As I sat in my office later, staring at the scrawl on the napkin, the link to Priscilla Gurkakoff seemed obvious, but its meaning was unclear. I had to make that connection. Suddenly, it occurred to me that my pal, Murray Hertz, had a brother, who also made his living as a bondsman in Chicago and who was pretty well tapped into the city’s goings-on. I grabbed the phone and reached Hertz’s office to get Abe’s telephone number. Dora, my associate’s secretary, was happy to oblige with LakeView-5220.
I placed a long-distance telephone call to the bail bondsman’s office. When a girl in his agency came on the wire, I explained who I was, my relationship with Murray, and that I sought background about a woman from their city. The fellow’s assistant advised me the man I’d called was out of the office, but she’d have him call me upon his return.
* * *
During several of back-and-forth phone calls over the following two days, I gathered sufficient information from the very helpful Abe to tumble to Priscilla’s story.
In a nutshell, the facts went like this. Micah had understood the tale correctly. A decade earlier, Priscilla Gurkakoff, nee Duncan, had been a young band singer at a highbrow nightclub called the Rainbow Garden Room in the windy city. The joint operated under the auspices of Capone’s mob. Somewhere along the line, the songstress started running around with a gangster named Paul Ricca, nicknamed “The Waiter.” He was considered “the brains” behind the operations of Al Capone and Scarface’s successor, Frank Nitti.
At one point, there’d been a falling out between the woman and Paul. The cause of the split was the subject of conjecture. Abe told me there were those who believed the problem started when Ricca got married in ’27, and the “jilted” Duncan refused to be his squeeze on the side. Still others claimed Priscilla had been skimming money from the rackets and disappeared before the outfit could tie her, from among the several suspects, to the missing cabbage. Regardless, she pulled the big flit from her hometown and ended up in our metropolis.
In retrospect, it might explain why she maintained a low profile here. Combine that with the possibility that Dmitri was leery of his whereabouts being determined by Bolshevik agents bent on reprisals, and one could easily see the couple keeping their heads down, not socializing too much.
But what was the tie between Sam, Priscilla and Chicago? Nothing I’d learned of the blackmailer’s background ever put him in or around that city or revealed any involvement with an organized crime syndicate. He was just a common dip from here in town, but rumored to be involved in other nefarious activity as well. What was the other piece of the puzzle that eluded me? Short of asking my client’s wife, the only way to answer that question was to ask Klein. That would be my next order of business. And I didn’t intend to be gentle with him. The direct approach was called for.
* * *
Over the course of the next two days, a warming trend against the bitter cold we’d been enduring continued. Priscilla made her usual Tuesday trek to pay off the punk shaking her down. Meanwhile, Klein’s social life with the ginger interfered with my planned confrontation. I wanted to avoid her involvement, if possible. Finally, on Friday, my pigeon struck out on his own, but then met up with a few cronies after the motion picture. They went to a nearby tavern until late into the night. I watched from my boiler. By the time Sam emerged, he was so blotto he could barely walk and only did so with the help of his buddies. In addition, he vomited every half block all the way back to his apartment building. That was a potential mess neither me nor Mr. Stoddard, my dry cleaner, should have to contend with. So I waited.
That Saturday happened to be the extra day added to the calendar every four years. I wasn’t sure whether we had Julius Caesar, Astronomer Sosigenes or Pope Gregory XIII to thank for it, but it arrived, regardless. Yeah, I read a book once.
The punk I was shadowing apparently decided it was an event to celebrate. He got dressed to the nines and drove his roadster to a rooming house on Piedmont Lane to pick up his tawny-haired floozy. By now, I knew her name to be Opal. They motored to The Hotsy-Totsy Club. Considering the dump’s ambiance, maybe the crumb didn’t figure the night was worthy of too much festivity after all.
I eased inside the bar for a quick Jack Daniels just to size matters up. It was so noisy in the place, I could hardly hear myself drink. Looking around, I estimated I was the only egg in the joint with a clean collar. A brief time later, I retreated to a spot I’d picked out to wait for the lucky twosome.
Shortly after midnight, when the pair emerged, I was freezing my ass off in an alley between the bar and his Cabriolet, which sat at the curb at the backstreet’s opening. As they drunkenly staggered past my location, I snatched Klein. Because they were snuggled together against the freezing night air while they walked, the broad stumbled as I pulled Sam to me and slammed him hard against a building wall. The blow stunned him and knocked the wind out of him.
“Say, buster! What the hell gives?” Opal slurred loudly, spittle raining from her livid red lips. “You don’t know–!”
I clipped the dame on the jaw with a short jab. It was enough to put out her lights. Sam, frozen in fear, watched as I carried her unconscious form and laid it across the front seat of his jalopy. Bug-eyed, he stepped back and raised his mitts in the universal posture of submission when I returned my attention back to him.
Sam, frozen in fear, watched as I carried her unconscious form and laid it across the front seat of his jalopy.
“Who… who are you, mister?” What–?” His hands shook slightly. Typical. My experience has shown blackmailers are cowards who rarely graduate to anything physical.
I joined him under the halo of a light hanging above a business’s side exit. “Who I am doesn’t matter, Klein. What matters is you extorting money from Priscilla Gurkakoff. I’ve been looking into the problem for her husband.” I chuckled, “By the way, you’re lucky he hasn’t knocked you off by now. Nasty piece of work, that one. But he’s left that decision up to me.” I shrugged. “Now, I only kill a chump once in a while. And only for a valid reason, of course.” I paused, grabbing his lapels firmly. “So don’t give me a good reason.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister! I’m an upstanding citizen out trying to show my girl a good time!”
“You’re about as upright as a pair of loaded dice.” With that, I slapped him a few of times just to sober him up a little and to hold his attention. “Now, the next sound you’ll hear will be your voice telling me exactly what you have on the Gurkakoff woman and how you came by it. I added that last part because she arrived here from Chicago, and I can’t find anything tying you to the burg.” I’d given Sam enough info for him to understand I had him dead to rights with no wiggle room for him to lie his way out.
His eyes flicked nervously around the area while he briefly pondered his circumstances. Finally, he mumbled, “I just know stuff. You–”
I banged him against the brick wall again, forcing my forearm across his throat. “Like hell you do! Now are you gonna spill it or do I have to beat it out of you? How did you come by what you have on her?”
Gasping for air against my hold on him, Sam buckled. “Okay! Okay!” he croaked. “Lemme breath, and I’ll tell ya!”
I released him. “So give. And make it snappy,” I seethed through gritted teeth.
