Monday, July 22 – Sunday, July 28, 1935
It was an unusually warm July Monday when I descended the steps of the courthouse to Market Street. My pal, city Detective Sergeant Rob Waddell, ambled by my side. With not much going on at my private investigation agency, I’d stopped by to watch him testify in an armed robbery-attempted murder trial. The lanky copper had been something to behold in the witness box when the defense mouthpiece, thinking he was far smarter than any mere flatfoot, attacked his inquiry into the vicious assault. I watched the juror’s faces as the gumshoe, weighing his words with care, firmly out-dueled the lawyer. The twelve folks evaluating the evidence had seen through the latter’s unsubtle attempt to confuse the issues.
“Buy you lunch, Rob?” I asked when we paused at the sidewalk congested with mealtime pedestrians, nodding toward the Market Street Diner.
“No thanks, Gil. I gotta get back to the station house. A fresh case dropped on my desk just as I was leaving for court this morning. It won’t wait. Rain check?”
“Sure thing. See you in the funny papers,” I called to him as we headed off in different directions. Rob turned south toward police headquarters, and I strolled to my LaSalle parked at the curb up the block. Still feeling the effects of my heavy bout with Jack Daniels the previous night, I passed on lunch and headed to my office in the Belvedere Building.
* * *
When I returned to the agency, I found someone had slid a note under my door. Unfolding and reading the handwritten message, I learned it was from a twist named Lucille Gillman. She explained Mel Philpot had referred her to me. He was a cabdriver chum of mine. The woman wrote that she needed to see me as soon as possible with the prospect of hiring me. There was no address or telephone number on the thing. So it seemed I’d wait to hear from her again.
. . . someone had slid a note under my door.
Curious to get a handle on who this skirt was, I glanced at my strap watch. It was too early to contact Mel, who drove his shift at night and who’d be sound asleep at that hour.
After catching up on my paperwork, I picked up the sports section of the morning broadsheet. I had abandoned it in frustration earlier and left for the courthouse. Against my hopes, yesterday’s ball scores from Crosley Field hadn’t changed in the time I’d been away from my desk. My Redlegs had lost both games of the Sunday doubleheader to Philadelphia. Cincy had started the series with a win on Friday, then dropped the next three to the Phillies. This season wasn’t shaping up to be any better than last year.
Fortunately, my sporting wagers, limited to baseball, bangtails and boxing, had not completely hit the rocks recently. It began in early May with the Kentucky Derby. My initial impulse was to bet Roman Soldier across the board, although Omaha was the pre-Derby favorite. Nonetheless, I waited to see how things shook out. The morning of the race had arrived, with Churchill Downs enshrouded in a steady drizzle. Iggy, my bookie, told me the odds had swung to the filly Nellie Flag.
On a gut feeling spurred on by a hellish hangover, I laid a hefty (for me anyway), just-before-post-time wager on Omaha, who won by a length and a half. Then, along with jockey Willie Saunders, I “rode” that stallion to a Preakness win at less than even money a week later. Then there was the Belmont Stakes triumph in June, finishing just ahead of Firethorn, to complete the Triple Crown. Thanks to those fortuitous bets, I was able to relax at least a little more than usual regarding the dismal season Cincinnati was having and the cash I’d lost on the Baer-Braddock fight.
* * *
Later that afternoon, I still had no word from Miss Gillman. Out of sheer boredom, I set fire to a Chesterfield, got up from my desk, and walked out into the hallway. A good-looking young couple was leaving the portrait studio in the office spaces next to mine. The way they couldn’t keep their hands off each other and giggled, heads together in a suggestive fashion as they moved past me, led me to believe they were newlyweds. The door they’d just departed from opened again and the towheaded photographer, Lester Osgood, stepped into the corridor. When he saw me, he waved a greeting and sauntered to me.
“Looks as if you had a pair of happy clients there, Lester.”
“Yeah,” he cracked salaciously, “but I think they’re more joyful over having discovered the hidden secrets of married sex life.” He cast a long, lustful stare at the young female as the couple stood waiting for the elevator. His rubbery face skewed up. “If only….”
He cast a long, lustful stare at the young female . . . .
“Down, Fido,” I whispered, trying to make light of the moment. My companion had a reputation in our building with women. He was known as “Lester the Letch” to some and “Lester the Molester” to other tenants. Aside from his legit portrait business, Osgood also had a thriving, not-so-secret French postcard trade. Despite the common knowledge of it, nothing was ever done to shut it down. Being the brother-in-law of our city’s mayor had its advantages.
“So, why are you standing out here, Gil?”
“No particular reason. Just a change of scenery while I wait for a client to arrive.”
“Well, I’d better get to the dark room. See ya!”
With that, I returned to my desk and resumed my thumb twiddling. The Gillman dame was a no-show for the rest of the day. Around the time I knew Mel would be up and moving to get ready for his shift, I telephoned the Philpot residence and spoke with Mel’s wife, Nadine. She informed me her hubby had gone to the cab company a little earlier than usual. Based on the jawing sessions he and I’d had over coffee and drinks, I reckoned that meant they’d had another snarling match. Though the couple was devoted to each other, sometimes they were like two cats with their tails tied together and draped over a clothesline, all hissing and claws.
I headed for Mel’s usual pickup locations.
* * *
I pulled into a parking spot a couple of spaces ahead of the cabstand in the heart of the business district on Broad Street. It was where Mel often waited for fares. I waded through the humanity clogging the path toward the cabbies. This time of day, the crowd was a “going home” mob for those lucky enough to have jobs. My buddy wasn’t among the drivers there. The other mugs, gathered around a hack, smoking, and chinning, said they hadn’t seen my pal. I thanked them and walked to my heap.
I believed Union Station was the next likely place to find Philpot. Then a closer possibility struck me as I opened my LaSalle’s door. Since, according to the taxi jockeys I was acquainted with, Mondays were notoriously slow for fares, I ankled further along Broad to The Ajax Diner. The beanery was a hangout for Mel and his cronies when they weren’t behind the wheel. Every dispatcher had the joint’s pay telephone number memorized.
* * *
Sure enough, my favorite hack sat at the Ajax’s counter with several other fellas in his racket, drowning sinkers in cups of joe. I caught his attention and asked to speak with him about Gillman for a second. He raised his eyebrows as he sighed audibly and got a quick refill of java. “Let’s get a booth,” he suggested, spinning on the stool. While at there, I grabbed a cup of coffee, too.
As he eased into the bench seat, Mel remarked, “I wondered how long it would be before you came to me. She called our place and asked if I had the name of a shamus here, and, naturally, I thought of you. Look, if you don’t want to take her on as a client, it’s jake by me. She’s–”
“I wondered how long it would be before you came to me.”
“I’m not sure if I want the job or not. I haven’t talked to her yet. She left a note saying she wanted to hire me on your recommendation. I just hoped to learn who she is to you and if you’re aware of what she wants before we meet.”
Mel chuckled. “Lucille’s a distant cousin of Nadine’s. I don’t know her that well, ‘cause she only moved to the city within the last year. Only met her the one time when she came by the house to tell Nadine she was in town.” He paused long enough to light a gasper. “To me, she’s a strange bird, but you can decide for yourself.”
