Death Wore Gloves

by Ross H. Spencer

  He’d slipped her red-circled white panties to the floor and she’d stepped back. She’d been smooth and flat-stomached and her breasts had been just a shade too heavy for her slimness. She’d said, “Do I pass?”

  “Straight A’s.”

  She’d come to him, locking her hands behind his head, pressing his face into her belly. Her perfume had been Valse Lavande de Cour’nand—from that distance he’d have recognized the scent in a tannery. His wife had been using the same stuff about the time she’d come home with the crabs. Kathy Bucknell had stared down at him. “For God’s sake, make your telephone call, will you?”

  Willow had called Raponi’s and spoken briefly with Nick. Kathy Bucknell had killed the lights and they’d gone to bed. She hadn’t been the expert she’d claimed to be, she’d probably had fewer than twenty men in her life, she’d talked too much, she’d cried a lot, her orgasms had been long, grinding, shuddering things that had threatened to rip her liver from her spleen or whatever it was connected to, either she’d peed the bed or she had a G-Spot condition, and Willow had enjoyed the hell out of her.

  They’d had a morning-after breakfast at the little place on West Randolph Street, and Willow’s omelette had been delicious, very fluffy, like she’d said, but Willow didn’t know any more about omelettes than he knew about women, so it might have been a very bad omelette indeed.

  34

  Tuesday

  Willow drove north, thinking about her, the woman forlorn, the woman scorned, used, discarded, and forgotten, the woman with the rancor drained out of her, who appraised her own situation with eyes of uncomprehending wonder. She was a strange one, holed up in her own 86-proof fortress, lonely, gullible, a forty-year-old babe-in-the-jungle who saw herself as some sort of scarlet Jezebel and seemed proud of it, drawing from it a sense of fitting in. Willow smiled humorlessly. Scarlet Jezebel. Gladys Hornsby was a scarlet Jezebel, Kathy Bucknell was an Alice in Blunderland. She’d kissed him good-by, one of those lengthy, heavy-breathing, see-your-fella-off-to-war, 1940s movie kisses. She’d asked if she’d see him again. He’d said yes, certainly. She’d wanted to know when. He’d said soon. How soon? As soon as possible. Did he want her home telephone number? No, he’d get in touch with her at the Raven Room. That’d be nice—she was there almost every afternoon. It’d taken him a half-hour to break free, but he’d enjoyed her company, she’d been a revelation, he hadn’t known that there were any Kathy Bucknells left. More than that, she’d set his thinking straight and he could stop chasing rainbows.

  It all jumped out at him now. Joe Orlando had approached Kathy Bucknell with a bag of sleazy information and Kathy had bought, paying him so handsomely that he’d gone into business on a larger scale, expanding his clientele to include Gladys Hornsby’s maverick aunt. It hadn’t been Joe’s first mistake but it’d been his last. Orlando had been Sister Rosetta’s heralded “new detective” but somewhere along the line he’d crossed her, no doubt over the Wow-Wee Calendar photographs, and the old sidewinder had killed his rotten ass. That wasn’t all—Sister Rosetta had shot Sam Brumshaw; Willow would have bet a case of Kennessy’s on it. He had no pronounced objections to the elimination of the two, the world was considerably better off without them, but he was still on square one, looking for Sister Rosetta, her Heffernan-Reese .38, and the remaining Wow-Wee pictures. If he found her, he’d confiscate the pistol, stuff Sister Rosetta onto an outbound train, and let the entire dizzy mess dry up and blow into Chicago’s bulging unsolved homicides file. This accomplished, Gladys Hornsby would retain her shot at a half-million dollars, and Willow would get back to whatever the hell was left to get back to. It’d be as simple as pouring ten pounds of sand into a five-pound bag.

  Shortly before noon Willow shouldered his way defensively into Raponi’s Old Naples Spaghetti House. Florence Gambrello sat at her table, vivisecting him with smoldering Sicilian eyes. She leaned back. She took a deep breath. Her bosom swelled. She said, “So?”

