November 1930
During the past two weeks, I’d been working a case for a reprobate I’d discovered I didn’t really like. For reasons he couldn’t or wouldn’t explain when he employed me, my client didn’t want to go to the police. So, I didn’t trust him either. The job involved a delicate family matter that ended up with a young woman sobbing out her pathetic little tale to me.
I found I was doing a cheap, sleazy job for a nasty mug. It left a foul taste in my mouth. Now, it’s my rule not to work for certain creatures God has seen fit to put on earth, regardless of the money offered. Unfortunately, I’d learned this crumb’s story after he’d hired me and the job was nearly done. I’d already taken a large part of my fee from him. And, under the then-existing economic climate, I wasn’t going to return it on principle alone. Ready cash was becoming harder to come by. So my employer and I had agreed from the outset he’d pay me in hard currency.
I found I was doing a cheap, sleazy job for a nasty mug.
* * *
By way of explanation for our agreement, allow me a brief digression. November 1930 was a crucial month for our country in financial terms. It had been thirteen months since the Wall Street had laid an egg. Though a rapid and robust recovery had been expected after the initial impact of the Crash, one of Caldwell and Company’s principal banks had closed its doors earlier in the month. That started a domino effect with Caldwell’s affiliates. The failures of those institutions triggered a corresponding cascade that forced scores of commercial banks to suspend operations.
In communities where these banks closed, depositors panicked and withdrew funds en masse from other banks. Panic spread from town to town. Within a few weeks, hundreds of banks suspended operations. During that month in 1930, a series of crises among commercial banks turned what had been a typical recession into the beginning of what later became known as the Great Depression.
President Hoover’s proclamation the first week of the month designating Thursday, November 27th as a National Day of Thanksgiving, had done nothing to ease the country’s malaise. Those were not welcomed days.
* * *
Fortunately for me, the economic woes hadn’t struck the private investigator racket yet.
I was in my office the day before the National Day of Thanksgiving when I gave my client a rap to tell him to expect the results of my investigation early the next morning. He insisted on getting it that afternoon and said he’d pay me the balance of my fee on delivery, in cash, as we’d agreed. The man told me he was working late and would wait in his office. While I was on the phone, there was a brusque knock on the office door, followed at once by the thing being flung open. In the doorway stood an enormous straight-standing man, wearing a tired gray suit. His pants were shiny and wearing thin. He also wore a scowl.
“I’ll see you in a while,” I said into the phone and hung up. Turning to my visitor, I asked, “Can I help you?”
“Youse Tanner?” When I admitted I was, he entered, kicked the door shut behind him, and continued, “Then youse can help yourself.”
“I don’t–”
“Shaddup and listen!” he demanded as he stepped forward. “Guess why I’m here. Youse owe my boss this money, see? And youse had better pay up if youse know what’s good for ya.”
Notwithstanding his superior elocution, I didn’t like being talked to that way, but I held the anger streaking through my brain. The mug was obviously operating under a mistaken impression of some sort. That and the fact he was several inches taller than me and a biscuit shy of two hundred sixty pounds aided my decision. Though not successful at every turn, I always tried to make my money without getting my block knocked off. Out-muscled, I decided to hear him out and correct his mistake.
Though not successful at every turn, I always tried to make my money without getting my block knocked off.
“Will this take long? I have a paying customer waiting.”
The goon sat on a corner of my desk, which creaked in protest as he jabbed it with a kielbasa-sized forefinger. His hands were as big as my LaSalle’s motor.
“I’m here to collect the dough youse owe Jimmy. So pay up!”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. I don’t owe any ‘Jimmy’ any money.
“Okay, in that case, I’m to give youse a message, a warning,” said as if reading a script. “Pay up or else. Don’t make me hafta come back here.”
Despite the size difference between us, my patience could only be stretched so far. “I didn’t invite you here this time, sparky.”
He blew past my comment, but spoke with unhurried evenness. “Just pay the boss the dough youse owe him and everything will be jake. Ya got ‘til tomorrow noon. If youse don’t, you’re a damned fool. It could mean curtains for youse. Git me?”
“I understand. English is my first language.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind, Einstein.”
“Say, is that a crack? Crack wise with me, pally, and you’re gonna be picking slugs outta your gullet.”
I was growing weary of his cheap tirade. “All right, Mister–. What’d you say your name was?”
“Stoker.”
“Okay, Stoker. Message delivered and received. Now I have to get to that client I mentioned earlier.” He didn’t budge. “See the door?” He glanced at it and nodded at me with a confused expression. “See the knob?” Again, the muddled puss bobbed. “Turn it, pull, and leave. But drop in again. Any time.”
His face turned a deep red, but it was his turn to let a storm of anger pass. I had no idea who “Jimmy” was and owed no one by that name anything. The only indebtedness I had at that moment was my apartment rent, due at the end of the week. And the lug I paid that to was named Raymond Mullinax, the manager of the building.
Stoker eased off the desk. “Ignore me at your peril, Tanner. Don’t say I didn’t try to wisen youse up. Otherwise, you’re walking in a dead man’s shoes.”
“Hear my teeth chattering? Now drift, bub.”
He departed, slamming the door behind him.
I put my carbon copy of the case report in the office filing cabinet and locked it. Though I hadn’t understood the true nature of Stoker’s visit, it left me with an uneasy feeling. As usual, I trusted my gut instinct. I moved to a window and, through the blinds, scanned the street below. Sure enough, Stoker appeared and walked to another hood waiting near the taxi stand across the street. They spoke briefly before my recent visitor took up a position on the opposite corner. Donning my fedora and overcoat against the November chill, I locked the agency and left the building for my LaSalle and the waiting client by the rear exit.
Stoker appeared and walked to another hood waiting near the taxi stand across the street.
* * *
Later, client’s cash in hand, I motored to Harry’s Paradise Tavern for well-deserved servings of Jack Daniels. The joint had the usual array of regulars and a few unfamiliar faces. I eased up to a barstool next to a dark-haired, attractive woman in a flutter-style wool skirt outfit with a white blouse. She and I exchanged nods as Harry approached.
“Evening, Gil. What’s going on?”
“This and that. You know.”
“This and that, huh?” he chuckled. “I’m shocked you have time to drop by.” What with Prohibition still in effect, he poured my Jack into a coffee cup and added, “Well, sit down. Have a smell from the barrel.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Turning to the dish, I asked, “Is this seat taken?” When she shook her head, I eased on to the stool and pointed my chin at her “tea glass”. “What are you drinking? Tom Collins?”
“A Southside Cocktail,” she drawled. “I like the lime and mint. It’s the best part of what makes it different from a Tom Collins. A girl from my part of the world appreciates mint in her drink.”
“That so? And what part of the world might that be?”
“New Orleans.” I thought I’d detected that accent in there.
“Can’t say I’ve ever been to your fair city. What brings you to ours?”
“I came up to meet with my cousin, Vivian. She’s just finished the Katherine Gibbs school and has taken a position as a private secretary to a big ticket in an insurance company here. I’m helping her settle in.”
I glanced at the seat beyond her, which held one of the regular patrons. “Is she with you tonight?”
“No. She was here a little while ago, but left so she could get a good night’s sleep before her first day tomorrow. I’m more interested in relaxing my own way after a long day picking out curtains, linens, and so forth for her new place. As we say in The Crescent City, ‘Laissez les bons temps rouler!’”
I lifted my drink in a toast. “Well, here’s to new friends.”
She raised her glass, smiling coyly. “Is that what we’re going to be? Just friends?”
This woman had my undivided attention. “Well, I don’t want to scare you away by sounding too much on the make,” I offered with a grin. “I usually wait until the second date to invite a doll to my apartment to see my etching.”
“Etching? Only one?”
“It’s a small apartment.”
She giggled and leaned into my shoulder. “I can tell you’re a corker. What’s your name?” I liked the cool quiet of her voice.
“Gil Tanner. What’s yours?”
“Adrienne Allemand.” After sipping her cocktail, she followed with, “What do you do for a living, Gil?”
“He’s a gumshoe, Miss.” Harry had rejoined us and put in his two cents’ worth.
“Oh, a police detective?”
“Private,” I answered quickly, trying to dissuade my pal from inserting himself further into our conversation. Glimpsing askance at the barkeep, I suggested, “How about bringing us another round before you go, Harry.” He took the hint, made our drinks, and moved along the bar.
Meanwhile, the darb carried on with our small talk. “That must be exciting. Your work, I mean.”
“It has its moments. But it’s not the same as the folks in Hollywood or pulp fiction writers would have you believe. It can be very mundane most of the time.”