Philpot’s description was making me think twice concerning taking her case. Besides, thanks to the speedy Omaha, I wasn’t that desperate for cash. “What do you mean, ‘a strange bird’?”
The cabbie leaned over the table and whispered, “She plays for the other team.” When I didn’t react right away, he added, “She’s a dyke, a bull.” His tenor wasn’t harsh or judgmental, just matter-of-fact.
“I caught your meaning the first time, Mel. Thanks.”
“A good kid, I guess,” he opined, leaning back on the seat and taking a deep drag on his fag, “but there it is.” Smoke trickled from his mouth as he spoke.
“Listen, in my line of work, I come across every sort of character. What they do behind closed doors is no concern of mine, unless it relates directly to the case. Did she say why she wants to hire me?”
“You got me, Gil. I barely know the woman. She asked for a recommendation, and I gave her your name. That’s the only thing I can tell you.”
“Do you have any idea how to reach her? An address? Telephone number? Does she work somewhere?”
He shook his head vigorously. “Like I said, she hasn’t been here that long and, I gather, kinda keeps to herself. Maybe ‘cause of her lifestyle. I don’t think even Nadine knows how to contact her. And I don’t know if or where she works.”
So, again, it appeared I had to stand by to hear from the elusive Miss Gillman. I thanked Mel for the recommendation and extended a fin for his trouble. He smiled and refused it, referring offhandedly to the scrape I’d helped him get out of in his past. That’s another story for a different time.
I called it a day and fought my way through traffic to my Cuyahoga Street apartment.
* * *
Just as I finished my last glass of Jack Daniels for the night, there was a hard knock on the door of my flat. When I opened it, I found Lenny, a neighbor from across the hall, wearing his usual tattered flannel bathrobe of an indistinguishable pattern and color. I’d never seen him in street clothes. “Somebody wants you on the wire, Gil. It’s a guy. Says it’s an emergency.” I thanked him. As he moseyed toward his bedsit, the fellow half turned and asked pointedly, “You ever gonna get a phone?”
“Sorry. I’m going to take care of that soon enough. Promise,” I offered apologetically, even though I knew he hadn’t had a phone installed either. The corridor pay station was a holdover from the time when none of the tenants had blowers in their apartments. A few of us used its presence as an excuse not to spend the extra money. I had not yet sprung for one in my place, but I realized my business made it a requirement. In the meantime, I relied on the hallway horn and the graciousness of my fellow residents. Lenny could be confident his inconvenience on my behalf would bring an occasional carton of Old Golds his way.
I caught the earpiece, still swinging on its cord below the phone, and mumbled a hello. Mel’s familiar voice got straight to the point. As luck would have it, he’d picked up a fare from the lobby of the Equitable Building soon after we’d spoken. While helping his customer with his luggage, he saw Lucille working the newsstand there. I thanked him and we hung up.
Mel’s familiar voice got straight to the point.
* * *
The next morning, with a breakfast of ham and eggs floating contently in around a quart of coffee, I motored toward the Equitable on the city’s north side. Among other thoughts as I drove, wondering what had become of old man Garvey, who had run the kiosk for a long while, kept crossing my mind. I first met Zeke Garvey a number of years earlier when I was chasing down a blackmailer for a client. Our paths had crossed several times since. He was always happy to share the story of his experiences fighting at Manila Bay aboard the USS Olympia under Admiral Dewey. The old fella claimed to have been one of the nine Americans wounded in the fray. Whether he had been didn’t matter. I’d learned early on he was alone in this world, so I invariably took time to listen.
Inside the Equitable’s large atrium bustling with people, I approached the stand. Behind the counter stood a tall, slender but muscular, athletic-built woman with chiseled features and close-cropped brown hair. Even at a short distance, she could have passed for a man. “Lucille Gillman?” I inquired.
Her eyes flinched at my question. She looked around the place with a subtle franticness, if there is such a thing. She had a severe case of the yips. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Gil Tanner. I got a note saying you wanted to see me. Well, here I am,” I shrugged.
A measure of relief swept over her sharp face as a businessman stepped to the stall and bought the latest edition of The City Chronicle, addressing her by name. She returned to me. Tension still marked her puss. “I need to speak with you,” she whispered just loud enough to be heard above the din of the passersby. “Only not here, not now. I get off at six. Can I come by your office at six-thirty?”
Tension still marked her puss. “I need to speak with you.”
Her schedule was going to put a dent in my drinking time at Harry’s Paradise Tavern, but I agreed. “Sure. I’ll be there. Give me a deck of Chesterfields while we at it.” I paid for the smokes and opened the pack to snag a cigarette. She shook off my offer of one. Lighting the thing, I tried to ease her anxiety, asking, “What happened to Mr. Garvey?” Her pan showed no hint of recognition of the name. “Garvey,” I reiterated. “The old man who operated this stand for years?”
“Oh. I understand he had to go into a retirement home. His mind started going. Senility, maybe.”
I was sorry to hear that. He was a right gee. I made a mental note to find out where he was living and pay him a visit. Before departing, I confirmed, “We’re definite for this evening, then?”
She waggled her head slightly. “See you later.”
With time to spare, I stopped off on the way to my office to call on a mouthpiece I did occasional work for. Theodore Leonard had called and wanted to meet about working on a case involving his client’s wayward husband. He hired me and gave me the details of the circumstances.
* * *
I bought the afternoon edition of a local broadsheet from the newsie on the corner outside my office building. Back at my desk, I settled in with a couple of jiggers of Jack Daniels and the headlines. There was another article covering Hitler’s recent announcement that he intended to build two battleships and twenty-eight Unterseeboots or U-boats–submarines to you and me. This was on the heels of the Brit’s June agreement to a buildup of the German navy. Somehow, allowing the Huns to re-arm didn’t seem to be a good idea. I wasn’t sure who was saber rattling the loudest, the Führer or his Fascist buddy, Mussolini, with his incursion into Ethiopia.
Prior to me making up my mind on that count, a fly that had somehow managed to get into the office started driving me crazy. I put the rag aside and set out to kill the winged pest. The ringing telephone kept me from stalking the thing. It was Gillman advising me she was running a few minutes late, but was on her way. I assured her I’d hang around for a “reasonable” amount of time and we disconnected. And I meant a “reasonable” period. She wouldn’t be the first prospective client who never showed for a meeting. Now it was just me and my fly–the fly with wings, that is. Finally, success was mine.
I held fast in my agency until a quarter of seven. In frustration, I pushed away from my desk and grabbed my fedora from the coat tree. A loud rap came through the door as I reached for the knob. A frazzled Miss Gillman stood on the other side when I opened it.
A loud rap came through the door as I reached for the knob.
“I’m so sorry to be late,” she blurted as she hurried past me into the office, then turning to face me. “It’s raining cats and dogs. I don’t have a jalopy and the streetcars were packed.” I hadn’t noticed the downpour through my office windows. “Mel says you’re tops at what you do. And I really need your help.”
Flattery can occasionally get you everywhere with me. I relaxed and hung her umbrella on the coatrack while returning my hat there. The jane took the seat I motioned her to. “Know what’s worse than raining cats and dogs?” I asked, as I proceeded to my desk chair. She gave me an odd look and shrugged. “Hailing taxicabs,” I snickered. Her expression never changed. My attempted humor having failed, I moved on and urged her to tell me of her problem.
