(Day Five)
My head pounded as I awakened, pounded so loud it was audible. No, someone bashed on the door. Someone banged on it and called me names. Rusty. I sat up and, yes, my head did pound too. My pulse thumped in my temples. The open pocket-watch on my nightstand showed 8:08. Damn.
“Hang on, Russ. I’m coming.” I forced my unruly feet to drag me to the door.
As I slogged along, Rusty offered words of encouragement. “Rise and shine, Sister Belle” and “tempus fugit” among others.
I fumbled with the deadbolt, swung the door open, and without comment turned toward the kitchen.
Rusty followed. “I see you’re not quite ready yet.”
“I need coffee,” I said.
“Here, I’ll make the coffee. You take a shower. You smell like Mickey’s Tavern on Sunday morning.”
I did stink too. Even I found the stench offensive.
Hot water eased the pain in my head. And by the time it ran out, I felt almost human. As I toweled off, a bruised, haggard man with marijuana-red eyes mimicked my movements in the mirror. In my room, I donned my old charcoal gray suit and followed the aroma of coffee. Rusty had placed butter and an almost empty jar of grape jam on the table. Eggs fried on the stove, and he broiled bread in the oven. I grabbed the coffee.
After the chow and three cups, Rusty spoke. “What’s up for today?”
“After we get my car, I’ve got a couple of things to do at the office and then I need to check in with Mr. Holloway.” I poured the last of the pot into our cups. Rusty added sugar and milk to his, the whippersnapper. “Then I thought I’d see if Chief Myers is in today, see what he wants.”
“Okay, good,” Rusty said. “I’ve got a case of my own that I need to play a little catch up with.” I waited with eyebrows raised as high as they would go. “Just a domestic espionage case.”
I waited some more, Rusty’s espionage hook lodged firmly in my mouth. But Rusty seemed enraptured by the swirl of milk in his cup. He was playing me. I decided to be played.
“Really, Russ, that’s all you’re going to say?’
He grinned big. “A guy’s wife’s jewelry is disappearing an item or two at a time. And the guy’s loaded. And he gave her a lot. She always has an excuse. The earrings he wants her to wear that night are loaned to a friend, or ‘they’re around here somewhere; I’ll just wear these tonight.’” Rusty took a sip of his doctored java. “Guy thinks she’s selling the stuff or pawning it. Wants to know to whom and why.”
“Where are you on the case?”
“I got Nat Simpson following the dame. I’ll check in with him today.”
The shower and the food, and especially the coffee had me feeling like a new man—a new man with a sizeable headache. On the way to pick up my car, we agreed that I would call him at his office at eleven to square out the rest of the day. Rusty mentioned that Count Basie was playing at the Chesterfield that night. That again meant everybody who was anybody would be there, mobsters, mob thugs, cops, the moneyed, Palmisano, and maybe our girl Beverly. And maybe Colleen. I held that thought for a moment, the memory of her in a slinky gown, and me holding her tight as we spun around the dance floor. I must have smiled before I shook loose of the thought.
Rusty leaned forward. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said, my smile returning.
“Oh, no, it was something all right,” he said. “I’ll bet I know what too.”
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. We both laughed loudly. My head wasn’t happy about the laughing.
Rusty suggested that maybe we should make the scene, that is, if my expense account picked up the tab. I nodded in the affirmative, trying to hide my eagerness.
When we got to my car everything looked okay. As I opened the Plymouth’s door and slid in Rusty hollered, “Hang on a second, Phil.”
He pulled his parking brake and left his jalopy double-parked and idling. It was Saturday morning in the middle of the Depression. Shoppers and traffic were minimal. Rusty squatted down and began to poke around on the Plymouth’s under-carriage.
“What you doing?”
Rusty stood, cocked his head and offered a “you-dumb-shit” expression. “Car bombs.” He opened the hood. I hopped out, suddenly very interested in looking too. Car bombs had been all the rage in St. Louis and Chicago recently.
The Plymouth checked out okay. Rusty and I parted ways and I drove the short distance to my office, where I found a parking spot on the street right in front. The day was gray and blustery and unseasonably warm. You could feel the humidity on your skin, could drink it with every breath.
Henry didn’t work Saturdays and the sour, silent lady brought me up to the third floor.
I unlocked my desk but avoided opening the lowest drawer. Hair-of-the-dog-bite wouldn’t do that day. Instead, I pulled out my circles and arrows drawing from the previous day. What jumped out at me were Flat Face and his pal. No arrows to anyone. I’d bet my last bottle of booze they worked for someone who had done something to Tommy Holloway. But who?
I called the Holloway home and got Hannerty on the third ring. He told me Mr. Holloway would be working at his office all morning and he gave me the number.
A pleasant sounding woman answered, asked for my name and told me to wait. She returned and asked me for my number. She told me Mr. Holloway would phone when he had a free moment.
I grabbed some more paper and began tracking my expenses, something I should have done from the very beginning. I’m sure I missed a few things. And I left off my jazz club visit and the previous day’s lunch with Colleen. Technically they were expenses. But I would have jumped at the chance for either, even if I had no questions to ask. And for some reason, I didn’t want the old man to know about his daughter and me. From an investigational vein, it was improper.
What did she have that made me feel like a schoolboy with his first crush—I mean besides her gorgeous looks? There was something other than the raw physical attraction that made me hungry to bed her. She was smart, but manipulative. I even enjoyed the cat and mouse of her attempts to manipulate.
This was more, something that a guy only gets a few times in his life. A feeling that this is the one, the one perfect fit, the one that will fulfill him. The feeling takes over and it goes contrary to logic and reason. It becomes an unthwartable urge to reach into the candy jar when you know the rules, know you will be punished. There was still time to escape her web, and I vowed that I would.
I had updated my expenses, including Rusty’s time and still the phone remained silent. I lifted the receiver and tapped for a dial tone—nothing wrong with the line. I pictured Holloway lollygagging in his office making sure he left me dangling over here to reinforce his aura of power and importance. It tickled me that I had come up with that image, always the suspicious one. He was probably just busy.
I returned to my circles and arrows sheet, focusing again on Flat Face and where he belonged. Below him, each accompanied by a question mark, I wrote “Black Hand and the Irish mob.” Almost as an afterthought, I added “Detective Patterson/Beverly Cresto.” The phone rang.
It was Holloway’s secretary checking to make sure I was in, and she immediately got him on the line. The conversation was surprisingly brief. I glossed over what I had done to that point and who I had been investigating, namely the cops, and the two mobs. I didn’t mention Colleen or Tommy’s Stutz or the dust-up with Patterson and Harman. I told him that based on the warehouse fire I would be looking into the possibility of a mob war and how Tommy might have been some kind of leverage in that war.
He was perfunctory and offered only “uh huhs” and “yeahs” in lieu of intelligent questions. He asked if I kept track of expenses and I told him yes, and that I had brought in another investigator. Holloway indicated that he would cover the wages of the investigator, but anything over and above that would have to come out of my fee. The conversation wound down and finally I asked, “Mr. Holloway, do you know Beverly Cresto?”
“Who?”
“Beverly Cresto.”
“No, I don’t believe so. How do you spell it?” I spelled it for him.
“No, I’m sure I don’t. Why do you ask?”
“Your son was seen with her in a nightclub the night he disappeared. What’s funny, Mr. Holloway, is that we can’t find any record of her existence. And what’s funnier, a Kansas City police detective claims to be keeping her under wraps, or so he says, for her own protection.”
Silence on the other line made me think for a moment that we had been disconnected. “That is strange. Do you want me to see what I find out through the chief of police?”
“I may, sir. But not yet. I have a meeting with this detective’s boss later today.” I hoped I could arrange one, anyway. “If that doesn’t get me any closer, I may ask for your help, sir.” That’s the way we left it. Not once did he express worry over the fate of his son, or impress upon me the urgency of my search.
I dialed police headquarters and asked for Detective Chief Myers. They said he would be in his office that afternoon. The lady I spoke to said that she could not set up appointments for the Chief, and I would have to call back afternoon. My timepiece told me there was still twenty-five minutes before I was scheduled to call Rusty. I leaned back in my chair, pushed away from the desk and spun around 360 degrees, dragging my foot to stop. I repeated the spin. And again once more.