“Do you meet a lot of ruthless men and wayward women?”
“Too many of the former and not enough of the latter, unfortunately.” We broke into a brief fit of laughter.
“Have you ever had to shoot anyone?”
“I’ve killed dozens,” I teased. “Nah, I rarely shoot anybody. How about you? What do you do to earn egg money?”
“J’enseigne le français au lycée.” She blushed slightly. “I teach high school French. I’m sorry. Did that sound haughty? It’s just that we slip so easily from English to French and back at home.”
“Well, at least you didn’t say, ‘Excusez-moi’ instead of ‘I’m sorry.” Her eyes dropped to her drink. Suddenly, I was losing this frail. “C’est bon,” I whispered, nudging her slightly, hoping to recover.
Her eyes edged back to my smirk with a grin of her own.
“That’s it for my knowledge of French.”
“Perhaps I can teach you some,” she cooed seductively. I have to confess I wanted to crush her full lips with mine.
After a few more drinks, I built up the courage to ask Adrienne if she had to return to her sister’s flat for the night. She explained that, despite the woman’s intent on sleeping, she knew Vivian would be waiting up for her. The brunette said she couldn’t be out all night or even very late without her cousin calling the police.
After a few more drinks, I built up the courage to ask Adrienne if she had to return to her sister’s flat for the night.
“Besides,” she added, “I have to be at Union Station first thing tomorrow morning to catch the Crescent City Flyer home.” I guess disappointment showed in my expression. A slender hand reached out and gently squeezed my forearm. “I’ll be back for a visit before you know it. Can I have a rain check?”
“If that’s a promise, I’ll have the Southside Cocktails, fresh mint and all, mixed and on ice when you get here.”
She glimpsed the clock behind the bar. “Sorry, but I probably need to head back to Vivian’s now.”
“Can I at least give you a lift? My heap’s right outside.” She smiled sweetly and accepted while I paid Harry for our tab.
* * *
When I pulled to the curb in front of the Sterling House Apartment Building, Adrienne turned in the seat to face me. “I’ve really enjoyed meeting and getting acquainted with you, Gil.”
“Same here, Adrienne.”
“I look forward to a return trip where we can get to know each other even better.”
“Yeah, that’ll be swell. Say, can I take you to the train station in the morning?”
“It’s going to be pretty early, Gil. I’ll just call a taxi.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m always up before the crack of dawn anyway,” I lied. “Save yourself the trouble of a hack and let me drive you. Besides, you won’t have to tip me.”
After giving the idea a second’s thought, she beamed. “Okay. If you’re certain.”
“Then it’s settled. What time do I need to pick you up?”
“Is seven o’clock too early for you?”
I’d thought of asking her to breakfast, but abandoned the idea for the sake of time and sleep. “Not at all. See you then. What’s your sister’s apartment number? Let me come up and help you with your luggage in the morning.”
“I only have one small bag. I’ll meet you here at the front door.” With that, she leaned to me and delivered a kiss on my cheek, before climbing out of my car and moving toward the entrance. She walked, I watched. Under that dress, disappearing into the building, was a shape to drive a man batty.
* * *
Seven forty-three the next morning found me helping Miss Allemand up the steps onto a coach car of New Orleans-bound Flyer. On the first tread, she abruptly turned back to me, planted a passionate kiss on my lips, and breathed a “See you soon.” Her unexpected play hit me like a Mark V tank. Without saying another word, she turned, sashayed up the remaining steps, and vanished into the car. As I tried in vain to catch sight of her through the windows, the train started pulling away slowly. I missed seeing her again. I didn’t bother to wipe off the lip rouge I knew lingered on my face.
I missed seeing her again.
Before going to my office, I stopped for an early lunch at the Wayside Café. I needed a bucket of java before facing the day. Oscar, the owner of and fry cook at the diner, kept eyeing me as I sat, gnawing on one of his ham-and-cheese sandwiches, sipping coffee, and daydreaming about the lovely Adrienne.
Finally, he leaned across the counter on his huge, hairy knuckles. “You know, Gil, the more I get a slant at the lipstick you’re wearing, the less flattering I think it is on you. And I’ve got to wash it off my coffee mug.”
I’d forgotten the rouge was there. I snagged a napkin, made quick work of it, and smiled sheepishly at the man.
After leaving the eatery, I went by the office of a prospective client who’d called several days earlier. As uncertain as I was whether I wanted to take his dubious case, I was surer of the small balance in my account in one of the few institutions that hadn’t closed its doors. So far.
* * *
Escaping the Belvedere Building’s death-trap elevator, I ambled along the fourth-floor corridor to my agency. I was inserting the key when I realized I was no longer alone. My instincts flashed a vague warning, but it arrived too late. The second I started to turn to see who was behind me, something smashed at the base of my skull and my knees buckled. The words “Pony up” and “Jimmy” vaguely came to me as I fell into a large black abyss. I thought I heard a yell, followed by heavy footfalls running away as the dark pool covered me. The next few minutes were stolen from my life. They were a complete blank.
* * *
Only partly conscious, I thought I heard voices that sounded thin and far away. When I opened my eyes, everything was fuzzy, including the padded form of the matronly lady bending over me. From the aspect of the woman and the kid, who stood beside her and whose hand she held, I immediately eliminated both of them as the perpetrator of the attack. The rug rat nudged me with his foot.
“Don’t bother the man, Casper.” She gazed down at me and recommended, “You need to stay there and rest, mister.
I squinted at my strap watch. “Lady, I’ve been resting for about the last ten minutes. Right now, I need aspirin and a few slugs of Jack Daniels.”
She harrumphed and jerked her brat back from my evil, liquor-imbibing self. “Well, Mr. Osgood is calling the police,” she informed me.
Lester Osgood, the photographer whose studio was next door to my office, appeared as if on cue. “Are you all right, Gil?”
“He says he wants whiskey!” the woman injected disapprovingly. “What is this world coming to, I ask you?”
With Lester’s help, I managed to climb the wall to a standing, yet shaky, position. My neighbor propped me against it. “The police are on their way.” Addressing the woman, he said, “I’ll have the prints of your grandson’s portrait by Thursday, Mrs. Stewart. Thank you for your help, but you needn’t trouble yourself any longer.”
“Then I’ll be on my way.” She leaned in toward me while making certain she served as a protective buffer between Casper and me. “I hope this teaches you a lesson about the hazards of drink, young man!”
“What the–?”
Osgood quickly cut off my invective response he anticipated was coming. “I’m sure it has, Mrs. Stewart! And thank you!” The old bag stomped her way to the elevator, with her grandson in tow.
Cautiously touching the walnut-sized lump on the back of my head, I solicited Lester’s assistance. “My legs are still a little rubbery. Will you just get me to my desk? I’ll take it from there.” With his aid, I staggered to my swivel chair.
The photographer stayed long enough to fill me in on a few details of the last fifteen minutes. “I’d just finished trying to get a presentable photograph of Casper, Mrs. Stewart’s little curtain crawler. She was leaving my studio when she saw an enormous man standing over you in the hallway. The woman said he had his leg drawn back to kick you. Mrs. Stewart screamed, and he ran to the staircase and disappeared. I came out, saw you lying there, and called the cops.”
While Osgood was telling me this, from my deep desk drawer, I retrieved a bottle and two glasses. I poured us a generous drink and slid Lester’s across the work surface. He gulped it down as if it was an aspirin tablet, which reminded me of the second half of my proposed treatment for what ailed me. Several Bayer washed down easily with the Jack.
A knock at the door introduced a uniformed copper named Fred Stanhope into our little vignette. He walked to my desk. I saw in his eyes he made a mental note of the bottle of hooch sitting on my desk. At that moment, I didn’t give a damn about the Volstead Act or whether the lawman did. I raised the bottle in his direction in offer of a taste. He licked his lips and shook his head. There was a tinge of regret in his action.
At that moment, I didn’t give a damn about the Volstead Act or whether the lawman did.
“What’s the story here?”
“It’s nothing, officer. Simply a misunderstanding with a disgruntled client.” Lester tossed me an odd expression. “Nothing to get excited over. Mr. Osgood here happened on the tail end of it, misinterpreted the scenario, and called you guys.”
Stanhope eyed me suspiciously. “You want to file a complaint?”
“No,” I had to speak it. My head hurt too much to shake my response. “Sorry to trouble you.”
“Well, if you’re sure, I’ll call it in and get back to the street.”
