The Dangerous Mr Wolf

by Brian Drake

  “After. They worked together, right? How come he wasn’t busted with Harry?”

  “That’s a good question, Charlie.”

  “There is one other thing,” Mott said. “Biff Holden. He’s the guy who used to have Lane’s job. Been hanging around the Lexington Club with your pal Gulino trying to get a job.”

  “Thanks, Charlie.” Wolf rose to leave.

  “Anytime.”

  Carlo Gulino said, “Why are you always interrupting my lunch?”

  “You’re a captive audience,” Wolf said as he sat across from Gulino in the capo’s regular booth. The seat was very soft. Other diners ate and spoke quietly, so Wolf kept his voice down.

  “You’re not going to try to run if you haven’t finished your spaghetti,” Wolf said.

  Carlo Gulino always well dressed in an expensive suit, his tie tucked inside his shirt, ate lunch every day at the Lexington Club, one of the city’s most exclusive gathering places for distinguished gentleman. Wolf wasn’t sure if Gulino fit the category, but the club continued to accept his dues. Gulino ran part of the city’s mafia syndicate; another capo, Pedro Sanchez, ran the other, and despite past differences the two existed peacefully. Wolf maintained an arms-length relationship with both.

  Gulino wrapped spaghetti around a fork and shoveled it into his mouth. Just noodles and tomato sauce, no meatball. Wolf didn’t understand how anybody could eat spaghetti without meatball. Wolf glanced at the two tables off to the side where the bodyguards sat. They eyed him with little interest. They were used to his unannounced appearances.

  Wolf turned back to Gulino and watched the man eat. Gulino ignored him. Wolf waited.

  Finally, Gulino said: “What is it this time?”

  Wolf explained.

  “So far this doesn’t mean anything to me.” Gulino swallowed more spaghetti.

  “If Harry left a stash or something of value, there’d be word about it. Hear any stories like that?”

  “Nope.”

  “What about Oscar Lane? He was Harry’s partner in the stolen car racket.”

  “I know Oscar.” Gulino ate some more.

  “I know you know Oscar. Tell me about him.”

  Gulino shrugged. “He never misses a payment.”

  “How did he come to you?”

  “Chicago called. They needed to replace a guy in their betting network who tried to swindle some cash. They told me Oscar was going to be their new guy. I’d still get my cut for letting him work in the territory.”

  “How did he get in with the Outfit?”

  “Not my business.”

  “Where do I find him?”

  “He has a joint on Bernardo Lane, number 4500.”

  “Oscar replaced Biff Holden,” Wolf said, “and now Holden is pestering you for a job. What about that?”

  Gulino ate another bite and made no comment.

  “You gonna give him some work?”

  “Jesus, Wolf, what don’t you know? Not on his life.”

  “Why?” Wolf said.

  “He swindled from Chicago. He can stay here and cozy up to me all he wants but if I give him a spot that would make Chicago mad and I don’t need that.”

  “Why does he stay in the city?”

  “Because if Chicago comes over here and kills him, that would make me mad.”

  “Mob politics,” Wolf said.

  “You done?”

  “Could Holden be trying something against Lane that connects with Harry?”

  “I just collect the kick-back, Wolf. I don’t know nothin’ about things like that. Don’t you look at me all butt-hurt, either. If I did, I’d probably tell you. Are you done?”

  “I guess.”

  “I don’t know why I tolerate your mouth, Wolf.”

  “Deep down, you know you’re gonna need me someday.”

  Gulino scowled. “Become a ghost before I have your skull kicked in.”

  “Ghosts don’t have skulls, Carlo.” Wolf winked. Gulino turned red. Wolf made his way out.

  On his way to Oscar Lane’s place, while sitting in traffic, Wolf telephoned Callaway.

  “So, who’s the stiff?” Wolf said.

  “Your buddy in the alley was from New Jersey,” the inspector said. “We’ve tracked three other shooters so far and identified two of them. Malcolm Ford and Frankie Riley. They have connections with New Jersey, too, but their record shows they’ve worked all over the country.”

  “I’ve met Mal and Frankie,” Wolf said, and told Callaway about their visit to his apartment. “I guess the third guy was in the car.”