  Willow’s smile was pale lipped. “Did Nick tell you?”

  “Yeah, Nick told me. What I want to know is why Tut didn’t tell me.”

  “I was in a bind for time, Flo! I was casing a joint, to employ the vernacular.”

  “How would you like to get your joint shoved straight up your goddamn vernacular? Nobody leaves Florence Gambrello out on a limb!”

  “Well, Jesus, Flo, a guy got a right to make a living.”

  Florence slipped a hand to the inside of Willow’s leg. She squeezed. She squeezed very hard. She squeezed so hard that Willow saw little golden stars with bright red dots in their centers. Florence said, “We got a date tonight or don’t we?”

  Willow said, “Why, sure, Flo—that’s why I came in—to make sure we got a date tonight.”

  Florence released her grip on Willow’s thigh, smiling sweetly. “Attsa nice! You be good on Florence, Florence do fine things on you.”

  Nick Raponi was waving to Willow. “Tut, you got a telephone call.”

  Florence said, “Oh-ho!”

  Willow said, “Who?”

  Raponi said, “No name.”

  Florence said, “Ah-ha!”

  Willow said, “Client, probably.”

  Florence said, “Uh-huh!”

  Willow took the phone. Gladys Hornsby said, “Can you talk?”

  “No.”

  “I have to see you!”

  “Ditto.”

  “Casey’s coming in from Germany this afternoon. He’ll throw a party tonight and he’ll sleep late tomorrow morning. I’ll drive up to Austin Boulevard about ten.”

  “Where?”

  “Wherever. There’s a restaurant at Austin and Irving Park—how’s that?”

  “Okay.”

  Willow hung up and Florence eyed him suspiciously. She said, “‘No ditto where okay?’” What was that, some kind of fucking Polynesian bossa nova?”

  Willow said, “Look, Flo, for two hundred a day I let my clients do most of the talking.”

  Florence was glaring at Nick Raponi. She said, “Was that a man or a woman on the phone?”

  Willow cut in. “It was a man, Flo—Wilfred Ivanhoe—the Normans have been giving him a lot of static.”

  Raponi nodded. He said, “Yeah, them fucking Normans again!”

  Florence frowned. “Could be the same Normans who lived on Burling Street. Would you believe that those bastards wouldn’t even feed their own dog?”

  35

  Wednesday

  The hours had rocketed by with the speed of a tortoise towing a ten-ton truck. At 2:07 A.M. Florence had lunged at him and nearly missed, but then the torpedoes had nearly missed the Yorktown. She’d grabbed his ear as she’d whizzed by, and they’d thundered to the floor for the third time in less than an hour, Willow landing on the back of his head. Regaining a portion of his spinning senses, he’d struggled to sit up but Florence had straddled him, throwing a scissors lock on his throat and gazing down at him with triumphant glowing eyes, purring, “So what you think of Florence’s show?”

  Willow had told her the truth. He’d said, “Words fail me.” He’d glanced at his old Louisville Slugger standing in a corner, discarded since earlier in the evening. Most of his favorite autograph was gone forever. So were most of the splinters. Willow’s frown had been a melancholy thing. He’d said, “DiMag signed that bat for me back in forty-seven.”

  Florence had smiled and inched upward on him as he’d sprawled helpless, transfixed by the inexorable approach of that triangular black forest. Macbeth and Birnam Wood. He’d looked beseechingly upward but it was too late, much too late, Florence Gambrello’s face had vanished above the jutting Alpine peaks of her bosom. She’d lowered herself gently but ever so firmly. She’d said, “Now you do it real nice on Florence—take your time, lover, we got hours!”

  Willow had said, “Fffffoooooff!”

  Florence had said, “What was that, prediletto?”

  Willow had said, “Arroooomph!”