Lester left with the lawman. As I drank away the pain, I tried to glom whether this incident had anything to do with Stoker’s visit the day before. My racket left little room for belief in coincidences. But who was this “Jimmy” the big man mentioned? I guessed I needed to find out. And without the involvement of the law.
I spent part of the day setting up a file for my newest patron’s case and making notes in it based on our initial conversation. Then, I brought my books up to date. Despite my distaste for handling some investigations, the ones where my employer didn’t want police involvement were proving crucial to my bottom line.
Another day was drawing to its end. I was as tired as the dull air in my office. Time for Harry’s. A light rain was falling from the dark skies when I left the building. I headed west on Washington Boulevard toward my LaSalle, parked a couple of blocks away. Gradually, that old feeling of having unwanted company swept over me. I’d picked up a tail. Stopping and turning suddenly to light a gasper, I caught sight of the large, trench-coated jasper ducking into an embrasure. He was neither slick nor quick.
I increased my pace and rounded the next corner, where I stopped and waited. The big man made the turn at a comparable stride. As he did, I hung a Sunday punch on his kisser. He stumbled and fell like a brick in the gutter between two parked cars. I struck a match and held it close to his bloodied face, but didn’t recognize him. It wasn’t Stoker. The glass-jawed gorilla was dazed but not out cold. His lips bubbled pink froth. I tossed the match. I gripped his coat collar and used my knees to restrain his arms. “Who are you?” I demanded.
I hung a Sunday punch on his kisser.
“Let’s just say I’m a caution,” he gasped.
“Why are you following me? Who paid you to bird-dog me?”
“Screw you, bub!” was his only response.
I loosened my grip on his collar, grabbed his face in my hands, and banged his head on the pavement several times. That turned out his lights. Rifling his pockets brought me no closer to any answers. I left him lying in the darkness.
* * *
The third round of Jack Daniels was firmly in my grip when my pal, Detective Sergeant Rob Waddell, sidled up and plopped on the barstool beside me.
Based on Rob’s infrequent patronage of Harry’s, it caught me by surprise.
“What’re you doing here, Rob?”
“Just checking up on you, my friend. I heard you had a rumpus in your building this afternoon.” My stunned expression brought further explanation after he ordered a drink and lit a Camel. “I saw Stanhope in the hall at headquarters. He knows you and I are friends, so he told me what you said had happened. Fred was sort of skeptical of your account. His description of it fell under my ‘JDLR rule’.”
The detective sergeant had a self-imposed stricture that, if a situation just doesn’t look right, it needed more investigation. “It was nothing I can’t handle,” I assured him. Waddell shot me one of his patented dissatisfied, tenacious glares. It told me I needed to come clean. “Okay, truth be told, I’ve had a few unwelcomed encounters with hoodlums the past couple of days. Two in my office building and one just a short time ago over on Washington Boulevard.”
“So what gives?”
“I wish I had the answer to that. The only visitor I got anything from was a big bruiser named Stoker-at least that’s the handle he claimed-telling me I needed to pay dough I owe to a Jimmy. Trouble is, the name Jimmy doesn’t ring out, and I don’t owe anyone named Jimmy any money. Right now, I’ve got a dime’s worth of nothing on the mystery.”
“Well, maybe I can lift the fog for you.” He puffed smoke as he talked. “There’s a mug named Stoker who does strong-arm work for Jimmy Muldoon. Heard of him?”
Now I was getting somewhere in crabbing this puzzle. “Who hasn’t?” I shook down my memory for what I’d heard of him. James “Jimmy Jax” Muldoon was a bookie and loan shark in the employ of the south side mob, commonly referred to as The League. He’d grown up in a rough school and started in the gutter, running afoul of the law even before his balls had dropped. But he’d been a good earner for the mob early in his criminal career.
Not unlike the recently re-elected governor of New York, Muldoon had been stricken with infantile paralysis later in life. When he survived the disease, confined by leg braces and crutches, the bosses had set him up with the bookmaking-moneylending scheme, a racket he could handle sitting. It didn’t hurt any he was the brother-in-law or nephew or some such relation to a muckety-muck in the south side organization. The man supposedly ran his gambling operation from a boiler room in a warehouse somewhere near the river. Like most successful shylocks and bookies, Muldoon survived on his reputation for violence, especially in the realm of debt collection. And Jimmy had a crew of ham-fisted thugs to collect the unpaid sums the suckers owed him.
More often than not, he could be found at the Ajax Diner, making loans with outrageous interest rates to suckers. Thus, the shortened nickname. Now, the mobster was a mercurial miscreant with a manicure. Frequently, he was seen with a russet-haired dish on his arm. While she pretended to be a bit of high-class fluff, the consensus was she’d take up with the first pair of trousers that came along with a gold watch. The man was well known, but not favorably so. I knew him only to nod “hello.” We’d never spoken.
Now, the mobster was a mercurial miscreant with a manicure.
“Sounds as though you’ve made a losing bet with the man. Or owe him for a loan and vigorish.”
“I’m aware of who and what Jimmy is. But, knock wood,” I said, tapping the bar top, “I’ve had no need for a loan to date. And I don’t avail myself of his betting services. I confine such business solely to Iggy.” Ignatius “Iggy” Colari, a bookmaker and small-time crook who worked out of a poolroom on Fremont Street, was familiar to our city’s law enforcement population. He’d take a bet on two flies fighting over a dead body. “I appreciate the ‘convenience’ of him being close to my bedsit and office,” I smirked.
“Well, whatever the circumstances, be careful around that lot. They play rough with people, though we’ve never been able to pin much on them. And the racketeer has as much sympathy as Attila the Hun.”
“Yeah, thanks. I will, but I need to clear up this misunderstanding. I didn’t start this thing, but I’m going to finish it.”
Waddell glanced at the clock behind the bar and pulled himself from the seat. “I need to make my way home. I’ll see you in the funny papers. Take care, Gil.”
* * *
When I left the bar, Cuyahoga Street was pretty quiet. I hopped into my LaSalle and cranked the motor. At the same time, the engine of a Ford two spaces away from mine coughed, then purred smoothly. That aversion to coincidences thing popped into my mind. I cut my motor and climbed out to the sidewalk. The other’s motor hiccoughed to a stop. I walked to the back of my car, pretending to check a tire. From the corners of my eyes, I saw a large man, silhouetted against the lights from Broad Street, sitting behind the wheel of the crate. I turned and casually meandered the half block back to the Paradise Tavern.
“You’re not thirsty again already, are you?” Harry laughed when he saw me.
I signaled my friend to the end of the bar. “Harry, I need a large bottle of cheap gin quick. Put it on my tab. But hurry. I’ll explain later.”
The saloonkeeper’s face showed he had a half dozen questions, but without saying another word, he reached below the bar and handed me a fifth of the liquor, wrapped in a towel.
I ambled back to my car and tickled the motor to life. When the Ford started up, I eased away from the curb and headed to the closest residential neighborhood. On an elm-lined street, I pulled off to the side. The driver of the flivver mirrored my move several houses behind me.
Gin in hand, I crawled out and walked up the driveway that ran beside a house. In the backyard, I turned right and doubled back toward where the Ford was parked. Climbing over the third fence into yet another dark yard, I came face to face with a huge barking mongrel. The breed was unknown to me, but the strain had to be renowned for his viciousness and the abundance of its teeth. The shock nearly caused me to drop the bottle. Fortunately, someone had securely tied the creature to a fencepost. From inside the house, a man, presumably the canine’s owner, yelled for it to shut up.
After scaling one more barrier, I got my bearings and made my way along a driveway back to the street just behind the Ford. The driver sat, patiently awaiting my return. Not wanting to disappoint the man, I sat the gin down and crept up the driver’s side of the automobile. I heard him breathing through the closed door. He sounded half asleep.
I jerked the door open, seized a handful of heavily Brilliantined hair, and slammed the stunned man’s head into his steering wheel until he was out like a light. His upper torso fell back in the seat, his mouth agape. I retrieved and opened the bottle of liquor. After splashing the hooch liberally over the lummox and the car’s interior, I poured a generous amount of it down his gullet. He coughed and choked, but remained unconscious. I closed the bottle and tossed it onto the floorboard. Working around his massive body, I managed to start his boiler and turn it toward a large tree close by. I revved the engine, released the brake, and jumped from the running board at the last second. The car crashed into the elm with as much noise as I wanted.
After splashing the hooch liberally over the lummox and the car’s interior, I poured a generous amount of it down his gullet.
Porch lights began to illuminate the night. Nearby residents boiled out of their houses to see what had caused the uproar.