“Look, bub, I don’t know this frail from nothin’,” he murmured, rubbing his neck. He nodded in the direction of the saloon he’d just left. “I was drinking one night in my usual hangout when this gent and I started chinning. Never laid eyes on ‘em before that time. Big, bald-headed guy, ruddy complexion. Turned out he was a show-business promoter who’d recently moved from Chicago. Named Allen. He told me he was trying to put together a musical production over at the Lyric Theater. We got stewed to the hat that night and more than a few after.” He glanced at me plaintively. “Say, mister, I could sure use a drink.”
“You can drink yourself into the grave for all I care, but not until we finish talking.” I hiked my thumb over my shoulder toward his car. “But I’d’ve thought you’d want to save your stamina for Opal there.”
“Opal?” he laughed. “She’ll still be around when I’m ready for her. We–”
“You were telling me about this lug, Allen,” I cut him off.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, smacking a dry mouth. “Like I told ya, this fella was putting together a thing at the Lyric. He claimed he had a line on a pretty talented singer here, named Priscilla Duncan, who used to work in a Chicago club. She got behind the eight ball with the mob there and had to lam it out of town. This Allen said he was hesitant to approach her because now she’d gotten married to some righteous citizen. He said–”
“Did he say what kind of trouble she was in there?”
“Not exactly. I think it had somethin’ to do with crossin’ Capone’s people. He only told me enough so’s I knew it was worth the tomato’s while to keep things quiet. Times such as these, pally, a fella needs every dime he can lay his hands on.” He hitched his shoulders helplessly. “I ain’t hurtin’ the skirt. She and her hubby got money to burn.”
“This Allen, is that his first or last name?”
“It’s his last name. First name’s Mel. Melvin, I guess.”
“So, where I can find him?”
“He hangs out at the theater during their rehearsals for his show, but has a temporary office on the fourth floor of the Balfour Building next to it. Never been to either place, but that’s what he told me.”
I grabbed his collar roughly and jerked him brutally against the bricks once more. “This had better be on the level, Sam, or I’m coming back for you. And I won’t be nearly as gentle next time.” As I said this, I opened my coat enough to display my automatic resting in his holster under my left shoulder.
“This had better be on the level, Sam, or I’m coming back for you.”
Klein’s eyes widened, and he swallowed hard. “That’s everythin’ I know! I swear it!” he mumbled coarsely.
I released him and pressed a finger to his nose. “And, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay the hell away from Priscilla Gurkakoff! Get me?” He waggled his noggin vigorously. I left him there, taking stock of his body parts.
As I pulled off from our encounter in that earlier morning hour, I still felt it necessary to speak with this Melvin Allen character. I needed to set the record straight regarding his relationship with Priscilla and the circumstances with Klein. If he was involved with the shakedown as a silent partner or the brains behind it or some such, that required one course of action. If not, it would be a much simpler matter.
* * *
The next day was Sunday. I didn’t figure on finding either the Lyric open, even for rehearsals, or Melvin Allen in his office. So, I called Lois, and we took in the movie China Seas at the Modjeska. My date got her Clark Gable fix, and I soaked in my portion of Jean Harlow. Of course, the brunette, Rosalind Russell, was easy on the eyes, too. We followed the motion picture with supper at Cappacino’s.
* * *
After a late breakfast at my usual eatery, I headed to my office to call Abe Hertz again and get any info he might have on Melvin Allen. Fortunately, he was in and had a very interesting story to tell about the subject. With that news in hand, I made my way downtown to the Lyric Theater. The grand old palace was the city’s premier place for exhibiting plays and musicals. Every so often, a touring production from New York would pass through town and use it. It, too, was one of many properties owned by the previously mentioned Babington clan.
The front entrance to the playhouse was locked, so I walked around to the stage door. The old-timer, sitting just inside, stopped me. I informed him I had a business appointment with Allen. After eyeing me suspiciously, he told me to see Mr. Strohm, the stage manager, who’d be standing by the curtains in the wings. He added he’d be wearing a three-piece double-breasted suit and smoking a stogie. Then he returned to ruminating over his copy of The Sporting News.
I approached the only person fitting the description given to me. He was watching, maybe gaping at, a group of hoofers being put through their paces by a thin, boisterous jasper who didn’t appear pleased with what he was seeing. I tapped the cigar-smoking man on the shoulder. “Mr. Strohm?”
He half turned to me, pushing his hat back on his head. “Yeah? Who wants to know?” he asked in a nasal drone. His mouth jiggled a dead cigar butt across his lips. As it began its return trip, he plucked it out, and his eyes gave me an up-and-down going over. He had a fierce-looking scowl on a bulldog-like face coupled with a thick build and imposing stance. “And you are?”
He had a fierce-looking scowl on a bulldog-like face coupled with a thick build and imposing stance.
“My name’s Gil Tanner. I’m a private investigator looking into a matter that involves a pair of associates of yours. Melvin Allen and Sam Klein.” I added the latter name to see where it got me. It didn’t pan out.
“Klein, I never heard of. Mel, I work for. He’s the producer of this fiasco,” he snorted.
“I need to speak with Mr. Allen. Is he around?”
“He’s not here right now. But you can probably find him in his office. It’s in the Balfour Building next door. Fourth floor. Four-Oh-Six.”
“Thanks.”
“Good luck,” he tossed at me with a chuckle as I walked away.
I wasn’t sure what he meant by that last crack, but I let it drift.
* * *
The elevator deposited me on the fourth level of the producer’s building. A short distance along the hall, I came upon my objective. The glass panel in the top half of the entrance held only the suite number. The name of whatever else had occupied the chambers previously had been scrapped away. I knocked, then entered a space that was empty, except for a telephone sitting on the floor next to a chair in a corner. The carpet showed marks where furniture had sat at one time. The door to the inner office was ajar. Low rumblings emanated from behind it.
I stirred around the edge of it and looked into the room. The air was filled with the smell of stale gin and cigar smoke. The only occupant was passed out on a long chesterfield, snoring loudly. He was a large florid man with a bald head which showed dents everywhere. Based on Klein’s description, it was Allen all right. Several empty gin bottles littered the floor and an ashtray full of cigarette stubs sat next to the sofa on a frayed carpet.
After approaching the man, I jiggled him. No response. In frustration, I pressed a thumb and a forefinger over his nostrils. After a second or so, he coughed harshly, but never roused otherwise. He continued his unconscious growl. In his stupor, it would have taken a keg of dynamite to get him off his perch. Strohm’s parting words now made sense. I was wasting my time trying to learn anything from of Allen at that point. I decided to give the crumb time to sober up. As I departed for my agency, I wondered if the davenport was what had become known recently in Hollywood as a “casting couch.”
