. It passed.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “He hasn’t destroyed it yet.” No reaction from Draymore. I prodded a little more: “He’s trying to find the rat.”
“The rat?”
“The guy who gave up all the stuff that’s in the notebook, the trade secrets or whatever it’s supposed to be.”
“When can you get it?”
“Soon. Graham’s out of town for a few days. He’s trying to buy some trucking firm in Denver. Steven Brenner told me about it.” I had no idea what prompted me to say that last bit, I’d just blurted it out. Draymore looked at me hard for several seconds. I stood there and let him.
“How long have you been working for Mr. Graham?”
“Long enough.”
“I was under the impression he hired you after Mr. Brenner...”
“Left us for a better world? I guess that’s what Mr. Graham wanted you to think.” I needed to keep these guys off balance, keep giving them reasons to trust each other even less than they already did.
“You promised me the notebook in a week’s time,” Draymore said.
“You’ll have it Friday. If I get the money. Did you tell Trianna what I told you to? That you’re setting me up and to keep out of my way?”
“I did.” I saw Swelk’s bulky form moving through the crowd toward us, his hands in his overcoat pockets and his hat pulled low.
“Who are you getting this notebook for anyway? Yourself or Trianna?” He didn’t answer and I didn’t expect him to. Swelk was standing next to him now, staring at me.
“How’s the new guy working out?” I asked. Draymore looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled for the first time.
“You mean Mr. Swelk? He’s been my loyal employee for over four years now. I only loaned him to Mr. Carlton.”
I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my face.
“I thought—”
“What I wanted you to think.” He let that sink in and continued. “Mr. Caine, you will bring me this notebook on Friday or you will not see the following Saturday. Be very clear on that point. If you try to double-cross me in any way on this deal, I will find you and Mr. Swelk will kill you. I even have a nice, scenic spot in mind to bury your body, very picturesque.” This provoked an inane giggle from Swelk, the same one I’d heard when he was beaning pigeons with peanuts. He probably thought “picturesque” meant something dirty.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I blustered, “notebook, Friday, scenic spot. We done here?” Draymore nodded. “Good, because this is your last goddamn progress report. I’ll call you when I’ve got the notebook.” I turned on my heel and walked away without looking back.
¥ ¥ ¥
My brain was racing all the way over to Lonnigan’s. So Swelk had been Draymore’s man from the beginning. That changed things up a bit. Swelk was a gangster’s hood if I’d ever seen one. Draymore must have hired him straight from the mob, which meant Draymore was in pretty tight with those guys, as they don’t look too kindly on outsiders helping themselves to their employee pool. Whether Swelk was a gift, a long-term loan, or got himself lost in a poker game, he was working for Draymore with mob approval, and Draymore had made a point of letting me know this to show what kind of clout he carried. Graham might do business now and then with the Italians, but Draymore had real connections. One thing it didn’t change, though: it now looked more likely than ever that Swelk had killed Carlton. On Draymore’s orders? Doubtful, since Carlton had been connected to the mob as well. Draymore might have suggested the hit, but why? Had Carlton gotten too cocky with the notebook? Tried to cut his own deal?
I was working on my second scotch, trying to slow my thoughts down a little. The bar was quiet and Lonnigan was leaving me alone to think. I tried to work all the scenes out in order. First, Trianna gets this highly incriminating dirt on Graham, probably gets it from one of Graham’s own people. Next, he picks Craig Carlton, gives him a coded version of the dope, and points him at Graham, telling Carlton to force his way on as Graham’s new business partner. Why? Why not just go to Graham himself? Because he wanted one of his people working for Graham.
A picture was starting to come together through the haze. The balance of power in Kansas City between the Irish political machine and the Italian mafia was pretty delicate, but the Irish still held most of it. And a big chunk of their revenue came from these fat construction contracts that men like Graham were so heavily involved in. Hell, Tom Pendergast himself owned Ready-Mix Concrete, and the town went through their stock like water. The north side had been gaining power steadily over the years, sometimes working with Boss Tom’s boys, sometimes clashing with them. If they wanted more power (If! I laughed at myself) but wanted to avoid an open confrontation...was it too far-fetched? Big-time construction was locked down pretty tight, but if you could force one lone mobster high up onto the payroll of the city’s richest industrialist, the one who had the juiciest cuts of the fattest contracts, you’d have your own little cut funneling straight in from the Pendergast Machine. You keep niggling over the contract, expanding it, wedge that hole open wider and get the money flowing faster. Put some more of your own on board, subcontracted under your first man already in place or also hired on directly under Graham. What could it be worth five years down the road? Ten years? Not just the money, but having your own men in place, men who were loyal to you and would be subject to your influence and not the Machine’s?