During the next hour or so, my visitor reeled off the story, explaining her need for and begging for my help, divulging some things and initially keeping other, less case-critical information to herself.
Lucille said she had arrived here around eleven months earlier. She knew no one locally except a cousin, Nadine Philpot. She didn’t contact her relative right away for a reason she didn’t go into. As Mel had suggested, I suspected her lifestyle might be the motive, but let it drift. It had nothing to do with anything. Trying to make the most of her limited funds while she looked for a job, she’d checked into The Coach and Six, an older, crummy hotel in a run-down area of the city.
One day, during her search for employment, a young lady struck up a conversation with her in the Broad Street Automat. The stranger’s name was Gladys Brubaker, and she worked at Goldfarb’s Five and Dime on Market. The pair ate lunch together and hit it off right away. When her new gal pal learned Lucille was staying at the seedy hotel while she sought employment, the stranger invited her to move into one of the two bedrooms in her apartment at the Dunedin Arms. My guest told me that, despite her hesitation–again she gave no reason for her reluctance–she agreed and they became roommates. Gillman described her co-tenant as attractive, tall, with a fair complexion, wavy brown hair worn long, and brown eyes. She apologized for not being able to provide a photograph of her friend.
. . . the stranger invited her to move into one of the two bedrooms in her apartment at the Dunedin Arms.
As she talked, the woman’s tone was much gentler than one might have expected, given her angular features and rough demeanor. And her voice softened even more when she spoke of Gladys. I was getting a gut feeling about where this whole thing could be leading. I was wrong. Sort of.
Along the way, she said she’d found the job at the Equitable Building. It wasn’t much, but she considered it a starting point. In the meantime, the two women became fast friends. A short time after she moved in, my prospective client learned her roomie was involved with a gorilla named Brian Beaudin, who was hooked up with the south side mob, known as The League. I was familiar with his name for various reasons, including a recent headline, though I couldn’t put a face with it. His presence in the young working girl’s life explained how she could afford a place at the Dunedin.
Gillman said she saw Beaudin a number of times during the period the women shared the flat. Occasionally, he’d stay the night. She described him as a nice mug with a hard edge. Otherwise, everything seemed copacetic.
Everything was fine, she assured me, until a week earlier when Gladys’s beau was found murdered and stuffed in an oil drum out near the rail yards. He had an ace of spades shoved in his mouth.
The newspaper story of the gangster’s body being discovered was the last time I’d heard or read his name. Although Detective Gus Donovan had caught the case as lead investigator, Waddell knew the details and had told me on the q.t. there’d been a shakeup in the south side organization. Gossip attributed the killing to The League ridding themselves of a few purported stool-pigeons. Several thugs had been done away with in the process. The man said to be behind the stir up was a mid-level boss in the outfit, named Seamus Daugherty. Daugherty was vaguely familiar to me through tabloid reports of his shady dealings and the rumors that make the rounds regarding a goon like him. His nickname was “Ace.” The playing card in a corpse’s mouth was his signature, a warning to others. He was known to have nearly as much sympathy as Stalin.
Daugherty was vaguely familiar to me . . . . His nickname was “Ace.”
Shortly after the law discovered Beaudin’s corpse, her good friend disappeared. As an aside, Lucille said she’d been told Brian’s bucket vanished around the same time, but she didn’t know what kind it was. The only thing my client recalled of it was its copper color. She reported the situation to the police. At first, Gillman thought Brubaker had been bumped off, too, because she knew too much or had witnessed Brian’s killing. She reckoned the body had been disposed of elsewhere.
Initially, she had also been concerned for her own safety. Those ideas changed when a south side henchman came to her apartment and roughed her up trying to get the dope on Gladys’s whereabouts. She gave them nothing, she advised me, because she was worried about Brubaker’s wellbeing. However, it convinced Lucille she was in no peril. They could have killed her then if they’d wished. The incident likewise persuaded the woman that her roommate was alive, on the lam, and still in danger of a fate similar to Beaudin’s.
I had to agree. By all accounts, the ruthless Ace was not the type to hide a body. He invariably wanted to send a message to those who considered crossing him. To emphasize the threat, he’d always openly displayed the corpses of family members and girlfriends who he had rubbed out with his “calling card.”. So, the odds were the skirt was still alive somewhere.
In answering my few follow-up questions, Lucille’s eyes glistened as she described her relationship with her roommate. Finally, she looked at me and bristled. “I’m sure Mel has told you his opinion of me and my way of life. I make no apologies to anyone for who and what I am. And I didn’t come here to cry down your neck.” Her voice was firm, even defiant.
“Mel hasn’t said anything to me beyond the fact that you’re Nadine’s cousin and want to employ me. Then, of course, seeing you working at the newsstand,” I bluffed.
Gillman’s face reflected her disbelief in my words. Shaking her head slightly, she confessed, “Regardless, you might as well know I fell in love with Gladys. I really loved her, but she never caught on to how I felt.” I wondered if that latter part was true. “Anyway, I want to hire you to find her, make sure she’s safe. I don’t have a lot of money, though I can pay some over time, if that’s okay.”
I nodded and assured her, “We’ll worry about the money aspect of it later. Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“None for certain. Although,” Lucille quickly added, “she once mentioned her only remaining family, an aunt and uncle living in the mountains of north Georgia.” She paused as I made a couple of notes. With hesitation in her voice, she went on, “Now I’m being watched. I–”
“How sure are you of that?”
“Damned positive!” Her voice held an angry frustration as she leaned over the desk toward me. “Listen, women like me are accustomed to being stalked, cornered, and roughed up by men who feel threatened by us. They know damned well we’re not likely to go to the cops over it. I am certain when somebody’s tailing me. But it’s not the same oaf who came to our place looking for Gladys.” She sat a handbag on my desk. It landed heavier than it should have. Then she continued, “I’m tougher than I look.” I wasn’t confident that was possible for a woman. “Just in case, though, I’ve started carrying this equalizer with me,” she finished, pulling out a little bean shooter.
“Listen, women like me are accustomed to being stalked, cornered, and roughed up by men who feel threatened by us.”
“I’d be careful brandishing that thing around, if I were you. Can you give me a description of the guy tailing you?”
“He’s an ugly, hulking brute.” That portrayal covered most of the lugs, populating the two mobs in the city. The only difference was usually hair color and complexion. Dark hair and swarthy appearance in the Italian gang on the north side, blond or ginger-haired and fair skin among the south side organization. Lucille said she couldn’t tell much concerning his skin tone and nothing regarding his hair. Her lights had been dimmed when he broke into her place. The lowlife’s hat remained firmly on his melon and yanked low over his face during the encounter, she explained.
“Getting back to Brubaker’s aunt and uncle, do you have any more information on them? Any way to contact them?”
“Mm-hmm, but not with me. I don’t recall it offhand, but she wrote their names and hometown on a piece of paper. I have it hidden in my room. They apparently live in the sticks and don’t have a telephone. I’m afraid to carry the dope with me now that someone is following me.” She paused while I made a few notes, then continued, “By the way, I had to move out of the Dunedin Arms. I couldn’t afford it without Gladys. I’ve taken a small furnished flat in the Hosch Apartment Building.”
