The Holy City Hustle: A Duke Dempsey Mystery

by Ron Plante Jr

  “This isn’t Cuba, damn it. She needs to talk to us. This is a murder investigation.”

  “Hey, don’t shoot the messenger. I’m going to meet up with her in the morning, and she is going to show me the ledger. I’ll do what I can to bring her to you. I can tell you one thing; she’s not going anywhere near a police station, so we’re going to have to do this her way. That’s if I can get her to trust you.”

  “This is no game! If she knows who’s behind Mayor Swanson’s murder, then she needs to come in now.”

  “I told you, I meet her tomorrow morning. I’ll get a look at the ledger and then talk her into meeting you. It’s the only play we’ve got because I have no idea where she is hiding out. You don’t have much choice,” Duke said as he sipped on his Evan.

  “Ok, we do it your way for now, but if she doesn’t play ball then you’re helping me bring her in the hard way. Got it?” The seriousness in Stampkin’s tone left nothing to the imagination.

  “Relax, I’ll handle it,” Duke said.

  Another group of stragglers came into the bar, bringing the noise to a crescendo in the small establishment. This was the best Saturday night Duke had seen at Doc’s since he’d started drowning his sorrows after he got kicked off the force. It was obvious to Duke that Stampkin was not amused at the big crowd, and one more bump could end badly for an unsuspecting patron.

  “Let’s finish this bottle and go back to Marion Square. Maybe our drunk asses can stumble on something,” Duke suggested. He wasn’t as drunk as he let on, but wanted to walk through the scene. Something was eating at him about how everything had gone down, and he wanted to see if he could connect some dots.

  The night air was a little cooler than usual for a Charleston night. Even in the fall, the temperature at night usually remained in the high 70s. Duke and Detective Stampkin stood in front of the stage where the assassination of Mayor Swanson had taken place earlier in the day.

  The streamers that had once lined the stage were now scattered on the ground in tatters. Most of the chairs that had made perfectly lined rows now lay on the ground, and were scattered in the grass field. The stampede of people fleeing the scene had torn up the turf, and there were even some instruments left behind by the band. The scene was a little unsettling, considering that not too long ago the Square had been filled with joy and celebration.

  “Why such a spectacle?” Duke asked, breaking the silence.

  “It was your celebration. I didn’t see you complaining at the time,” Johnny said as he took his hat off and ran his fingers through his disheveled gray hair.

  “Not the celebration, the shooting. Why make it such a spectacle? If you want to take out the mayor of Charleston, I can figure out a lot more ways to do it without a public assassination. You’re taking a huge risk.”

  Johnny started to sober up a bit as his brain turned the switch to investigator. “To send a message. You want to instill fear in someone.”

  “Nobody instills fear like the Mafia. Isabella said that Benny Bertucci had her husband offed and was probably behind Swanson’s death,” Duke said.

  “Bertucci sends his thug up here to off the mayor and stop him from taking the ledger. Why does Bertucci care about Mayor Swanson? Cuba is more than a little out of his jurisdiction. A couple of corrupt government officials in Cuba would hardly raise the eyebrow of anyone in the states.”

  “I didn’t want to say anything until I looked at the ledger, but Isabella said that there was a section labeled Charleston in it. She didn’t recognize any of the names but I’m willing to bet there are some important people in that book.”

  “Dempsey, you are getting closer and closer to obstructing my investigation. Why the hell wouldn’t you mention that tidbit earlier?” Johnny asked, starting to get fired up again.

  “This thing is delicate. You and I both know Mayor Swanson was not a big hit with the boys down at the station. I just wanted to look it over before I started throwing out my theories about why this went down. We’ve got to watch our asses with this one.”

  Johnny acted as if he was ignoring the point Duke was trying to make, but it registered deep down. “This Isabella gets hold of Bertucci’s ledger, and because of some conversations with her husband she feels Swanson is her last hope. She watches Swanson get one in the back of the head and ends up running to you.”