Before the closest person reached me, I shouted, “Call the cops! This fella’s got a skinful! He almost killed me when he crashed! Hurry before he comes to and gets away!”
As the man ran back inside his house, I used the cover of darkness to make my escape.
* * *
I parked the LaSalle and was walking toward my apartment when a ruffian clocked me from behind. Stunned by the blow, I was dragged into a dark loading dock alley by two sizeable men. In my struggle to regain my feet and repel them, I discovered the men had arms the size of yule logs. The pair braced me against a wall. I became dimly conscious of a third bulkier form. He casually set fire to a cigarette. In the match’s glow, I saw he was a lantern-jawed hood with a face like thunder. He looked to be two hundred and fifty pounds of gristle dressed in an ill-fitting suit.
“Haven’t you taken the hint yet, Tanner?” the third mug asked. “Pay the boss the money you owe him, and we won’t have to keep meeting this way.”
A steady diet of this roughhouse shit was getting old, but I was still in the dark. “I’m flattered that you think I know what you mean. How much money and what for?”
The hood slugged me hard in the breadbasket, emptying my lungs. The thugs on either side let me drop to the pavement. “Am I boring you?” the man standing over me roared.
I caught my breath enough to gasp, “Nah, I just don’t know what you’re talking about.” The men yanked me to my feet.
“Button the lip and listen if you know what’s good for you. You–”
“If someone didn’t know any better, they might think I’m on the outside looking in, bub. I’m just worried you fellas might be getting tired by now.”
“Strike two, sport!” he snapped and followed with an even fiercer blow to my midsection. “I hate it when people don’t take directions. You’re gonna crack wise once too often, Tanner.”
“I’ll try to behave if it’ll help you.”
Someone kicked my legs from under me. I fell like a tree. Understand, one on one, there are few men I won’t face off with if it comes to it. Hell, I’d even go in for a bout with Max Schmeling or Jack Sharkey if the money was right. I might take a fall and stay down during the referee’s instructions, but I’d get in the ring with them all the same. But jumping into a fray with two or three on one and me being the one? Uh-uh. Mama Tanner didn’t raise me to be stupid. I stayed down.
Several kicks to my torso came from different size shoes, each very large. Various threats accompanied them. Someone growled, “We’re gonna collect it one way or another, Tanner.” Then, as Adrienne might say, the coup de grâs landed on the side of my head. A black tide swept over me.
* * *
When my eyes opened, I was still in the alley. My mouth tasted like the bottom of a parakeet cage. Only tepid light spilled from the moon, peeking through a cloudless sky between the buildings lining the back street. After a couple of seconds, my eyes adjusted to the darkness. I could barely make out a scruffy cat sitting against a nearby trash bin, watching me without a lot of interest. Bored, it moved on.
My head was roaring. My stomach quivered with nausea. I tried to stand and walk, but could only stagger to a garbage can. There I managed to balance on the flat of my hands. The pain in my ribcage made it difficult to breathe.
I trudged back to my crate and drove to see a doctor associate of mine who, if he knew you, treated certain types of wounds and injuries without questions and short of notifying the police. The law didn’t appreciate his dedication to gents such as myself. Neither did our state’s medical board, but Dr. Lusk somehow kept his license. The good doctor treated my cuts and abrasions. He bound my ribs, diagnosing the possibility of a cracked bone or two. Doc gave me pills a little stronger than aspirin for the pain he promised I’d feel later. He didn’t lie.
* * *
On Lusk’s recommendation, I spent the following day in my bedsit keeping quiet, popping pills, and nursing my throbbing head. I shaved while admiring my split lip, skinned face, and red lump under one eye in the mirror. Other than that, I caught up on my thumb-twiddling.
The daylight hours were getting fewer by the day. By sunset, I was bored and thirsty. Harry’s Paradise Tavern was singing its siren song. So I pulled off my pajamas, slipped into a suit, sans tie, and gingerly made my way there.
Slathered in Sloan’s Liniment and sulking into a Jack Daniels, I sat on my preferred barstool, bandages and all, and made small talk with my pal Harry. Getting past the bartender’s initial observation and recommendation of “You look like hell. Go home and lie down,” we settled on talking baseball. It was always the proprietor’s favorite subject, especially when his Cardinals had a great season such as the one just ended. While the Redbirds went to another World Series, my Redlegs finished toward the bottom of the National League, surpassed in failure only by the Phillies. At least the topic took his mind off my dismal appearance and mine from my aches and pains.
After an hour, the liquor was finally taking effect when a long-legged skirt came into the place and breezed over to the stool next to me. She ordered a Hanky Panky Cocktail and lit up a smoke while she waited. I slid an ashtray to her. The friendly type apparently, she thanked me, said hello, and informed me she liked “hanky panky.” I responded to the double entendre by telling her I did, too. This was turning out to be not only my favorite barstool, but a lucky one to boot.
After an hour, the liquor was finally taking effect when a long-legged skirt came into the place and breezed over to the stool next to me.
When the barman delivered her concoction, she raised her glass to me and beamed, “Here’s to moths in your mink.” I acknowledged the toast and studied her. She was a redhead in her late twenties. Redheads usually meant trouble for me. But then, so did brunettes and blondes.
She wasn’t quite a raving beauty, but a dish in a low-down sort of way. No, the manner in which the broad carried herself, held her cigarette, told me she was no paper flower. I’ve been known to get mixed up with blue-blooded women. But sometimes, I go for hard-boiled dames on the tawdry side of life.
“You here alone?” she asked. The frail’s voice had an edgy, alcohol-soaked twang.
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I am. You meeting someone?”
She shook her head. “Why don’t we–?” Whatever the doll’s thought had been, it was interrupted by the barkeep hovering nearby. She shot him a disapproving glance, turned on her seat, and leaned closer to me. “Why don’t we get a booth where we can have a more private conversation?”
“Sure.” Who was I to argue? Besides, it had been a long season with no rain, if you take my meaning. I gave Harry a smug sneer and picked up our drinks. “Bring us another round, will you?”
Ensconced in a cubicle safely away from prying ears, she pulled a fresh gasper from her pocketbook. I lit it and a Chesterfield for me. The woman blew smoke toward the ceiling. She started to speak, but changed her mind as Harry delivered our potions. He set mine down with a thud. It was Harry’s way of showing me he was annoyed with being left out. Oh, well. Lizzie eyed him warily as he returned to the bar before shifting her eyes back to me. “You married?”
“Can’t say as I’ve ever had the pleasure. You?”
“Uh-uh. My name’s Lizzie.” I didn’t have time to share my moniker before she surveyed the joint and went on. “I’ve never been in this place. Do you come here a lot?”
“You could say that.” I chuckled, “There are those of my acquaintance who claim it’s my office annex.”
“Office? What kind of office? What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a private detective. What about you?”
“Well, I worked at the Farmers’ Bank until it closed a couple of weeks ago. That pushed a half dozen of us girls out the door. But I’d been saving my money. So I’m all right. For a while anyway.”
“That’s swell.”
During the next several cocktails, we smoked and made small talk about various things. The conversation became foggier with each round. Finally, she reached across the table and said tenderly, “I like you. Got my own place, you know. We could go there, gargle, and relax. I’m nice to be nice to.”
“Okay,” I said flatly, in a noncommittal tone. Nobody comes on to a mug like me without an angle. Despite my raging hormones, things were moving too fast for my comfort. Though I couldn’t shake the feeling she was playing me, I didn’t really want to know what her game was. The Jack Daniels had me all aglow in the presence of an attractive gal who seemed to be in the mood for a bout of mutual good feeling. And I was curious.
Though I couldn’t shake the feeling she was playing me, I didn’t really want to know what her game was.
She bristled and blew smoke in my face. “What’s the matter? Am I too frank?”
“Not in my racket, you aren’t.”
“Are you queer?” she taunted.
“No, but, if you haven’t noticed, I’m a little worse for wear at the moment.”
Her tone softened. “You just need somebody to nurse you.”
“Volunteering, are you?”
“You could do worse. How do you feel?”
“With my hands.” I followed with a burning question. “You’re not a joy girl by chance, are you?”
Lizzie flinched, raising a hand as if to strike me across the table. Slowly, she dropped her hand back to its surface. “I don’t know how you’ve managed to stay single this long!” she declared sarcastically. “You know, your wise-ass manner gets old quick. I don’t believe it’s a proper substitute for virility.”
“I’ve only been exposed you to the first item. Care to try the second one?”
She blushed faintly, smiling.
