The Holy City Hustle: A Duke Dempsey Mystery

by Ron Plante Jr

  “Mr. Smith is dead, and I need your help to stop a lot more people from dying,” Duke said as he pulled two more dollars from his pocket out.

  The befuddled desk clerk slowly reached over and took the five dollars that sat on the counter. It was an internal struggle, but with the events that had recently taken place, he believed he was helping the greater good. He went behind the desk, grabbed the package that was in the slot for room 1002, and slid it over to Duke. “I hope this helps,” he said as he walked away, not entirely positive he’d made the right decision.

  Duke walked over to Johnny who still had a look of disgust over what he’d just witnessed. “Don’t knock it, we didn’t have to bother with a warrant,” Duke said with a smirk. “How about we open this over a drink?” He nodded in the direction of The Swamp Fox Lounge.

  Chapter 11 – Smoke Break

  Carbone didn’t want to press his luck and follow the two into the lounge. He was, however, interested in finding out what they’d retrieved from the desk clerk.

  Bertucci had originally wanted to keep the family out of it, in case of a massive screw up. The boss in Charleston had a lot to lose and wanted control of the operation. Bertucci needed to play nice due to ongoing business arrangements, but at the same time wanted to ensure things got done.

  Now Billy found himself in Charleston trying to clean up the mess. Although the operation had been planned meticulously by Carbone, he had his reservations, due to all the hands in the cookie jar. They’d compromised and put together a plan using two hired guns outside the family. His hitman, Ernesto Perez, had been Cuban born and had trained in Batista’s Army as a Special Operative. Bertucci’s side of the deal had kept up, because Mayor Swanson was dead, but the screw up came in the getaway, which was on the Charleston team. Carbone knew how to right the ship, but it looked to be a little more complicated with the new players involved.

  “Perfect,” Carbone said to himself as the alley door opened and young Robert walked out. “Hey kid, you got a light?” he asked the desk clerk, who was on his smoke break.

  “Sure, mister.” Robert stepped up to the garbage bin that Billy was leaning against and took out his Zippo to oblige him with a light.

  As Robert held out his arm, Carbone violently grabbed and twisted it so Robert’s body spun around with his arm still in place. The instant pain the kid felt in his shoulder was immense. The complete dislocation of the shoulder made a popping noise, but he was unable to scream because Carbone’s other arm was snuggly wrapped around the kid’s throat.

  Robert was completely incapacitated and at the whim of his attacker. Carbone could control the airflow to his victim just by the amount of pressure he placed with his left arm. He dragged Robert behind the dumpster before any more co-workers came into the alley.

  Carbone was immediately disgusted by the lack of fight his prey showed. The struggle lasted maybe five seconds before his victim entirely succumbed to his will. It took every ounce of restraint not to end the life of young Robert, but he needed some answers first.

  “Listen, kid, I know you’re in pain. There’s no escape from the position you’re in, so don’t attempt to fight it. All it takes five more pounds of pressure against your windpipe and you’ll be in the big sleep. Blink your eyes if you understand.”

  The kid blinked twice.

  “Good. What did that Duke Dempsey want? I’m going to slowly reduce the pressure, which will enable you to speak. If you try to scream, you’ll be dead. Blink if you understand.”

  The kid blinked twice, and Carbone eased off on the pressure. “He wanted to know who was in Room 1002,” Robert whispered.

  “Nothing else? What did you hand him?”

  “That’s all he asked for, and if anyone visited Mr. Smith. I didn’t know if he had visitors.”

  “What did you hand him?” Billy’s voice rose and he applied a little more pressure to make his point clear.

  “It was a package, but I don’t know what was in it. That’s all I know. He didn’t ask for anything else.” Robert pleaded the best he could, trying to cope with the pain in his shoulder and throat.

  “No return address on the package?”

  “No. Just Mr. Franklin Smith Room 1002.” Tears started to stream down the young desk clerk’s face.