* * *
I returned to my office and caught up on some paperwork, including making notes on my efforts in the Gurkakoff case. Afterward, I telephoned Lois to see if she wanted to go out that evening. A reporter at the newspaper picked up and informed me the doll was somewhere in the building but not at her desk. I left a message for her to call me. Then I actively twiddled my thumbs until I departed for Harry’s Paradise Tavern. The ringing blower halted my exit.
Raking the telephone receiver off the cradle, I answered, “Yeah. Tanner Detective Agency.”
A frantic man nearly yelled, “Tanner! You gotta help me! Some–!”
I didn’t recognize the voice. “Who is this?” I interrupted.
“It’s Sam Klein! Tanner, you hafta help me, I tell ya! I think somebody’s tryin’ to kill me! I–”
“Okay, Sam. Slow down. What makes you believe someone’s wanting to croak you?”
“I’ve gotten some phone calls and the only thing the man says is, ‘You’re dead.’ Then they hang up without another word. And now somebody’s stalkin’ me!”
“Where are you?”
“In the phone booth at People’s Drug Store on the southeast corner of Market and Karnes. I’m afraid to go home because….”
Whatever else he moaned at that moment was lost to me. Just then, my thoughts quickly returned to Dmitri’s implied threat of settling such matters himself. I didn’t want the Russian to do something he’d regret. At the same time, I wondered if Klein had brought out that .32 caliber revolver I’d found in his bureau. It didn’t matter. I had to do something. “Wait there. I’m on my way. Go to the lunch counter, get a cup of joe or an egg cream, and calm yourself. And stay put!”
At the same time, I wondered if Klein had brought out that .32 caliber revolver I’d found in his bureau.
* * *
The day had dragged on longer than I’d realized. By the time I got to my LaSalle, the winter sun was setting fast and the air a metallic cold. I made the best speed possible in the traffic and road conditions. Parking on a side street, I hustled around the corner to the pharmacy. Klein sat at the counter nervously looking the place over. When he saw me, I thought he might start sobbing. He ran to me. “What took you so long, Tanner?” he whispered harshly.
“Relax. The roads aren’t clear of snow and ice yet, and the traffic’s heavy this time of day. But I’m here, so just calm down.” I scanned the joint, but saw no one of any interest. The only other customers in the place were a frumpy, middle-aged woman rummaging through the cosmetics counter and a pair of lovesick teenagers sharing a milkshake.
I dragged Sam back to his seat, plopped on the one next to him, and ordered a couple of cups of coffee from the soda jerk. My mind raced with the possibilities regarding the circumstances, if it wasn’t simply his imagination. But he seemed so convinced the threat was real. When I was certain I had my companion’s attention, I asked, “You’re sure the caller was a man?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure….” His voice tapered off as he brooded over the question. He chain-smoked as we talked.
“Did the person have an accent?”
“No. Not that I noticed. All he ever said was ‘You’re dead’ and hung up.”
Several prospects came from that. If the caller had been my client, it might have been possible the phrase was so short, Sam didn’t pick up on the pronunciation. Perhaps Dmitri had cloaked his voice or had someone else make the calls. It was conceivable that Priscilla had telephoned her tormentor, disguising her speech.
“Priscilla’s old man is behind it, isn’t he?” His face bore a tortured expression.
“I don’t think so,” I tried to assure him. even though I wasn’t convinced. “Do you have anyone else who would want to threaten you or harm you like that?”
“No.” Despite his answer, I wasn’t assured.
While what happened to this crumb mattered little to me, it did concern me that one of the Gurkakoffs might be involved. If either of them had a hand in this, I had to protect them from themselves. “Okay. Where’s your roadster? Do you have any money on you?”
“My car’s parked outside my place on Karnes. I have around fifteen dollars on me. Why?”
“This is possibly a big bluff, but you shouldn’t go back to your digs tonight. We’re going to stash you in a hotel for now and figure it out tomorrow. You’ve got enough for a room at the Claremont Hotel for one night.”
“But–”
“But nothing! I’ll get you there and make certain we’re not tailed. Let’s go.”
Sam gulped the remnants in his cup and heaved himself up from his perch. At the door, I put my hand on his chest to stop him. “Wait here.” I stepped out onto the sidewalk and checked the area as best I could in the light offered by the streetlamps and the moon, which was just past being full. Except for passing motor cars, the street seemed deader than spats. I signaled for Klein to come out.
Joining me in the frigid night air, he snapped his latest cigarette against the front façade of the building. It ricocheted in a shower of embers. We turned to start toward my car, our breaths making gray clouds as we walked. On the way, Sam loudly argued against going anywhere but to my bedsit. I steadfastly maintained he’d be better off at the Claremont, aside from the cramped conditions my apartment presented.
Just as we reached my crate, Klein looked at me to make one last pitch, I suppose. When he did, three shots rang out in rapid succession. Instinctively, I dropped to one knee, drew my automatic, and tried to determine the blast’s origin. Except for the moonlight and the glow coming from a few apartment windows along the way, the street was as dark as a foot up a bull’s ass.
…three shots rang out in rapid succession.
A delayed fourth round struck the pavement as Sam fell beside me. That last discharge told me the shooter was across the road at a slight angle to my right. Possibly coming from the alleyway there. Nothing gave me a clear shot at any recognizable target. With a split second to decide, I grabbed the fallen man’s collar and dragged him to the side of my car that afforded us protection from our assailant. An unseen woman started screaming, and a man began yelling.
Crouched beside my front fender, I attempted to check Klein for wounds. As much as I could see in the dim light, he’d been struck twice in the chest. His breathing was shallow and labored. “Somebody call for an ambulance and the cops!” I yelled as loud as possible, then repeated it. Meanwhile, I pressed a handkerchief over the wound that seemed to be bleeding the most.
Before long, sirens wailed in the distance. In a matter of minutes, the area was lousy with lawmen and a fast wagon crew tending to Klein. Among the harnessed bulls stood my old nemesis, Detective Fergus Donovan. He spoke quietly to one of the orderlies, who shook his head gravely. Then, the rotund flatfoot approached where I waited beside a police cruiser.
He drew himself up in an authoritative manner. “Looks like you’ve finally done it, peeper. Gone and knocked off a punk and got caught red-handed.”
I smiled at his certainty of the statement. “Is that how you add this up? What is this now, Gus? At least two or three murders you’ve tried to pin on me? All the way back to that incident at the Sheffield Court Apartments when we first met in ’31. And like this one will show, none of the accusations have had any validity. All bushwa.”