  “Why do they think they can get what they want from you?”

  Wolf told him about the letters and his conversations with Maggie and Gulino and said: “Do you have them under surveillance?”

  “Can’t spare the men,” Callaway said. “Plus, we have no proof that they’ve done anything wrong yet.”

  “Funny how that works.”

  The inspector said, “So you’re looking for Lane now?”

  “Yes,” Wolf said, “and also I need to know who Harry shared a cell with. We need to find out if he talked about a stash or something he was going to collect when he got out.”

  “It would have to be fairly valuable for all this fuss.”

  “I’m sure it’s worth a thousand lives, John,” Wolf said.

  The address provided by Gulino turned out to be a flower shop. Wolf stood on the sidewalk, looking at the rose display in the window and figured Gulino had sent him on a wild goose chase. He went inside. He didn’t know anything about flowers, but the store was loaded with them. It was a color explosion of red, white, purple, blue, and colors Wolf didn’t know the names of. It was also an explosion of sweet scents mingling together to produce an immediate allergic reaction. Wolf’s nose itched as he stepped up to the counter and asked the skinny redhead if Oscar Lane was in.

  The girl said yes, picked up a phone, and told Oscar about the visitor. She cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and said: “Are you Mister Wolf?”

  Wolf nodded.

  “It’s him,” she said, and put down the phone. Lane emerged from a back-office door and extended his hand.

  “If you hadn’t shown up, I’d have gone looking for you,” Lane said. “Come back to my office.”

  Wolf kept his mouth shut. A welcome reception made him feel funny. He never got anywhere without hitting somebody or taking out his gun. He kept his jacket unbuttoned, though. Old habits and all that.

  Oscar closed his office door and gestured to a chair in front of a clean desk which only contained a computer and telephone. Both men sat. Wolf’s eyes darted around. Motivational posters hung on the walls and a picture of two little girls sat atop a corner filing cabinet. Oscar Lane said: “I’m sick about Harry. What do you need to know?”

  Wolf examined the other man’s face. Oscar Lane had a full head of dark hair, smooth complexion, very white teeth. His eyes and breathing gave him away. The eyes looked sad and he breathed fast.

  Wolf explained his investigation so far, leaving out nothing.

  Lane sat back, his chair squeaking, and folded his arms. “I don’t understand any of this. Harry wouldn’t have had any options when he got out. I had a job lined up for him, something nice and quiet.”

  “What did he have that’s worth killing over?”

  “Maybe two grand, stashed somewhere. Chump change.”

  “Did you and Harry have a code hidden in his letters that you could decipher?”

  Lane laughed. “Nothing like that. I wish.”

  “What do you know about Biff Holden?”

  “He used to have my job.”

  “I know that, and Gulino won’t hire him. Would he want to muscle you out of the way?”

  “No way,” Lane said. “Chicago wants him dead. He could steal some money from me, but not much. There are bigger scores to make if he wants easy cash.”

  Wolf described Malcolm Ford and Frankie. “Stay armed in case they visit.”

 
Lane patted a hard lump under his left arm. “Way ahead of you. Let me know if you need anything, any time of day.”

  Wolf started to rise, then sat again. “One more thing.”

  Lane blinked.

  “How come Harry got busted while you end up with this cushy Outfit job?”

  Lane blinked some more.

  “It doesn’t make you look good at all, Oscar,” Wolf said. “Maybe Harry had something on you that he could expose; now that he’s dead, you’re safe.”

  Lane’s upper lip twitched. “I don’t mind you asking your question, but there’s no way I would have killed Harry. No way.”

  “Then tell me a story.”

  “We boosted cars, right? Stripped them for parts or sold them to these Russian guys who took them back to Moscow because everybody in Russia wants a car and they’ll pay through the nose to get one. So, Harry is at the warehouse one night, and I’m off with this babe I was banging at the time, and the cops bust in. He had just enough time to call me and tell me what was happening. I changed motels twice a week waiting to see what would happen, but the cops never came near me.

  “And Harry kept his mouth shut,” Lane continued. “I know it wasn’t easy for him, but he did, and he served his time, and the day he gets out somebody murders him. You think I’m gonna do that after what he did for me? That’s why I had a job for him. A reward. Get it?”

