“On Christmas?” Davey asked. “Even crooks got a right to celebrate the Savior’s birth, don’t ya think?”
“Yeah. Well, okay … day after, then.”
Everybody was laughing as little Dickie swung his nightstick at imaginary felons.
“Dickie, my lad,” said Uncle Bob, “someday I’ll hire you on at the station.”
Stone explained to Dillinger: “He was police chief, over at DeKalb.”
“Peachy,” said Dillinger.
Davey said, “Ma—how about sitting down at the piano, and helping put us all in the Yuletide spirit?”
“Yeah, Ma!” said little Dickie. “Tickle the ol’ ivories!”
Soon the group was singing carols, Davey leading them: “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.…”
“Seen enough?” Dillinger said.
“Just a second,” Stone said. “Let me hear a little more … this is the last decent Christmas I can remember.…”
After a while, the gaily singing people began to fade, but the room remained, and suddenly Stone saw the figure of his father, kneeling at the window, a rifle in his hands, face contorted savagely. There was no Christmas tree, although Stone knew at once that this was indeed a later Christmas Day in his family’s history. His mother cowered by the piano; she seemed frightened and on the verge of tears. A fourteen-year-old Dickie was crouched beside his father near the window.
“God,” said Stone. “Not this Christmas …”
“Son,” his pa was saying to the teenage Stone, “I want you and your mother to go on out.”
“No, Pa! I want to stay beside you! Ma should go, but …”
“You’re not too big to get your hide tanned, boy.”
“Pa …”
A voice through a megaphone outside called: “Jess! It’s Bob! Let me come in and at least talk!”
“When hell freezes over!” Pa shouted. “Now get off my property, or so help me, I’ll shoot you where you stand!”
“Jess, that’s my brother,” Ma said, tears brimming. “And it’s … it’s not our property, anymore.…”
“Whose is it, then? The bank’s? Did the bankers work this ground for twenty years? Did the bankers put blood and sweat and years into this land?”
Dillinger elbowed Stone. “That’s why this country needed guys like me. Say—where’s your older brother, anyway?”
“Dead,” Stone said. “He caught pneumonia the winter of ’28 … stayed outside for hours and hours, helping get some family’s flivver out of a ditch in the wind and cold. All my folks’ dreams died with him.”
“Let Bob come in,” Ma was saying. “Hear him out.”
Pa thought it over; he looked so much older, now. Not years older—decades. Finally he said, “All right. For you, Sarah. Just ’cause he’s kin of yours.”
When the door opened, and Bob came in, he was in full police-chief array, under a fur-lined jacket; the badge on his cap gleamed.
“Jess,” he said solemnly, “you’re at the end of your string. I wish I could help you, but the bank’s foreclosed, and the law’s the law.”
“Why’s the law on their side?” teenage Stone asked. “Isn’t the law supposed to help everybody equal?”
“People with money get treated a hell of a lot more equal, son,” his father said bitterly.
“I worked out a deal,” Bob said. “You can keep your furniture. I can come over with the paddy wagon and load ’er up with your things; we’ll store ’em in my garage. There’ll be no charges brought. Helen and I have room for you and Sarah and Dick—you can stay with us till you find something.”
The rifle was still in Pa’s hands. “This is my home, Robert.”
“No, Jess—it’s a house the bank owns. Your home is your family, and you take them with you. Let me ask you this—what would Davey want you to do?”
Stone looked away; he knew what was coming: one of two times he ever saw his father cry—the other was the night Davey died.
A single tear running down his cheek, Pa said, “How am I supposed to support my family?”
Bob’s voice was gentle: “I got friends at the barb-wire factory. Already talked to ’em about you. They’ll take you on. Having a job in times like these is a blessing.”
Pa nodded. He sighed, handed his rifle over. “Thank you, Robert.”
“Yeah, Uncle Bob,” teenage Stone said sarcastically. “Merry Christmas! In a rat’s ass …”
“Richard!” his ma said.
His father slapped him.
“You ever do that to me again, old man,” teenage Stone said, pointing a hard finger at his father, “I’ll knock your damn block off!”