  “That about sums it up.” Duke took a long pause as he fell into a trance, staring at the side of the stage. “Interesting.”

  “What’s interesting?”

  “So, you’ve got every head honcho in the city sitting to the left of the stage in that section,” Duke said as he pointed to the dignitary’s section he’d sat in earlier. “You’ve got cops in the front of the stage for crowd control, and you’ve got cops at the entrance to the square. There was a cop posted at the section of dignitaries, but why nobody behind the stage?”

  “What you mean? How could you tell there was nobody behind the stage? You were sitting in the dignitary’s section.”

  “Come on, John. You were the only one back there, and that was only because something about that guy tipped off your gut. After I knocked him out, it took at least a minute before patrol officers came to assist.”

  Stampkin gazed at the stage as if he was in deep thought. He didn’t like where Duke was going with this, but he had to admit there was something fishy about it. “Just come out and say it. You’re trying to put the assassination on Charleston PD! We may have our flaws, but damn it, there is no way Charleston PD set this up! I’m just not buying what you’re selling, Dempsey. You may be a big shot PI now, but remember what I told you as a rook. Everybody is innocent and everybody is guilty. All predispositions go out the window and you start with a blank canvas. You’re letting your past cloud your present. A lot could have happened in the chaos after that shot. You’ve got cops running everywhere after the gun went off. Who’s to say that a cop wasn’t back there?”

  Duke sat for a minute thinking about what Johnny said. He’d never been the type to jump the gun on something, and yet he was already 80% sure the police had something to do with it. “Blank canvas,” he thought to himself.

  He remembered Johnny’s speech like it was yesterday. It was Duke’s first case as a detective and Johnny had rolled into the scene about 30 minutes after Duke had gotten there. Duke had thought he had it all figured out. Couldn’t wait to unleash his findings on Detective Stampkin. It was a domestic issue. The wife had been murdered, and the husband sat there with blood all over his hands and the murder weapon at his feet. It couldn’t have been any more cut and dry, so he thought. The husband had even popped a confession for the whole thing.

  Long story short, he was covering for their kid. A 17-year-old kid who had been beaten by his mom one too many times and was pushed to the edge. It had all come out during the investigation, but the first thing Johnny had told him was, “Everyone is innocent, and everyone is guilty, kid. Got to start with a blank canvas and paint your picture.” Now he sat there staring at the stage, wondering if his canvas had been blank before Isabella walked into his office.

  “No predispositions,” he whispered as he was in deep thought. “Maybe you’re right. Ok, blank canvas. I’m the shooter. What’s in it for me?” Duke asked as he snapped out of his trance. It was a game Duke and Johnny had played many times before. They would go back and forth until something jumped out at them.

  Johnny knew Duke was back in the game. “Nothing. You’re a hired thug. You chose the worst possible way to kill someone if you want to get away with it. Public assassination from point-blank range.”

  “Right, but who would set up such a brash hit and why? You never got an ID on the shooter?” Duke asked as he lit up a smoke, while he and Johnny started to walk behind the stage.

  “Not a damn thing on the shooter, and now that he’s dead, it’s not looking good. From his clothes and the way he carried himself, I would say he was mobbed up. If your girl is preaching the gospel, then I’d say Bertucci is a
good place to start.”

  “Big Benny Bertucci, living his life in Havana, Cuba these days. Off the top of my head, he was one of Capone’s right-hand men back in Chicago. After Capone got sent up for taxes, I heard Bertucci went to Vegas. Is he now the one pulling the strings or are his string being pulled?” Duke asked as he took a long drag from his Lucky.

  “Bertucci has been a ghost since Vegas. After you and Hoover’s boys took down Hell Hole back in ‘26, I haven’t heard his name anywhere near the Palmetto State.”