He nodded toward a man and a woman sitting in a nearby cop car. “That’s not what my witnesses say. They claim they heard you and your victim arguing about something just before you shot him. The man–”
“First, we weren’t arguing in that sense, Gus. Klein thought someone was trying to kill him. He telephoned my agency and asked me for help. I met him at the drug store around the corner. He didn’t appreciate my suggestions and put up a fuss. That’s it. You have my gat, and you can tell I haven’t fired it recently. Just like when the Turk got bumped off and the time–”
“Yeah, yeah, but I still figure you’re guilty of at least one of ‘em. I’m not sure how you pulled this one off or where the rod you used is, but I’ll find it if I have to take this block down brick by brick. Besides, you got his blood all over you.”
“I tried to help the man, for Pete’s sake! Anyway, my weapon’s an automatic. Did you find any ejected shell casings?”
“Ya coulda picked ‘em up and hid ‘em somewhere or used a wheel gun.”
“Did you look in that alley where I think the shots came from?”
“No, but I will.” Donovan’s words were hollow. I didn’t believe him for a second. He was more inclined to take the easy way to a wrong conclusion in a case. He’d shown over the years he couldn’t find a rock in a gravel quarry.
They cuffed me and hauled me to police headquarters on suspicion of murder. They fingerprinted and photographed me and put me in a cell until they were ready to “formally interrogate” me. With Detective Donovan, that usually involved long hours with him swinging a city telephone directory at somebody’s head.
While I waited in lockup, I ran different scenarios concerning Klein’s getting chilled through my noggin. Setting aside some unknown enemy of the blackmailers, I saw three probable suspects for this in his orbit. Dmitri might have followed through with his veiled threat of revenge. If the rumors of the Russian’s involvement with the Cheka were true, he’d certainly have the skill and inclination to commit the crime. On the other hand, it could have been Priscilla behind the firearm that killed Sam, although I had no hint she knew how to handle a roscoe. Finally, I couldn’t eliminate Melvin Allen from the likely suspects. If he had any part in the extortion scheme, he might have wanted to remove the one person who tied him to it.
As I mulled these options over, a familiar, welcomed face appeared through the bars. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into now, Gil?” my good pal, Detective Sergeant Rob Waddell, asked.
“Just a slight misunderstanding between me and Donovan.”
“Well, he seems to think he has you on the hot seat this time. I saw Jack Lipscomb in the hall. He told me you were down here. He’s trying to get word to Marty.” My brother had seen me this way before, so it’d be no great shock. “Need a smoke?”
“No. The booking sergeant let me hold on to mine.” I lit a Chesterfield out of habit. “Look, Rob, this is a huge mistake.” With that, I laid out the entire story, except for the names of my client and his wife. Neither did I bring up Allen’s likely involvement. I estimated I needed to get myself out of the jam before I identified certain people who might be involved. Then I broached what I saw as evidence of some other perpetrator of the murder. “As I told Gus, his witnesses misunderstood a loud discussion between Klein and me about what steps to take to keep him safe.”
My buddy rubbed his chin in thought as I spoke. “As far as I could tell in the darkness, the shots came from an alley across the street. Somebody needs to check the area for any indication someone lingered there, waiting. Footprints in the snow, maybe shell casings. Gus said he would, but we both know better, especially if he thinks he can get me to step off for this,” I scoffed. Waddell merely dropped his head. He knew of my open disdain for the type of flatfoot Donovan was. It was the only sore point between us.
He knew of my open disdain for the type of flatfoot Donovan was.
“I’ll send Lipscomb. Your brother will want to help.”
“Keep Marty out of this. I don’t want any questions of prejudice about what they might find.” My friend waggled his noggin in agreement.
Rob turned to the custodial officer standing nearby. They held a brief, whispered conversation. The uniformed cop walked away. My pal resumed his position just on the other side of my cell’s bars.
I continued, “Listen, from the report of the shots, even with the echoes, I’d say we’re talking about a larger caliber gun. Ask the coroner if Klein appears to have been shot at close range with a high-powered anything. Were there powder burns on his clothing? You know the drill, Rob. I can’t count on your fellow detective to act the part.”
Over Waddell’s shoulder, I saw Donovan approaching. My guess was he wanted to interrogate me further. Before he reached us, I leaned in close to Rob and seethed quietly. “I’ll cooperate with this jerk as far as giving him my truthful statement. But, I swear, if he lays a finger on me, I’m gonna pound him to a pulp. And then I’ll beat up on the pulp.”
“Just take it easy, Gil. I’ll call Doc Clyatt at the cutter’s office and try to light a fire under him.”
“Thanks, Rob.” Dr. Herman Clyatt was a good man, a no-nonsense fellow.
Gus took me out of the cell and upstairs to an interrogation room. Waddell walked with us until he disappeared into the detectives’ bullpen area after having a quiet discussion with Donovan. I couldn’t hear what he said, but it brought a grimace to the big copper’s mug.
Donovan roughly shoved me into a chair in the interview room. I was tired and aggravated by this time and in no mood for this. From the opposite side of the table, Gus leaned his bulky form toward me and snarled, “All right, shamus, come clean! I know you’re guilty as sin of Sam Klein’s getting done in! It’ll go easier on you if you get wise to yourself and spill it now! Otherwise, I’m gonna take your ticket.” My interrogator took a deep breath, drew himself up to the last inch of his height, and started pacing. “The dead man was known as a cheap crook. Maybe you two got into some sort of grift together, then had a falling out over who got what piece of the action. Or did Klein cross somebody who paid you to croak him? Which is it, Tanner? Fess up!”
“I told you what happened, Gus. There’s nothing more to say.”
We went back and forth in this manner for the next two hours. The entire time, I could tell the big bull was itching to coldcock me.
“C’mon, Tanner! We can do this all night!”
“It feels as though we already have,” I snorted.
“We’ve been buddies a long time. Why don’t you cut the crap?”
“If you think we’re ‘buddies,’ Donovan, you need to re-acquaint yourself with the definition!”
He stepped to me and bowed up. “You strut around here like you’re Bulldog Drummond. I tell ya, I’m sick to my back teeth of it!” Before I knew what happened, he drew back and hammered me on the side of my head. The punch hit me like a thunderclap, knocking me out of the chair.
As I tried to get up and fulfill the oath I’d made to Waddell in the jail earlier, the door opened and the detective sergeant hurried in. He immediately grasped the situation, charged the man standing over me, and put him in a bear hug. For his lankiness, Rob was one strong, wiry son of a gun.
“Hold on, Gus! Don’t move, Gil!” he yelled, pointing at me as he dragged his fellow bull out of the room. When they’d disappeared and the door closed behind them, I got up, picked up the chair, and slammed it upright to the floor hard in frustration. I paced, massaging my face where the blow had landed. Finally, I dropped in to the seat.
In a few minutes, the pair returned. A crimson-faced Donovan looked as if someone had licked the red off his candy. I stood up in anger.