And as his teenage self rushed out, Stone shook his head. “Jesus! Did I have to say that to him, right then? Poor bastard hits rock bottom, and I find a way to push him down lower …”
Pa was standing rigidly, looking downward, as Ma clung to him in a desperate embrace. Uncle Bob, looking ashamed of himself, trudged out.
“You were just a kid,” Dillinger said. “What did you know?”
“Why are you puttin’ me through this hell?” Stone demanded. “I can’t change the past! What does any of this have to do with finding out who killed Jake Marley?!”
“Don’t ask me!” Dillinger flared. “I’m just the damn help!”
The bank robber’s ghost stalked out, and Stone—not eager to be left in this part of his past—quickly followed.
Stone now found himself, and his ghostly companion, in the reception area of a smalltown police station where officers milled and a reception desk loomed. Dillinger led Stone to a partitioned-off office where a Christmas wreath hung on a frosted glass door, which they went through without opening.
Jake Marley, Deputy Chief of Police of Dekalb, Illinois, sat leaned back in his chair, at his desk, smiling as he opened Christmas cards; as he did, cool green cash dropped out of each card.
“Lot of people remembered Jake at Christmas,” Stone said.
“Lot of people remember a lot of cops at Christmas,” Dillinger sneered.
A knock at the door prompted Marley to sweep the cash into a desk drawer. “Yeah?” he called gruffly. “What?”
The uniformed police officer who peeked in was a young Dick Stone. “Deputy Chief Marley? I had word you wanted me to drop by …?”
“Come on in, keed, come on in!” The slick mustached deputy chief gestured magnanimously to the chair opposite his desk. “Take a load off.…”
Young Stone sat while his future self and the ghost of a public enemy eavesdropped nearby.
Marley’s smile tried a little too hard. “Yesterday was your first day on, I understand.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I just wanted you to know I don’t hold it against you, none—you gettin’ this job through patronage.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Marley shrugged. “Nothin’. A guy does what he has to, to get ahead. It’s unusual, your Uncle Bob playin’ that kinda game, though. He’s a real straight arrow.”
“Uncle Bob’s kind of a square john, but he’s family and I stand by him.”
“Swell! Admirable, keed. Admirable. But there’s things go on around here that he don’t know about … and I’d like to keep it that way.”
Young Stone frowned. “Such as?”
“Let me put it this way—if you got a fifty-dollar bill every month, for just lookin’ the other way … if it was for something truly harmless … could you sleep at night?”
“Lookin’ the other way, how?”
Marley explained that he was from Chicago—in ’26, a local congressman greased the wheels for him to land this rural deputy chief slot, so he could do some favors for the Outfit.
“Not so much goin’ on now,” said Marley, “not like back in dry days, when the Boys had stills out here. Couple roadhouses where people like to have some extra-legal fun …”
“Gambling and girls, you mean.”
“Right. And there’s a farmhouse the Boy
s use, when things get hot in the city, and a field where they like to do some … planting … now and then.”
“I don’t think I could sleep at night, knowing that’s going on.”
Marley’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”
“Not for fifty a month.” The young officer grinned. “Seventy-five, maybe. A C-note, and I’d be asleep when my head hit the pillow.”
Marley stuck his hand across his desk. “I think this is gonna be the start of a beautiful friendship.”
They shook hands, but when young Stone brought his hand back, there was a C-note in it.
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Marley.”
“Make it ‘Jake.’ Many happy returns, keed.”
Dillinger tugged Stone’s arm and they walked through the office wall and were suddenly in another office: the outer office of MARLEY AND STONE: CONFIDENTIAL INVESTIGATIONS. Katie was watering the base of a Christmas tree in the corner.
“This is, what?” Dillinger asked Stone. “Five years ago?”
“Right. Christmas Eve, ’37, I think.…”
Marley was whispering to a five-years’ younger Stone. “Nice-lookin’ twist you hired.”
“She’ll class up the front office. And remember, Jake—I saw her first.”
Marley grinned. “What do I need with a kid like her, when I got a woman like Maggie? Ah! Speak of the devil.…”
Maggie was entering the outer office on the arm of a blond, boyishly handsome man in a crisp business suit.