* * *
Later, at the flat Lizzie shared with two other women she’d worked with, she encouraged me to sit and have a smoke while she changed into “more comfortable” clothes. In anticipation, I plopped on a settee, lit a coffin nail, and tried to clear my head. Through the partially opened door to her bedroom, she assured me her roommates were using their unexpected unemployed time to visit family out of state. My “date” re-emerged in an old sweater and a pair of slacks. They were nothing special, but showed off her great figure. She looked good in them.
The woman eased down beside me. “Fag me.” I gave her one from my deck and lit it. After a couple of puffs, she offered, “I’m gonna fix a drink. Want one? It just so happens I have Jack Daniels on hand.”
“The night’s still young. Sure.”
The redhead smiled alluringly, unwound her long gams, and stood to mix us cocktails. Those pants held legs that were delicious, and she knew it. Their charms were intuitively obvious to even a casual observer.
While she finagled with the glasses and ice on a small sideboard, I prowled around the room. On a corner table littered with framed photographs I hadn’t noticed earlier, I saw the picture of a handsome, towheaded man. The portrait was signed across the lower left-hand corner, “To Lizzie, With love, Tommy.”
I turned to my companion as she approached with our hooch. “Who’s this?”
“That’s Tommy, my lover.”
“Lover? If you’re involved with someone, what the hell am I doing here?”
“That’s just it. You’re here and he’s not.” After a pause, she continued. “I dunno. I just thought things might work out between us tonight. Can’t you understand I need some tenderness right now?” When I didn’t budge, she asserted, “You’re not a romantic, are you?”
“I try to be.” I took my drink in hand. “Understand, I’m no knight errant, but I won’t get involved in a love triangle.” I hated geometry except on a pool table.
“Yeah, I didn’t take you for no Galahad.”
“So, what’s going on?”
She didn’t answer but crossed the room, draping herself on the davenport again.
As I set my glass of Jack down and followed her, a question that had occurred to me earlier came back to mind. “In all this time, you haven’t asked me my name. As a shamus, that rouses my curiosity. So I’m asking why not?
“I know who you are, Gil.”
I was sobering up slightly. After a quick scan of the apartment, I demanded, “Is this some kind of setup?”
She sipped her gin, then gazed intently at me. “No. Part of the reason I brought you here was to tell you something I think you’ll want to know. It’s about Tommy and how he’s behind a problem you’ve been having lately.” She went silent for a minute, as if trying to decide what and how to tell me. Her face was expressionless.
There was only one problem I’d had recently. And my patience was already stretched pretty thin dealing with it. “See here, high pockets, I’m a detective! I don’t play at it! Give!” She merely stared at me. The time for niceties was past. As I stood over her, I took hold of her shoulders and shook her hard. “Spill it!” She dropped her glass, splashing the booze and ice. I released one arm. “Shake it up and pour it out or I’ll give you a taste of this!” I shouted, waving my open-palm hand above her.
“See here, high pockets, I’m a detective! I don’t play at it! Give!”
She made a face as if there was an unpleasant odor in the room. “You crumbs are all alike!” she screeched.
“Don’t go shrill on me. Just spill it.”
After a long moment, she raised her eyes to me. “Tommy has a problem with snow. I love him but….” Her voice trailed off.
“Go on,” I urged impatiently. “What’s that got to do with me?”
Lizzie rose, walked around me to the sideboard, and made herself another drink. I stayed close to her, close enough to smell the faint fragrance that arose from her tousled red hair. Why the hell had this encounter had to get complicated?
Unaware of my hormones, she continued, “Somebody in the south side mob is Tommy’s cocaine supplier. They got him hooked on the stuff. I think they knew he couldn’t afford the habit when they did. So they used his addiction and his inability to support it to get him to do a job.” She returned to the dry end of the sofa. “This guy, whoever he is, said he’d give Tommy a chance to work for his fixes. All he had to do was place a bunch of wagers over the phone with a bookie using a list of names he’d been given. That’s it.”
I sat on the edge of the coffee table. “And?”
“And you were on the list. Tommy laughed when he saw your name. He said he owed you, anyway. So he made your bet bigger than any of the others. And for spite, he told me, he put it on a hayburner that was a sure loser.”
“What’s Tommy’s last name?”
“Murphy.”
The moniker didn’t register. “If you love him, why are you telling me this?”
From beneath knotted brows, her eyes swept the room for answers that weren’t coming at first. I waited. After a minute, she sought my face and said, “I’ll admit I haven’t loved wisely, but I have often and hard. I fell for Tommy the hardest. He’d worked as a sandhog under the New York City streets before throwing in the towel and coming here. When I met him, he was brash and beautiful. Tommy thought he was really something to yell about. So did I.
“At first, everything was wonderful. But then he got turned on to the coke. As he fell deeper into his addiction, he became a ruthless, cold-hearted bastard when he wasn’t high.” Her chin dropped to her chest as her eyes welled with tears. “He treated me mean, did horrible things to me, hit me. We had an awful snarling match last night. I left his place and came back here. But I didn’t bring you here to cry down your neck,” she mumbled.
“He treated me mean, did horrible things to me, hit me.”
I stood. “It’s all right. Does he know you were coming to me?” She shook her head without speaking. “Where’s Tommy now?” When she didn’t answer, I reached out and lifted her chin with my fingertips. “Where, Lizzie?” She told me he had a small house in the Delmar section of town. Delmar was a mixed area over by the river on the southwest side of the city, comprising modest bungalows set on small lots. Folks had abandoned more than a few since the Crash. Salt and pepper, they called the neighborhood. “Does he still have the list?” She hesitated, then nodded. “Where does he keep it?”
“It’s at the house in a drawer in the table the telephone sits on.” She grabbed my arm. Her eyes were sad, pleading. “Please don’t hurt him. I still love him.”
I shook her hand off and walked across the room and out without glancing back.
* * *
Three-quarters of an hour later, I drove past the front of Tommy’s place. A grim bitterness gripped me. Anger over the attacks and the beating I’d endured because of this jerk gnawed at me. I was pissed off and ready to beat him to death, but that wasn’t in the cards. There was a need to keep him alive. I’d hold myself in check. Dealing with a dope fiend had its own set of challenges, depending on whether they were hopped up when you encountered them. Another stumbling block might be getting through to a brain addled by months of drug abuse.
I made a U-turn and pulled to the edge of the dirt road the house sat on. The street was quiet but for the muffled sounds of music coming from somewhere. A flicker of light in a window on the side of the house shone on the rutted car path that ran to a Ford Tudor parked in front of a detached garage at the rear.
I hauled out of the car and walked to the front porch. Several twists of the doorbell key brought Murphy to me. My pigeon turned on a porch light. As he pulled the curtain in the door’s window aside, I dropped my head so he might only see the top of my fedora. I didn’t know whether he’d recognize me. The window covering fell again.
“Who is it?” he called through the door.
“Tommy, the boss sent me! It’s concerning Lizzie!” I reckoned either of the two notions could get the door opened.
He pulled the door ajar slightly. “What boss are you–?”
With my shoulder, I lunged at the opening, blasting the door and throwing the man back into the dim light of a small foyer. Lizzie’s beau was larger than he appeared in her photograph. The dusty blond-haired fellow came at me with a scream, lowering his shoulder. I braced myself for his charge, and we fell together into the door, which slammed behind me. When I hammered the back of his skull with my intertwined fists, he released his grip on me, backed away, and straightened. As he did, I stepped to him and delivered a series of hard jabs to his face. He lurched drunkenly and fell to his hands and knees.
From somewhere, he groggily produced a knife and reached toward me with it in his right hand. I sidestepped his effort and kicked his left arm out from under his torso. He fell to the floor hard. I brought my heel down hard on his outstretched wrist. Bones grated, maybe cracked, under my shoe. He screamed and dropped the blade, which I pushed away with my foot. I’d had the hell beaten out of me and still felt the effects. If necessary, I wanted Murphy to where he considered death an attractive option. For good measure, I gave him a couple of swift kicks to the midsection. He was conscious, but the starch was out of him for the time being.
Bones grated, maybe cracked, under my shoe.
I grabbed his feet and dragged him toward the fan of light that spread across the hall floor through an opened door. The lighted room held a davenport and two stuffed chairs clustered around a coffee table. Against one wall was a wooden table holding a radio and a telephone. The radio blared Helen Morgan’s More Than You Know. Dropping Murphy’s feet, I pulled a straight-back chair from the dining room across the hallway to where the man lay. I hoisted the mug into the seat and secured him to it, using his belt and an electric cord ripped from a floor lamp. Stepping back, I realized he resembled a road company version of Alfred Lunt.