  Florence had said, “Tsk, tsk! Did
n’t your mommy teach you never to talk with your mouth full?”

  Willow had made no reply and Florence had squirmed, kneading her unbelievable breasts. “Holy Mother, it’s good!—it’s squisito!—oh, do it, affretare, do it to Florence!—Dear God in Heaven, bite me, masticare me!—harder!—harder, damn you!—arrghhhhh!—that’s it!—meraviglioso!—now—now—now—now—now—Grande Dio, here I—NOWWWWWW—AIEEEEEEE!”

  Martha Strotman had spun on her sleepless bed, listening intently, tormented by those visions writhing on the bright screen of her virgin’s imagination. Soon, it would have to be soon, or she would go stark, staring mad! Martha stood on the rim of the chasm and she was teetering…

  36

  Wednesday

  There was a sharp, biting wind snarling in from the west. Old newspapers, hamburger wrappers, and clanking Budweiser cans fled in aimless panic like innocents before the advance of the Hun. Gladys Hornsby waited in a booth of the restaurant, a baby-blue coat draped loosely over her shoulders. Her hair was frowsy, her face drawn, her eyes dull, her smile something less than a smile. “Don’t say it, Tut—I’m a wreck and I know it!”

  Willow slid into the booth. “Rough night?”

  “I’ve had better. Casey’s flight was late, he didn’t get in until after dark, then he threw himself a welcome home party—a bunch of his cronies.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Ten—there were ten of the bastards.”

  “No women?”

  “Women? Oh, certainly! Me!”

  “So?”

  “So guess.”

  “No need for that.”

  “Right! I had to take care of the whole bunch! There was a fat Lebanese—three times—he looked like an anteater, he was hung like a steer, and he smelled like a goddamn goat. Casey had a ball.”

  A chunky waitress rumbled to their booth and Willow said, “Just coffee, please.”

  They waited for the coffee, then Gladys said, “You bat first, then I’ll blow you out of the box.”

  Willow lit two cigarettes, gave her one, and said, “Well, it pans out this way—our boy Joe Orlando was polishing both sides of the coin. He was peddling information to Sister Rosetta.”

  “I’ll be damned—Joe was Aunt Rosie’s new detective?”

  “And he was selling to Kathy Bucknell—she knows virtually all there is to know about you and Bucknell.”

  “And she’s doing nothing about it?”

  “Yes, she’s drinking herself to death.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “At the Saxon Hotel day before yesterday—I was playing hunches.”

  “She took you to bed, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “How was she?”

  “Drunk.”

  “Naturally—I mean in bed.”

  “Dead ripe, but not in your league.”

  Gladys smiled a tragic smile. “Who is?”

  “Nobody.”

  “I know it.”

  “There was nothing that Orlando wouldn’t have stooped to, and he’d have done just dandy if he’d stayed the hell out of the blackmail business.”

  “Then it was Aunt Rosie for certain—she killed Joe Orlando because he was blackmailing me?”

  “No, she killed Brumshaw because Brumshaw was blackmailing you. She killed Orlando because Orlando was blackmailing her. She found the Wow-Wee pictures in Brumshaw’s office and she had them until Orlando put pressure on her.”

  Gladys stared at the coal of her trembling cigarette. “Both murders—Aunt Rosie?”

  “With never a quiver, I’d imagine. Sister Rosetta is one very tough old ostrich.”

  “But how would Joe know that she’d killed Sammy, or that she had the pictures?”

  “He’d gone up to the Walton Building’s second floor to use the washroom, and I’ll bet that he was standing right outside Brumshaw’s door when she plugged him—a silencer muffles a shot but there’s still a sound.”

  “Aunt Rosie had a silencer—Jesus, isn’t that secret-agent equipment? Where would she get a silencer?”

  “Probably from Joe Orlando. That was another of his sidelines—he’d set up shop as a gun dealer. I figure that he ducked into the washroom and watched Sister Rosetta come out with that green folder.”