  Wolf stared at Lane for a few moments.

  “As for how I got this job,” Lane said, “I met a guy who knew a guy. You know how it goes.”

  Wolf kept looking at Lane. The other man held the gaze. Wolf said: “Okay,” and left the flower shop. It was time to see Biff Holden face-to-face and learn if the former Chicago man had a reason to murder Harry.

  Biff Holden had enough money to secure the penthouse atop the Excalibur Hotel, so he wasn’t hurting too badly--for now, Wolf thought. Wolf drove into the neighborhood and found no parking on the street. Every inch of curb space was taken. He found a pay lot and gave the attendant a $20 to park the Cadillac.

  He crossed the busy lobby to the elevators and took a long ride up to the top. The doors opened in a small reception area where two men in suits stood behind a desk. One approached Wolf with his gun out while the other spoke into a walkie-talkie.

  Wolf raised his hands. “You greet everybody like this?”

  The big man, with sandy-gray hair and a mustache, patted Wolf down and removed his Colt .45. Two more guards entered from a doorway behind the desk and stood waiting for instructions.

  “Tell Biff that Wolf is here for a chat,” Wolf said.

  “Why?”

  “Our mutual friends Oscar Lane and Carlo Gulino have a message.”

  The goon with the walkie-talkie spoke into it again; the response was immediate: “Send him back.”

  “We’re keeping your gun ’til you leave,” said Mustache, as the two goons who had emerged from the other door led Wolf out of the reception area.

  The goons led Wolf into a plush living room where Biff Holden stood waiting. Drapes covered the windows, but sunlight beat through the fabric and lit the room. A blonde-haired woman wearing a long dress sat on a leather couch, sipping a cocktail. Holden dismissed the troops and offered Wolf a drink.

  “Splash of bourbon,” Wolf said.

  Holden moved his bulky body over to a mini-bar and poured some Jim Beam Black into a glass. Wolf took the drink.

  Holden didn’t hide his smile. He said: “So what’s the news from our friends?”

  “False advertising, I’m afraid,” Wolf said, swallowing the drink. “I came here for information.”

  Holden’s smile faded. His lips formed a flat line. “I oughta throw you out.”

  “Sure.”

  “I got four guys outside with guns and you got nothing, and you stand there and say ‘sure’?”

  “You don’t want any trouble, Biff.”

  “But you like trouble.”

  “Sure.”

  Holden let out a grunt. “What do you want?”

  “Harry Ames.”

  “Don’t know him.”

  “A friend of mine that somebody murdered. He used to work with Oscar Lane. Oscar Lane has your old job and Gulino won’t hire you. I figure that makes you pretty upset.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Some people think Harry had a stash somewhere that’s worth a murder or two,” Wolf said. “Tell me you aren’t trying to grab the loot to set yourself up somewhere else.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Holden said. He told his blonde friend to go into the bedroom and shut the door. The blonde obeyed without comment. Holden crossed the room to a set of windows and looked out. Wolf kept his distance.

  Holden said: “As soon as I step outside this city, Chicago will have me killed. The only thing keeping me alive is that they don’t want to step on Gulino’s toes. He won’t hire me for the same reason. So, I’m stuck. Like in purgatory. It doesn’t matter if I make a score one way or another. I’m a dead man as soon as I leave, and if I pull a fast one and stay here, I’m asking for it in a different way. See the spot I’m in?”

  “I see it, but your name keeps coming up. People like us don’t just fade away, Biff.”

  Holden turned to face Wolf. “The hell do you mean, people like us?”

  “I wasn’t always a good guy.”

  “I hear a lot of debate about what you are, Wolf. Nobody knows for sure.”

  “But everybody knows I give them a square deal. So, level with me.”

  Holden laughed. “I didn’t lay a finger on your friend. I’m not moving in on Lane. If my name’s coming up, it’s only because I’m part of Lane’s back-story now. He has my old job. I got caught dipping into the till and now I’m paying for it. I’m exiled here. A nobody. That’s a punishment worse than death for people like us, isn’t it?”

  “For some of us,” Wolf said.