“Stoney,” Marley said, “meet our biggest client: this is Larry Turner … he’s the V. P. with Consolidated who’s tossing all that investigating our way.”
“Couldn’t do this without you, Mr. Turner,” Stone said.
“Make it ‘Larry,’ ” he said. “Pleasure to do business with such a well-connected firm.”
Dillinger said, “What’s this boy scout’s angle?”
Stone said, “We been kicking that boy scout back twenty percent of what his firm pays us since day one. I don’t know how Jake knew him, but Consolidated was the account that let us leave DeKalb and set up shop in the Loop.”
“How’d your Uncle Bob feel about you leaving the force?”
“He damn near cried … he always figured I’d step in and fill his shoes someday. Poor yokel … just didn’t have a clue—all that corruption going on right under his nose.”
“By his deputy chief and his nephew, you mean.”
Stone said nothing, but the five-years-ago him was saying to Marley, “Look—this insurance racket is swell. But the real dough is in divorce work.”
“You’re right, keed. I’m ahead of you … we get the incriminating photos of the cheating spouse, then sell ’em to the highest bidder.”
“Sweet! That’s what they get for not love, honor, and obeyin’.”
The private eyes shared a big horse laugh. Katie looked their way and smiled, glad to see her bosses enjoying themselves on Christmas Eve.
“Come on,” Dillinger said, summoning Stone with a crooked finger.
And the late bank robber walked Stone through a wall into the alley where Jake Marley lay crumpled against a brick wall, between two garbage cans, holes shot in the front of him, eyes wide and empty and staring.
Sgt. Hank Ross was showing the body to Stone. “Thought you better see this, pal. Poor slob never even got his gun out. Still tucked away under his buttoned-up topcoat. Shooter musta been somebody who knew him, don’t ya figure?”
Stone shrugged. “You’re the homicide dick.”
“Now, Stoney … I don’t want you looking into this. I know he was your partner, and your friend, but …”
“You talked me out of it.” Stone lighted up a Lucky. “I’ll take care of informin’ the widow.”
Ross just looked at him. Then he said, “Merry goddamn Christmas, Stoney.”
“In a rat’s ass,” he said, turning away from his dead partner.
“Jeez!” Dillinger said. “That’s cold! Couldn’t ya squeeze out just one tear for your old pal?”
Stone said nothing. His year-ago self walked right through him.
“You want the truth, Dillin-ger? All I was thinkin’ was, with all the people he jacked around, Jake was lucky to’ve lived this long. And how our partnership agreement spelled out that the business was mine, now.”
“Hell! I thought Gillis was cold.”
“Gillis?”
“Lester Gillis. Baby Face Nelson to you. Come on, sonny. You and me reached the end of the line.”
And Dillinger shoved Stone, hard—right through the brick wall; and when the detective blinked again, he was alone on his bed, in his apartment.
He sat up; rubbed his eyes, scratched his head. “Meat shortage or not, that salami gets pitched.…”
He flopped back on the bed, still fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling; the dream was hanging with him—thoughts, images, of his mother, father, brother, even Marley, floated in front of him, speaking to him.…
Out in the other room, the doorbell rang, startling him. He checked the round bakelite clock on his nightstand: two a.m. Who in hell would be calling on him at this hour?
On the other hand, he thought as he stumbled out to his door, talking to somebody with a pulse would be nice for a change.…
And there on his doorstep was a crisply uniformed soldier, a freshly scrubbed young man with his overseas cap tugged down onto his forehead.
“Mr. Stone?”
“Ben? Is that you? Ben Crockett!” Stone’s grin split his face. “Katie’s little brother, back from the wars—is she gonna be tickled!”
The boy seemed somewhat dazed as he stepped inside.
“Uh, Ben … if you’re lookin’ for Katie, she’s at her place tonight.”
“I’m here to see you, Mr. Stone.”
“Well, that’s swell, kid … but why?”
“I’m not really sure,” the boy said. “May I sit down?”
“Sure, kid, sure! You want something to drink?”