The Hosch was a down-at-the-heels dump on a once-respectable artery, Lexington Avenue, near the river. I’d had occasion to pay the joint a visit only the month before. “That’s a rough neighborhood.”
She shot me a harsh smile. “I can take it. I’m tougher–”
“… Than you look. Yeah. You said.”
“Anyway, I’m in three fifteen, registered under my married name, Wilhite.”
“Married name?” I blurted, without thinking. The question revealed more than I’d intended. I am sure my face reddened.
From behind a triumphant smirk, my caller declared boldly, “Yeah, ‘married name.’ For a very brief time at one point, I was in what I think the Hollywood people call a ‘lavender marriage.’” Thankfully, she moved on. “I’ve since returned to my maiden name. If you can come by tomorrow after work, say around seven o’clock, I’ll give you what I have on Gladys’s next of kin. I can’t do it now, ‘cause I’m meeting someone.” She retrieved her pocketbook from my desk and asked, “So, what do I owe you for a retainer?”
“If you can come by tomorrow after work, say around seven o’clock, I’ll give you what I have on Gladys’s next of kin.”
“As I said, we’ll figure that out when I see you tomorrow.”
When I stood to walk her to the door, I glanced through my window blinds. The rain had stopped. At the same moment, something else garnered my attention for a longer dust. An unfriendly type lingered in the embrasure of the business kitty-cornered across the intersection from my office building. The place was closed this time of day, but an overhead light there provided a clear image of him. The large man had “hood” written all over him and just remained, gawking at the Belvedere’s entrance.
I moved to the coatrack. She took her umbrella and shook my hand firmly. “Find her. Protect her,” she pleaded tersely as she disappeared into the hall and to the elevator. I gave her time enough to make it halfway to the lobby, then started after her using the stairs.
When I came upon Gillman standing on the sidewalk just outside my building, I pulled up short and watched through the vestibule’s glass door. She was looking up at the sky, as if deciding whether another cloudburst was going to roll through. I waited for her next move or, more accurately, the gambit of the plug-ugly in the far doorway. He was staring holes in her as he removed his raincoat. Apparently unaware of his presence, the frail shook her head and tucked the umbrella under her arm.
As she crossed Washington Boulevard toward the cab stand there, the big man shifted to the side to hide his face and lit a coffin nail. When the girl turned toward Market Street and, I supposed, the trolley cars there, the roughneck stepped out of the niche and pursued her. I did the same at a decent distance behind him. As near as I could tell, the slender woman was oblivious to being tracked. For his part, the fellow shadowing her didn’t appear to notice me, either, as he bumbled along.
When we reached Market, the hooligan’s prey turned south and bravely trotted into traffic to snag a trolley, disappearing into the crowded car. The bruiser, momentarily halted by the same automobile flow, waited anxiously for an opening, then mirrored his mark’s movements and climbed aboard the moving tram. From my slight angle up the roadway, I glimpsed Gillman getting off the streetcar on the opposite side and ducking into a store. Meanwhile, I watched the confident lummox ride away on a wild goose chase, his eyes nonetheless searching the passengers for his target. If dumb were dirt, he’d cover a half-acre. And Lucille was a smarter cookie than I’d given her credit for.
I glimpsed Gillman getting off the streetcar on the opposite side and ducking into a store.
I hung around long enough to make certain the chump didn’t tumble to his mistake and return, then called it a day. In my LaSalle, I steered for a visit to the Paradise Tavern.
* * *
At seven o’clock sharp the next night, I eased my crate into a spot down the way from the Hosch Building’s front door. An older guy was working on the elevator when I entered the foyer. He straightened from his task, wiping his grease-stained knuckles with a streaked chamois, and questioned, “Can I help you, mister?” Without waiting for an answer, he added, “Name’s Dewey Yarborough, the building superintendent.”
“I’m here to see Lucille… uh… Wilhite.”
His eyebrows knotted. “Oh, yeah, her. She’s in three fifteen. Third floor, rear.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the elevator. “This thing’s a wreck. Take the stairs.” As I started to the stairwell, he called to me. “You’ll probably wanna knock. Her boyfriend’s up there with her.”
“Boyfriend?” I yelped.
“Yep. Been up there ‘bout an hour or so now.”
“Hells bells!” I hissed as I turned and ran to the staircase door.
“What’s the–?” The man didn’t finish his question. He interpreted my words as meaning trouble, tossed the shammy, and caught up with me on the stairs outside the third-floor entry.
In the hallway, he pushed past me. “This way.”
He led me to apartment three fifteen. A radio from inside blared Muzzy Marcellino’s vocal of Blue Moon. Yarborough tried the doorknob, but it was locked. Moving the super aside, I dropped to one knee to peer through the keyhole. My effort was met with only a dim light burning from somewhere, which revealed little of the setup on the other side. Without thinking, I quickly rose, stepped back, turned a shoulder to the door, and lunged forward. The entry was stronger than I expected. Nothing gave way.
As I retreated for another attack, the landlord moved between me and the flat’s entrance, yelling, “Whoa! What the hell are you doin’?”
“Trying to get in the room! What does it look like?” I responded, rubbing an achy arm.
“You’ll damage the frame!”
“What’s worse, splintered wood or a rotting body smelling up the joint?”
Dewey swallowed hard at that last option. He produced a ring of keys and proclaimed, “I have the passkey on me!”
In my angst, I hadn’t thought to ask. “Sorry.”
The super hurriedly unlocked the door and threw it open. I hustled in with my companion on my heels. He made a little sucking sound and cried, “Oh, God!” at the scene.
A light was burning on a table next to Lucille, who lay sprawled on a brass bed. I rushed to her. Gillman’s hands had been tied to the headboard with a towel. Purple bruises already blotched her face. The girl’s lips were swollen and oozing blood. A man’s tie was wrapped tightly around her neck. Her eyes were shut, but she was still breathing. The older man snapped the radio off.
Gillman’s hands had been tied to the headboard with a towel. Purple bruises already blotched her face.
“Call for an ambulance! And the cops!” I yelled to the fleeing superintendent. Turning to the battered figure on the bed and loosening her hands from their restraints, I whispered, “It’s all right. We’re getting you help. Just hold on.” The bim’s eyeballs flicked behind her closed lids.
Scanning the room, I saw the drawers in a small bureau had been rifled, as had a wardrobe. They were signs someone had been searching for something. Then my eyes passed to the lone window in the space. It was raised half way. Its dingy cotton lace curtains fluttered in a slight breeze. I went to it and found a fire escape just outside. Beyond the structure was a warm, moist night under a gibbous moon with nothing else to show anyone’s presence.
I returned to the bed. The broad’s swollen eyes were now open. “We’ve got an ambulance on the way, Lucille. Just take it easy. Don’t try to talk.” I played a long shot. “Blink twice if this was done by the same guy who followed you when you left my office yesterday.” Her eyelids shut and opened two times, though her pain-racked expression never changed. Her head was deathly still. But, fluttering back tears, her plaintive green lamps slowly moved from me to a brass bed’s headboard post and then edged back to meet mine.
“The bedpost? You’ve hidden something there?” She tried to speak, but coughed a red froth instead. Then she closed her eyelids again twice.
I reached over and removed the ball at the top of the post. Inside was a piece of paper with “Silas and Addie Faye Stinchcomb” written above “Blairsville, Georgia.”