Spinning like that used to drive Sammy nuts. He’d sit at attention for a lap or two, or three, whining, maybe throw a paw-punch at me as I spun by. Eventually, he would lose his patience and walk forward into the brunt of the spin. Sometimes he’d get smacked by swinging legs, sometimes he had better timing. Once he’d get me stopped, Sammy would scale my legs and get the front half on his body up in my lap, his forlorn eyes gazed up at me, forgiving me for playing such a cruel trick. God, I loved that dog.
They say people are particularly vulnerable after a relationship ends badly. Often a guy will get serious with the first skirt that doesn’t run away screaming. And he regrets it. They say we need to take time to accept the hole in our lives. And until we recognize the hole and properly adjust our lives to it, we shouldn’t jump into another relationship. That’s how guys—and dames too—end up marrying three or four times.
I began to spin again. I wondered if Miss Holloway was merely something to latch onto to fill the hole. And the wondering itself pried me away from the pain of loss and placed me gently into thoughts of that bright, gorgeous, dangerous girl. Even knowing what I knew, I couldn’t shake her. Even when I wondered what Sammy would think of me sniffing after some skirt only days after he had died. Sammy would understand.
That’s when the tears started.
There weren’t many and there was no blubbering or even sobs. I quickly got myself squared away.
The pocket watch read nearly eleven. I dialed Rusty’s office and he answered on the first ring. I filled him in on my chat with Holloway, nothing new really. And I told Rusty that Holloway offered to rattle some cop cages from the chief of police on down, if needed.
I asked Rusty to meet me at police headquarters around one, and we’d drop in on Myers unannounced.
I grabbed a bite of lunch at an Italian place down by the river. When I finished and stepped outside, a strong, warm southerly wind accosted me. The air was full of moisture and breathing it felt like when a guy stands in a steamy-hot shower. I took the Plymouth south, up over Quality Hill to police headquarters and parked on the street. Something about parking in the police lot left me feeling claustrophobic. I was a few minutes early.
Rusty was as punctual as a fine Swiss clock, punctual not just in the sense of never being late. Rusty was never early or late. If he seemed to be, then the problem was more likely with your timepiece. He arrived precisely and gave me a toot with his horn as he pulled into the lot. He waited in his car while I hoofed it over. The wind howled, blowing paper and elm leaves—a good day for us lumpy-headed guys to go hatless.
Inside the headquarters’ vestibule, I had to wrestle the outer door to get it closed. Ever the helpful one, Rusty stood by, amused. We asked for Chief Myers at the front desk. The officer asked if he expected us. “Sort of,” I said with an innocent smile. He directed us to the seats that lined the east wall. We took a pair of them and, simultaneously produced cigarettes. Rusty was a Pall Mall guy. I was grinding out my butt in the adjacent pedestal ashtray when the officer returned.
“Be a few minutes, boys.”
“Thanks, officer,” I said.
Did I say before that Rusty twiddles his thumbs? He does and he twiddled them while we waited. I lit a second Lucky, walked over to the bulletin board and took a gander at the wanted posters. I hoped that maybe I would find my pancake-faced friend there. No such luck. Before I finished the second Lucky another officer showed and instructed us to follow him. We wound through the maze of hallways and desks to Myers office.
Myers stood and seemed uncommonly cordial. He and Rusty had never met and I made the introductions, introducing Rusty as another investigator who was helping out on the case. Myers actually said that it was a pleasure to meet him. Would wonders never cease?
We took the two nearby chairs and Myers asked us to slide them up to his desk. Once we were all comfy-cozy, Myers began.
“Look, boys, I know that you’re looking for the Holloway son. And I understand that you may not be at liberty to discuss the particulars.” He paused, raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly. I nodded back in the affirmative.
“Here’s the deal, boys. The police department is just as anxious as you are to get the kid restored to his family. We can help each other here.”
Rusty and I exchanged glances, and Rusty spoke. “Chief, Phil and I have some reservations, as I’m sure you can understand. When two fellas get beat up by cops for no reason, it makes them a little gun-shy.”
“Now, if you had spoken to your detective, and wanted to make amends that might change things,” I added.
Myers rubbed his nose and leaned forward. “As a matter of fact, I have spoken to Detective Patterson,” he said in a voice altered by sinus blockage. “His version differs quite a bit from yours, Mr. Morris.”
Rusty laughed. Not exactly a laugh, but a single, boisterous “Ha!”
I nudged him and held out an open-palmed hand, signaling him to nix the theatrics.
“What did your detective tell you?” My voice twisted the three syllables of detective into decorative knots.
He sat back in his chair. “Detective Patterson said that you two had been interfering with their joint investigation. And when the Detroit detective in charge told you to desist, your friend here,” he paused, pointing to Rusty, “your friend, wielding a blackjack, jumped detective Patterson.”
My turn for a “Ha!”
Rusty sat chiseled in stone, and I regained my own composure.
“And then I suppose he told you that I jumped the Detroit cop holding a gun on us, and the two uniforms with nightsticks in their hands?”
“I admit there are discrepancies. And I’m not sure my detective was fully truthful.”
“I’m pretty sure he wasn’t,” Rusty said. “If I’d jumped him, blackjack or not, you’d have to listen to Patterson’s version in his hospital room.”
“Who’s telling the truth here doesn’t really matter,” I said. “What does matter is that the Cresto girl was with Tommy Holloway the night he disappeared. We need to speak to her. Your detective resulted to physical violence to prevent it. Is there anything that you can do to assist us?”
Myers sat wordlessly, breathing through his mouth. He sniffed loudly to pull drainage back up into his cavernous nasal cavities. I wanted him to blow his nose, to flush out that drainage. At the same time, I dreaded being a nearby observer of such an act. Next to me, Rusty cleaned his fingernails with his fingernails.
“What do you want out of this, Chief?” I said. “What do you want from us?”
He pulled out a folded handkerchief and began to open it. I couldn’t watch. I checked my own nails as Myers sought relief with two prolonged duck calls. Rusty and I exchanged a glance, both stifling grins. Myers examined the proceeds of his effort and then refolded the handkerchief and returned it to his pocket.
“Here’s what I want: I want to keep Tom Holloway off the warpath. I want his boy found and safely back with his family. And I want Tom Holloway to know that this police department, rather than doing the boy harm, aided in his recovery.” His voice sounded somewhat less nasal. “So I’ll help you any way I can as long as you make sure Tom Holloway knows of our assistance.”
Silence lingered in the air. I figured what Myers had said was all good news, and I was about to see if he meant it when Myers continued. “This department can help you, Mr. Morris. The more information you give us, the more we can help.”
Our eye contact convinced me that it was my turn. “Great, Chief. I promise that Mr. Holloway will know exactly what role your department has had in our investigation. For better or for worse, whether we find him alive or dead or don’t find him at all, we’ll pass on who helped and who hindered.” Rusty solemnly nodded his head. “There is a problem with sharing information on our part, though.”
Myers’ cheeks reddened, his already crimson proboscis brightened. “Go on,” he said.
I did. “Mr. Holloway made me commit to confidentiality on all aspects of the case.” I watched his face. He didn’t react. “Of particular concern to the parents was that the boy might be involved in illegal activities. They didn’t want their son to be found and, instead of returning home, exchange his current situation for a stay in the Jackson County Jail.” Myers’ head nodded almost imperceptibly.
“I fear that I’ve already said more than I should have, revealing the nature of our search for Beverly Cresto.” My lungs itched for a smoke, and my fingers died for something to do. “Do you mind if I smoke?” His hand waved dismissively.
I pulled my case out and offered him one—another dismissive gesture. Rusty accepted the offer. My match lit his and then mine. I breathed in a lung full and exhaled. Ah, the magic of nicotine. “Can you get us an interview with Miss Cresto?”
He sighed. “I’m working on it, but there are problems.”
I waited for him to go on, but he seemed content. “Go on,” I prompted.
His expression implied that whatever response he gave would be given at the expense of great gastric pain. The expression was as phony as a carnival barker’s come-on. “Miss Cresto is an important part of a joint investigation of organized crime. She is in great peril.”
“I see. What can you tell me about the investigation? And how would our speaking with her jeopardize it?” I already knew the answer. He was about to clam-up.
“As to the former, I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”
“And the latter? Our questions shouldn’t affect their investigation or reveal anything they want to remain in confidence. We’ve already agreed to allow your detectives to be present.”