At the wooden table, I turned the radio off and opened the three drawers. The first two held miscellaneous junk. The third contained several pencils and pages of paper with random numbers written in no certain order. No catalog of names was to be found. I returned to my captive and slapped him hard several times to get his attention. His head rolled back, and he looked up at me. There was spittle mixed with blood at the corners of his mouth.
“Where’s the list, Tommy?”
“What list would that be, Tanner?”
So he knew who I was on sight. “The list you’ve been using to place bets with Jimmy Jax.”
His face split into a grin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” From a self-satisfied smirk, he asked, “You don’t remember me, do you, Tanner?”
Lizzie’s words concerning her lover’s saying he owed me for something came back to me. “Nope. I don’t know much about you, except you’ve a grouch against me for some reason.”
“Do you remember Conor Lowry?” he snorted.
“Yeah. He murdered a prostitute named Ellis a few years ago.” I’d been involved in the case with Det. Waddell when the girl’s parents sought my help to find their daughter’s killer.
“Allegedly! Allegedly killed that girl!”
“Well, the jury thought it was more than a mere allegation. They sent him to prison. The only reason they didn’t hang him was–”
“With your help, they convicted an innocent man!” Tommy screamed. He took a deep breath. “Conor was my uncle, my mother’s brother. Her and me sat through the trial. We watched you testify. Him going to prison killed her.”
I vaguely recalled seeing a woman and a boy in the courtroom. “I’m sorry to hear about your mother. So how’s he doing in stir?”
His body stiffened. “He got shivved and died there! You killed him, too!”
“Anything that happened to Lowry, he brought on himself, kid.” My words caused pure rage in Murphy, who struggled to loosen his bindings. They held. I slapped his face again with my open hand. The sound of the slap ricocheted around the room. He started crying. “Now, let’s get back to the list you’ve been using to place bets and who put you up to it. The next sound you hear will be that of your own voice, sharing the details with me. No sense in making a lot of trouble for yourself.”
“Screw you, Tanner!” he yelled.
“My, my, my, but I’ve been getting a lot of offers for sex lately. The list, Tommy! Where is it?” I asked, as I unholstered my gat, bent, and put its working end against the top of one of his shoes. Lizzie was right. He was brash, but how easily did he bluff. “We can do this the hard way where I start here and work my way up to your ears. I’ve plenty of bullets. Or we can do it the easy way. The ball’s in your court, boyo. Whatever balls you have for the time being, they’re in your court.”
His eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Fortunately, Murphy appeared to be a bit of a daisy when it came to serious physical pain. He quickly caved. “It’s in the right-hand drawer in the table.”
“No, it’s not.”
“It’s there! Just look for it!”
I pressed the muzzle harder. “I did! The only things in that drawer are pencils and sheets of paper with numbers! No list!” He seemed genuinely stunned, though I wasn’t sure I believed him. “Where is it?” He shook his head vigorously. “Then where could it be, Tommy? Could someone have taken it? Who else has been here?”
Murphy’s eyes cast a vacant stare. An expression of sudden panic rushed across his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“Lizzie,” I helped him. His head had already started bobbing slowly as his eyes crawled back to meet mine. “I thought so. So, then tell me who put you up to this.”
The thought of betrayal by his girl was the last straw. Through tears, he expounded, “I’m not sure. I got instructions and the roster of names from my… from a contact I have in The League. But he’s not behind it. I’m sure of that much. Word was, with his success, Jimmy Jax had gotten sloppy in the running of his operation. He started taking wagers from people unknown to him, people he couldn’t collect from. His collections started falling off. My instructions were to push that to the breaking point.
“The mob could then tighten the screws on Jimmy. Then, someone else would come in and take his book over. Anyway,” he chortled, “I set you up with a bad wager. It was a toss-up between Counterfeit Dream or Sweet Talk in that race. I figured both would still be trying to finish a day later.” He was pleased with himself. When I didn’t join his little party, he shrugged. “You know how it is,” he offered apologetically. “I just followed orders.”
I didn’t want to waste anymore time with this bum. Finding Lizzie and getting my hands on that list was the most important thing I had to do now to put the skids under Muldoon’s squeeze of me. “Okay, Murphy, you stay right where you are. I’ve got a date with your girl.” I ripped the phone line out of the wall on my way out.
* * *
Midnight had come and gone by the time I knocked on Lizzie’s apartment door. No one answered. A woman peeked out from the residence across the dimly lighted hall. She described the lateness of the hour in no uncertain terms. Apparently, the walls in this joint were as thin as a hoofer’s wallet.
After the woman closed her door, I glanced at the lock and smiled. Taking a piece of hard celluloid I always carried in my billfold, I eased it between the jamb and the lock. As I pushed toward the door’s hinges, the celluloid pressed against the slope of the spring lock, which snapped back. The door gave way.
I entered. The air inside was stuffy and permeated with an odd aroma. Lizzie was a muggles-smoker. I used my memory of the room’s furniture arrangement to navigate my way in the dark to her bedroom. The door was closed. Opening it, I tiptoed to her bedside, accidentally kicking a large bottle along the way. I picked the container up and set it in a nearby chair. It explained the smell of stale gin that hung in the air. Apparently, she’d knocked off a quart of the stuff and was plastered to her hairline. The girl was snoring sonorously.
I used my memory of the room’s furniture arrangement to navigate my way in the dark to her bedroom.
I eased down on the bed beside her and put a hand over her mouth while switching on a bedside table lamp. Her eyes shot open. My hand muffled the shriek I’d anticipated. The woman stared at me through wide bloodshot eyes, then ended her scream. She was sweating like a whore in church.
“No more yelling?” I asked. She nodded. I released her mouth.
“What are you doing here?” Despite the question, she didn’t seem surprised.
“We have unfinished business. Get up.” Lizzie threw back the covers. Naked as a mermaid, she grinned wickedly. “For cripe’s sake, get dressed and come out to the living room.”
The telephone was out there, so I wasn’t worried that she’d call the law or anyone else. I left the bedroom, pulled the door to behind me, and sat on the davenport. In a few minutes, she joined me clad in a flannel bathrobe and, as far as I could tell, nothing else. I turned on the sofa to face her.
“You need to give me the list of names Tommy was using to place the bets.”
“I don’t understand what you mean,” she said in a come-hither voice. “Didn’t you get it from him?”
“I’m gonna need you to do better than that, precious.” When she started to protest, I raised a hand to stop her. “Don’t even try it, Lizzie. See here, I don’t get the game you’re playing with Murphy, but I’m caught in the middle, as these bandages can attest. I’m sore and I’m tired. Frankly, I’m sick to my back teeth of the whole damned mess.
“You were aware of where Tommy kept the thing I’m after, Lizzie. You had a lover’s quarrel and left. I saw in Murphy’s face he was genuinely shocked the list wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He told me you were the only person in his place between the last time he saw it and when it went missing. So hand it over.”
Lizzie glowered at me. “You don’t know what Tommy has done to me. Besides the physical abuse, I mean.” Her eyes slowly filled with tears.
Here we go with the waterworks, I mused, unmoved.
“Tommy took pictures of me passed out from jujus and naked,” she admitted, hesitantly
“Got any handy?”
She slapped me hard with an opened hand. “You asshole! I’m no bitch in heat,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
“No, doll face, you’ve just got an old-fashioned case of hot pants.”
“That’s the hand I’ve been playing my whole life!” she cried.
“Tell it to the chaplain, Lizzie. You can’t toy with fate.”
“I hate you!” Her shoulders twitched in anger as she spoke.
“I’m gonna bust out crying. You’re not the first, and probably not the last, dame to tell me that. I’m not a lovable character. Get the list!”
The redhead launched herself off the sofa and stomped to her bedroom. I followed. She had the sucker list in a dresser drawer. Turning to hand it to me, the broad let a shoulder of the robe drop, revealing an amble breast. “I’m easy to get along with if I’m treated right.”
Turning to hand it to me, the broad let a shoulder of the robe drop, revealing an amble breast.
“You’re throwing it away, sugar. I’m here strictly on business. Take it to Tommy. Maybe he’ll buy what you’re selling. He’s probably sorry as hell by now, anyway.”
“Guys like him are always sorry!” she snapped.
“I knew you were trouble.”
“Thanks, Galahad! That’s mighty white of you! I coulda told you that!”
I snatched the roster from her and stormed out without looking back. This would rid me of the mess I’d found myself in. Or so I thought.