“Is this Gladys’s aunt and uncle?” I asked as I hovered over the battered woman. There was no response. She’d passed out. I tucked the note inside a coat pocket. Dewey returned with the news that an ambulance was on its way, as were the cops.
A short time later, two medical attendants came in, checked the injured girl over, and hastily carried her out. When I inquired if she’d be okay, one of them simply shrugged. He confirmed they were going to St. Joseph’s Hospital.
I hung around until a uniformed police officer showed up. As he jotted my information on a small notepad, I explained my presence in the room. In addition, I made sure he understood there was a connection between this attack, the Brian Beaudin murder, and the disappearance of a number named Gladys Brubaker. He’d heard of the Beaudin killing, but questioned me regarding the latter’s vanishing. I suggested he contact the Missing Persons Division at headquarters, who had a report of her absence and which was brought to their attention by the victim here.
I made sure he understood there was a connection between this attack, the Brian Beaudin murder, and the disappearance of a number named Gladys Brubaker.
As I was leaving the Hosch building, I stopped by Yarborough’s residence in the basement. The evening’s events and the scene we’d happened upon had clearly shaken the man. He waggled his noggin and told me nothing of that sort had ever occurred there. Given the seediness and the reputation of the joint, I had my doubts. But, with no first-hand knowledge to the contrary, I passed on a retort. I had more important fish to fry. When asked, the super gave me a description of Gillman’s “boyfriend.” It matched perfectly the hood who’d tagged Lucille the day before. I thanked him, hustled to my jalopy, and sped off to the hospital.
Although understanding of my angst, the medical staff was adamant that I couldn’t see any patient until the next morning. They explained she was undergoing treatment for serious injuries. Frustrated, I headed home.
* * *
As soon as visiting hours arrived the following day, I was at the front desk of St. Joe’s, asking for my client. The receptionist there directed me to the nurses’ station on the fourth-floor women’s ward.
On the fourth floor, when I asked where I could find Lucille Gillman, the nurse hesitated, appearing apprehensive. She glimpsed past me and called out, “Doctor Sweeney! This gentleman’s here to see the Gillman woman.”
I turned to the man in a white smock approaching the counter. He laid a clipboard cluttered with papers on its surface. “I’m Doctor Sweeney. Are you with the police? Or a relative?”
“No. I’m Gil Tanner, a private investigator she’s hired on a case. Her building super and I discovered her last night and called for the ambulance. I believe her being attacked had to do with why she retained me. How’s she doing?”
“I’m sorry to tell you, Mr. Tanner, but the lady died a half hour ago.” He exhaled. “She had massive internal injuries from the attack. She was tough and put up a strong fight to stay alive, but the complications from the beating were just too much for someone of even her disposition. We did everything we could. I’m very sorry.”
To be honest, the news hit me hard. Lucille was an innocent bystander caught in what I felt was a cruel mob vendetta. She didn’t deserve to die like that. “Thanks, Doc. I appreciate your efforts,” was the only thing I could manage to say.
She didn’t deserve to die like that.
I shook the doctor’s hand and turned to leave, but he touched my arm to stop me. “Did she have any family we can contact?”
After giving him Nadine Philpot’s name and telephone number, for what it was worth, I resolved to go to police headquarters. I toyed with the idea of calling Nadine from the lobby, but passed on the notion. She was sure to have more questions than I had answers. And, if she started bawling as I expected, I was a goner. I’m not good with crying dames. Finally, I am not much for eulogies.
* * *
At the station house, I told the desk sergeant my need to speak with Donovan. He made a quick phone call, then sent me into the bowels of the building. In the large detectives’ space, I bumped into Rob Waddell. We chinned for a minute about what I’d encountered during the previous twenty-four hours. Just then, Gus lumbered in. He halted when he saw me, then did a beeline for us.
“I was getting ready to call you, Tanner.” His voice took a hostile turn as he finished, “You need to explain a few things you told Officer Polaski at the Hosch Apartment Building last night.”
“That’s why I’m here, Donovan,” I smiled. “There are a few facts you have to get straight regarding Lucille Gillman’s murder. She–”
“Murder?”
“Yeah, she died from her injuries around an hour ago. You haven’t gotten word?” He waggled his massive head. “Well, there’s more to the story.”
“I’m listening.”
“Why don’t we take this into my office,” the sergeant interjected. “Thanks to a stool pigeon, the interrogation rooms are occupied with the hoodlums we arrested for the attempted bank robbery late yesterday afternoon.” Waddell had a separate workspace as opposed to the rest of his bureau, who were scattered at desks in what they referred to as a bullpen area. I think the operative word there was bull.
Rob dropped onto his desk chair while his fellow sleuth and I grabbed the visitor’s seats. Both men looked at me.
“The Gillman girl,” I started, “contacted me a couple of days ago concerning finding her roommate, Gladys Brubaker.” I held a hand up to silence Gus, who wanted to interrupt my account. We had a contentious sort of love-hate relationship. Donovan loved to take the shortest, easiest path to an often-wrong conclusion in an investigation, and I hated his slovenly approach to important issues involving people’s lives and the crimes that enveloped them. “The woman reported Brubaker’s disappearance to your Missing Persons folks. Check with them. Anyway, the absent skirt had been quietly running around with Brian Beaudin until his untimely demise. Shortly after the mobster’s body was found, his lover vanished.”
We had a contentious sort of love-hate relationship.
“Aw, maybe she just hightailed it when her beau got killed. Or she’s more likely dead, hidden in an abandoned building or buried in the woods somewhere, peeper.”
“Rob, you attributed Beaudin’s murder to Daugherty’s doing, right? Is that his reputation? To hide his handiwork?” I didn’t wait for a response. “No, her body would’ve been found by now with a trademark ace of spades. She’s lammed off, sure enough. And the beating Lucille suffered was the gangster’s attempt to see if she knew where the doll was. But, so you’d have the full picture, I wanted you to be aware of the connection between the thug’s killing and Gillman’s death. The intermediate link is Gladys Brubaker.”
“You have any idea where this dame is?” Donovan was at least pretending to be a detective.
“Not a clue,” I lied. There was no sense in telling the law everything. I wasn’t certain what the truth of her location was, and, unless I missed my guess, they weren’t inclined to pursue her, anyway. “As I said, I thought you should know of the connection.”
As the rotund investigator sat turning the story over in his head, Waddell thanked me and escorted me to the lobby.
Back on the sidewalk, I felt a burning desire to make sure Brubaker was safe and perhaps get a measure of revenge for Lucille. Only a year earlier, a woman had come to me for help and protection. Audrey Madison had died in my arms, shot and killed by a bastard like the one who’d beaten Gillman to death. I still hadn’t gotten over her murder. But where to go from here? As I often do, I decided to ponder any options I might have at the Paradise Tavern with Jack. Jack Daniels, that is.
* * *
The saloon was crowded for a Thursday night. A faint pall of smoke wafted through the joint. Grabbing a stool at the end of the bar, I broke out a fresh pack, dealt myself a coffin nail, ordered a double Jack neat, and settled in for the evening.