His expression changed. It appeared that he wore a smile. “How do I word this?” Myers looked to the ceiling for an answer. “It seems the lead investigator, a detective from Detroit, has taken a fancy to the girl.”
“Fancy?” Rusty said.
“Yes, a romantic fancy. He has become both her guardian and her lover.”
“You talking about Harman?” I said.
The smile turned quizzical. “Yes, Detective Harman.”
The picture I had in my noggin of Harman was not a favorable one. Not just his chubby facial features and the greasy black hair parted down the middle, but his arrogance—and there was his wing-tipped shoe swinging toward my head. Add to that picture an attractive, young local girl in bed with him made the image even more distasteful.
“And as lead investigator, he believes that it’s not in the best interest of his case or the girl’s well-being to allow you to speak to her. But I’m working on him. He and his investigation team will meet for an update later this afternoon.” Myers folded his hands on his desk as if he was about pray. “I plan to emphasize to him that he may be present during the interview and that he may terminate it if at any time the interview jeopardizes his work.
“Or his twist’s put-out,” Rusty said.
Myers darkened. Before he could speak, I interjected “You must understand, Chief, from our vantage point there should be no reason why we cannot ask questions that she doesn’t have to answer. My pal here wonders if the Detroit detective might be thinking with his groin.”
“You may be right,” Myers said, to our incredulity. “Let me work on him this afternoon and I’ll call you.”
Rusty wrote his home phone number on his business card and handed it to Myers, and I did the same. Myers looked at the cards and opened his middle desk drawer.
“But call him first,” Rusty said pointing to me. “He’s the one making the big dough here.”
We started to rise and the chief held up his hand. “One more thing, boys, have you considered that the kid might have gotten sucked into the mob war?”
Of course we had, but I didn’t let on. I wanted to see where he’d go with it.
“Mob war?”
“Yeah, it’s my understanding that Tom Jr. was pretty tight with the younger generation of Irish mobsters. Could be that he’s gotten himself involved, maybe killed or held for ransom.”
Myers thought a moment. “Say, there haven’t been any ransom demands have there?” He rubbed his nose with his right hand and checked to make sure it wasn’t wet. Apparently, it was, for it disappeared under his desk.
“No, there haven’t,” I said. “And this is the last time I’ll answer that question without direct authorization from Mr. Holloway to involve the police.”
“Fair enough. But remember, I want to help in any way you’ll let me.”
“I’ll remember that, sir. Get me that confab with Beverly Cresto.” I stood, and Rusty followed my lead. Reaching over the desk, I shook hands with Myers, hoping he’d already wiped it on something.
“I’ll try these phone numbers on your cards after our three o’clock meeting,” Myers said as we walked away. Myers still stood there watching us as we reached the end of the hallway and rounded the corner.
“What’d you make of that?” I asked Rusty in the parking lot.
“Either that was someone disguised as Myers, or the Chief has found religion.”
“So he sounded square to you, too?”
“Yeah.” Rusty opened his car door. “But I don’t trust him.”
“I hear you, pal.”
Rusty and I agreed to meet at the Chesterfield around eight. He was off to chat with Nat Simpson, his jewelry caper surveillance spy. We said “so long” and I headed back to the office.
The match was in its place between the door and the frame. Even so, I opened it cautiously, ready for action. Dust motes swirled in sunlight streaks from the windows above 10th street, nothing more.
At my desk, I poured a glass of Jim Beam, lit a Lucky and relaxed. The headache had disappeared. I thought about Myers. He seemed on the level, and his reasons for wanting to help rang true. But that didn’t mean there weren’t members of the force that wished young Tom ill. I would take all the help I could get from Myers. But I’d keep my cards hidden.
Basie at the Chesterfield might give me a chance to talk to Palmisano, if he showed. I wondered what role the kid had in Palmisano’s organization. And I wondered if Palmisano gave the kid the fancy car. If so, why? If not, the kid must have done something pretty impressive to come up with the dough. If I was laying money down, I’d bet the Black Hand was involved in Tommy’s disappearance. I also figured, if Tommy had been harmed as a turncoat by the Irish mob, and the Black Hand knew of it, they would have already made that widely known.
Would Palmisano even talk to me? If he showed, I’d find out.
I figured Basie at the Chesterfield might draw other moths to the light. Beverly Cresto and her Detroit cop boyfriend. That would be interesting. Colleen Holloway might be there. What would I do if she were? Would I ask her to dance and take her home with me? Maybe she’d show up with a date. That would simplify things, and help keep my head in the game. Or would it? The phone rang.
Its ring startled the shit out of me. It was Dominic.
Dominic told me he had a call from his connection in the KCPD. The source reported that the department had identified one of the two charred bodies found following the warehouse fire. The corpse was Bennie Bengough, an independent contractor from Detroit who had performed jobs for the mob there. In Detroit, he specialized in burglary, second story stuff. But he also dabbled in strong-arm work and the occasional hit. Dominic’s informant told him that lately Bengough had taken a shine to arson for fun and profit.
“Why KC?” I asked Dominic.
“My guy had no more knowledge on the subject. Except, my guy said, the police had no evidence that he’d ever worked here or had even been here before.”
The line was silent. “Dom?”
“Yeah? I’m here. Just thinking. Suppose that’s why your Detroit dick is in town?”
“Could be,” I said.
I suggested Dominic poke around some. Might be a story in it. And I asked him to rattle my cage if he learned anything more. Once Dominic hung up, I threw down the rest of my drink and ground out my long-ashed cigarette.
I pushed my chair back from the desk and swiveled back and forth, dragging my foot. Interesting news. A Detroit bad-guy in town burning down mob warehouses. Was that why Harman and Patterson were working a joint investigation? What were they investigating? Or maybe Harman was crooked as a coat-hanger and our firebug, Bennie, came at his behest. Maybe Bennie was doing a job for Harman.
“Okay, Phil, put on your thinking cap,” I said aloud. If Harman was here investigating some kind of mob war that involved the Detroit mob and the KC Italian mob, then Lazzeri and his minions must finish squashing Mike Leary’s Irish or fight on two fronts. But what if Bengough was here working for a crooked Harman? What would that mean?
If Harman was dirty, then so was Patterson. Or else Patterson was incredibly dense and gullible, which rested well within the range of possibility. Let’s say Harman’s dirty. Why, and for whom does he work? I came up with two possibilities: most likely, Harman had nestled himself into the pocket of the Detroit mob. They wanted the Black Hand weakened or destroyed. And this might be only the beginning of a regional struggle for supremacy.
Or maybe Bengough and/or Harman worked independently of the Detroiters. They might have been working strictly for someone here. The beleaguered Irish mob leaped out as the obvious answer. That would most likely mean that Patterson had jumped into local Irish pockets.
Where did that leave Beverly Cresto? It seemed evident that she was in bed with Harman and whatever shenanigans he was up to. I smiled at the thought and wished Rusty sat across from me so I could drop my clever double-entendre on him. Alas, the only one there left to appreciate my steel-trap humor was the humorist himself. So Cresto knows something important, maybe about Tommy Holloway. The two detectives don’t want that information getting out and kept her under their protection. What did she know about Tommy?
Maybe Tommy discovered the game Harman and the firebug were up to. And Cresto was a part of that game—a black widow—and told Harman the kid was about to spill the beans to Palmisano. Then Tommy would need silencing. Either until the game had been played, or permanently.
I picked up the phone. “Rusty? It’s Phil. Just got some interesting news.”
“Not as interesting as mine. I was just about to call you.”
“Just got a call from Albert Garvey. The kid’s Stutz is back.”
“I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes,” I said.
“Wait, what’s your news?”
“It’ll wait,” I said and I hung up the phone.
I pulled up in front of Garvey & Son twelve minutes later. The fall breeze blew strong and warm and the wet that a guy feels clinging to him without actually becoming damp. Clumpy gray clouds flew by headed for St. Louis. The day had turned the kind of blustery that signals storms brewing. Rusty arrived a few minutes later. This time I made sure I leaned against my Plymouth with my watch open.
He circled around his car, glanced at my theatrics and said, “You were early.”
Both Garveys, Albert and his father, Ned, had their heads under the hood of a Ford flatbed as we entered. Without looking, Albert held his arm out and said, “Be right with you fellas.” I could see the Stutz sparkling in the last space by the back garage door. I nodded toward the Stutz and Rusty accompanied me to the back of the garage.