* * *
After several hours’ sleep at my place, I showered, scraped my face with a razor, and got dressed to greet the day. While I did, I searched the names on the roster. Besides mine, there were a number I recognized as regular patrons of Iggy. It occurred to me the south side mobster behind this ploy might have in mind two objectives. For one, he could break Muldoon’s operation and take it over. At the same time, he could gum up my north side bookie’s action by embroiling his bettors in the grift. I left my apartment to have two photostats of the document made.
* * *
Entering the Ajax Diner, I made my way along the counter directly to the rear booth where the gangster held court. He sat facing the front door. One of his enormous henchmen sat across the table from him. Jimmy noticed my approach, nodded, and spoke softly to his companion. The big man swung his head in my direction and immediately rose to face me. It was Stoker. The plug-ugly placed a hand on my chest to keep me away from his boss.
“Know who I am?” I asked, peering around the big roughneck to his boss.
“I’ve seen you around.”
Stoker sneered, “This here’s the deadbeat we been telling you about, Mr. Muldoon. This is Gil Tanner.”
“We need to talk.”
“You have my money, Tanner?”
“No.”
“Then we got nothing to say to each other.” His basilisk green eyes shifted from me to the sheets of paper spread on the table in front of him. Muldoon looked at the documents but spoke to me with a malevolent smoothness. “I thought you might’ve come here to square things up. You take a lot of chances and have caused me a great deal of inconvenience. I need your grief like a case of the measles. You need to leave while you can still walk. You wasted your time coming here.” He gave me a knowing, up-from-under stare. His wasn’t the face of a man of nuance. “I’d’ve thought that beating might have broken you.”
“I’ve had worse,” I shot back, although I truthfully couldn’t recall when or where. “And it’s my time to waste. We–”
“You’re a tough nut to crack, Tanner. And I don’t see any signs of scaring you.” A menacing smile quirked at the corners of bookmaker’s lips as he gazed up at me.
“And you won’t. Listen, I honor my debts, Jimmy. It just so happens I didn’t place any bet with you.” Cutting off a response, I pressed on. “Have your boys recently been having trouble collecting from bettors that aren’t familiar to you? You got a number of the suckers claiming they don’t know what the hell you’re talking about when you say they’ve welched on a bet?” A hint of recognition showed on his face. “What I have to say will save you a lot of trouble and money.” The first of those two items might not catch his ear, but I knew the second would snag the parsimonious man’s attention. “I’m sure you’d want to learn that someone in The League is setting you up to take over your operation.”
“What I have to say will save you a lot of trouble and money.”
The racketeer’s eyes narrowed. Noncommittally, he inquired, “And how did someone such as yourself come on that information?”
“Because I’ve talked to the man doing the job for your adversary in the organization. How I found him isn’t important. He wouldn’t tell me who he’s working for,” I smiled and nodded to the man standing beside me, “but you have the hard numbers who can make him spill it.”
“Let the man sit down, Stoker,” he sighed. “You horse players are all alike. You’ve always got an excuse to sell. This had better be good.” He spoke with iron in his voice.
Stoker expertly ran his hands over me. When I assured him I wasn’t rodded and he’d finished, he let me slide into the cubicle. Then he dropped in beside me. The goon’s bulk left me with barely enough room to breathe. He eyed me distrustfully. “Don’t start cutting up or I’ll smash your face,” he warned.
“Try it and you’ll end up on the floor,” I asserted. Stoker snorted. He wasn’t buying my threat. To keep everyone calm, however, I put my hands flat on the table.
Muldoon had gathered his pages into a neat pile, set them aside, and looked me hard in the eyes. He cleared his throat. Jimmy was a chubby-cheeked man. His large, round, pink head rested like a boulder upon his shirt’s stiff detachable collar. “So who’s this mug you’ve talked to?”
“Uh-uh. Not until we get it straight that I didn’t lay a bet with you. You know I never have. Why would I do it now? Iggy’s the only one who gets my business.” He knew who Colari was. These bookies had an intelligence network that might make Mussolini’s secret police, the ORVA, envious. “Ask him yourself. He–”
“Does Macy ask Gimbel?” He leaned back comfortably in his seat, waggling his head. “Nah. I’ll tell you why you came to me for the wager. As I recall it, Counterfeit Dream was twenty-three-to-one.” One thing I had learned regarding Muldoon was his reputation for being able to recall facts and numbers. “Maybe your man didn’t care for the odds if a miracle happened.”
“Does Macy ask Gimbel?”
“Yeah, it would’ve taken a miracle for that nag to finish in the money, short of hailing a cab. But I tell you, I didn’t make that play with you.”
“If I let you renege on a thousand-dollar bet, I look like an asshole to the suckers in the street. Do I look like an asshole?”
“Well, now that you mention it, yeah, you do. I guess it’s just your easy Irish charm.” That got me a sharp elbow to my already sore ribcage.
“You’re a hard man, Tanner,” Jimmy whispered hoarsely, folding his hands on the table.
“If I wasn’t hard at least around the edges,” I gasped, “I’d be dead. Understand, when I learned what nag I was supposed to have put my money on with you, I went back over the racing forms. In that same run at Jamaica Racetrack, I put what money I could afford on Rainbow Lady at four-to-one with Colari. Now, does it make sense that I’d gamble on two horses in the same race? Especially when one was such a long shot? Plus, I’ve never risked a thousand dollars on anything. That kind of dough is beyond my means. If Macy gets around to talking to Gimbel, as you put it, Iggy will tell you. And ask around. I’ve never welched on a bet.”
I let that notion sink in before adding, “This jerk I’m talking about is calling in bets to your folks in the names of random people. It seems a lot of the names he’s used are mugs like me who go through Iggy to throw away their hard-earned cabbage. And I got the roster of names the fella has been working from,” I added, patting my coat pocket.
“He made the bet in my name sizeable because I helped the law send his uncle up the river a while back. What the connection is between him and Iggy’s clientele list, I haven’t tumbled to yet. Perhaps your very nasty Brunos can bang it out of him while they’re getting the name of his boss. But the man he’s working for is definitely in The League.”
“All right, let’s say for the moment you didn’t phone in the wager. What now?”
“I’ll give you the list in my pocket so you can compare its names with the folks who claim they made no bet with you. Then you call your crew off me, and I’ll lead your people to the guy placing the bets. From him, you can determine who’s setting you up and take it from there. I’m washing my hands of it at that point. Agreed?”
Muldoon studied my face for a minute. He conceded with a nod and gave a faint signal. From nowhere, another hood appeared at the booth. He was the lug from the Ford I’d dealt with a couple of nights before. He had a black eye and a large bandage across the bridge of his nose. “I believe you’ve met Mr. Macfarlane,” the bookie suggested, a grin breaking on his face. MacFarlane glared at me and let loose with a low guttural noise reminiscent of an angry animal. “Mac, I want you to go with Tanner to visit this fella he’s talking about. You need to confirm he’s placed the bets Tanner is saying. And, most important, find out who’s behind his play. Don’t be too gentle about it.
MacFarlane glared at me and let loose with a low guttural noise reminiscent of an angry animal.
“But first, go let the boys know to hold off on collecting for the next twenty-four hours. That’ll give you and Tanner time to pay a little visit to this mug, whoever he is.”
The bookmaker held out a hand to me, snapping his fingers. “Gimme.” I handed him the roster. He wasn’t entirely satisfied. “Say, this is a photostat. Where’s the original?”
“My mouthpiece has it for safekeeping.” I nodded at the paper in his hand. “That’s the entire list, and it’ll tell you all you need to know. Let me out, Stoker, so we can get this shit over.”
As I stood next to Macfarlane, I asked, “You ready to go, bub?”
“Name’s Maon, Tanner. I’ll pick you up at your place at six this evening.”
“My apartment is at–”
“We know where ya live,” he sneered. He leaned into me and whispered, “And don’t forget, I still owe ya.” His breath was brutal.
* * *
Six-thirty found me sitting in Macfarlane’s Packard Deluxe Eight outside Murphy’s bungalow. Darkness had settled on the city around two hours earlier. Except for a faint light coming through the same window as the previous night and a front porch light burning, the place showed no signs of life.
“Let’s go get this over with,” my companion growled. He grabbed my arm firmly. “And don’t get clever or you’ll think a building fell on ya.”
At the front porch, I twisted the doorbell key several times, with no response forthcoming. Maon pushed past me to the door and hammered it loudly. He huffed his unhappiness.