With regard to what remained of the missing doll’s case, several moves going forward crossed my mind as I nursed my drink. Nothing seemed to fit well. I was on my third serving when my chum and proprietor of the joint, Harry Bittles, found the time to draw up across from me. He shot me an up-from-under gander as he wiped the wet surface with a bar rag. “What’s happening with you, my friend? You look like a condemned building.”
“How so?”
“As if something’s crashing in on you, bothering you.”
I chuckled softly at the skill with which my old pal could read my face. What the hell, I thought. Without naming names and giving every detail, I quietly related the story surrounding Gillman, Brubaker, and Beaudin.
Harry glanced around furtively and leaned toward me on his elbows. In a conspiratorial voice, he asked, “So, you believe you know who’s behind both deaths?” I bobbed my noggin. “And you think this whoever is now looking for the second frail?” Another affirmation from me. “Well, seems simple enough, Gil,” Bittles opined. “You just need to see if this mug will pay you to find her for him.” He straightened and authoritatively added, “It kills two birds with one stone. You can make certain she’s safe without letting him learn where she is and get paid in the process.” With that, he pointed to my glass. I waved off another round. Then the barkeep moved on to a different thirsty soul along the bar.
“And you think this whoever is now looking for the second frail?” Another affirmation from me.
I’d previously considered going to Daugherty and offering my services for a price. He might have me thrown out on my ear or worse and continue to have his “soldiers” search for Gladys. Then again, if I convinced him I had a definite clue where to locate her, he could pretend to go along with my scheme and have me bird-dogged to Brubaker’s location. There, his people could deal with her. I didn’t trust him any farther than that. It was the more probable scenario. No doubt, what with Lucille’s visit to my office, the mob boss already knew I was involved in the situation. It was a risky play but might work out. Still undecided, I paid my tab and shuffled out to my automobile for the drive to my apartment.
* * *
I never had the chance to make my decision on what to do; it was more or less made for me the next morning.
As I walked along Washington Boulevard toward my office, I had that unmistakable feeling I was being watched. It’s something your intuition tells you when you’ve been in my racket for a while. I paused outside Siegel’s Delicatessen long enough to set fire to a Chesterfield and use the window’s reflection to glimpse a four-door LaSalle sedan slowly following me at the curb. It eased to a standstill when I did. The heap held three large men. I recognized one of them. They weren’t coppers. And none was the lug I’d seen tailing Lucille.
I waited. Old man Siegel smiled and waved at me from behind his refrigerated display case inside. I grinned and raised my chin to him to say hello. A quick shake of my head ended his journey when he started in my direction. He knew the line of work I was in. I made a mental note to return for one of his hot pastrami sandwiches later.
In time, the backseat passenger, wearing an ill-fitting double-breasted suit, rolled out of the boiler and moved toward me. My hand slid into my suit coat’s side pocket. As I started on toward my agency, the big troublemaker pulled up beside me. His ponderous melon sat squarely on his shoulders. He had no neck to speak of. The fella’s chest was so wide he could have had “Post No Handbills” painted across it. He gruffly told me I needed to go with him. When I ignored his demand, he grabbed my arm and spun me around to face him, telling me I had two gats covering me from the bus.
. . . he grabbed my arm and spun me around to face him . . . .
Thrusting my pocketed hand in his direction, I bluffed, “And I have a roscoe aimed at your midsection.”
“I’m not buying it, chum. Show me the hardware.”
“I’ll show it to you one slug at a time.”
“My buddies,” he snarled, indicating the men in the car, “will drop you before you get ten feet, Tanner.”
“Either way, you’re dead, bub.”
He didn’t even blink at my threat. This was one hard number. He showed me a wicked smile and offered, “Looks like we got something of a Mexican standoff.”
“In that case, let’s ankle and chin for a minute,” I suggested calmly.
He bobbed his head and turned to continue on my previous path.
I didn’t move. “Uh-uh,” I said with a hand gesture, “we’ll walk this way.” His eyebrows arched as he tossed a shrug to his buddies in the bus and accompanied my lead, moving in the opposite direction the car was pointed. The auto-bound pair was left behind, trying to wrangle a U-turn through the heavy rush-hour traffic.
“We only want to have a talk, Tanner. No rough stuff. Just a simple chat. But you’d better kick through with what you know.”
That word “chat” sounded odd coming from the palooka’s yap. “The same kind of ‘simple chat’ you had with Brian Beaudin?” A nasty grin spread across his face, but he said nothing. “Before we go any further, let me share a few thoughts with you.” He gave me a meager go-ahead nod from a blank pan, which seemed to show at least a slight confusion on his part. “First, you, or I should say your boss, think I may have information on the whereabouts of the Brubaker girl.”
A hint of surprise flickered in his eyes. “Second, he dispatched you and your playmates there to learn what I may know. I admit, I have some pretty good dope on where she is.” He opened his mouth to object, but I cut him off. “But what info I have, I’ll only tell to the man who sent you. Daugherty is the name, I believe.”
He grinned. “Even if you’re right, why should we bother the boss with something I’m sure we can beat out of you?”
“Maybe you can. Probably not. Consider this. If the Gillman dame didn’t give in to your roughhouse ways, what makes you think I will? You wouldn’t be here now, putting the squeeze on me, if she’d spilled anything. Ace will be none too happy if he learns I was willing to talk with him all along and you refused to get me to him. Plus, my way saves wear and tear on your knuckles.” My guess was a possible negotiation with the mob boss trumped a surefire beating all to hell and back. He held out his hands and gave his pals a dull glance as he ambled. I could tell deductive reasoning wasn’t his strong suit.
My guess was a possible negotiation with the mob boss trumped a surefire beating all to hell and back.
He drew to a halt and rubbed his chin. His eyes cut to the car, which was still trying to manage the hundred-and eighty-degree turn down the block, then to me.
* * *
Roughly forty minutes later, the big sedan eased into the parking lot of The Greek’s, a roadhouse on the outskirts of the city’s south side. The dive had a reputation as a gathering place for some of The League’s crews. There was a paucity of cars there at this time of the day. It didn’t serve breakfast. I’d never had the “pleasure” of a visit to the dump.
My three chums hustled me inside. Two of them waited with me at a table while one went to talk with, I assumed, Seamus Daugherty. A combination of stale smoke and various food aromas hung around the dining area like a ground fog. It wasn’t anything a lengthy propeller blast from a Ford Trimotor couldn’t clear up. I had the impression that grease-soaked air had changed the colors of the walls and the linoleum over time. I lit a gasper to help ease the overpowering cooking odors.
Within a few minutes, the third goon returned and dismissed the two Sphinx-like men with me. “The boss is none too happy, but he wants to see you.” When I stood, he placed a firm palm on my chest. “Hold on a minute, Tanner.” With that, he frisked me. Upon finding the coat pocket, where I’d conned him earlier about having a gat pointed at him, empty, a mixture of disbelief and anger played over his kisser. He removed my automatic from its shoulder holster and balanced it in his hand. “You’ll get the artillery back if and when you leave.” Then, the ape more or less frog-marched me into a back room, which apparently served as Daugherty’s headquarters.