We examined the exterior and peeked inside—nothing hinky, no weapons, blood, nothing.
“Help you, fellas?” Next to the flatbed, Albert rubbed his greasy hands on a rag, and then on his coveralls. “Oh, hello, didn’t know it was you.” He handed the rag to his father who began his own rubbing. “Dad, these are the detectives I told you about.
“We don’t want no trouble,” Ned Garvey said.
I walked toward them, my arms at my sides, palms open toward them. “That’s okay, Mr. Garvey. We’re not looking to make any. We’re not exactly detectives. My associate and I are private investigators looking to help a family find their missing son.”
“These are the guys I told you about, Dad. They’re only trying to help Mr. Holloway find his son.” Albert set himself between me and his old man. “Dad, this is Mr. Morris and—I forget your name.”
“It’s Rusty Callahan, sir; pleased to meet you.” Rusty offered his hand.
Ned Garvey looked at us like we carried Bubonic. He left Rusty’s hand hanging. “I told the boy here,” nodding his head at Albert, “when that kid first brought the car around. I told him don’t you take that boy’s car. He’s bad news and it’ll come to trouble sure enough.”
“Well, sir, we’re not trouble, I assure you. Just looking for a missing kid.” If I had worn a hat, I would have taken it off and held it with both hands at my waist, as a sign of supplication. As it was, I clasped my hands there as if I was about to bend my head in prayer. “We’d like to ask you a few questions,” I said, gentle as a whisper.
The father looked at the son; anger streaked from his eyes, pummeling Albert again and again. Albert adopted my pose, only he did bow his head.
“Goddamn it, son, I told you. I told you this was trouble. All you saw was money, easy money.” Garvey stomped his foot on the concrete and Albert’s head snapped up. “No such thing, boy, no such thing.”
Rusty and I exchanged glances.
Properly chagrined, Albert spoke with a voice as pale and thin as skim milk, “Ask your questions, Mr. Morris.”
“Were you here when the car was returned?”
“Yes, we both were,” Albert said, his father next to him, a smoking volcano ready to erupt.
“Did Tom Junior drop it off?”
The volcano erupted. “No, goddamn it, a couple of hoodlums did! Some fat-ass Palooka sat in the alley and honked his horn like we ran some kind of valet parking service.”
The old man was just getting started. “I told my boy, ‘Don’t you dare open that door. Let him do it for himself.’” Ned stared at the boy, his supply of armaments spent. But Albert had shrunk two inches. “The prick kept honking, and then my yellow-striped skunk of a son opened the door.”
“You said ‘a couple of hoodlums.’ Were there two in the car?” Rusty asked.
“No, the pudgy one drove the kid’s car in, and some other red-hot pulled up and parked a Packard in the alley.”
“You get a look at the guy in the alley?” I asked.
“Sure!” the old man’s arms flew around his head like unknotted balloons. “The two of them stood side-by-side, suits bulging with guns. Told us to keep our traps shut.”
Before I could ask another question, the old man went on. “Then my brainless boy here asks them where is Tommy Holloway? I thought they were going to shoot us both right there.” The father Garvey smacked the son with his shop rag twice before the son ducked and covered.
“What’d they say to that?” I asked.
“The short guy with the mashed-in nose reaches into his coat. I was waiting for the gun and the bullets, but he slides out a wallet and then slips two sawbucks to my feather-brained son. He says, ‘the Holloway kid won’t be needing the car for a while,’ and they both laugh.”
The older Garvey pointed at the Stutz. “So you fellas take the damned car. Get it out of here. I want to be done with it.”
“Dad …”
“Shut up! Not a word, boy.” Albert looked lost, like he wanted to climb into the flatbed’s engine compartment. He kept his eyes down, examining his work boots.
I broke the tension. “Mr. Garvey, can you describe them?”
“Sure. The guy in the kid’s car was about six feet. He was soft and overweight and looked like his body had been filled to the neck with mashed potatoes. Had his hat tilted back and it looked like he could have been bald on top. And his lips. They were pink, so pink it looked like he might be wearing lipstick.”
“The shorter one?”
“Guy was really short, at least eight inches shorter than the other goon. Kept his hat pulled way down low and cocked it to the side. He was one ugly son of a bitch with cold, gray eyes. Looked like he’d enjoy killing us.”
“Any accents?”
“None that I could tell. Al?”
“Huh?”
“Man asked a question,” the father said.
“You told me to shut up.”
“Goddamn it, boy. Grow a backbone. Answer the man.”
“Didn’t sound like they was from around here,” Al whispered. “Up north, maybe.”
I looked at Rusty. “Anything else?”
“Nope,” he said.
“Mr. Garvey, Albert, thank you for your help.” I handed Ned Garvey a ten-spot. “Mr. Holloway will be very grateful when he hears of your cooperation. I’m sorry that we can’t take the car right now, but mind if we have a look around inside?”
Still looking at the Hamilton in his hand, he waved the other in a “go ahead” arc. We gave the Stutz the once-over and found almost nothing. Rusty lifted a box of matches from the floor on the driver’s side. The box’s cover showed an artist’s rendering of the Valencia Hotel, a once proud, now somewhat seedy hotel in the river bottoms a few blocks north of the stockyards. Back in wilder cow town days, the Valencia was the place for cattle barons to stay. The money and that type of clientele migrated to the top of Quality Hill long ago.
We thanked the Garveys again and asked them to call if anyone came for the car. Ned Garvey had become strangely docile with the ten-dollar pacifier in his hand. Outside Rusty and I stopped in front of my car.
“Interesting, huh?” I said.
Rusty popped a cigarette between his lips and lit it. “Yeah, sounds like your shovel-faced shadow.”
“Yep.”
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Rusty asked.
“Maybe. I’m thinking Flat Face has done something with the kid. I’m thinking somebody’s paying him to do it. I’m thinking we’re not looking for the kid anymore. We’re looking for his body.”
“And his killers,” Rusty said.
“And the brains behind them. That was part of the original deal. Old man Holloway said that if I discover that the boy has been demised, then he also wanted me to identify the demisors.”
“What now?”
“Let’s run over to the Valencia in my car. We’ll have a chat with the front desk.”
The Valencia still held on to the pretense that they were a fine hotel. They still employed a doorman decked out in a slightly dowdy red and black pseudo-military uniform, complete with faded gold epaulets. The man slumped against the entryway with a bored look until he saw we were stopping. Before Rusty reached for his door handle, the man grabbed the outside and pulled it open.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Will you require a valet to park your vehicle?”
“No thanks; we aren’t staying,” Rusty said.
The guy looked genuinely crestfallen. Nonetheless, he hustled back and held the entrance door for us. I nodded my thanks, he returned the nod rather gravely.
Approaching the front desk we saw only the top of a head bearing slicked down dark hair, parted in the middle. Our heels clicking on the dingy marble brought the hair’s owner into full view. Its owner had been seated on a stool flipping through a Saturday Evening Post, which he hurriedly stowed underneath the counter, and donned his front desk clerk’s smile.
“May I help you, gentlemen? Two rooms perhaps?”
Rusty gave him the news that we wouldn’t want rooms, while I produced the photo of Tom Holloway Jr.
He only looked at it for a moment, then handed it back. “Sure, I’ve seen this guy. He visits a lady staying here.”
“Lady?” Rusty and I chorused.
“Yeah, a classy blonde. Been here a couple of weeks.”
Rusty and I looked at each other. “She got a name?” Rusty said.
The man looked sorrowful. “I’m sorry, sir. We’re not allowed to share that information about our guests.”
“Are you allowed to give physical descriptions?” I said sliding a dollar bill across the counter.
His eyes rested on the lonely bill and then his hand covered it. “Young, long blond hair, very attractive, nice accoutrements.” He said the fancy word with the even fancier French pronunciation.
Rusty leaned forward, his elbows on the counter. He slapped another dollar down but kept his hand over it. “They let you change facial expressions here?” The clerk offered a quizzical look. “Might her name be Beverly Cresto?”
The clerk’s eyebrows shot up and he sucked in a large breath. Rusty stood back up straight and left the bill. It wasn’t there long.
“See, that wasn’t so hard,” I said. “The young man in the photo is Tom Holloway’s son.” Another look of surprise.
“And he’s gone missing.”
The clerk turned solemn. “You cops?”
