Death Wore Gloves
Page 7
“This winter? You won’t have your farm this winter.”
“Wishful thinking. I keep dreaming about being snowbound with you.”
“Glad, where you’re going there ain’t gonna be no snow!”
She sobered. “Don’t get moody, Tutto—be yourself.”
Willow looked away from her. He said, “Tell me something?”
“Sure.”
“Have you ever slept with that fat slob Brumshaw?”
Gladys grabbed him by the shoulders, pulling him down on the bed. She rolled on top of him, warm satin and feathery light, her hard nipples drilling into his chest, her pubic hair dewy soft against his navel, her lips red velvet and brushing his, her breath hot and fragrant in his mouth. Just before she kissed him she said, “Aw, Tutto, what’s a poor no-good just plain old flat-out rotten girl to do?”
13
Tuesday
It just may have been the most splendiferous nightmare of all time and even if it wasn’t, it eclipsed anything Willow had experienced. Actually, it had been a stealthy-hoofed morningmare, arriving in the early daylight hours. He’d gone to bed with his Wednesday lock-picking assignment on his mind, and his sleep had been fitful until dawn. Then he’d tumbled into one of those doubly-deep sleeps to dream that he’d ran into difficulty with Sam Brumshaw’s lock and that the cops had closed in on him. It’d developed into a shootout and Willow had wiped out three-quarters of Chicago’s police force before he’d opened fire on the Illinois National Guard. Bodies had been stacked like cordwood, blood had flowed ankle deep, sirens had shrieked, helicopters had hovered, babies had wailed, women had screamed, strong men had knelt to pray for the immediate intervention of the Almighty, and all of this carrying on had scared the sassafras out of Tuthill Willow, who’d never owned a firearm in his life. He clawed his way free of the horror’s gory tentacles, dripping perspiration, gasping for air, and committed his first mistake of the day—he got out of bed. He committed his second when he failed to crawl under it. Instead, he just sat on the edge of the damned thing, grappling with his thoughts, and receiving the distinct impression that he’d been through the whole miserable routine before—that old déjà vu business again. The déjà vu always went away when he tried to anticipate just what was going to happen next, so Willow tried to anticipate just what was going to happen next, and sure enough, the déjà vu took it on the duffy. Then the telephone rang. Willow picked it up and growled, “Yeah?”
The voice was youthfully innocent. “Is this Mr. Willow?”
Willow said, “Yeah.”
“Mr. Tuthill Willow?”
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Tuthill Willow, the private detective?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, fuck you, Mr. Tuthill Willow, the private detective!”
Willow dumped the receiver roughly into its cradle and yawned. Damned worthless kids, cutting school with nothing in mind but to annoy people. Right after he got new tires, he’d rent an office and have an answering device installed. The phone jangled and Willow lifted it. “Yeah?”
“Is this Mr. Willow?” Same voice. Willow hung up.
The phone rang again and Willow grabbed it. He hollered, “Up your ass with a blowtorch!”
Gladys Hornsby said, “Well, if you insist, but I’d really prefer—”
Willow said, “Sorry, Glad. What’s up?”
“We’re all set for tomorrow—Sammy says that he’ll be at Rosenbaum’s for lunch, and the shyster has okayed Womer’s Wigwam for eleven-thirty.”
“Isn’t he wondering why you won’t come to his office?”
“Yes, but I told him that I’m on crutches and the stairs would be difficult. So far, so good!”
“That’s what Mary Monkey said to Gus Gorilla.”
“I know—then she got the rest of it. You sound nervous.”
“It may have something to do with my being nervous. This amounts to breaking and entering—it’s against the law. You can go to jail for breaking and entering—sometimes even in Chicago.”
“Tut, do you want out?”
“No, but I still don’t like it.”
“Well, speak now, or forever hold your penis.”
“I’ll be at Womer’s tomorrow, shortly after eleven.”
“Good! Now go back to bed, for God’s sake—you’re an old grump!” She hung up.
Willow lit a cigarette and turned on his nightstand radio. The 10:00 A.M. news was winding down. There’d been a major earthquake in Bolivia and another forest fire was out of control in southern California. Willow snapped the radio off. He’d heard of Bolivia, but he didn’t know where it was, and he didn’t give a damn about southern California. He didn’t give a damn about northern California either, and for that matter he wasn’t wildly ecstatic about northern Illinois. He took a few drags on his cigarette, crushed the butt into his topless Kennessy’s Light Lager can, and stumbled into the bathroom. A fifteen-minute lukewarm shower later, he dug his last Kennessy’s out of the refrigerator, downed it in four gulps, and fumbled into his clothing. Waking up was always the most strenuous part of Willow’s day.
