| |
Most of the time, all I want in the morning is quiet and coffee. Yards of coffee. Coffee that can take rust off of iron. Unadulterated, hot, black coffee.
~Lou Tanner, P.I., Notes for female Pemberton Graduates, 1935
––––––––
SIX DAYS LATER, AND nothing new appeared in the papers. They had one story and they were sticking with it. The gangster killed his moll. Open and shut case.
I didn’t buy it. And I wasn’t sitting around accepting it, either. A quick call to Marley sent her off on a quest to find out all that was knowable about Willkie Valentini’s businesses. I was following the money. Who would benefit if there wasn’t a Mrs. Valentini around? I had some ideas, but I needed facts.
I also needed more facts about Elliott Lockwood. Was there some aspect of his business that was affected? I’d done a cursory background on him, but after what he’d told me about the union business, I realized I needed more. Was someone in his company involved with Frannie or Irenie? The military connection? He was more of a mystery and I confess I wanted to be sure my infatuation wasn’t misguided.
I wasn't too surprised, but employees around Irenie’s residence had nothing new and juicy to share. Just the stuff I’d already found. No one thought Irenie belonged there.
The overall silence was impressive. I guess nobody wanted to lose their job, not till the economic welfare of the country improved.
There had been one exception, a chef hired on to supervise a Friday afternoon soiree, across the street and two houses down. He was the type that supervised more than cooked. Tall. Clad in white with the soufflé hat on his close-cropped hair. He barked orders with military precision and a thick Parisian accent. Cakes, boxes of Champagne, and trays of colorful hors d’oeuvres were being loaded in through the servant’s entrance.
I dressed for optimal success. Crisp suit of brown and crème wool. Not too feminine. Brown shoes, brown gloves, and a fedora in brown felt — Uncle Joe’s fedora. Overcoat of tan. And the unthinkable, no sling. I didn’t need to play the weakness card.
Frenchy the Chef didn’t even look at me when he told me to blow off, he had enough help. When I didn’t move, he tried turning his ire on me. Didn’t work. I flashed my badge with gusto. “Only in America,” he snarled, returning his attention to a crate of dead chickens, “can a dame get a dick’s license.” He obviously had learned some slang words though not how to use them, so I suspected he’d been here in the states at least a little a while.
“Yeah. Let’s hear it for the red, white, and blue, which are your colors too, by the way. I can make this easy and quick.”
“Why should I yap to you?”
“It’s me or the police. Your call.”
He slammed the lid down on the future coq au vin. “Fine. Make it quick.”
“Have you ever catered a salon up at the house at 1021 Vallejo Street?”
His eyes narrowed until I was sure he couldn’t see. His cheeks were red and his arms stiff. “You whacked? There is not enough lettuce to make me sling grease at that place!”
I tried not laughing at his ironic choice of idioms. “Why?”
“What are you, some dumb bunny? The dame of that creep house is a prime round heel. And a real pro. Those salons, nuthin’ but sex. Indecent, if you’re quizzing me. We all know the stories. She used her daughter like a bangtail when she got too old to get her own johnnie boys. The goose looked the other way until he finally moved out. Daisy. A dumb palooka. He married pretty Janes. What a rube. He got a ball-n-chain who’s jealous of her own child. Americans,” he spit out. “Those people up there need to croak each other or just drift off. That’s the crop. I cater to a respectable crowd.”
“I can tell by your superior command of the English language, you’re used to a better clientele.” All that slang he spewed, with a French accent too.
“Make tracks, broad.” He then realized he’d accidentally slammed the wing of one chicken in the lid. “Merde. Look, is that all you want?”
“That’s it. You've been very helpful.”
“That’s a house that gonna' need fumigated when they’re gone. Everyone be screwing everyone else.”
My heart pounded. “Husband too?”
Frenchy stopped to think for a moment. “No. But their friends are always taking advantage. I think the girl said no. Bet one of the Johnnie’s knocked her off.”
“That’s interesting.”
Now he was mad, and really, I tried to compliment his deductive reasoning. “That’s what happens when you cater to people from the other side of the Hill.” He waved in the direction of the Mark Hopkins Hotel and the Church. On the other side was a less expensive version of Nob Hill. “Now, go away. I have to get this properly prepared for respectable people.”
I didn’t argue.
He gave me what I wanted. I bet the Harrisons savvied more than they were sharing.
I didn’t have time to organize my thoughts when a sweet, silver sedan pulled up and out popped two goons. Needless to say, they were blocking my way.