“Private investigators working for Mr. Holloway.”
“How can I help?”
“Just a few more questions. Would you say that the young man in the photo was romantically involved with your guest?”
He shook his head. “Oh, no, sir.”
“Call me Phil, Phil Morris.”
“How do you do? Gavin Kinder at your service.” He offered his hand and I shook it. Gavin had a nice firm grip.
“No? They weren’t involved?” Rusty asked.
“No. Miss Cres … our guest has a boyfriend, also staying here.”
Rusty grinned. “But you can’t give us his name either.”
Gavin also smiled and said nothing.
“Name wouldn’t be Harman would it?” I asked.
Gavin nodded vigorously. “I’m sorry I’m not at liberty to say.” He chuckled at his own clever response.
“Can you tell us if either of them are in their rooms right now?”
“You would have to be more specific before I could answer such a question.”
Rusty nodded instantly, a bit quicker on the uptake than me. “Gavin,” Rusty said, “are either Mr. Harman or Miss Cresto up in their rooms right now?”
Gavin grinned like the young girl in the Pepsodent ads—all teeth—then turned around and looked at the clock behind him, which showed ten-till-five. “I’ve only been here since four, and I haven’t seen either of them. Coming or going.”
I pulled a wad of bills from my pocket and slid off the clip. “I don’t suppose you could reveal what rooms they’re staying in.”
“Save your money,” he said. “I’d be fired on the spot if I did that.”
“If you got caught doing that,” Rusty said for clarification.
Gavin shook his head. “No way would I risk it, gentlemen. I can’t tell you if one of them stays in 623 and the other in 612, or in any of our other currently occupied rooms.”
We all grinned at that. Rusty continued. “And even if we knew which two rooms they occupied, you couldn’t reveal which room was Miss Cresto’s.”
“That is correct. But I could offer a casual observation.”
“Offer away,” I said.
Gavin placed both hands on the counter and leaned forward. “Isn’t it funny how many of our more self-important male customers always demand a corner room.”
We took the stairs, and, with every step, I was reminded of the beating I took. At the landing for the fourth floor, we stopped and lit smokes.
I took a long drag of the Lucky, my sore ribs exclaiming their protest. “Sore?”
“Maybe,” Rusty said. “You?”
I chuckled. “Maybe. You got your lock-picking hardware?”
“Does Goldilocks like porridge?”
I thought about that for a moment, running the childhood story through my head. “Yeah, but she’s pretty finicky about how it’s served.” We headed up the last two flights.
The hotel was L-shaped and the sixth-floor door opened at one end. That part of the hallway was empty. The two corner rooms were 601 and 602. The numbers got larger as we approached the bend in the L. The door for 610 had glasses and dishes on the floor next to it. We turned the corner.
Room 612 stood immediately to my left. At the far end of the hall, a man sat on a chair facing us. He had been reading the Star. He folded the paper and dropped it next to him. “Help you fellas?”
I stopped, Rusty beside me. “Just looking for a room,” I said.
“Your friends ain’t staying in this wing of the hotel.”
“And you would know—?
He slid his hand inside his jacket. “Security. Private security. This wing’s private and the folks staying here aren’t entertaining guests. Okay, fellas?”
Rusty’s body language told me that it wasn’t okay and that we were moments away from conflagration. “Sorry,” I said. “We must have the wrong floor.” I touched Rusty’s shoulder and turned to go. A second or two later, he followed.
On the stairs, I told him that it wasn’t the time for a dust-up. We might stake the place out on Sunday and try to catch her coming or going, hopefully without Detective Harman. Rusty admitted that his itch for payback had him nursing a hairpin trigger.
I dropped him at his car in front of Garvey and Son. We agreed to meet at the Chesterfield Club and we’d poke around there. Maybe some more of Tommy’s pals would be there.
“Okay, I’ll be there around nine,” Rusty said, which meant he would arrive at precisely nine.
Ten minutes later I was home, but before I could get in the building, Mrs. Potter came running out of her ground-floor with her arms full. She wore her overcoat and a funny looking smile.
“I know that you’re very busy, Philip. But you must keep your strength up.”
She carried a bread pan in her right arm like a football player carries the ball. Her left arm kept her bulging overcoat closed. The sun had already dropped below the trees on Paseo Boulevard and the scent of impending rain lurked. She held out her right arm and the delicious odor of fresh-baked meatloaf slathered in tomato sauce joined the smell of rain.
“You’re too good to me, Mrs. Potter.”
She frowned, her hands folded underneath the bulge in her overcoat. “I’ve told you before, young man, it’s Lucille.”
I grinned. “You’re too good to me, Lucille.” I lifted the cloth and took a big whiff.
Her exasperation changed to something more maudlin. “Philip, you remind me so much of my boy Robbie.”
“Killed at Verdun, right? He must have been a really good kid.”
She sighed. “He was. And you’re a really good boy too, but whether you know it or not, a lonely one. I wish you would find a good girl and marry her.
“You need someone, Philip.” The maudlin look transitioned into a devilish one. “And that’s why I brought her to you.”
“Huh?”
She nimbly opened her coat and produced a German shepherd pup.
I almost dropped the meatloaf.
“I know, I know, you said you didn’t want another, at least not now. Her name is Sally and she’s seven weeks old, and I’ll keep her anytime you want.” Her words came out fast, as if they were rehearsed.
“And I’ll give you a key to my back entrance. If I’m not home and you need to leave Sally, there’s a big box with water and bedding. You can put her there. Anytime. I’m serious, Philip, anytime night or day.”
How do you say no to that? She held the pup out to me and I took it in my other arm, cradling her downy stomach. Her little legs dangled. She was fluffy and beautiful and she licked my face like it was smeared with meatloaf. There’s something indescribably sweet about puppy breath.
“Thanks, Lucille. I mean it.” And I did mean it. Sammy meant a lot to me and he was only two days dead. There will never be another Sammy. But there would be room inside for another dog someday, and this one licked my face with the enthusiasm of one who knew that day was today.
“Hello, little girl. How you doing?” She licked her reply.
I told Mrs. Potter … told Lucille, that I would be going out later this evening on business and might be out late. She insisted that I take Sally up and show her around, and then drop her off when I left. Lucille would keep Sally for the night.
I started for the door.
I turned. “Yes?”
“Once you get Sally settled and we get her house trained, then we’ll find you a good girl to marry.”
And she meant it too. “One thing at a time, Lucille.”
The meatloaf was tasty. Sally and I both enjoyed it. She clawed at my leg for more than the few morsels provided. She didn’t seem too interested in Sammy’s dry dog food. Eventually, she would learn to lay patiently nearby and wait for any manna that heaven might provide. Once I had my fill we went outside to take care of business. A cold, light rain had begun, the kind that brings shivers without really getting you very wet, the kind that slinks under clothing and chills marrow.
Give me a loud, pretentious storm with buckets of rain running off the bill of your hat. A guy knows what he’s getting and can gird himself. Sally didn’t seem to mind, though. She scampered around the postage stamp lawn sniffing everything until she found just the right spot to squat. I gave her a few more minutes to explore then called her to the door.
I let her climb the stairs up to the second floor. She struggled mightily but pressed on with occasional glances back to make sure I wasn’t lagging behind. At the landing, I scooped her up and told her what a good girl she was. The rain had beaded on the tips of her fur. Down deep she was as dry as one of Rusty’s martinis.
In my bedroom, Sally explored while I stripped down and opened the closet. I grabbed some nightclub duds and tossed them on the bed, then sniffed my armpits and walked across the hall to the bath where my pits were tamed with Mum deodorant. I added a pinch of cologne under the jaw.
When I got back to the bedroom, Sally aggressively chewed on the toe of one of my old oxfords. She got her first scolding, earned and given. I dressed in my near-new black suit, went back to the bathroom and checked myself in the mirror while Sally returned to the main room to explore. Not bad, some wrinkles around the eyes and the small scar that interrupted my left eyebrow—the product of a whiskey bottle whacking from a jilted lover case a decade ago. And then there were the lumps and bruises. My hair showed no gray yet, and it had begun to evolve from summer blond to winter’s dusty brown. I smiled—good teeth. Maybe I would get me a tuxedo after the case was over.
I tucked the pocket watch into my vest pocket—the watch my dad got for 25 years on the Emporia Police force—and made sure the chain hung just right. For a moment, I wondered why I was getting so gussied up, preening like a peacock. This was a business trip to a jazz club. But I already knew the answer.