14
Tuesday
When Willow left the building, Martha Strotman was raking leaves in the front yard, her iron gray hair blazing silver in October’s 10:45 sunlight. She was wearing that same pair of tight blue jeans and her makeup was more pronounced. An old straw hat would have done it—there wouldn’t have been a crow in all of Cook County. At the sound of the door closing Martha stopped to lean on her rake and stare wordlessly at Willow, smiling strangely. There’d been a poem in one of his high-school literature books—Maud Muller on a summer’s day, raked the meadows sweet with hay—and Willow didn’t know what that had to do with Martha Strotman’s left eye closing slowly and deliberately. He waved, hurrying to his Buick to peel rubber as he drove away. More déjà vu—he’d lived this moment earlier, and he knew exactly when. Tuesday was starting out like an instant replay of the previous Sunday.
At Raponi’s Old Naples Spaghetti House he pulled into the parking lot and got out of his car to receive a paralyzing blow to the back of his head. Willow staggered, clutched at the Buick’s rusty fender for support, lost his grip, and went down heavily on a hip, looking up to see Joe Orlando looming over him. Joe Orlando was sporting a pair of spectacularly blackened eyes, there was a ragged gash in the middle of his forehead, and his face was speckled with tiny glass cuts as with the marks of some dread disease—the Red Death, perhaps, Willow thought hopefully. Despite his Sunday souvenirs, Joe Orlando appeared to be in the best of spirits, leering triumphantly and saying, “Now, you summbish, you really gonna get it!”
Tires squealed out on Gunnison Avenue, then into Raponi’s parking lot. Willow said, “Look, Joe, can’t you find something better to do with your time—the Peace Corps, maybe?”
A car door slammed as Joe Orlando cocked his right foot, like a man preparing to boot a fifty-yard field goal. Florence Gambrello’s voice was gently reproving. “Joe, you just ain’t never gonna learn, are you?”
Joe Orlando whirled, stared, snarled. “Go peddle your fat ass, whore!” and cut loose with a wild haymaker. Florence Gambrello nonchalanted it, moving her head just enough to let it buzz harmlessly under her chin. Then she was up on the toes of her crepe-soled white waitress shoes, a moving target and a truly formidable sight, studying Joe Orlando, feinting constantly, bobbing, weaving, gliding left and right, before bringing one all the way from the center-field flagpole. Willow closed his eyes. An occasional touch of déjà vu was one thing but this was ridiculous. There was a sickening crunching sound and Joe Orlando’s prominent nose crumpled. So did Joe Orlando’s legs. He hit the deck flat on the seat of his tailored slacks. He looked entreatingly at Willow, extending a hand much in the fashion of a drowning man reaching for a life line. He croaked, “Save me, for the love of God!”
Willow noted that the back of Joe Orlando’s hand bore a small rose tattoo and he wondered if there was an orchid on Joe’s ass. He
said, “Hold it, Flo!”
Florence Gambrello said, “Hold it, my snatch!” She kicked Joe Orlando in his solar plexus, and Joe lunged forward, jackknifed, his head between his knees. Florence said, “Hey, maybe I ain’t no virgin, but I sure ain’t no whore!” She stepped heavily on the back of Joe Orlando’s neck. She said, “I never fucked for money in my whole life!” She kicked Joe Orlando in the ear. She said, “What the hell, I got morals!” Joe Orlando was spread-eagled facedown on the blacktop, gasping something in Italian. Or maybe it was Spanish—Willow had never been able to tell the difference. Florence stared at Willow. She said, “What does this creep do for a living, anyway?”
Willow clambered unsteadily to his feet. “I think he’s a makeup man for some television studio.”
Florence knelt beside Joe Orlando. She seized him by his Prince Valiant hairdo and raised his head. Blood was spurting from his ruined nose. Florence said, “You gotta be a little more careful, Joe. One of these days you might get your fucking nose busted. You get me?”
Joe Orlando said, “Yeah.”