  Duke had been a part of the massive operation that had included South Carolina Law Enforcement and federal agents taking down over 17 stills and putting the brakes on one of Capone’s biggest moonshine suppliers. Although Governor Richards liked to take the credit, it was Duke who’d gotten the Intel to get the ball rolling. It had been quite a scene to see the US Coast Guard Cutter Yamacraw, carrying over 100 federal agents, roll into Charleston Harbor. Even Duke had thought their entrance was a little over the top, but they meant business and it showed.

  “Just say Bertucci is the man in charge and he orders the hit on Swanson. It doesn’t get him any closer to the ledger,” Duke said.

  “No, it doesn’t, but if Swanson died because of the ledger, then Bertucci must know the girl is in Charleston, or at the very least trying to get to Charleston. You shouldn’t have let her out of your sight.”

  “I didn’t have any choice. It’s a free country, and she wasn’t ready to play ball yet. Let’s work with what we’ve got.” Duke climbed the steps onto the stage as Johnny watched. “I make my way onto the stage. I take out the mayor’s assistant, Leo, with a pistol whip to the noggin. I then put a slug in the back of the head of Swanson. Everyone freaks out. I turn and start to make my getaway.” Duke started to mimic the actions of the killer as he did the walkthrough. “You’re in the way and he tries to dropkick you from the stage. I jump on him just before he starts to get up. Which brings us to the question of the night.”

  “What's that?”

  “Where was he running to?”

  “The hell away from here,” Stampkin answered back.

  “He could’ve tried to take off toward the middle of the park. On foot, he would have had a better chance of losing the cops with all the trees and obstacles. He chose to go straight back off the stage.”

  “It’s a straight shot to Meeting Street,” Johnny added.

  Johnny ran back to his squad car and grabbed two flashlights out of the trunk. They both started walking toward Meeting in a straight line from the back of the stage. It was a decent hike, but someone with adrenaline flowing could have cleared the distance in less than 5 minutes at a dead sprint.

  They looked around for anything in the park that could’ve been staged for his getaway. On a Saturday night in Charleston, all the action was on King Street, but Meeting Street didn’t have much going on. It looked like a ghost town, except for a few parked cars. Two were parked down on the end, and a blue 1938 Chevrolet Master sat where the path led to the street. Duke shined his flashlight at the blue Chevy and motioned toward Johnny.

  “Interesting place to leave your car parked at this time of night,” Duke said as he aimed his light into the window.

  “Maybe somebody is taking a late-night stroll. The engine is still a little warm,” Johnny said with his hand on the hood.

  Duke gently lifted the door handle and wasn’t surprised it opened. He looked over at Johnny as he sat in the driver's side.

  “It’s brand new. Thing is spotless.” Duke shined his light in the back seat trying to find any clue as to whose car it might be.

  Detective Stampkin moved to the passenger side and sat down. Duke instantly pointed to the key in the ignition. Like most cars, by 1938, the Chevrolet Master needed a key to engage the push-button start. He looked down at the start next to the steering wheel. “Bet you a bottle of Evan this doesn’t turn over.” He pressed it, and the engine tried to crank, but failed. He tried it one more time with no success.

  “Looks like we just found the getaway car. Must have had it running ready to go, and it just sat here all day until it finally ran out of gas. Nice job, Dempsey.”

  “Looks like he was working alone. A driver would’ve beat foot pursuit after ten minutes. Let’s take a closer look through this thing,” Duke said.

  The two checked every inch of the car. It was so new, it appeared like it had been driven right off the lot. Duke made his way to the backseat, looking on the floor and between the seats. Johnny continued to look in the front, through the few compartments the car had. They swept the car as well as they could in the dark with flashlights.

  Duke got out and checked the trunk, but it was just as empty as the car. The new car smell hit him as he swiped his hand through the interior of the trunk, looking for anything. Duke was about to call the search off when Stampkin came across something.

  “Bingo! Looks like he tried to hide this little nugget underneath the driver’s seat,” Johnny said as he held up what appeared to be a key.

  Duke stepped around to where Stampkin was sitting and shined his light on the key. “Hotel room key,” he said.