Sally had been busy while I admired my mug, leaving a tiny pile of semi-solid poop in one corner and a puddle of urine in another, both a good distance from my mother’s old braided rug. I guess that’s the difference between males and females. When Sammy was a pup he selected the same centrally located bull’s eye on the rug’s braids. Sally suffered the ignominious act of having her nose pressed to her leavings, and her second scolding.
With the pup in one arm and my raincoat draped on the other, I headed out the door and around to Mrs. Potter’s. I hoped Lucille would begin Sally’s education while I was out, and I’d retrieve her tomorrow morning fully house trained. A guy can dream, can’t he?
I rolled up to the Chesterfield Club about eight-fifty. Someone had just pulled out of a spot right across the street, and I slipped in. The rain had lightened to drizzle, so I draped my trench coat over my shoulder and crossed Vine. The Jazz district’s copious neon was multiplied by its reflection in the wet pavement. Its bright colors shot me back to my boyhood when the Hale’s Show of Tomorrow carnival used to camp out on the Emporia fairgrounds every July. That night we had our own carnival of color glistening there on the Vine Street pavement.
I checked my hat and coat at the door. Inside, the crowd had shown up early for Count Basie. Rusty, uncharacteristically early, sat alone in the far corner with his back to the wall. His gaze moved around but he didn’t see me come in. I walked to the bar and ordered two Jim Beams on the rocks.
Rusty nodded my way as I approached. I slid over one of the Beams and sat next to him so I could see the whole place.
“What we got?” I asked.
“Two of the kids on your man Hannerty’s list are sitting over there.”
“Where?”
“Over there by the dance floor, there with the two chesty brunettes.”
“Talk to them yet?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Rusty raised his forefinger. He wanted me to hold off. So I did. He threw down his drink, then asked me if I had talked with Palmisano, and I gave him the quick run-down of my visit north of the river. Rusty nodded his head but didn’t say anything, not about Palmisano, not about the boys with the brunettes, nothing. Rusty was running some kind of game on me. He had that “I know something you don’t” smirk.
But I do know Rusty, and I knew he wanted me to question and probe; he wanted to play a game of Yes and No. Wearing that grin, he gazed up at the chandelier. I wouldn’t bite, though; instead of asking if what he thought of was bigger than a breadbox, I played my own game of who blinks first. I looked up at the chandelier too, pretty swanky, enough fake jewels to cover a hundred women’s collarbones. And then I ignored him and allowed my eyes to wander.
The whole place belied the outside reality of a world in depression. Inside, the Chesterfield Club was a refuge for those who still had the dough to forget about life outside—the best food, and now legal high-class booze, the best jazz acts and opulent decor. Oak wainscoting set off by an intricately carved, contrasting mahogany chair rail lined the room. The walls above the rail were papered in burgundy velvet. Doric support columns looked straight out of a Grecian temple. The hardwood dance floor transitioned into a floor of polished white marble in the rest of the place. The marble made everyone sound as if they wore tap shoes. Tables were dressed out in white linen, the real deal. The place was just short of garish. And the male serving staff wore swanky tuxedos while the serving ladies traipsed around in either black or white silk flapper dresses, complete with high-dive, plunging necklines. Made a guy feel important just sitting there.
I gazed around at the people, starting with Tommy’s friends. They looked young and self-important, putting on show for their ladies. They weren’t among the kids we saw at Mickey’s Tavern. The place was nearly full an hour before Basie took the stage. I recognized a lot of the faces, Kansas City’s movers and shakers, some of the same faces that had graced the front rows of the Bryant-Shull fight.
Rusty had finished his examination of the chandelier and now had his eyes on me. He still wore the shit-eating grin, and his look moved to the crowd as if he were directing mine to follow. His head turned toward the door. I swiveled that way to see who had just come in. Nobody. But nearby, in the opposite corner from our table, the corner nearest the front door, I spotted what Rusty’s game was about.
Tony Palmisano and his entourage occupied two tables there. Palmisano sat at a table across from a man with his back to me. With them were two girls, both real lookers. At a smaller adjacent table-fortwo sat my friends Mutt and Jeff, the ones I met north of the river two days earlier. Mutt, the big one, had spotted me too. His gaze scanned the room but kept revisiting our table. I turned back to Rusty.
“Small world, huh?” Rusty’s expression had changed.
That it was. Palmisano’s presence dictated a social visit at some point. But I wanted to hear what Rusty had to say; that is if he’d finished his game.
“What about Tommy’s pals over there?”
Rusty nodded his head towards them. “See the pudgy one, the one with a cigarette in his lips?”
“Yeah.”
“He was at the Krazy Kat the night Tommy and Cresto met up with Marty Connors.”
“Oh yeah? And …”
“And he saw him there, Phil. Saw them at the Krazy Kat. With dates. He says they only stuck around for a quick drink and then the two couples took off together.”
“What he say about the dame Tommy brought?”
“The kid didn’t know her, never seen her before. He said she was a knockout, long blond hair, and a nice figure.” Rusty lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew a streak of smoke at the chandelier.
“The pudgy kid said she was classy looking, classier than anything he’d ever taken out. Everyone at his table laughed when he told me that, and his brunette popped him on the arm, and whined that he never says anything nice like that about her.”
“Anything else?” I asked. Some stagehands were on the bandstand setting up for Count Basie.
“Nope, that’s all he had.”
A waitress cloaked in flimsy, fringy white arrived and asked if we wanted a menu. Rusty looked at me and I shook my head. Then he pondered while the waitress violently chewed her wad of gum.
“Just bring me a club sandwich, and we’ll have a couple of Jim Beams on the rocks.”
The server nodded, snapped her gum and said, “Okay, boys, be right back.” She swirled around with an expertise that showed us a brief moment of panty—also white—then sauntered towards the kitchen.
“Nice,” Rusty said.
“Yep. Maybe I’ll order a sandwich when she gets back.” I tapped out a Lucky Strike, struck a match on my shoe and lit up.
“So what did the kid have to say about Tommy hanging around with Lazzeri mobsters?” I asked.
“The kid said that Tommy made a lot of his pals mad, especially those whose families were tied with Lazzeri’s Irish competitors. The kid said that Tommy had better watch himself or he might wake up one morning dead, if he isn’t already.”
I watched the kids work at impressing their dates. The doughy looking one that Rusty had spoken with didn’t look any older than fifteen. He wore an ill-fitted black tux that looked as if he’d raided his old man’s closet. Pudge waved a cigarette around as he spoke. His girl giggled and cooed, apparently entranced. Or maybe she was only entranced with the kid’s bank account.
“There is one more thing,” Rusty said.
“After I arrived, as I was sitting down, a couple three tables over got up and headed for the door. It was our friend, Detective Harman. He looked straight at me. No question, he saw me.”
“Oh, yeah, what’d you do?”
“Smiled and gave him the finger.”
I nodded. “Good for you. Patterson with him?”
Rusty shook his head in the negative. “A dame. A real looker. She fit our girl Cresto’s description.”
Interesting. I had no doubt that Harman would have identified Palmisano and his mob. If Harman wasn’t lead-footing it out of there when he saw them, then maybe Cresto isn’t in Dutch with the Black Hand. Why would he bring her out in public at all if she was in danger?
“Sure it was her?” I asked.
“No, Phil.” Rusty sounded exasperated. “I’ve never seen her before. The dame matched her description, young, long blond hair, gorgeous. That’s all.”
“I guess that was a stupid question.”
“That’s okay, I considered the questioner.”
Our white-clad waitress returned in no time with the goods. I gave her a fin, told her to keep the change and to keep an eye on our bourbon glasses. The big tip pleased her, and she showcased an even more accomplished swirl.
While Rusty devoured his sandwich—I hadn’t thought it possible to down the whole thing in four bites—I watched Palmisano and his attendants. The folks at the big table seemed to be having a grand time. But Mutt and Jeff were all business, eyes constantly moving, and I’d bet their glasses held Coca-Cola. I figured I better go have a chat with Palmisano before Basie took the stage. No sense in interrupting their enjoyment of the Count. Rusty belched and wished me luck.