Rob spoke first. “Sit down, Gil. This ends here and now.” Turning slightly, he posed, “Gus?”
“I’m sorry I hit you, Tanner. I was convinced you were guilty. But I’ve changed my mind. The thing–”
“Does it work any better?” That response brought an unhappy reaction from its target. He flinched in my direction, but Rob grabbed his arm to stop him.
Waddell had Donovan take a seat and then explained, “After leaving you two in the hall, I went to call the coroner’s office to prioritize the Klein case. Clyatt was amenable to helping me.” My pal hiked a hip up on a table corner and set fire to one of his Camel smokes. “A short time ago, he called me back. His preliminary examination of the body revealed that the dead man was shot from some distance away by a large caliber weapon, as you suspected, Gil. Interestingly, though a possibly more powerful projectile, it did less damage than he would have expected in the short space between the alley and the victim.” I started to speak, but my detective friend raised a restraining palm. “I’ll get to the alleyway evidence in a minute.”
“… the dead man was shot from some distance away by a large caliber weapon, as you suspected, Gil.”
“Back to the rounds the doc recovered from your crony. He said they appeared to be from a .45. But when he weighed them, they were just a trace heavier than a .45 round. His background in France during the Great War led him to conclude the bullets were likely from a .455 Webley Auto. Though both slugs have similar grain weights for their bullets, his experience showed him the .45 had unquestionably greater energy and a notably higher velocity than the .455. But those characteristics didn’t show up in Klein’s wounds. And Rosenthal from our crime lab backed up the doc’s thoughts on the weapon used.” Though there were Webley’s seemingly everywhere since the war, this fit with Dmitri having passed through England on his way here.
“I had Lipscomb go to the scene and check the alley. He found indications that someone had been standing at the corner of a building there, smoking. After digging around in the snow, he found four spent shell casings. They were from a Webley. He collected them, and we put them into evidence. The detective here says he has enough information from you for now. The bottom line, Gil, is you’re free to go, but don’t leave town. You two shake hands.”
We did. With a meaningless hand gesture and a shoulder twitch, I said, “We’re good.” I hoped my words didn’t sound as phony as the feeling behind them.
“That’s mighty white of you, Gil.”
“And that’s beautifully put, Gus,” I answered with the minimal sarcasm I might muster.
Rob sighed heavily. He knew, but moved on. “And go with one piece of advice, if you don’t mind.” I nodded an acquiescence to him. He peeked sideways at Gus and finished, “Don’t let the past get in the way of the future.”
With that, we parted company with my promise to return to give a written statement concerning the circumstances of Sam Klein’s death. Regardless of Waddell’s advice, I made a mental note of the payback I owed Donovan. Dawn was just breaking when I emerged from the station house. I was too tired to think about pursuing any leads on Sam’s murder. I need some serious shut-eye, so I grabbed a hack to my LaSalle and from there to my apartment and my Murphy bed.
* * *
After around five hours of sleep, I crawled out of bed and made ready for the day ahead. Breakfast at the Wayside Café accomplished, I traveled to the Lyric Theater once more to speak with Melvin. This time, the old man at the entrance waved me through. Strohm informed me he hadn’t seen Allen since the before.
I made my way to the producer’s office. Again, the outer door was unlocked. Nothing inside the first chamber had changed since my previous visit. On the other hand, when I tried the inner door, it was locked this time. I knocked, but no response was forthcoming. My initial thought was Allen had drunk himself into another stupor. Knocking harder brought the same result. My gut told me something was amiss.
The knob, which was locked, was of the common variety. Using the trusty piece of hard celluloid I always carried in my wallet, I eased it between the jamb and the latch. I pushed the doorknob firmly toward the hinges, while pressing the plastic against the slope of the spring lock. The mechanism snapped back, and the door gave way.
I slipped into the rear office. Allen was there all right, sitting upright in a Jacquard chair at the end of the sofa, his face turned away from me. His feet were propped up on the couch. As I rounded the man, I saw he was wide-eyed, but seeing nothing. From the looks of it, he’d been poisoned. There wasn’t a pipe wrench in the world big enough to get him to move now. I stepped back and scanned the room. There was no sign of a struggle, no visible wounds. And his skin had a bright red flush I hadn’t seen the day before. And from the condition of the body, my amateur sawbones knowledge told me he’d only been dead a few hours, killed well after Klein. But I didn’t figure this for a suicide.
As I rounded the man, I saw he was wide-eyed, but seeing nothing.
If this scene shook out the way I calculated it might, my client or his wife would step off for this mug’s slaying. It was too much of a coincidence for both men who played a role in Priscilla’s blackmail to be rubbed out so closely in time with each other. Somebody was cleaning up loose ends. Perhaps that should be stated in the plural, as in two somebodies.
I walked to the other end of the room and picked up the phone that sat on a scarred desk. Leaning my butt against the thing and staring woodenly at the stiff, I rattled the blowers cradle to get the PBX operator’s attention. From somewhere in the building, a girl came on the wire. “Yeah, sweetheart, get me police headquarters, detective division,” I sighed.
In a minute, a voice announced. “Detective Frank Devereaux. What can I do for you?”
The tall, broad-shouldered copper and I had crossed paths several times without crossing swords. My limited interactions with him led me to believe he was not likely to tolerate unnecessary crap from anybody. He was a right gee in my book. Nonetheless, I kept it business-like. “Detective Devereaux, this is Private Investigator Gil Tanner. I’m working a case that has led me to find a guy who’s been bumped off on the fourth floor of the Balfour Building. Four-Oh-Six.”
“Did you know the dead person?”
“Not really. Just his name. Melvin Allen. Oh, and he was a stage-show producer.”
“I’m on my way. Stay put.”
“No problem.”
* * *
Around twenty minutes later, Devereaux came through the door as I lit my second smoke. His eyes followed my nod in the dead man’s direction. He walked over to examine the body, then glanced my way. “And this is how you found him?”
“Exactly. Just so you know, the only thing I touched in here was the horn to call you. And I used a handkerchief for that. I found the hall door unlocked when I got here. This inner office door was locked.”
He stood upright from his examination and looked at me hard. “Did you have a key?” When I waggled my head in the negative, he glimpsed the door and its jamb. Since they were intact, he probed further. “So, how did you get in?”
I grinned and pushed my luck. “Trade secret.”
He bowed up for a second, then perhaps decided it didn’t matter in the long run. “So, what’s your part in this?”
Though I considered the detective a stand-up guy, I still wasn’t comfortable giving up my employer just yet. “I’ve been working a case for a client and needed to ask this jasper a few questions.” It occurred to me that the flatfoot might come across Strohm or the old man at the theater door during his investigation and learn I’d been here more than once. “I came here yesterday to see him, but he was too drunk to even talk to. So I returned today and found this.”