Florence said, “Don’t give me that ‘yeah’ stuff!” She ground Joe Orlando’s face into the surface of Raponi’s parking lot. She said, “You bastard, I was Queen of the North-and-Halsted Polka Party—I’m royalty—let’s hear it for the Queen!”
Joe Orlando gritted, “Yes, ma’am.”
Florence said, “‘Yes, Your Majesty’!”
Joe gasped, “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Florence nodded approval, glancing at her watch, then at Willow. “Let’s go in. I’m late and I still gotta put out the new menus. You see Nick’s new menus? They got a big Italian flag on the front.”
Willow shook his head. He said, “There’s blood all over your shoes.”
Florence peered down at her shoes and shrugged. She said, “I’ll just tell ’em it’s spaghetti sauce.” They walked toward Raponi’s, and Florence squeezed Willow’s hand. “Know what?”
Willow said, “Apparently not.”
“Nick’s hiking the prices. Chicken cacciatore’s going up a whole damn dollar!”
Willow said, “Flo, have you ever heard of déjà vu?”
Florence shook her head. “It ain’t on the new menu, but veal francaise is gonna be eight seventy-five.”
Willow nodded. He said, “Yeah, well, that’s inflation for you.”
15
Tuesday
In the murky depths of Raponi’s Old Naples Spaghetti House, Florence Gambrello tore into her pre-luncheon chores, bustling about, setting tables, distributing menus, lifting little red glass chimneys to light candles, slamming chairs into place, while Willow groped haltingly through the eternal gloom of the taproom, trying to locate a barstool. In the dining area Nick Raponi had a five-hundred-dollar glass chandelier that would have illuminated Soldier Field, and there wasn’t one damned bulb in it. Raponi preferred to light the place with candles. The television set was on and so were the soap operas. That was another of Nick Raponi’s failings—he was a soap opera buff. A commercial flickered onto the screen and Raponi turned to Willow. “Hey, Tut, get a load of this show—hottest soap in the business—Lilac Paths!”
Willow said, “What’s the difference what they call it? They’re all the same.”
“Sure, but it’s the broads! Did you see that chickie just now—the one with the grapefruit jugs?”
“Nick, in this dungeon I couldn’t see her if her ass was hanging out!” Willow looked around. “Where is she?”
“She ain’t in here—she’s on Lilac Paths—plays the role of Corina Brooks. Corina’s pregnant by her father-in-law, old Beauregard Brooks.”
“Heavens to Betsy!”
Raponi nodded solemnly. “Yep, Beauregard caught Corina in a vulnerable moment a couple months ago. He really poured it to her.”
“You don’t say!”
“Sure, Corina was passed out drunk at the time, and old Beauregard just couldn’t let that sort of opportunity slip away.”
“Well, I guess not!”
“So now Corina’s husband, Galahad Brooks, is shacking with Phyllis Brooks.”
“Who’s Phyllis Brooks?”
“Galahad’s mother.”
“I’ll be damned!”
“Phyllis is the blonde in the green bikini—there she is, the one on the diving board! She got a few miles on her, but I wouldn’t kick that old bat outta bed, would you?”
“I would, if she was my mother—Jesus Christ, Nick, that’s incest!”
“Yeah, by the book it’s incest, but Galahad’s only doing it to get even with his father—it’s a case of you screw my woman, I screw yours—this Brooks family got a real vindictive streak, you got to understand.”
Willow yawned, nodding his understanding of the Brooks family’s real vindictive streak.
Raponi said, “You see, revenge is about all that Galahad’s getting out of it on account of he ain’t too much on women. Galahad’s one of them latent gays—just now he got a big case of the hots for some young soccer player from Czechoslovakia—kid name of Ignace Fedorsky. You know how that goes, Tut.”
“No, Nick, how does that go?”
The telephone rang and Raponi snatched it up, speaking subduedly, his eyes following the action on the television screen where Corina Brooks was doing her damndest to pry Phyllis Brooks out of her green bikini. When Raponi hung up, Corina was making considerable headway and Phyllis was taking it all in stride. Raponi said, “That was old Sister Rosetta on the phone. She was calling from Webster’s Whirlwind and she said that she’ll be up this way in a few minutes—said she wants to talk to you.”
“You told her that I’m here?”
“Yeah—ain’t you?”
Willow groaned.
Raponi said, “Well, hell, Tut, how was I supposed to know? I thought maybe it was important or something!”