  “So, I don’t know why you’re here, Wolf.”

  Wolf just grinned. “That works in my favor,” he said. “Thanks for the drink.” Wolf set the glass on a nearby table. “Tell your goons I’m coming out and I want my gun back.”

  Holden glared at Wolf’s back.

  The sun was setting, and the sky displayed a pink tinge as Wolf returned to the Cadillac. He called Callaway for a meet. He arrived before the inspector, climbed to the roof, and stood overlooking the city while he smoked a cigar and watched the sun go down. The street sounds drifted his way before being swept away in the wind. Presently the fire escape started vibrating against the building’s bricks, Callaway’s distinctive grunts reaching Wolf’s ears. Callaway swung his legs over the side and joined Wolf near the edge.

  “Any luck today?” Callaway said. He brushed off the front of his overcoat. There was a mustard stain on one lapel.

  “On one hand it looks like zero,” Wolf said. “On the other, who knows? I think I stirred up some things. Lane says he had a job lined up for Harry; Holden says he’s just a poor schmuck stuck between life and death, and nobody knows anything about what Harry would have been killed for.”

  “You don’t buy it.”

  “Not a bit.”

  “What about Harry’s girlfriend?”

  “What about her?”

  “Maybe she knows more than she’s letting on.”

  Wolf paused a moment; then, “I suppose I have to consider that.”

  “And while you consider that, you can look at this.” Callaway removed a slip of paper from a pocket of his coat. A burst of wind almost yanked the paper from his hand. Wolf took it.

  “Those are the guys that Harry shared a cell with,” Callaway said. “Hal Murdock and Jimmy O’Toole. Both got out a few months before Harry.”

  Wolf put the paper in his own pocket.

  When Wolf returned to the Carlton, he found Maggie asleep in the second bedroom. He fixed a bourbon and water and went out on the deck to smoke another cigar and think about the day. When he finished, he turned in and stared at th
e ceiling for a long time before finally dozing off.

  He had breakfast on the table when Maggie woke up the next morning. While they ate, he told her what happened the day before.

  “So, we’re no closer to an answer,” she said.

  “We’ll get an answer. Don’t worry.”

  Hal Murdock, one of Harry’s cell mates, drove a forklift for a car parts warehouse. Wolf waited in the parking lot as the noon hour approached. When Murdock left the building and walked out to his car, Wolf intercepted him.

  “I’m a friend of Harry Ames,” Wolf said. “I need to ask you some questions.”

  “I saw in the paper he’d been shot,” Murdock said. “Too bad.”

  Murdock was shorter than Wolf, with thinning hair and a scar on his right cheek. He breathed heavily.

  “I want to know who shot him.”

  “Look, I’m out of that life,” Murdock said.

  “Whoever shot Harry wanted something from him. Did he talk about anything while you two were in jail? Anything of value he may have hidden?”

  Murdock thought for a moment. “He said he had something, but he never said where it was. I remember telling him you can’t have too big a nest egg from boosting cars, and that made him laugh. The cars were just a side gig, he said. The real loot he’d stolen from somebody else, but he never said what it was, or who he took it from.”

  “No clue at all?”

  “Sorry. I gotta go, food truck’s pulling in and they don’t give us much time.” Murdock retrieved a cell phone from his car and joined his coworkers at the arriving food truck, which advertised Mexican dishes cooked to order. Back in the Cadillac, Wolf considered the man’s words. Now a bigger picture was forming.

  Next name on the list: Jimmy O’Toole. He worked at a deli on the wharf. With saltwater and fish smells lingering in the air, Wolf parked a block down from the restaurant and found O’Toole behind the counter hustling orders. Wolf waited at a corner table until the traffic flow subsided and then approached.

  When O’Toole saw the big man in black, his eyes bulged, and he bolted to the back of the deli.

  Wolf leaped over the counter and ran down the narrow back aisle as O’Toole crashed through the rear door and out into the alley. Wolf shoved through the door, saw O’Toole running left, and charged. He closed the gap quickly and tackled O’Toole. They hit the dirty alley floor hard, O’Toole screaming as breath left him. He sucked air in short gasps as Wolf hauled O’Toole upright and pushed him against the wall.