“Yeah. Detective Donovan overheard my side of our phone conversation. He said you were with a guy named Klein when he bought it last night. He says people around you tend to get dead.” Frank shot me an expression tinged with suspicion.
I was grateful Donovan didn’t answer my call. Ignoring the rotund detective’s comment, I tried to move on, suggesting, “I don’t see this as him pulling the Dutch act, though. You?”
“No.” He turned to a small oriental brass-topped table resting between the davenport and the chair holding Mel’s body. “But I see someone, who Allen mistakenly trusted, getting close enough to slip poison into his drink.” The big bull guided his fingers into a pony glass and raised the thing to his eyes. He’d noticed the lip rouge on its surface.
“Yeah, I saw that, too. Problem is, Frank, there’s no telling when it was left on there or by whom. Could have been a frail who didn’t want to play his audition game. But, then, who takes poison to any kind of get together unless they intend to murder somebody?” In the back of my mind, I wondered whether that shade of lipstick matched anything Priscilla wore.
Could have been a frail who didn’t want to play his audition game.
He gave the divan an oblique glance. I knew what he was thinking. “True,” he added, “but I’ll take it into evidence, anyway. You didn’t see anybody coming out of the place when you got here, did you?” I told him no. “Anything else of interest you noticed in here?”
“No. Nothing.”
“I’ll need you to come to the station house to give a formal statement.”
“Sure.”
The detective telephoned to summon the coroner’s office and for the crime lab boys to make an appearance. He also solicited a uniformed officer to stand by the scene until they finished. We waited until the patrolman arrived. I followed him to police headquarters.
* * *
Nearly an hour and a half later, Devereaux finished his questions for my statement surrounding finding the showbiz entrepreneur’s body. We parted company, and I left as rapidly and as smoothly as I could. I was afraid that, if I spent any more time in the place, they’d start charging me rent.
* * *
I returned to my agency mid-afternoon. A glass of Jack Daniels from a bottom drawer bottle in hand, I put my feet up on the desk and contemplated the circumstances in the Gurkakoff case to that point. There were certain issues to consider when trying to resolve the quandary of the Klein and Allen killings. Sam had been extorting Mrs. Gurkakoff. No question. But Mel’s involvement, though highly probable, was still less clear. The blackmailer could have been covering for him when I questioned him outside The Hotsy-Totsy Club. Seeing Melvin and his office setup gave me the impression he was certainly no boy scout.
Maybe both men being rubbed out so close in time to each other was simply a fluke. After all, Sam had been a lowlife who operated with some despicable characters involved in illegal activities. He may have pissed off more than a few of the wrong people. Mel, on the other hand, appeared to have left Chicago for our burg rather abruptly. Could some sort of threat from the mob, which ran every aspect of that city, have been behind his sudden departure? And now had that or a different source of heat caught up with him? Hell, perhaps the jealous boyfriend or husband of a woman the producer tried to “cast” on his couch had meted out revenge on the producer. But my guesstimate was both were mixed up in Priscilla’s shakedown scheme to one degree or another.
I switched gears. In fairness to Dmitri and Priscilla, I’d first considered explanations for the men’s deaths that didn’t involve them. But I had to face the music. Try as I might, I didn’t buy the fact that they–one or both–hadn’t been tangled up in the slayings. A firearm usually proved to be the masculine approach, while poison was far more ladylike. If the dead men weren’t involved in the caper together, someone in the Gurkakoff family–either or both–had been convinced of it and had acted on that conviction. It fitted into the facts from every angle.
As I’d reckoned earlier standing in Allen’s office, the plotters’ deaths less than a day apart were too much of a happenstance. Nah. I didn’t believe in coincidences. And I knew my pal Waddell didn’t either. If I knew Rob, and I did, he’d make the connection between the Gurkakoffs, Allen, and Klein, in short order. Then, dragging the married pair in for questioning would be a certainty. Gus would have a field day with Priscilla. In light of Dmitri’s possible Cheka background, he was likely made of sterner stuff. But with a threat to the woman he dearly loved and was devoted to, he might fold under pressure. There’d be arrest warrants issued for one or both of the Gurkakoffs shortly thereafter.
If my last version of the facts were true, I had to decide my next step. Just as I pondered the matter, my office door opened and in walked Dmitri Gurkakoff, looking as spiffy as ever in a charcoal, pinstripe, double-breasted suit. Simultaneously, he appeared as irritated as hell.
I needed to play for time. “Hello, Mr. Gurkakoff. I’ve been meaning to call you. I believe–”
“I don’t care what you believe or know, tovarish!” he roared, as he slammed the door and rushed me. Stunned, I stood to meet him. He staggered me with a hard shot to my head. Warm blood dripped down my cheek. My right eye wouldn’t focus. But I could see well enough to make out the butcher knife he produced from somewhere. I grabbed the arm swinging the blade at me. It became a stalemate, a contest of wills. Out of desperation, I leaned into my assailant and sunk my teeth as deep as possible into the hand holding the knife. Finally, he yelped, and the steel clattered to the desktop. We continued to grapple, each trying to gain an upper hand. My desk shifted slightly across the floor as our bodies writhed in the scuffle.
He staggered me with a hard shot to my head. Warm blood dripped down my cheek.
Suddenly, my brother Marty burst into the office. Dmitri’s frantic eyes shot over his shoulder and grew to saucer size at the sight of a uniformed police officer entering the fray. Immediately sizing up the scene, the cop charged us. My very large, older sibling pulled us apart and shoved Gurkakoff across the room, where he fell against the wall.
As he rose, the Russian’s hand went under his coattail at his hip. Without hesitation, the lawman lunged at my would-be killer and hung a terrific snot-knocker punch on his jaw. My attacker collapsed into a well-dressed clump of unwashed laundry. When he collapsed to the floor, a Webley .455 tumbled out of the heap. The big flatfoot kicked it away from the fallen man and stood over him with clinched fists. Rubbing my head in pain, I pulled the knife into a drawer and slid the desk to its usual location.
“I only came by to see how you were doing after your time in the hoosegow. Sorry I didn’t get here sooner. Call headquarters, Gil,” he prompted over his shoulder.
“Sure. Why not? And, by the way, I’d say you timed your visit just right.” I called the detectives’ bureau and got Frank Devereaux on the wire. I explained the circumstances to him and how I thought it related to both the Allen and Klein killings. He said he and Detective Donovan would head my way.