  “Relax kid, you did good,” Carbone said, as he viciously torqued his arm in an upward motion, instantly crushing the windpipe of young Robert. Carbone maintained the chokehold and closed his eyes as he said a silent prayer. He opened his eyes, picked up Robert’s limp, lifeless body, and threw it into the dumpster. “Another lost soul for your flock,” he said as he shut the giant metal lid down.

  If the Francis Marion Hotel was the jewel of the Carolinas, then The Swamp Fox Lounge was the Madeleine Vionnet gown that paired with it. It was a swanky joint where Charleston’s elite could let their hair down and be with their own. ‘Swamp Fox’ had been the nickname of General Francis Marion, given to him during the Revolutionary War by the British Army. He’d led a band of rebels against the Brits and utilized the marshes and swamps to his troops’ advantage. His elusive tactics led to his nickname, and eventually the perfect name for Charleston’s most swinging hotspot.

  Duke and Johnny grabbed a table by the window in the back of the lounge. It was still a little early for the happy hour crowd, and the lounge was quiet. There were a few hotel guests at the bar and a couple from out of town grabbing a late lunch. The piano man started his set with ‘Moonlight Sonata’ by Beethoven, which complimented the setting perfectly.

  The waiter brought over Duke’s Old Taylor Old Fashioned, and an Old Taylor neat for Johnny. Duke’s Old Taylor Old Fashioned was his go-to drink when rubbing elbows with the upper echelon of Charleston. He was a man who could blend in with any crowd, and with the growing success of his firm, he found himself more and more hanging out in places such as The Swamp Fox. He’d come to the lounge once before with his girlfriend, Mary. Her family was amongst the Who’s Who in Charleston, and they came here from time to time.

  Duke opened the package he’d received from the desk clerk. It was an envelope that was slightly bigger than the one typically used to send a letter. He dumped the contents onto the table, which Detective Stampkin immediately picked up. From a glance, it looked like a folded-up brochure.

  “Looks like you were right,” Stampkin said as he studied the paper.

  “About what?”

  “Mr. Smith was going to come back to the hotel,” Johnny said as he tossed the paper over to Duke. “He wasn’t leaving without his getaway ticket.”

  Duke examined the paper and his mouth opened as wide as his eyes. “Are you kidding me?” he asked as he sat back and pondered what he was seeing.

  “Looks like our friend had some powerful friends,” Johnny said as he finished what was left of his whiskey and motioned to the waiter for another.

  The ticket Duke was looking at was for passage onboard one the newest and most luxurious superyachts in the world, the Shemara. It had been in all the papers the past few months because it was making a stop in Charleston. The Shemara was a 212 foot steel motor yacht built earlier that year somewhere in the UK. Nobody knew who owned the vessel because it was kept very hush-hush. Speculation around town was that some middle eastern prince was the rightful owner and had it made for throwing swinging parties on the high seas. Any way you sliced it, a Cuban hitman should never have been on the guest list.

  “Looks like the Shemara is due to get underway out of Charleston in two days,” Duke said as he looked down at the dates on the ticket.

  “I’ll check with Lieutenant Smeltzer down at the Ports to see when she’s due to arrive. Maybe he can fill us in on the guest list too, while he’s at it,” Stampkin said.

  Smeltzer was an old friend of Johnny’s who ran the Charleston Port Authority. He’d been very helpful in obtaining important information involving vessel movements in the past, but Duke wanted to keep this one close to the chest. There was too much uncertainty with the
case, and he wasn’t quite sure who he could trust.

  “I know you and Tom are old buddies, but let’s keep this one between us for the time being. We got an assassinated mayor, a shady cop, and the damn Shemara all intertwined like a Charlie Chan picture. We need to start making some links quick, and I have a feeling our deadline is in two days,” Duke said as he tossed the ticket back onto the center of the table.

  “‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown, but not in front of where the watchmen smile and frown.’” Duke recited the message again. As much as he wanted to bypass the stupid game that had been placed in their laps, he also knew that it was all he had to go on.