The short, stocky boss stood at a window overlooking a wooded lot to the joint’s rear. He turned and glanced my way with an annoyed frown before moving to a desk in a corner. “Sit down, Tanner,” he barked in a voice that was higher pitched than I had expected. Never having been one to take kindly to being pushed around physically or verbally, I hesitated. He bristled and shouted, “Put your ass in the chair!” The bruiser behind me laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, followed by a terrific kidney punch with the other. When I recovered my senses, I sat. This didn’t look to be going the way I’d thought it might. “I understand you want to speak with me about a current situation my boys are dealing with.”
The bruiser behind me laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, followed by a terrific kidney punch with the other.
“Yeah,” I gasped. “Talk is you’re searching for a bim that used to keep company with Brian Beaudin.”
A half-smoked cigar jiggled along his thick lips. “So?”
“So, I’ve happened on a lead as to her likely whereabouts.”
“And where might that be?”
“Uh-uh. I’m looking to get paid off for this. After picking the wrong ruffian in the Baer-Braddock fight and a few nags that needed cab rides to finish their races, I need the dough. We both appreciate that, if I spill what I have, I won’t see one red cent from it. Nah, that’s my business.”
“I could make your business my business.”
“My business doesn’t pay enough to prop up both of us, Seamus.”
His stern eyes shot to the gorilla standing at my rear, then to me. “We could beat what dope you have out of you,” he threatened with a scowl. His wasn’t the face of a man of nuance.
“As I told your boy here, maybe. But probably not.” I was risking a Broderick, but it wouldn’t be my first and, I imagined, not my last. I had to stand firm. Thinking of Gillman’s ravaged body, I added, “I can be tougher than I look.” There ensued a short glaring match until I finished. “You want her found or not?”
“I think you’re bluffing, Tanner,” he accused, making a vague hand motion.
“That’s your privilege.” I stood gingerly, still feeling the effects of the punch to my lower back. “I mistakenly supposed you were interested in the Brubaker woman being located. My only question was whether you wanted her returned here,” I ended, trying to sound as bloodthirsty as possible.
He took the inference of my comment with a malicious smirk. “Sit down, shamus.” This time, I didn’t wait for a second invitation. I sat. Daugherty went on, “I don’t picture you passing up soft dough, but your question begs me to ask if you’d be into this job that deep.”
“As I said, I’m in hock to a few folks–the kind of people you never want to owe anything to. I need the money the work could bring. Need it fast. I am pretty sure I know where the dame is, so I’m offering my services for a price.”
“I haven’t heard of any IOUs you’ve got on bad bets.”
“That’s because my bookie’s on the north end of the city.”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Word is you’re real pally with those dagoes on that side of the tracks. How–?”
I interrupted, “My only pal is my bartender.” I was sure that part of my reputation preceded me.
“And a certain municipal plainclothesman, plus that harnessed-bull brother of yours,” Seamus scoffed. I smiled at his knowledge of me and gave him a “so what” sort of shrug. “But that’s not important.” Fiddling with a letter opener on his desk, he questioned, “How can I be sure you’re not just gonna pocket the cabbage and not deliver the goods?”
With a purposefully uneasy chuckle, trying to give my voice a hint of concerned understanding, I added, “I know what you do with guys who cross you. Brian Beaudin could so testify, if he weren’t six feet under. And a few others I could name.”
“I know what you do with guys who cross you.”
The racketeer’s eyes cut to his minion. His ruthless sneer confirmed what I’d heard. “How can I believe you’re sure where she can be found?”
“Well, let me just say I have evidence she’s in Georgia.” I offered that as proof, hoping I wasn’t tipping my mitt too much.
Daugherty snorted, “Based on that alone, my boys’ll find her.”
“Perhaps, if I’m shooting straight with you. But, even if I am, keep in mind that, area-wise, Georgia is the largest state east of the Mississippi. Brubaker could be hiding out anywhere–in one of the larger cities, in a small town, or on a farm in the middle of nowhere. Swamps. Mountains. That’s a lot of territory to cover. And your boys will be strangers in a strange land. It’ll take a long time, if you find her at all. But I’ve got contacts there,” I lied.
The man weighed my words for a moment. Stubbing out his stogie, he stood and leaned over his desk on his knuckles, snarling, “You have my attention, Tanner. My undivided attention.” He wasn’t happy with the circumstances.
“Here’s the deal. You pay me a thousand bucks. I go to Georgia, find her and, if you choose, bring her back within two weeks. I’ll even slap a bow on her, if you want. If you don’t want her returned…. Well, I can handle that, too.”
“A grand is a pile of money. What makes you think it’s worth that to me?”
“For one, you seem damned interested in laying your hands on her. Lucille Gillman’s body lying on a slab in the morgue proves that. And–”
“That was an unfortunate occurrence,” he interrupted. “The unintended outcome of a heavy-handed thug’s temper getting the better of him, I assure you.”
“And at the same time,” I continued, ignoring his remark, “there are risks involved for me. The local law there may not approve of an outsider coming into their neck of the woods and kidnapping a frill. Or worse. Also, I might have to grease a few palms. And since I don’t think you’re returning her to make her Queen of the May, it’ll put me in the jackpot if I’m tied to her down there or anywhere along the way. Finally, if you prefer her brought back, she may not be that easy to transport alive. That is, if you want her returned.”
“One of my boys goes with you.”
“Nah. Too much baggage. ‘Too many cooks,’ as they say.”
The goon considered my offer for a second or two and countered, “I’ll pay you five hundred.”
“Seven fifty. Five now to cover expenses and my risks. The rest when I return. With or without Brubaker. Your call.”
I fired up a butt while Ace dropped onto his desk chair and took a poignant pause again to consider my proposition. The whole time, his pockmarked face held a vicious scowl. Suddenly, he ripped open a desk drawer and shoved a hand inside. I felt the plug-ugly behind me tense up. In this racket, there are split seconds of doubt where you’re uncertain if you’ve overplayed your hand or put yourself in a tight spot and won’t come out the other end. I braced myself.
Suddenly, he ripped open a desk drawer and shoved a hand inside.
The man promptly withdrew a fist full of cash, counted out five hundred dollars, and slid it across the desk in my direction. When I reached for the stack of bills, he slammed a paw down on it and rose from his chair again. “It is in your best interest to do the job I’m paying you for with no monkey business. Mess with me and you’re gonna get a lot more than your feelings hurt. Git me?”
“Sure, Seamus, sure. The job’ll be done. I’ll leave in the morning after I clear up a few things here.” He dragged his hand from the cash. I scooped it up. As I moved to go, I stopped and half-turned toward Daugherty. “Just one thing more. You never answered the question I had.” He gave me an odd tilt of his head as if to ask what I meant. “When I find her, do you want the Brubaker broad brought back?”
Through a wicked smile, he hissed, “Sure. Sure, you bring her here and turn her over to me. I’ll deal with her.” He flopped into his desk chair and sneered, “Now get this peeper outta here, Mickey.”
Back in the dining room, Mickey returned my rod. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch, Tanner! I thought you was a goner for sure!” He finished with a terse, “Let’s go.” The other two hooligans rejoined us at their sedan.
As we four rode to my office through a sudden downpour, I smiled to myself at the circumstances. I had an unexpected cash case to work. It was a job I’d have done for just the five hundred clams, which could cover my going rate for something over three weeks. Even factoring in what expenses I was likely to incur, I stood to make out fine. The extra two fifty was icing on the cake, if I collected it.