* * *
Within the quarter hour, Frank appeared at my agency. He quickly eyeballed his fellow cop’s state. By this time, Marty had a recalcitrant Dmitri firmly ensconced in a chair in a corner with the dapper man’s decorative pocket square crammed into his mouth to keep him quiet. My brother had played pro football for the Dayton Triangles a few years earlier. He was a large, imposing man. Defiant or not, the Russian didn’t move. It struck me that Marty sort of wanted him to try something. Every so often, I got the impression the big lug missed crashing into people.
“Are you all right, Tanner?” Devereaux asked my brother.
“I’ve been through bigger scrapes,” he scoffed.
Devereaux turned and told me Gus was right behind him in a separate car. My time for playing coy with the law had come and gone. I motioned toward our captive. “This mug is Dmitri Gurkakoff. He hired me to investigate his wife Priscilla being shaken down for some mysterious reason and for an unknown amount of cash. Employed me, that is, until around an hour ago when he tried to fire me with that butcher knife.” I jerked my chin in its direction where it lay on the desk beside the Webley.
“Anyway, Sam Klein was the crumb actually meeting Mrs. Gurkakoff and taking the payoffs. During my inquiry, I learned from Sam that Melvin Allen was mixed up in it. Then Klein got knocked off last night. It was when I went to question Allen that I found him dead. That’s where you came in.” I walked around my desk and motioned Frank to a visitor’s seat. He tossed his fedora onto the desktop, sat, and lit a Camel. Pushing an ashtray at him, I expounded my notion, “I’m convinced that a Gurkakoff murdered the extortionist. Then, one of them, rubbed out Melvin. Maybe the same one, though I doubt it.” The man in the chair in the corner grunted fiercely through his gag. Marty feigned a punch in his direction. Dmitri quickly quieted.
“I take it you have a theory concerning what happened, Gil?” Frank asked. I smiled and nodded. “Let me hear it.”
“Yeah, but understand, that’s what it is at this point. Conjecture.” He made a meaningless hand gesture, which I took to mean for me to proceed, so I did. “I think Dmitri here tailed me to get to Klein. I was so busy shadowing Sam and his wife, I missed it.” Frank tossed me an odd expression, and I’m certain I smiled sheepishly at the confession. “But it was a Potemkin Village, as a Russian might say. Besides eliminating the blackmailer, he set me up as a patsy for the murder. Klein was shot to death, it seems, with a Webley 455.” I nodded to the gun on the desk. “I’d argue it’s a man’s weapon of choice. Your ballistics boys might find a match with slugs from that one and those taken out of Klein. I’ll come back to the roscoe in a second.
“I think Dmitri here tailed me to get to Klein. I was so busy shadowing Sam and his wife, I missed it.”
“Someone poisoned Allen. And, as you pointed out, it was likely by a person he trusted enough to let get close. Both Priscilla and Melvin blew into town from Chicago. The woman was supposedly on the lam from the mob, and possibly the same story applied to him. I’ll bet, if you dig, you’ll find a connection between them back there. I think Melvin knew the dame was hiding from the outfit there and used it to set up an extortion scheme with Klein.
Anyhow, my guess is the broad poisoned the big dupe. To me, lethal doses are more a twist’s play. No noise, no muss, no fuss. You’ll need to bring her in for questioning.” Again, the Russian made a loud guttural protest and rose halfway from the chair. A solid slap from Marty convinced him to resume his seat. The sound of it ricocheted around the office. Frank didn’t even flinch.
I set fire to a smoke from my deck, waved the match out, and tossed it in the general direction of the ashtray. Pointing to the Webley and the butcher knife, I continued, “My client burst in here today with the apparent intent to kill me. He tried to use the knife first. Like Priscilla, I’ll wager he wanted a quiet method to do the job. During an ensuing fight, I managed to make him drop it, but was still in a desperate tangle with him. He may not look it, but Gurkakoff is one powerful son of a bitch.
Fortunately, Marty came in and broke it up. Possibly the big palooka saved my bacon. But don’t tell him that. He’ll get a swelled head.” I glanced at my brother. From the back, I saw his ears shift and could tell he was smiling. They always did that when he smiled broadly. I returned to Devereaux, “I think the Webley was a backup of last resort. He had it tucked in his trousers.”
The detective gesture to my face. “You’re gonna have a goog there, Tanner.”
I reached for my right cheek. “Yeah, I suppose. I–”
The formidable frame of Gus Donovan came through the door at that moment. He saw Marty with his prisoner and me with a maturing shiner. “What’s all the noise about?”
“Where’s your party hat, Gus?” I asked flippantly.
His face reddened. “Thin ice, snooper! Watch it!” he fumed.
“Calm down, Donovan. Detective Devereaux and I were just wrapping up your Klein murder case.”
“And one of mine,” Frank put in. “Say, I thought you were bringing a uniform with you.”
“I did. Chevis Williams is downstairs taking information on a traffic accident. Some skirt was in a hurry to leave when we got here. She crashed into a parked crate as she pulled out,” he huffed.
My brother looked at me. “I know Chevis. Good cop.”
An idea hit me. Maybe the Gurkakoffs were taking a powder. “Gus, was the woman in the car tall, with a lithesome build, dark brown hair, and hazel eyes? Pretty?” When Dmitri launched himself from the chair, only to be knocked to the floor by Marty, I had the picture even before Donovan said a word.
“What the hell does ‘lithesome build’ mean?”
“Never mind, Gus. I have my answer. Frank, that’s Priscilla! She must have seen the policeman’s uniform and panicked! I figure the plan was to eliminate me and to haul ass out of town. She stayed in the heap, waiting, no doubt.”
Devereaux stood as his fellow detective rushed past me to a window, which he threw open. “Chevis!” Donovan yelled down to the street at the top of his lungs. “Williams! Hold on to that woman! Bring her up to the fourth floor!” He peeped at me.
“Room four-one-two,” I said, reading his questioning face. He repeated the number to the copper below before closing the window and taking a seat next to Devereaux.
After what seemed a very long time, Williams knocked on my office door. When I yelled for him to come in, he opened it and shoved a very combative Priscilla Gurkakoff in front of him. The cop had a bloody claw mark on his left cheek. The tomato spun and tried to slap him, but he deftly ducked it. Roughly forcing her into a corner behind my desk, he gasped, “She didn’t want to come with me.” It appeared the bull had a knack for stating the obvious.
I glanced Dmitri’s way. His eyes widened. He wanted to, but didn’t budge with Marty hovering over him at the ready. Then I turned and took a gander at Priscilla. She appeared more than a bit frazzled. Not the darb I’d seen at The Copper Door. Trying to straighten herself into a dignified appearance, she blew a lock of hair from her face and glared at me with white-heat anger in her eyes. I couldn’t figure out if she was a good bad girl or a bad good girl.