I stood, felt the comfort of my .38 tucked at the small of my back, and strolled across the place, my heels clicking on the marble. The observant ones spotted me coming. Once I got near, Mutt stood and made to intercept me while Jeff walked over to his boss, bent down and spoke to him. Still twenty feet away, Mutt stopped me with a hand on my chest.
“I’d remove that hand if I were you, friend.”
He had three inches and thirty pounds on me, but apparently he also had some brains because he removed the hand while remaining in my path. “Mr. Palmisano don’t want to see you, Mr. Morris. And if you don’t want more trouble than you can handle, you’ll walk away.”
I didn’t try to get around him. I tried reason. “I only want a few minutes of his time. I would like to ask him some questions on behalf of Mr. Holloway. Ask him if he’ll talk to me.”
“It ain’t happening. Turn around or I’ll turn you around.”
We approached an impasse that might have led to an impressive conflict; I know I had my doubts about the outcome. But it wasn’t to be this time. A voice from behind called out.
“Sal, bring Morris over here.”
The big guy looked over his shoulder. “Sure thing Mr. Palmisano.” He accompanied me to the table. And when we arrived, he said to Palmisano, “He’s got a rod in the back of his belt under his coat, boss.”
“That’s okay, Salvatore, I don’t think he plans to use it.” He turned to the girl next to him. “Peg, don’t you have to powder your nose?”
“No, Tony, I’m fine.”
“No, Peg, I think your nose needs powder. Cindy, why don’t you help?”
Taking the cue, Cindy popped out of her seat. “Come on, Peg.” The girls took their leave.
“Have a seat, Morris,” Palmisano said, pointing to the one Peg had occupied. I sat.
I didn’t recognize the fella across the table, and Palmisano didn’t offer an introduction. Mutt and Jeff had reclaimed their seats. They both kept their eyes pasted on me, and Jeff’s hand disappeared inside his coat and stayed there. Palmisano lit a cigarette and I carefully reached inside my coat with just two fingers for my cigarette case—no sense dying for a smoke. I tapped one out of the pack.
“Forget the butt, Morris; you ain’t gonna be here that long. You want to ask about the Holloway kid. You got two minutes.”
I lit the Lucky anyway and took a big draw. “So tell me about the kid.” I watched his face for a tell, something that might give me a clue of what lay behind his words. Palmisano had heavy eyelids that drooped as if he needed sleep, but his milk chocolate brown eyes were sharp and alert, and they held no mirth. I wondered if they ever did.
Palmisano set his cigarette down in the ashtray and turned his chair to face me. “The Holloway kid tagged along with my mouthpiece and ran errands for him, and for me. He said he wanted to be a lawyer. And I figured the kid might be a good connection to the father.”
“Depends.”
“On what?” he asked.
“On what became of him and what part you had in it.” For a moment his brows straightened, his eyes only tiny slits.
“Look, Morris, to me he was just a silver-spoon brat who might be useful. Whoever done whatever to the kid, it wasn’t me or my associates.”
“Any idea whoever did whatever?” I asked.
He crushed out his butt and flipped his hands in the air. “Okay, we’re done here. Boys?” The two goons stood. “Show this bum back to his table.”
I got to my feet and held out my hands. “That’s okay, gentlemen. I know my way.”
As I slid my chair back to the table, Palmisano got off a parting shot, “I don’t want to see you around anymore, Morris.”
“Funny,” I said. “I’ve been getting a lot of that lately.”
Back at our table, I gave Rusty the gist of our brief conversation while some folks completed set-up for the orchestra. Basie would begin soon.
“You think he’s on the level?” Rusty said.
“Don’t know. Something wasn’t right. It seemed like he told me what he did just to get me off his back.”
“Sound rehearsed?”
“Yeah, Russ, it did. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t true. Might not be the whole truth, though.”
“And nothing but the truth so help him God?”
I didn’t respond. What Palmisano told me probably was true, and it made sense up to a point. But if the kid worked for him and ran errands, he probably made collections. And Palmisano’s attorneys may be licensed to practice law, but that wasn’t all they practiced. When somebody signed a contract with them, that somebody knew that a failure to perform contractual obligations wouldn’t bring a lawsuit, but rather a redress a little more excruciating.
So chances were that Tommy was up to his chin in New World Import business. And then there was the car.
It seemed like Palmisano should have felt a little more upset if Tommy vanished. Unless he knew where Tommy was, and knew that his “import” business secrets were safe. Normally I’d put a tail on a guy with those kind of ties to a missing person. But putting a tail on Tony Palmisano would be like tailing a pack of hungry wolves through their own woods. I’d have to think on that.
“So what now?” Rusty asked.
“Let’s listen to some jazz.” We clinked glasses and drained them.
Basie knew how to swing, and his orchestra was really tight, like they’d all grown up playing together. After a while, though, I only half listened. The more I thought about it, the more Palmisano’s involvement with the kid seemed to hold the key.
Was Beverly Cresto tied in with Palmisano too in some way? Maybe she and Tommy had discovered something about Lazzeri’s Black Hand mob, or Palmisano individually. That might explain why the asshole detectives were keeping Cresto cocooned. How should Rusty and I proceed to avoid Mutt and Jeff or the rest of the Sicilian mob taking us on a one-way boat ride down the Missouri River?
Not once did I think about Colleen Holloway until right before Basie’s 11:30 break. But when the orchestra swung into the opening strains of the Gershwin brothers’ But Not for Me, the memory of our dance pushed every other thought away. I felt her body pressed against mine. The scent of her perfume, and of her, filled my nostrils. I had it bad, and that wasn’t good.
The crooner seemed to look at me when he sang “I was a fool to fall and get that way.” A guy in my line gets his ticket punched if his head isn’t one hundred percent in the game. But I couldn’t help casing the place for her. I checked every table. Palmisano’s Peg sat up against him, her hand in his lap. Jeff wasn’t at the minion table, but Mutt sat with his eyeballs fixed on me. All around the room I scanned—no Colleen anywhere. Part of me was relieved. Part of me felt a hungry hollowness. When the guy crooned the song’s final lines, “Although I can’t dismiss, the memory of her kiss, I guess she’s not for me,” I determined his advice was sage. Remember the kiss; forget the dame.
When the orchestra returned around midnight, I told Rusty that I’d had enough for one day. He agreed and we finished our drinks and grabbed our hats and coats at the cloakroom. The hat-check lady glowed when we each gave her six bits.
Outside, rain pelted the street and we stood for a moment under the canopy. We agreed to meet at Nick’s for breakfast at 9:00. Rusty’s car waited in the lot on the corner, so he had twice as far to run. As we began our sprints, a car pulled out of a parking space a half-block away and headed our way. Fast. It fishtailed when the driver gave it too much gas. The headlights were turned off.
We were about half-way across Vine when I saw a man in a big-brimmed hat lean out the back window. He had something black and heavy-looking in his arms.
“Rusty!”
Rusty saw it too, and we both cleared the street and dove behind adjacent cars as the Tommy gun spat lead. The black sedan slowed and nearly stopped as the gunman emptied a thirty round clip. They missed me but peppered my Plymouth, and when he paused to slide in another clip I popped up and let him have it. My first round punched the door and the shooter let out a yelp, dropping his gun in the street. He collapsed in the seat or my second shot would have thumped his ear drum. The driver let loose a couple of rounds from a handgun that shattered my windshield, then took off lickety-split. Again the car fishtailed, and this time side-swiped a parked car before careening haywire up Vine. Rusty, while still on his knees, and I both emptied our weapons into the retreating sedan.
“You okay, Russ?”
“Yeah, you?”
The Chesterfield Club’s doorman called across to us that someone inside was calling the cops. He asked if we needed an ambulance. I said no.
Rusty approached and I saw his right arm hanging limp. Blood ran out of his sleeve and mixed with the rain on the sidewalk.
“It’s only a flesh wound,” he said. He held up his other arm. “Good thing I’m left-handed.” He dropped to his knees and vomited.
Across the street under the Club’s canopy people were gawking as a patrol car pulled up far too quickly to have responded to any phone call. I spotted Mutt standing in the crowd showing a mouthful of teeth. Rusty had finished vacating his belly but looked woozy. I knelt beside him.
The cops hopped out. One picked up the Tommy gun and placed it in the back seat of the patrol car while the other came our way. He had his gun drawn, and remembering what Holloway had said about the cops, I held onto mine.
“He okay? You need an ambulance?” The cop squatted in front of us.