  “What do you make of it?” Johnny asked. Stampkin was a decent detective, but Duke had the uncanny knack of thinking on a different level than most investigators. He had a photographic memory that had helped on more than one occasion, and his knowledge of different subjects was well beyond that of the common mind. “You’ve got a pretty good grasp of this religious stuff,” he said as he took another swig of his freshly poured whiskey.

  “Oh, do I? What I do know is that this clue isn’t a passage out of the Bible, and it has nothing to do with Corinthians. Some of the words are related to the Bible, but not in any real context that would match it to a specific verse,” Duke said as he stared at it. He looked at his wristwatch and knew he had a meeting with the new widow Swanson later that evening. He wasn’t sure what kind of light she would shed on the investigation, but it was one meeting he wasn’t about to miss.

  “I need to get back to the station and see what they found with Isabella’s car,” Stampkin said as he threw a couple of bucks on the table.

  Duke slammed the rest of his drink and added his portion to the money on the table. They made their way through the lobby and out the main entrance. Duke’s Ford Roadster was parked at the end of the block, and in the direction Johnny was walking. It was a beautiful late afternoon in the Holy City, and the fronds of the palmetto trees that lined the downtown streets flapped in the breeze. The two had come to the intersection when Duke looked up and suddenly had an epiphany.

  “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?” Johnny asked, obviously confused at the random outburst.

  “The clue. ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown,’” Duke said as he pointed up at the streets sign on the corner.

  “King Street, of course!” Johnny exclaimed. “But where? It’s a pretty big street.”

  “The second part of that clue. It’s the only real part that touches upon the Bible. ‘In front of where the watchmen smile and frown.’ Watchmen in the Bible were the guardians, and watched out for evil. Watchmen were the earliest forms of police and security.”

  “The station,” Stampkin said as his voice trailed off.

  “It’s on King Street.”

  They both jumped into Duke’s roadster and he tore down King Street. They arrived at the station and made for the door.

  Chapter 12 – The Green Sedan

  “What are we looking for?” Johnny asked as they came into the station.

  “Something that looks out of the ordinary would be my guess.”

  Johnny called an all-points bulletin in the station and got every officer and detective that wasn’t working a case in on the hunt. They searched every inch of the station, and even had Captain Slate snooping out his own office. Nobody knew what the hell they were looking for, but nobody was about to question the salty detective. After a few hours of checking wastebaskets and closets, the group of officers started to congregate near the front desk. All of them looked at Stampkin for some kind of explanation.

  “There’s nothing here,” Stampkin said to Duke.

  “Dempsey, I should’ve known you were behind this,” Slate’s voice rang out, as he walked down the stairs toward the group.

  “Captain, this was my call. Duke just happened to be stopping by when I came across a clue.”

  “Bullshit, Detective. If he’s here, then he’s knees deep in this. Playing cop again, Dempsey?”

  “Just trying to help, Slate.” Duke refused to afford him the luxury of calling him by his rank.

  “Unless you want to be a permanent resident here, I suggest you leave and stop meddling in an investigation.”

  As much as Duke wanted to get into a pissing contest with Slate, he thought better of it. He didn’t want to miss his meeting with Mrs. Swanson, and knew it wouldn’t take much for Slate to throw him in the slammer on some trumped-up charge. Duke put on his brown Walker hat and walked out the front entrance.

  The early evening air hit Duke as he stood outside the station looking down on King Street. He took a deep breath to regain his composure from his run-in with Slate, and it was as almost if a fog that had been stagnant over his mind cleared. He pulled the clue out of his pocket and re-read it, even though his photographic memory had a clear image burned into his brain. He then started to look at the front of the building, but still found nothing that stood out. He turned back around and looked down on King Street from the top of the stairs leading to the Charleston Police Station.

  “Stampkin,” he said as he peeked his head back through the door of the station. “I think I’ve got something.”

  Detective Stampkin, who was in the process of talking to Slate about the random search, stopped mid-conversation and joined Duke outside.

  “What have you got?”

  Duke was smoking a Lucky and pointed to the street, “What do you see?”