Willow said, “Jesus had Judas, Caesar had Brutus, and I got good old Nick Raponi.”
Raponi shrugged. “Sorry. Oh, incidentally, did I tell you that Corina Brooks is AC-DC?”
Willow said, “No, but I was wondering why she dragged old Phyllis into that cabana by the hair of her head.”
“Well, that’s why.”
Willow ordered a Kennessy’s Light Lager and fled the stench of Lilac Paths, isolating himself in a back booth to await the arrival of Sister Rosetta. She came, heralded by a cacaphonous fanfare of clattering pans and breaking dishes. Florence Gambrello screeched, “This ain’t the washroom, this is the goddam cucina, you pazzo vecchio pinguino!”
A few seconds later Sister Rosetta appeared, bearing a tall glass with liquid sloshing over its sides. She crumpled into Willow’s booth, took a long loud slurp of her drink, glared in the direction of the kitchen, and said, “One thing I juss can’t stann is loudmouth dago! Juss wann powder nose.”
Willow said, “Yeah, but maybe she didn’t know that.” He hadn’t expected Sister Rosetta to be sober, but this time she was really gassed, experiencing pronounced difficulty in keeping her eyes in focus, her head lolling from side to side like a puppet’s. Her spectacles were smeared, she’d spilled gravy or some similar fluid down the front of her nun’s habit, and her elbow-length black gloves were grease splotched—from hamburger-joint french fries, Willow reasoned. The facial resemblance between aunt and niece was strong, and he wondered if he might be looking at the Gladys Hornsby of years to come. Not likely. The hard knocks had derailed Sister Rosetta, but Gladys had been cut from more durable cloth. Gladys took her bumps and bounced back. Willow nodded to the old woman and said, “What did you want to discuss, Sister?”
She scowled at him. “Wann discuss niece, which you never fine.”
“I couldn’t locate her, Sister Rosetta. I figure that she’s made better connections in another city—New York, probably.”
“Am think she being blackmailed.”
Willow busied himself with the lighting of a cigarette before saying, “Uh-huh, well, just about anything can happen in New York.”
Willow did his best to look amazed. “How do you know that?”
“Hire ’nother privutt detekuv—good privutt detekuv, one who know hole from ass in grounn.”
“Who?”
“Forget name, but he big bassard. Not cute like you, but got brains, also not like you.”
“Who’s blackmailing your niece?”
“Doan know yet, but goan fine out, you juss bet your balls!”
“What’s she being blackmailed for?”
“Money, you nimconfloop!”
“Yes, obviously, but what did your niece do wrong?”
“Wish time?”
“This time—why is she being blackmailed?”
“Is posing whole bunch naughty pitchers.”
“Well, Sister Rosetta, quite a few girls pose for off-color pictures these days—it’s really nothing to write home about.”
“How many pose with cucumber in cunt?”
Willow pondered the question. “I’d say probably less than fifty percent.”
Sister Rosetta rummaged briefly in her handbag and hauled out a blue-steel Heffernan-Reese .38 pistol, balancing it precariously in the palm of a black-gloved hand. She said, “Hey, ain’t nobody blackmail my niece! Anybody blackmail my niece, they got pickle the piper!”
Willow said, “For God’s said, Sister Rosetta, put that cannon away before you kill somebody!”
Sister Rosetta’s smile was coolly superior. She said, “Hey, you think am not know ’bout guns?” She brandished the Heffernan-Reese menacingly. She said, “Hey, you think you talking babe in wood clothing?” Her voice had risen several octaves, and with magnificent icy aplomb Willow threw himself headfirst under the table of the booth. Sister Rosetta said, “Hey, you think am Li’l Red Fauntlehood?” A brilliant orange-yellow jagged tongue of flame lashed the interior of the booth as the Heffernan-Reese went off with an ear-shattering roar. In the dining area Nick Raponi’s fivehundred-dollar glass chandelier came down. There was an awesome crash and a prolonged series of little tinkling sounds, followed by an oppressive silence. From the floor of the booth, Willow peered over the edge of the table, the odor of spent gunpowder thick in his nostrils. He was drenched in icy sweat, but the color was returning to his cheeks. He could hear Nick Raponi on the bar telephone, bellowing, “No, I don’t want fucking Chang How’s fucking Egg Roll Palace—I’m trying to call the fucking police!”