  Both eyes lit up, because there was only one hotel in Charleston that had golden ornate lettering on the base. The initials were a golden cursive ‘FM’ and they represented the Francis Marion Hotel. Duke turned and looked up at the huge twelve-story building which towered over the square and the two detectives.

  “Seems like the perfect place to plan an assassination,” Duke said as he flicked his cigarette butt into the street.

  Chapter 7 – The Beach

  The drive out of town was a little inconvenient, but security and secrecy were paramount for Isabella. She had left the meeting with Duke feeling a little better about her situation, because she did not feel as alone as she had earlier in the day. Her journey to Charleston was had not only been a difficult one, but she knew that once they found out she was gone, her life would be in danger.

  Her first visit to the United States was not supposed to be under such dire circumstances. She’d been very happy with her husband and her life in Havana, but they’d always planned a long vacation in America, bouncing from state to state. They had made a good living and lived better than most on the island.

  That all changed the day Benny Bertucci moved to town.

  They’d tried to turn a blind eye to his boss’s unsavory business dealings. “Just mind our own,” is what her husband used to say. Isabella knew it had weighed on him, and as time went on, it was harder and harder for him to continue to ignore his conscience. Once people had started disappearing, her husband couldn’t ignore it any longer. Now she found herself in Charleston, trying to get anyone to listen and help her get justice for her husband and her people.

  She followed the directions that Mayor Swanson had given her meticulously. He’d tried to help Isabella as much as he could by giving her a car and a place to stay. It was hard for her to take in the scenery with the events of the day fresh in her mind. She’d met with Mayor Swanson just before he’d gone to the presentation, and he’d assured her that he would protect her. Now he was dead, and she had to rely on a man that she knew nothing about. She wasn’t sure if she could trust Duke with the ledger, but realized her options were limited.

  Her mind was so focused on following the directions and the replay of the shooting, that she was oblivious to the car that had been following her since she’d left Duke’s office.

  The man in the black car had specific orders and he had every intention of following them. This woman had something he needed, and he was willing to do whatever it took to secure it. He followed her down Pitt Street, and once they left the Mt. Pleasant area he knew she was headed for the beach. It would be the perfect spot to make his move, because the road was usually deserted at that time of night and there wouldn’t be much of a chance of being seen.

  His target went over the bridge and passed Fort Moultrie. He followed a safe distance behind, and could see the military so
ldiers guarding the entrance to the fort as he drove past. Once they were beyond the fort, he decided to make his move. He immediately accelerated the roaring V-8 engine.

  Isabella looked in the rear-view mirror to see car lights fast approaching. She was confused as to where they’d come from and how quickly they’d gotten behind her. She tried to speed up, but she was afraid, due to her lack of driving experience. Isabella and her husband had a car in Havana, but though he’d taught her how to drive, he had mainly driven it. She pressed the accelerator, but the car behind her kept inching closer.

  Isabella’s emotions took over, and she struggled to focus as she kept staring in the rear-view mirror. The black car roared beside her, and she looked over to see a man on the driver's side. What she saw not only terrified her, but also confirmed what she had originally thought.

  The man showed no emotion, and continued to drive alongside Isabella. He was waiting for the right moment because he knew the road like the back of his hand, and was about to put that knowledge to good use. A small bend lay in the distance, and he waited until both cars were just about to take the subtle curve when he turned the wheel and slammed his car into the driver's side front panel of his target's car.

  Isabella felt a huge jolt as the man’s car crashed into hers. She instantly lost control as the wheel jerked out of her grip and the car went barreling off the road. Isabella tried to regain control, but the car went bounding through rows of seagrass and sand too fast to correct. Seagrass collected on the hood of the car and covered her windshield. She wanted to turn the wheel, but it was too late – the car careened into a huge dune and instantly brought it to a violent halt.

  The car hit with such an impact that it almost sent Isabella through the windshield. The steering wheel column stopped her progression, but broke her ribs in the process, and her face slammed into the top of the steering wheel with such force that the wheel bent forward. There was no pain, there was just black.