“I’m pretty certain he’s here. There’s a Ford around back that I think is his. Let’s check the place out.” Macfarlane reluctantly followed my lead. I had no luck with the windows on the driveway side of the house. On the opposite side, I found one opened a crack. As I raised it, I felt unseen eyes on me. We turned to find a lean-jawed sourpuss woman staring at us from behind grimy window curtains. The peeper’s nose was flattened against the windowpane and her mouth was agape. I smiled and threw a hand up. The puss withdrew, and the curtain dropped. I turned to Maon. “I’ll go in and find Murphy first,” I whispered. “Once I’ve got him under control, I’ll let you in the front door. But let me do the talking to begin with.”
I climbed through the window and pulled the draperies off my face. My eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness, betrayed me for a moment. I had to feel my way among the furniture as quietly as possible to gain the hallway. A radio played behind a door somewhere. Some high-money torcher was overselling a song.
I prowled along the passageway to where light spilled from under a door’s sill. When I opened the door, the room appeared empty. It was the same one I’d been in the night before. The glow of the radio dial was the only illumination in the place.
My eyes had to adjust to the dim light. It was a while before I saw him. Tommy was jack-knifed on the floor with his back against a wall, stone-cold dead. I walked to the room’s doorway and groped for the button to turn the overhead light on. Returning to Murphy, I saw the handle of an ice pick sticking out of the back of his neck. There was no blood. Whoever had wielded the chipper did an expert job. Or had dumb luck.
Tommy was jack-knifed on the floor with his back against a wall, stone-cold dead.
I walked down the hall and into the foyer, where Maon waited impatiently outside the front door. “Hold your hat,” I told him when I let him inside. “The man’s dead.”
“What?” he cried, charging his way along the corridor. I followed. He turned into the room where Murphy’s body lay and stared at the corpse, hooking his thumb in his belt. Turning to me, he shot me a questioning glare. “Is this your doing? A dead lug–the best fall guy you could ask for.”
“Now why the hell would I kill the guy who can tell you I didn’t place any bet with Jimmy?”
“I dunno, but I don’t like it.” He surveyed the room quickly. “We need to get outta here!”
We walked out into the cool air. I was pulling the front door closed when something round and cold touched the back of my neck. I stiffened and felt a tingling at my nerve ends. “You and me still have something to get straight, Tanner,” Maon snarled softly. “I might as well leave two stiffs here for the coppers to find.”
Before anything else happened, something stirred at our backs. An unknown voice came over my shoulder from the darkness. “Hold it right there, mister! Drop the gun or I’ll shoot.” I heard a roscoe clatter on the porch’s wood planks. Somewhat grateful for the intervention, I assumed it was Macfarlane’s. Hands raised slightly, we turned to see a lanky uniformed cop with his service weapon drawn and at the ready. The man had a face like craggy granite. I didn’t recognize him from my work with the police department. In the porch light’s glow, a second, younger and bulkier officer stepped from behind a bush. Him, I didn’t know either. “What gives?” the older bull asked.
“Nothing, officer. I was just checking this house for a client.” I slipped my hand into my lapel to get a business card. The other flatfoot quickly drew his handgun and leveled it at me. I froze.
“And you do that by crawling through a window, do you?” asked the first. The window peeper had called the law. “Never mind the bullshit excuses,” he said, motioning with his revolver. “Let’s go inside, shall we?”
The younger patrolman collected my gat and Macfarlane’s hardware. Then the pair herded us into the house and directly to the murder scene. As soon as he saw Tommy’s body, the elder copper bristled. He kicked the detached telephone cord lying on the floor where I’d tossed it earlier. “Stitcher,” he instructed, “go next door and use the old lady’s telephone to call for a wagon to haul these two in to headquarters. And let the detective’s bureau know what we have here.”
When Stitcher hesitated, the gangly officer assured him he could handle us until he returned. “Right, Pete,” Stitcher said, trotting off.
Pete eyed us cautiously. “Now you two can make yourselves comfortable on the floor, sitting against that wall over there. And keep your hands where I can see them. You don’t want me getting nervous.” Once again, he gestured with the barrel of his gun. We did as he ordered.
Before long, Macfarlane and I had been handcuffed and were being lifted by two coppers into the back of a paddy wagon. During the ride downtown, Macfarlane cursed under his breath while I tried to glom who might have murdered Murphy. I was aware of two people with a motive and opportunity. Maybe three. First was the lug behind the phony betting scam. He’d want to keep Tommy from spilling any beans that might trace back to his part in the scheme. Lizzie might have done it in a rage over his treatment of her. The third possible perpetrator could have been the stiff’s drug supplier. Perhaps a disagreement arose over money Murphy owed him, the quality of the snow he was providing, or another issue. Who the hell knew? At that point, my objective was to convince the law to look elsewhere for the killer.
During the ride downtown, Macfarlane cursed under his breath while I tried to glom who might have murdered Murphy.
* * *
Pete O’Shaughnessy delivered us to the detectives at headquarters and departed with a good day’s work under his vest. The bulls fingerprinted us and installed me and Maon in separate stuffy interrogation rooms. They supplied me with a large uniformed mug so I wouldn’t get lonely.
Shortly, a detective I was only vaguely familiar with named Don Dubrovski came into the room. The uniformed guy left.
Dubrovski reviewed some paperwork he was holding. “So tell me why you killed Tommy Murphy.”
“I didn’t. I could’ve, but I didn’t.”
“Okay. So your pal killed him and you were along for the ride.”
“That’s not what happened!”
“Then tell me what happened!”
After counting to ten, I elaborated, “He was already dead when we got there.” The detective merely sat and stared at me. Taking it as an unspoken invitation, I told my story. At the detective’s insistence, I told my story four or five times. The account included my theories of who might be responsible and why. This mug, I figured, must sit through the main feature at the Modjeska Theater over on Broad Street a half-dozen times just to get the gist of the screenplay. As I was finishing my last rendition, another plainclothes fella came in and asked to speak with my interrogator.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Dubrovski said with a smirk as he stood and left the room. Ten minutes later, he came back through the door. “You can go, Tanner. But don’t leave town.”
“No problem, detective. I’m going home and clean my tommy gun. Seriously, is it too much to ask what caused you to release me? Aside from my innocence, that is.”
He exhaled audibly. “The coroner called. His preliminary finding is that Murphy had been dead somewhere around eight or nine hours when the neighbor saw you crawl through that window. So you didn’t kill him then.” He sounded disappointed. “I’m not that familiar with you, Tanner, but the word around the detectives’ bullpen is you’re too savvy to kill a guy, then return to the scene of the crime. That goes double for staying there after a nosey neighbor sees you climbing through a window. And it’s not your prints or Macfarlane’s on the ice pick. Don’t know whose they are yet, but they’re not yours.”
“So you didn’t kill him then.” He sounded disappointed.
“So Macfarlane’s free to go, too?” The detective nodded as he held the door for me. He escorted me through the release process.
I ran into the big hood smoking a butt on the steps leading from the city lockup. This is where there could be more aches and pains in my future. I had a plan ready to eliminate that possibility. “Glad to see the cops listened to my story, Maon, and released you.”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Simple. I told the detective, when we found Murphy, I estimated he’d been dead eight or nine hours,” I lied. “Then, I asked him, if either one of us had killed the man, why we would return to the murder scene? And then stay there after the old lady next door saw us at the window. Finally, I told him they wouldn’t find our fingerprints on the murder weapon. Oh, and I assured the cop you didn’t even know where to find Murphy until I took you there.”
The big man was studying me as I spoke, his face as blank as a pie pan.
“I just wanted to make sure they let you go.” When he broke into an enormous grin, I extended my hand. “Are we even now?”
“Yeah, shamus, I guess we are. Well, I gotta pay a visit to Murphy’s girlfriend.”
“Treat her gently, and she’ll tell you the whole story.”
We shook hands and went our separate ways. I passed up the bar across the street from the headquarters building. As I walked to the nearest streetcar, I processed a few thoughts. I’d might have had a helluva time getting Muldoon to believe the conspiracy against him, but the woman won’t. Not that it was my concern, but if the law tried to go after Lizzie for the killing without fingerprints, there wasn’t enough evidence to get to a jury. Even if they tried, they wouldn’t convict her. Nah, they won’t even try, I told myself.
* * *
I made my way to Iggy’s poolhall “headquarters” up on Fremont Street. With as brief an explanation as I could get away with, I handed my bookie a photostat copy of the suckers list to use however he saw fit.
* * *
It was dark when I finally returned to my apartment following a refreshing visit to Harry’s. I crawled into my Murphy bed and put my weary head down on a pillow. Before I surrendered to sleep’s undertow, I was thinking, when I next see Adrienne, I had to tell her not all my cases were mundane. ©