I lit a cigarette and signaled Lonnigan for another scotch. So what had gone wrong? What had Carlton done to get himself rubbed? Could Graham have arranged it? But he knew Trianna already had the information, so what would that do except make Trianna more determined? And why was Trianna in such an all-fired hurry to get this notebook back when all he had to do was make another one? Was he afraid someone else would find it and use it against Graham? Someone like Draymore? After all, with Graham in prison, Trianna would have to start from scratch, find some other heavy hitter to go after, then find someone working for that guy who was willing to rat him out.
Or was there a more compelling explanation? Since Lazia had been killed last summer, his successor Carollo had been working hard to keep the peace. The big bosses in New York and Chicago wanted profits, not bloodshed. If Carollo couldn’t keep his territory orderly, they’d air him out and find someone who could. Carollo was too new in the job to take these kinds of risks, and I couldn’t see him approving Trianna’s plan...if he knew about it! That was it! Trianna had done all this on his own. He’d cooked up the whole scheme, risked upsetting the delicate balance of power in this city without getting an okay first. If it worked, he’d be a hero; if it backfired, he’d be dead. Just the kind of high stakes gamble to grab “Tricks” Trianna by the vitals. Only it had backfired. Carlton was gone and Trianna was hustling to get the notebook back before anyone else found out about it, especially Carollo.
I rubbed my hands over my face and took a deep breath. How much of this was sheer conjecture, one supposition piled on top of another? Pretty much all of it, I decided. Yes, it made sense, but a lot of things do after three glasses of scotch.
If I knew for sure why Carlton had been killed, if I knew who on Graham’s staff had sold Trianna the information, if I knew who’d killed Brenner and why.... Had Brenner been the rat? Drowned like one after he’d served his purpose so Trianna could cover his tracks? (Shot, not drowned, I reminded myself.)
I forced all this out of my mind and tried to recall the rest of my meeting with Draymore. He certainly seemed to have a reaction when I mentioned Brenner’s name, but I couldn’t come up with much else. I made a little small talk with Lonnigan (including giving him the particulars on the Great Candy Store Caper), settled up, and drove home, giving some thought to how I was going to keep my Friday deadline from becoming a literal thing. I’d pretty much planned to sell the notebook to Trianna if I didn’t come up with any better ideas before then, figuring that Draymore couldn’t kick up too much of a fuss if it had been “taken off” me by a gangster on my way to deliver it to him. Now I wasn’t so sure. Could I renegotiate my deal with Trianna, have him take care of Draymore as part of my price? That would depend largely on how high up in the mob Draymore’s connections ran.
I made the turn into my apartment building, parked, and went inside. I changed into my pajamas and started brushing my teeth at the bathroom sink, trying to figure what specific threat there was to Melinda Graham in all this (to hell with her father, he could watch his own back). I needed to be careful, as making the wrong play could make things worse for her, but I had to do something. All I’d accomplished so far was to buy myself a little breathing room. As I pulled the blanket over me, I decided I might want to get in as much breathing this next week as I could.
¥ ¥ ¥
I stepped out of the shower Monday morning and put a fresh blade in my razor, then grabbed the brush and started whipping up a lather while I thought over yesterday’s chat with Draymore and the conclusions I’d drawn afterward. I decided against asking Trianna for protection from Draymore. I couldn’t very well admit to Trianna that Draymore was threatening to kill me if I didn’t deliver the notebook to him, not when I’d told Trianna for a fact that Draymore already had it. It helps to be sober when you’re going over those finer points.
I had a light breakfast of dry toast and coffee before heading into work where I chit-chatted with Gail, listened to the minor issues of a few prospective clients, and generally tried to keep my mind off the fact that I was getting nowhere with the important stuff. I wondered if there was some survivable way of getting Graham, Draymore, and Trianna together in one room and letting them fight it out. It’d be damned interesting to watch if nothing else. I also wondered if there was some way to get Melinda out of town until all this blew over. Should I suggest it to Graham?
Lunchtime rolled around before I knew it, and I decided it had been far too long since I’d had barbecue. I know where the best barbecue in the city is, which in Kansas City it’s safe to say means the best barbecue in the world (safe as long as there isn’t a Texan within earshot). Inside half an hour I was at Nineteenth and Highland, standing in line at the old trolley barn from where Henry Perry serves up the best smoked meat and sauce you’ll ever eat – steaming, dripping, and wrapped in newspaper. It’s not what you’d call fine dining, but it is what you’d call damn good eating. Just the smell was making me hungry, and after I slapped my two bits on the counter, I carried a serving of barbecued beef into a nearby saloon and grabbed a stool at the bar and a cold beer to wash down the grub.
“You been to Mistuh Henry’s.”