Sitting on the curb, Rusty shook his head, but the blood-water mix running across the pavement looked to be fifty-fifty. “I’m going to take him,” I said.
The cop stood and holstered his pistol. “I need you to hang around until the detectives get here.”
“Sorry, pal; my friend here needs a doctor and I’m taking him. When your detectives show, tell them that I’m Phil Morris and this is Rusty Callahan. We’ll be at General Hospital on Locust.”
“I don’t know if I can allow you to leave. We’ll get your friend an ambulance.”
I wasn’t getting through to this guy. “Look, officer, Detective Chief Myers and I are pals. I worked on a case with him in his office just yesterday. He won’t mind.”
The cop wavered.
“In fact, Chief Myers will mind if Mr. Callahan suffers waiting for an ambulance. Tell your detectives I’ll be at General, and they can talk to me there.” I didn’t wait for a reply.
One look at the Plymouth told me it wasn’t going anywhere. Russ was lucid enough to see that as well. With his left hand, he held up his keys. I pocketed them, took off my overcoat and draped it over his head. He nodded but said nothing. I ran to the corner lot, got Rusty’s Chevrolet and brought it around. The officer sat on the curb next to Rusty holding my overcoat over his head. The other officer crouched in the street picking up shell casings.
We got Rusty into the passenger seat. As I got behind the wheel he gave me a weak smile.
“How you doing, buddy?”
“Okay. Feel tired.”
Blood drooled out of his sleeve onto his lap where he rested the arm, more blood than I’d seen in similar arm wounds. He had his eyes closed. At 17th Street, I pulled to the curb.
“I’m going to try to slow the bleeding.”
“Okay.” His eyes stayed shut.
I removed my belt, leaned over and slid it under his armpit. He grimaced, drew a clinched-teeth breath, and then held it as I cinched it the belt tight.
“Almost there,” I said as much to myself as to him.
Two detectives already waited at the entrance when we pulled up. Instinctively, I felt to make sure the .38 was still in my belt. Had I reloaded?
They approached the passenger side and opened the door. Before either opened his mouth, I said “He’s lost a lot of blood. Help me get him inside.”
They obliged. I didn’t have to worry about a cop gun in the ribs or a nightstick on the noggin with them helping me with Rusty. Both a nurse and doctor began treatment the moment we got him inside, which was not always the case after midnight on the weekends.
The detectives and I watched them cut away Rusty’s shirt. He was bone-white in the room’s bright light. The nurse removed my belt and blood rhythmically pumped out of a hole in his upper arm. Rusty did not wince or react at all. He remained still on the examining table, his eyes closed. The doctor examined the wound.
“Looks like the bullet went through his arm. There’s an exit wound here. But I’m afraid it may have clipped an artery, probably the ulnar collateral.” He wrapped a rubber cord around Rusty’s upper arm and tied it off. “Nurse Simms, prep this man for surgery. I’m sorry, gentlemen, you’ll have to wait in the lobby.”
Seated in the main waiting corridor, I got a verbal once over from the two detectives. After I explained what happened, gave them a description of the car and what I saw of the driver and the shooter, they wanted to know why someone would want to fill us with holes.
“That’s the two-dollar question,” I said. “I suggest that you look around for a black four-door sedan with bullet holes and body damage. And while you’re at it, look for a button man with a bullet hole and body damage. The guy slinging lead with the Thompson gun took one in the torso.” One detective scribbled away on a notepad. “And make sure that you tell Detective Chief Myers about our conversation. Tell him about the guy I shot and that I suggested he check the hospitals.”
The older detective gave me a bored nod.
“What cases are you currently working, Mr. Morris?” asked the pock-faced younger one, the one with the pad.
“I’m kind of in-between jobs now,” I said with a solemn face.
The young one deferred to the older one, who paused, gazing down at his hands folded in his lap—a bit of drama for my benefit. They knew something.
The older one, Sanderson I think his name was, brought his eyes up to mine. He wore the hint of a smile. “Heard you were working on the Holloway disappearance.”
“Tom Holloway disappeared?”
“The Holloway kid. Don’t get wise with me, son.”
“Don’t call me son and I won’t call you pops, pops.
That made him angry. “The son, Tom Holloway,” he said with his jaw clenched.
“Look, old man, Holloway asked me to see what kind of a bender his boy was on. Turns out he’s run off with a girl from the Plaza, probably partying in L.A.” For all I knew that could have been the truth.
The young one licked his pencil lead and scribbled away. “What’s the girl’s name?” He asked.
“Never got that far. The old man told me I’d dug up enough, that the kid would come home when he ran out of money.”
They looked at each other. Sanderson continued. “You were involved in a shooting on Wednesday and now this. It appears that somebody wants you dead.”
“Don’t forget that somebody broke into my flat on Tuesday.”
He cocked his head and looked at his partner. “Higgins?”
“No, Sam, I don’t know nothing about any break in.”
This would have been fun were the circumstances different, getting police dogs to chase their own tails. “Well, there you go, fellas! The guy I plugged on Wednesday broke into my apartment Tuesday evening. He killed my dog. I confronted him the next day, and he pulled a gun on me. It’s got nothing to do with tonight.”
I could see the older man wasn’t too pleased with my levity. He pushed on. “So who do you figure was involved in the shooting tonight? Might it have been friends of the man you killed Wednesday? Or have anything to do with your search for the kid?”
I threw my hands up like I held a long loaf of French bread between them. “Beats me.
“Look, fellas, I’ve got two full file cases in my office, and at least half of those files include someone who’s not pleased with the outcome of my investigation. My secretary will be in the office on Monday. If you fellas want to drop in and take a look, just come on by.”
“We might just do that,” the older one said.
I paused for a moment as the pock-marked guy wrote in his pad.
“But those are my personal business files, you understand. So make sure you bring a warrant.”
“Okay, wise guy, we’ll see you on Monday,” the older one said. The flatfoots stood, buttoned up their overcoats and donned their hats.
As they walked toward the exit, I offered a gentle reminder, “Don’t forget the warrant.” Sanderson held his middle finger aloft as they walked out into the rain.
As I sat waiting for news of Rusty, I replayed the day. Chief Myers knew about me sleuthing for Holloway. So did the detectives. Apparently so did the ones who tried to kill me. I wondered if there was anybody in KC who didn’t. Somebody in the family must have been wagging his or her tongue.
The Shea kid said that the man I shot in the alley by Nick’s had left Leary’s mob and not only freelanced but handled jobs for Lazzeri, which also meant for Palmisano. Palmisano said Tommy was an errand boy and nothing more. And Palmisano said that he had nothing to do with the kid’s disappearance and really wasn’t concerned about it. And then somebody tried to kill Rusty and me. There was something else.
I rewound our visit to the Chesterfield Club and the conversation with Palmisano. But once again my damned head circled around to Colleen Holloway. Was she the talkative one? Her eavesdropping story about how she already knew of my dog’s death could have been on the level. Or maybe she heard it from someone who was there—or she heard it from someone who gave orders to Hardy and the other rat who killed Sammy. Then it dawned on me what I had missed.
When my eyes roamed the joint for Colleen a few hours ago, Mutt sat there watching me. His pal Jeff was gone. And Jeff wasn’t under the canopy when the crowd showed for all of the excitement. He could have been in the gentlemen’s room. But, maybe he was in that car. Or maybe he had signaled to set it in motion.
A door opened down the hall. Our doctor stepped through the doorway, saw me and headed my way. I stood and waited.
“The bullet did nick the artery and we repaired the damage. It didn’t shatter any bones. He’s being given blood now. Your pal’s lost a lot of it.”
“So he’ll be okay?” I asked.
He nodded. “We’ll keep him for a few days. His hemoglobin is dangerously low. We need to get it back up and make sure there’s no infection. Probably release him on Tuesday or Wednesday if all goes well. Any family we should notify?”
“None here in town. Can I talk to him?”
“No, he’s in recovery and still under anesthesia. Come back tomorrow.”
I thanked the doc and made my way into a steady rain. A careful, look down both 17th and Locust made sure that no rat-a-tat Tommy gun surprises lurked. Rusty’s jalopy started on the first crank. I stroked my vest for the watch chain and noticed my clothes were stained with enough blood to make it seem I’d been shot. Dad’s watch showed it was almost three a.m. The weight of the day pressed down hard, and from eighteen blocks away my bed beckoned.