I glanced at my companions and tried to figure which of these Rover Boys was going to track me to Georgia in my search for Gladys Brubaker. Maybe it’d be another roughneck in the outfit. Some punks you could read like a comic book and predict their every move. Except for that sudden bit of reaching into his desk drawer, I saw Daugherty that way. Yeah, I’d have company on my upcoming road trip. But my primary concern was I still hadn’t eyeballed the son of a bitch I had watched follow Lucille from my agency that day. The bastard who killed the girl. I owed him.
Some punks you could read like a comic book and predict their every move.
* * *
When the hoodlums dumped me outside my building, I realized the rain, now only a steady drizzle, had done nothing toward reducing the temperature. The world was just a lot clammier. I looked forward to the oscillating fan in my office.
I cleared my desk of pending matters. When I telephoned attorney Leonard to say I had to postpone starting work on his problem, he said not to worry. He unhappily explained that the naughty spouse had shown up at his client’s front door with an enormous bouquet, a large box of chocolates, and a tear-drenched, “heartfelt” apology. The woman had taken the roaming Romeo back to her bosom and called off the legal hounds. When I told him I’d return my retainer, he confided the “nonrefundable” deposit he’d received was much larger than mine. I could keep the money toward the next case that came down his pike. I readily agreed.
That afternoon, I left my LaSalle at Max Eberhardt’s garage for a going over before hitting the road. Later, with an all clear from my mechanic, I went by the Paradise Tavern to tell Harry I’d be away for a short while. My pal had a tendency to expect my puss to show up at his joint regularly. And most days and/or nights he wasn’t disappointed. If I didn’t appear for a couple of days, he always claimed to have called the hospitals and the morgue in search of me or my remains.
In addition, I telephoned my brother Marty and Waddell to make them aware of my trip. During our conversation, Marty reminded me of the upcoming long weekend he and Donna had planned, during which I had promised to sit with their toddler, Tommy. I assured him I’d be back in time. At least, I hope so, I thought as I rang off the call.
In the meantime, Mel telephoned and thanked me for my efforts on Lucille’s behalf. The police department had filled him in on the circumstances of Lucille’s death. Then he told me about her funeral arrangements. I explained I was on my way out of town to look into the circumstances of her killing further. He understood and wished me luck.
. . . Mel telephoned and thanked me for my efforts on Lucille’s behalf.
In my apartment that night I packed a large suitcase I had borrowed from Harry for the trip and included more than a few extra magazines for my .45 and my sap. Unaware of the Georgia laws on alcoholic beverages, I made room for several bottles of my favorite whiskey. Finally, I tucked the written dope I’d retrieved from Lucille’s bedpost into my shoe just in case someone tried to brace and frisk me before I got on the road.
* * *
After breakfast at the Wayside Café the next morning, I climbed behind the wheel of my gassed-up bucket and pointed it more or less in the direction of the Great State of Georgia. The trip would take a long day’s drive, but I didn’t want to cruise into unfamiliar territory in darkness. So I decided to break the trek into two legs, planning to arrive in Blairsville early the second day.
As I jostled through traffic to get out of the city, that unmistakable feeling of being tailed overtook me once again. It didn’t really matter, because I had expected company. My concern wasn’t to lose him at this point but to get a slant at the lug and his clunker so I knew who to watch for along the way. Then I’d know who to shake when the time came.
In short order, I pegged the lummox. Or at least his boiler. While I couldn’t yet get a good look at his mug, he was driving a sleek, light-colored ’32 DeSoto sedan. Don’t get me wrong. Envy is not one of the seven deadly sins I can be guilty of. Lust, possibly, a little. Wrath on occasion with decent reason. But then again not envy. And I love my machine. Still, I consider it a crying shame that a rascal on my side of the law has to drive around in a five-year-old crate while a mobbed-up ape drives a newer sharp-looking set of wheels. But I digress. The driver appeared to be alone in the car. The trailing boiler followed every turn I made. Finally, I cleared the metropolis onto a highway with my shadow at a decent distance.
In short order, I pegged the lummox. Or at least his boiler.
* * *
Seven and a half hours later, I pulled off the roadway into the parking area of a nightspot which, according to the sign out front, offered overnight quarters upstairs. The ’32 sedan hung back along the road until I was inside. From a front window, I observed the light-colored car park at the edge of the lot. Nobody emerged from it as I watched. I got a room and, after a quick discussion with the barkeep to make certain I wasn’t a federal agent, a bottle of whiskey (so as not to touch the Jack Daniels reserve in my travel bag). Thank heavens for the “medicinal use” exception the Prohibition law provided. It was still early on a Saturday evening, but the joint was already hopping. Sleeping might be difficult, but the hooch could help the cause. With the booze tucked securely under one arm, I trudged up the stairs.
The sleeping space wasn’t much, but it would do for the night. It’s saving grace was an overhead fan that slowly stirred the sultry air. I opened the lone window to aid its struggle. The closer I’d gotten to my destination the hotter and more humid the weather became.
As I was going through my suitcase, I heard someone settling into the room next door and assumed it was my “traveling companion.” I still hadn’t gotten a peek at his pan. Maybe in the morning.
Crawling into the bed, I doused the light. Then I laid in the dark, smoking, sipping whiskey, and listening to the music and happy chatter that drifted through the floorboards. I wondered if this trip might turn out to be an exercise in futility. All I knew was I owed Lucille the effort. My job was to let her former apartment mate know of her demise and make sure she was safe. And I prayed I wasn’t leading one of Seamus’s killers to her door. One step at a time, I told myself.
Two hours later, the whiskey bottle was almost empty, and I was getting drowsy. The tinny notes from the piano in the honkytonk below continued to mix with the brash crowd clamor. The man in the next room slammed a window shut and cursed the night with an accent that wasn’t local. I thought a city lug would be accustomed to such a din. Meanwhile, I surrendered to sleep’s undertow.
* * *
Hard sunlight streaming through the windows in my room rousted me earlier than I wanted the next morning. Moving as if under water, I did what I could for a bath and dragged a razor over my face. I repacked what little I’d emptied the previous night and left to go downstairs.
The dance floor resembled the remnants of a New Year’s Eve party. A two o’clock beauty queen was working behind the bar, serving what I reckoned passed for breakfast. Two large men sat there, nibbling toast and drinking java. I wondered if either of them was my pursuer. I walked to the end of the counter where I could sit and observe the pair. Neither looked familiar nor gave me any hint of recognition.
Two large men sat there, nibbling toast and drinking java. I wondered if either of them was my pursuer.
The woman shuffled over to me. “Want coffee, mister?” I nodded. “Something to eat?” When I hesitated, she added, “It’s Sunday mornin’. Nothin’s open. You won’t find any food around for some distance ‘til late this afternoon.” It hadn’t occurred to me what day of the week it was. She shot me a toothy grin. “So you’ll want some of my world-famous toast. Helps soak up any booze you guzzled last night.” I laughed and agreed to her offer, tossing two bits on the counter.
Twenty minutes later, I lingered in my heap in the parking lot, waiting to see if anyone followed me out of the place. Nobody showed. The DeSoto sat where it had been parked the night before. After a while, I gave up, coaxed my car to life, and continued on my way. Nothing, no one showed in my mirrors.
To Be Continued one week from today.