Two stools down on my left sat an old colored gentleman in his seventies, stoop-shouldered and wearing a weathered jacket and faded ballcap. His mustache and the hair fringing out from under the cap were snowy white, and the pouches under his smiling, rheumy eyes looked like worn saddle leather.
“You got that right.” I slid my food a few inches to offer him some, but he shook his head and told me he’d just put away a mix of Henry’s beef and woodchuck not ten minutes ago. There was something about the old guy that drew me. I noticed his glass was nearly empty and offered to buy him a beer. He frowned for a moment.
“Never have no problem sayin’ no to food when my belly’s full. Sayin’ no to beer, though, that just don’t set right somehow, does it?” His voice was low and smoky, soothing in a way, and his slow laugh got me to grinning myself.
“Not in my neighborhood.” I signaled for the barkeep to refill his glass, then wiped my hand on a napkin and offered it. “My name’s Caine.”
“Clayton Withers,” he said, giving me a gentle shake with his warm, callused hand. “Folks call me Scratch.”
“Scratch Withers? I’ve heard of you.”
“I heard o’ me, too.” We both laughed, and that started a pleasant hour or two of cold beer and warm conversation. Scratch Withers had been an assistant coach for the Kansas City Monarchs, one of the hottest baseball teams in the Negro National League for ten years until the League disbanded back in ’Thirty. While a lot of the Negro teams just packed it in, the Monarchs had gone on exhibition, traveling around the country and actually doing pretty well for themselves – the main reason being that these guys were good. Don’t get me wrong, the Kansas City Blues have nothing to be ashamed of, but it was a real privilege to meet a man who’d coached for the Monarchs. I saw them play once when I was down from Chicago on business six or seven years ago. Bullet Joe Rogan had been on the mound, breaking curveballs so fast it made the batters look sick just trying for them, and he was pulling that off without even winding up. In addition to still playing, Bullet Joe was managing the team these days, according to Scratch, and while not all of the players took to his strict, disciplinary style (he’d been a military man, after all), they couldn’t argue with his results. The bartender – a handsome young Negro in vest and tie, his hair oiled back from a tight part on the side – joined in, offering his opinion that if they could have whitewashed a few of those Monarchs, the Cardinals wouldn’t have needed all seven games to win the World Series. We all laughed in agreement.
I’m not usually one for listening to people’s life stories, not without getting paid for it anyway, but Scratch Withers was a natural storyteller. He told me of how his family moved to Chicago from back east when he was six years old. He’d been one of eight kids (though two of his sisters had taken ill before the move and “gone to live with Jesus”). Scratch did what most poor young kids did: sold newspapers, shined shoes, worked in restaurant kitchens, played when he could. He was a pretty fair athlete in his day, excelling in a variety of sports but favoring baseball and boxing. Professional opportunities were scant, but he trained and picked up a few bouts and played on a few ball teams, traveling around the country and supporting himself with what work he could find, some of it legal, some of it not. Scratch had been in New Orleans in ’Ninety-Two to watch Gentleman Jim Corbett knock out John Sullivan in the twenty-first round. He’d even coached boxing in Chicago for awhile, which is what had led him back to baseball.
“How’s that?” I asked, indulging myself in another beer and his slow, soothing voice, sidestepping my troubles for the moment. Scratch told me a very sad story of a young fighter he was coaching called The Southpaw Sledge, a decent young man who’d fallen in with the wrong kind of people and tried to take a risky shortcut to the top, and had paid a terrible price for it.
“Hell of a thing.” It was a meaningless statement; I just wanted to fill the air.
“Hell of a thing,” he agreed, looking quietly off into the distance. “Didn’t seem to have no more heart for boxing after that.” He looked back at me, his eyes brightening again. “But that was twenty years ago. I found my way back into baseball and I had me some good years with the Monarchs. Yessir, some very good years.”
It had been a long lunch already and I wanted to leave on a high note. I shook Scratch’s hand again, paid the bill, and stepped out into the sunlit afternoon, my belly full of barbecue and beer. Eighteenth and Vine was just around the corner. I could find some place to kill a few hours till sundown, then spend the night drifting from one jazz club to another, sipping good scotch and listening to the fervor of the music and feeling the live-wire jump in the crowd. For all I knew, Fats Waller himself might show up on one of the bills. It’s a common enough occurrence for the biggest names in jazz to stop off in Kansas City on their way across country. They appear unannounced, perform unrestrained, and “battle” with the local musicians to create the kind of night you hate to miss.
But no, I told myself, I have at least two people threatening to kill me at the end of the week if I don’t come across with what they want, so maybe it was time I headed back to the office and started on this whole mess with a fresh mind.
The jazz clubs might have been a better choice after all: when I got back to my office, two homicide detectives were waiting for me, wanting to talk about a couple of unsolved murders currently on their books.