  “Cars, street, buildings. Be more specific,” Johnny said unimpressed with Duke’s game.

  “We were so focused on the station, but the actual clue reads, ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown, but in front of where the watchmen smile and frown.’ In front of where watchmen smile and frown. The cars parked in front are mostly squad cars or cops' personal vehicles, right?”

  “Right,” Stampkin answered.

  “Which one is unlike the other?” Duke asked as he took another drag of his smoke.

  “The black sedan,” a voice from behind the two said.

  Duke and Stampkin turned around to Captain Slate walking out the door to accompany the two gumshoes. Stampkin turned his attention to the black Buick sedan sitting directly in front of the station.

  “This thing was parked here before I got in this morning, and you both can guess when that was,” Slate said as he walked past the two and headed down the stairs toward the car.

  Duke knew that despite what he thought about Slate, the captain was usually the first man in the station. When Duke was on the force, Slate had just been a lieutenant, but you could always count on him to have the best-kept uniform and to be already hard at work by the time he rolled in. Duke followed Slate down to the car.

  “Look at the damage on the front corner panel, it looks pretty fresh. Do we know whose car this is?” Duke asked.

  Johnny re-entered the station, while Duke and Slate continued to investigate the car.

  “It could be one of the officers on duty,” Slate said as he looked through the driver’s side window, trying to get a peek.

  “I’ll give you one guess whose car this is,” Johnny said as he came back out of the station with a crowbar in his right hand and a few cops behind him.

  “The infamous Officer Jackson,” Duke replied as he checked the doors to see if they were open.

  “According to the Desk Sergeant, he never showed up for his shift this morning,” Johnny said as he walked past Duke and immediately smashed out the driver’s side window.

  ”Jesus Christ!” Slate yelled, not prepared for Detective Stampkin’s aggressive approach.

  “Sorry Cap, but this son of a bitch has a lot of explaining to do and we don’t have much time.”

  The three ransacked the car looking for anything that could help the investigation and explain Jackson’s role in it. All they found were some credentials and some documentation on the vehicle itself. Duke found himself in the backseat of the sedan looking at the floorboards when he notic
ed an ominous odor.

  “You smell that?” Duke asked the other two. “Give me that crowbar.”

  Duke took the crowbar and made his way to the trunk of the vehicle. He jammed the crowbar into the gap just below the lock, and with one huge heave, popped it open.

  The pungent stench that burst from the space was almost unbearable. Unfortunately, it was a stench that was unmistakable, and to anyone who worked law enforcement long enough it was all too familiar. It was the smell of a decaying corpse, and from the looks of it, this one had probably been dead for less than 24 hours.

  Duke took his handkerchief and held it over his nose and mouth to try and quell the smell of death that now engulfed that portion of King Street. The face of Officer Jackson was unrecognizable. The two gunshot wounds at close range had completely mangled the victim’s face, and the dried blood which completely covered him masked any chance of identification.

  “I’m not going to tell you how to run your investigation. but I’d get Mickey down here ASAP,” Duke said as he continued to look over the body.

  “So much for questioning him,” Stampkin said, as he shook his head at Slate in frustration.

  “You got something you want to say, Detective?” Slate asked Johnny.

  “Maybe if you would’ve let me run my investigation and allowed me to question Jackson, we’d have one less body on our hands. We also might have some fucking idea what the hell is going on!” Stampkin said, not doing a good job keeping his anger in check.

  “Watch your tone, Detective. What’s Jackson’s tie to Mayor Swanson?”

  Duke could see that Stampkin was about to blow his stack higher than a Union Pacific locomotive. He didn’t care what Slate wanted to know, but he knew that it was easier to fill him in so they could move on with the investigation.

  Duke jumped in, hoping it would give Johnny a little time to cool off. “When the hit on Swanson went down, there were no officers posted backstage. This allowed the assassin free access to Mayor Swanson, and if it wasn’t for Stampkin’s instincts, it would’ve given him an easy exit, too,” Duke said to Slate.