The back window rolled down.
A man with a worn face and practiced sneer leaned forward for me to see.
Skates Berk.
“What’s a dame like you doing in a place like this?”
“Avoiding clichéd come-ons from drive-by gangsters.” God my shoulder hurt, and I was not in the mood to kick some fella’s ass, but I had a bad feeling I just might have too.
Bruno One was my height, a little heavy in the middle, and not carrying his heat under his arm. His knees bowed a little. Hit him in the knee cap, make it bend the wrong way, and he’d go down. A solid kick was my best move.
Bruno Two was big. Really big. I wouldn't be able to take him down. I noticed his shoulder holster bulk. If he wanted his heater, he had to pull it through an overcoat and a jacket. That would give me time to pull my rod and point it at Berk.
I hoped none of these were necessary options, but I came prepared.
“Wise ass bimbo. I like it. Bet you’re smart too.”
“So the rumors say.”
“Smart enough to take some free advice.”
I folded my arms. “My mother always said advice is only worth what you pay for it. But, I can hear you out anyway.”
“Back off. Mr. Valentini don’t need no help from a Broad.”
Well, there’s a lie. Straight up. His face was a book. Too calm. Possibly assisted by booze. His eye pupils were big. Yeah, he was on something.
“Now, why would he turn down free help?”
“He don’t want it.” Skates was getting annoyed.
“So, if I ask him, he’d be in complete agreement with you?”
“Him and me, we think like Siamese twins.”
“And of course, if he’s out of the picture, you’ll take care of all his business while he’s in jail? You’re a true friend. Just like a brother.”
Berk sneered. “Business ain’t none of yours.”
“I don’t suppose you inherit his business in case of his sad and heartbreaking demise? Being his twin, and all.”
Bruno Two started to move and my hand slipped into my purse. I felt the Savage at my fingertips.
Suddenly, Berk broke into laughter. “Not bad. A bimbo with brains. Only, you got it all wrong. I like being in the background, in the dark, where no one can see me. Valentini is my golden goose. I got a thing for eggs. Sometimes it’s better to be the friend of the kingpin than the man himself.”
True. Berk would always blend in and make his coin, without ever being the focus of police investigations and gangland take-overs. Still, I wasn’t exactly having a cool, nice conversation here.
One and Two made huffing noises at me and crawled back into the goon-mobile. Two stopped and rubbed his arm, gave me a dirty look for seeing it, and squeezed in next to Skate.
“So long, Toots. You best be smart enough to never want us to talk again.” The window rolled up.
Never wanted to talk to you in the first place.
He was giving me his official policy. One he was betting both our lives on.
Saturday, late afternoon. For some reason, the weather wasn’t so lovely, and neither was the City. Sure, it was a Saturday, but I was going into the office. To be cricket with myself, I didn’t have anything else to do and I was too wound up in the case to want to do anything else.
Choosing to leave off my sling hadn’t been a bright idea. I hurt. Bad. So, I pulled it out of my bag and wrestled it back on.
There were notes waiting on my desk. Marley to the rescue! According to two legal secretaries, names to be withheld, Valentini’s above-board businesses were slated to be split with Skates Berk and some other mug I didn’t recognize. I’d need to learn about him, but his residence was in Chicago. Long way to come to kill off a block to an inheritance. Skates had a closer motive. He got the businesses, or at least half, should something untoward happen to Valentini. Frannie marrying Valentini, and a change in his Will, would mean she would inherit all the businesses and money.
So, if Skates was the killer, why not knock off Valentini at the same time? It might be a harder trick to pull off, but also, there was the inheritance split. If Valentini was alive and in prison, assuming they didn’t fry him for killing Frannie, then someone had to run the businesses. And that would fall to Skates.
Made him suspect number one at the moment. A little Machiavellian but still ... yeah, he was number one for now.
Not My Cat and I sat, sharing the boss’s chair, with me providing the warmth of my lap. I finally figured out how he got in and out. There was a hole in wall under the coffee station. From watching him come and go, I discovered a hole that lead to the interior of the building structure and then out to the second floor near the mail shoot. For the time being, I wasn’t complaining to the building superintendent — it was handy. Not My Cat came upstairs for meals and quiet, then took his business outside. I didn’t need to come up with a toilet solution for him.
Marley was off to the picture show with some fella she’d taken a liking to. Sweet guy: glasses, thin moustache, well kept, a little shy of hair on top, but darling. And, he was well mannered, hard-working, so she told me, and had a weakness for pets. Former Army medic. He’d come by last night to pick her up at the office. I was happy for her. She deserved a man who was good to her.