Trying to straighten herself into a dignified appearance, she blew a lock of hair from her face and glared at me with white-heat anger in her eyes.
I looked around the office. It appeared to be my party, so I spoke first. “This is like the last scene in a Philo Vance flick,” I chuckled. “All the lawmen and the suspects are gathered in one room.” I gave Donovan a hard look. “I propose, with a little detective work and your ‘interrogation technique’, Gus, even you can pin Melvin Allen’s murder on her. Who knows? Maybe the lip rouge Frank found will match hers.” Shooting her a sideways squint, I added, “Yeah, her pretty ass will fit just fine in Old Sparky over at the state prison.” Dmitri grunted again, but, eyeing Marty’s fists, never stirred.
Priscilla shook her head vigorously. “But I tell you….” Her voice trailed off as an expression of horrified concern washed over her face. Then, a sob rose in her throat, choking her, making her incapable of further speech.
There was a collective sigh in the room. “Well, let’s get this show started,” Devereaux piped up as he and Gus stood. “Marty, cuff Dmitri and let’s take him to headquarters. He and I have a lot to talk over.”
“Take her downtown, too, Chevis,” Gus ordered. “She and I have a date in an interrogation room.” Priscilla shuddered audibly at his words. “And try not to get injured any more than you have to. I suggest you use cuffs, too.”
As I stood, Williams and his charge were the first out the door, with Donovan on their heels. Just as my brother finished securing Gurkakoff, he whirled in Frank’s direction. “You think American jail bad?” he yelled in a speech pattern that reverted back to his homeland. He spit on the carpet and screamed, “Is nothing compared to Russian prison! I not care one bit!”
I was already pissed at my former client for his double-dealing ambush. Now Dmitri acted high-handed, and he spit on my office rug. My mother always told me not every insult requires a response. Nevertheless, stepping to the corner of my desk, I clobbered Marty’s prisoner as walked him to the door. Yeah, it was a bush-league move, but so what? The mustached degenerate fell against my brother. who kept him upright. Devereaux grabbed my arm. “I’m done,” was the only thing I could say as I pulled out of the detective’s grip.
With that, the last of my visitors departed. Accounting-wise, I’d lost a few bucks on the Gurkakoff investigation. But I had built up some goodwill with the law. So I reckoned it came out even.
* * *
Half an hour later, I’d plopped on my favorite stool in Harry’s Paradise Tavern with a Jack Daniels neat in one hand. In the other, I held a towel filled with ice, supplied by my proprietor friend Harry, against my face. Every time my pal walked past, he chortled softly at the sight of me. He was beginning to become an irritation. Holding up my empty glass, I said, “The tide’s run out.”
As he replenished my drink, it occurred to me I might be able to parlay the stories of the Klein and Allen slayings into a hot dinner date with Lois. She’d appreciate an exclusive, I was certain. Okay, again, that may have been a bush-league play, but Olsen was a grown woman. And she knew what she was dealing with in me.
I used Harry’s pay station to call her newspaper. Usually, Harry brought the blower from the shelf behind the counter to me to make a call, but I wanted some privacy. Or at least as much seclusion as the pay telephone allowed. Toby Boyer answered the line. When we’d chinned for a minute about the impending baseball season, I inquired whether Lois was around. He yelled her name. It sounded like the usual free-for-all in the background. Eventually, she picked up. I waited for the click, indicating Boyer had hung up, before I asked if she was interested in an exclusive story on two mugs being done in.
To spice it up a little, I added one dead guy was bumped off by a real dish and the law was just about to break both cases wide open. Olsen sounded excited for the chance to have the scoops. She invited me to come over and fill her in. I mentioned the possibility of dinner afterward, and she enthusiastically agreed. However, the beat reporter then asked if I could pick her up a couple of hamburger sandwiches at The Wayside Café on the way. She explained she hadn’t eaten breakfast and had missed lunch. I promised to make the stop.
* * *
With a sack of sandwiches and the fixings fresh off Otto’s griddle at the diner, I burst through the swinging doors into the Chronicle’s main news room. I saw City Editor Randall through the windows of his office, holding court with three of his reporters. Lois was among them. Despite the racket resounding around the outer space, I heard the man clearly.
“… drinking and playing cards in the clubhouse? So, you’ve dug deep! What do you want, Hoffman, a medal or a chest to pin it on? Boil it down, boy! But keep the heart of the story! He’s a crooked politician whose only goal is to enrich himself! He doesn’t give a damn about John Q. Public! Money! That’s the only thing he sees!
“You toss a nickel in that river out there,” Jeff blasted, pointing in the general direction of Middle Fork River, which flowed along the city’s western edge, “and he’ll near drown to come back up with it! But come up with it, he will! Go on now! Get outta here! It’s your ticket to the front page, kid!” Unfortunately, the editor’s description of the bent politician fit many of our local officeholders, but I didn’t catch the name of this one. The youngish reporter scooted past me, red-faced with his tail between his legs.
Unfortunately, the editor’s description of the bent politician fit many of our local officeholders, but I didn’t catch the name of this one.
While I stood patiently outside his office door, Jeff then turned his attention to Lois. The expression on the third newsie’s face revealed relief the editor’s fixation was temporarily diverted. Randall’s way of dealing with her proved entirely different. Olsen was an experienced pro, one his paper desperately needed to keep in uncertain times. From what I could gather, she explained the probable exclusives she was getting ready to write up. He quietly posed a few pointed questions, laced with his inherent cynicism. She answered courteously, but with a defiance few could have pulled off with the man. Expressing his support, he somewhat meekly sent the woman on her way.
When Lois came out of the office, I asked if anything was wrong. “Nothing a Lewis gun couldn’t cure,” she whispered as she passed. I followed her to her desk, where she retrieved a steno pad. “So, give, big boy. Tell me what inside info you have regarding these two men being murdered. As an anonymous source, of course.”
As the reporter took careful notes and quizzed me here and there, I went through the events of my investigation leading up to the confrontations and arrests in my office earlier that day. Then she fed paper into her typewriter, dug into the bag of food I’d brought, and began pounding out the story on her machine. And she typed. Then ate and typed. Replaced by typing and eating. While I watched. The hot, intimate date I’d hoped for turned into an evening in the disheveled center of a major metropolitan newsroom, watching the woman I craved doing what came naturally to her.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: As I wrote this narrative, a thought occurred to me: I’m writing it because I miss Gil, Marty, Harry, Waddell, Mama Cappacino and the rest of them – even Donovan. Telling their stories gives me a chance to be with them again. They were great pals. Understand that I loved them, as they loved me, idiosyncrasies and all. ©