“No thanks. You’ll have to excuse me, sir—I’m kinda confused. The briefing I got … it was pretty screwy.”
“Briefing?”
“Yeah. This is a temporary assignment. But they said I was ‘uniquely qualified’ for this mission.”
“What do they want you to do, kid? Haul me down for another physical?”
“That reminds me!” Private Crockett dug into a pocket and found a scrap of paper. “Does this mean anything to you? ‘Tell the 4-F Mr. Stone he really does have flat feet and the doctor he paid off was scamming him.’ ”
Stone’s mouth dropped open, then he laughed. “Well, that’s a Chicago doc for ya. So, is that the extent of your ‘mission’?”
The boy tucked the scrap of paper away. “No. There’s more … and it’s weird. I’m supposed to tell you to go look in the mirror.”
“Look in the mirror?”
“Yeah—that one over there, I guess.”
“Kid …”
“Please, Mr. Stone. I don’t think I get to go home for Christmas till I get this done.”
Stone sighed, said okay, and shuffled over to the mirror near his console radio; he saw his now unshaven, slightly bleary-eyed reflection, and the boy in his trim overseas cap looking gravely over his shoulder. “Now what, kid?”
“You’re supposed to look in there, is all. I was told you’re gonna see tomorrow … or, actually, it’s after midnight already, ain’t it? Anyway, Christmas Day, 1942 …”
And the mirror before Stone became a window.
Through the window, he saw Maggie Marley and Larry Turner, the insurance company V. P., toasting cocktail glasses—Maggie in a negligee, Turner in a silk smoking jacket; they were snuggled on a couch in her fancy apartment.
“What the hell’s this?” Stone asked. “Maggie and that snake Turner … since when are they an item?”
“How much longer,” Maggie was saying to Turner, “do I have to put up with him?”
“You need Stone,” Turner said, nuzzling h
er neck. “He’s your alibi, baby.”
“But I didn’t kill Jake!”
“Sure you didn’t. Sure you didn’t … anyway, string him along a little way, then let him down easy.… Right now you still need him in your pocket. He helped you get Eddie off your tail, didn’t he?”
Maggie frowned. “Well … you’re right about that. But his touch … it makes my skin crawl.…”
“Why you little …” Stone began.
But the images in the mirror blurred, and were replaced with another image: Eddie Marley, in his sleazy little apartment, not answering his door, cowering as somebody out there was banging with a fist.
“Let us in, Eddie! We got a Christmas present for ya!”
Eddie, sweating, shaking like crazy, looked at a framed photo of his late brother Jake.
“How could you do this to me, Jake?” he whispered. “You promised you’d take care of me.…”
The door splintered open and two Outfit thugs—huge hulking faceless creatures in topcoats and fedoras—cornered him quickly.
“Gimme another week, fellas! I can get ya five C’s today, to tide us over till then!”
“Too late, Eddie,” one ominous goon said. “You kept the Outfit waitin’ just one time too many.…”
A hand filled itself with a .45 automatic that erupted once, twice, three times. Eddie crumpled to the floor, bleeding. Dying.
“Jake … Jake … you let me down … you promised.…”
The mirror blurred again. Stone looked at Private Crockett. “Is that a done deal, kid? If that’s gonna happen Christmas Day, can’t I still bail that little weasel out …?”
“I don’t know, Mr. Stone. They didn’t tell me that.”
A new image began to form in the mirror: Stone’s young employee, Joey Ernest, seated in his living room, by a fireplace, looking glum—in fact, he seemed on the verge of tears. Nearby, his little boy of six and his little girl of four were playing with some nice new toys under a tree bright with Christmas lights.
Joey’s wife Linda, a pretty blonde in a red Christmas dress, came over and slipped an arm around him.
“Why are you so blue, darling?”
“I can’t help it … I know I should be happy. It’s been a great Christmas … but I feel so … so ashamed.…”
“Darling …”
“Other guys my age, they’re fighting on bloody beaches to preserve the honor and glory of God and country. Me, I crawl around under beds and hide in hotel closets and take dirty pictures of adulterers.”
The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Page 55