Although, if they turned their relationship to something more than movies and drinks, would he want his wife to be a Shamus? Marley had her heart set on getting a P.I. license. Well, no point in putting the cart before the horse. They were only seeing a movie.
Howie was still in his spot, finishing the sports section from the evening edition. His black eyes narrowed as I approached. “Hey, Lady Galahad, you want to stay out of the papers? I hear it’s healthier.”
I took the paper he offered, stuffed it into my arm-sling, and pulled out my nickel. “So, what do they say?”
“Oh, the morning after the killing of that gal from Nob Hill, the Chronicle was stunned that a woman got between the police and a notorious gangster. They mentioned a rumor that a woman was an investigator but didn’t give your name.”
My smile squished to one side of my mouth. “I guess that’s not too bad. I can only imagine what would happen if my name got popularized too much.”
“And then there was,” he pointed to my arm, “the shooting over at the Seal Rock Club. It frustrated the Examiner that you couldn’t be found for an interview. But they did deduce that the woman at the crime scene and the shooting were the same woman. Are they right? You haven’t dropped by in a few days, but I can see you're injured.”
“It wasn’t nuthin’,” I said with a bit of swagger.
Howie crossed his arms. “Look Miss Tanner, I’m not your mother or father, so I don’t have a dog in this fight. But, I’m telling you, you got lucky. Most folks eatin’ brass don’t get up and walk away.”
“The man I was with didn’t.”
“See what I mean.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. “I appreciate what you are saying.”
He waited for me to say more.
I didn’t.
“How do you feel?”
“Like I’ve been shot.”
“They have to dig anything out?” Before I answered, he pushed his sleeve up a bit further. In his deep brown skin were two pucker marks. He gave me the stink-eye and let his sleeve down.
“War or post-war,” I asked.
“Flanders. 1917. I was going home the next day. The Huns pushed on our trench and most of us collected bullets. The twins there, on the arm, they’ve got brothers and sisters.” He patted his chest. “I’m told it’s a miracle I survived. Sometimes it feels like they’re right, sometimes it doesn’t.”
I got his message. “Too bad it isn’t like it is in the novels or the moving pictures; take a couple of plugs and move along like nothing happened.”
“Nothin’ further from the truth,” he added.
A cold breeze pushed down Market and two Trolleys clanged their bells at each other. A sports-style auto sped through the intersection.
Beyond being held to impossible standards while treated as second class citizens, now Howie Johnson and I had something else in common. I liked that. “I got a deep graze. Got lucky as you said, no one had to go fishing for brass. They just carved it off the surface and stitched it up.”
He nodded, approvingly, if I wasn’t mistaken. “I suspect you learned your lesson about when to duck? ‘Course, I don’t tell you anything —”
“Because you’re not my mother or father?” I smiled at his kindness.
“Yeah. Say, where are your folks, if you don’t mind my asking?”
The sides of my face dropped, dragging my mouth into a frown.
For a moment, Howie looked mortified.
Of course, he didn’t know the whole story. I don't go around talking about it. But, I’d been wanting to let it out of my system for a long time. Marley had the basic story, but we’d never really gone over the tale, blow by blow. “I don’t mind. They reside at the Jewish Cemetery in Colma. Mom was Jewish, Daddy was Undefined Protestant.”
Two men shoved in, took papers, and I swear one didn’t pay enough. Howie’s eyes followed them. He didn’t waste too much time on them. What would be the point? “I’m sorry. Recent?”
“Yeah. Car accident up on Highway One. It wasn’t pretty. Not something that should be.” I swallowed too hard. I wanted to say something out loud. Howie was sympathetic and confidential. Why hadn’t I said anything to Marley or any number of friends? “I — I don’t believe it was an accident, but the case is closed.”
He leaned back, said nothing, and listened.
“Best folks you could ever ask for. Dad was brilliant. He designed a high-speed locomotive with overhead rails and started a whole company. Looked after me to the bitter last.”
“Who looks after you now?”
“Other than you, Mr. Johnson, no one else, just little ‘ole me.”
“Well, if you don’t mind my sayin’, little ‘ole you needs to go out more. Life isn’t all work and no play.”
He had a point. And frankly, I've already decided just where I need to go. Socializing and work, at the same time. It wasn’t what he meant, but it was a compromise I liked.
It was high time I learned about San Francisco’s night life, especially if it involved Skates Berk.