  “Then he socked it to Aunt Rosie—give him the Wow-Wee pictures or he’d turn her in for killing Sammy?”

  “Yes, and she complied. Then she gave him half an ounce of lead and took the pictures back. It was a fair exchange—Joe got to keep the lead for the rest of his life.”

  “Then Aunt Rosie has the negatives and the other two sets?”

  “Got to be.”

  “But where? They weren’t in her apartment and she didn’t mention them yesterday.”

  Willow blinked. “Yesterday? You saw Sister Rosetta yesterday?”

  “No, she called me just before I called you at Raponi’s. We talked for twenty minutes.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know—somewhere in the city, apparently. I don’t believe it was a long distance call—no operators interrupted.”

  “Well, we’ll have to find her!”

  Gladys squashed her cigarette into the cheap plastic ashtray. “No, we won’t. Those pictures don’t matter anymore.”

  “The hell they don’t matter! The pictures are what this whole cockeyed carnival’s all about!”

  “She shook the hell out of me, Tut!”

  “Sister Rosetta would shake the hell out of an eastbound panzer column.”

  “I’m calling it quits with Casey.”

  “Why? You’re still in the ballgame!”

  Gladys Hornsby’s eyes had grown wide, her voice harsh. She said, “Tut, Casey Bucknell is my father!”

  37

  Wednesday

  Willow thought about it. He said, “That is a bucket of unadulterated duck dung.”

  “I wish you were right. Tut, I’m illegitimate.”

  “All right, so you’re illegitimate—so was Jesus Christ, maybe. What about it?”

  Gladys traced invisible little patterns on the plastic tablecloth with the handle of her coffee spoon. “Just before she married Tom Hornsby, my mother had a brief fling with a dashing young Romeo from Nebraska—a man named Casey Bucknell.”

  “And I enjoyed one with a Korean girl—Sasha Chin. Sasha stole my wallet.”

  “Tom Hornsby married my mother, believing that he’d done a number on her, but he hadn’t—it was Casey and Casey had dumped her. That was thirty years ago, back before Aunt Rosie entered the convent. Aunt Rosie had met Casey and when she saw his picture in the Chicago Globe, she remembered him.”

  “You have this on the authority of Sister Rosetta?”

  “She’s the final authority, Tut!”

  Willow was shaking his head vehemently. “Glad, you can’t believe one word this old crocodile says! She’s around the bend and long gone! Our best bet is to talk to the police and then get out of town until they can get her fitted for a straightjacket!”

  “She has the dates! She’s too damned right to be wrong—everything meshes! Now, are you ready for the whipped cream?”

  “Easy on the whipped cream, if you will.”

  “Aunt Rosie swears on the Bible, the Church, her order, and on my dead mother’s soul that she will kill Casey Bucknell!”

  “What for? Bucknell doesn’t know the situation.”

  “He has to know! Casey doesn’t party every night—we’ve talked, he’s seen pictures of my mother. How could he not know?”

  “You were aware of this and you went ahead with last night’s shenanigans?”

  “Tut, going through the ordeal gave me strength. Turning my back on five hundred thousand dollars isn’t easy, but when I saw my own father take pleasure in watching that fat Lebanese pour it to me, something snapped. I can do it, Tut—I can walk! I’ll be leaving this week.”

  “You’ve told Bucknell?”

  “Not yet, but he’ll be told in no uncertain terms, believest thou m
e!”

  Willow stared through the window at the traffic on North Austin Boulevard, letting it all soak in. Then he said, “Well, I’m a cross-eyed fairydiddle!” He banged the table with his fist and the coffee cups danced jigs in their saucers. “You’re hooked up with the most depraved, warped, twisted, degenerate sonofabitch who ever came down the fucking pike!”

  Gladys put her hand on his arm. “Tone it down, Tut! People are listening.”

  “I don’t give a damn, let ’em listen! Bucknell sics ten rumdums onto his own daughter and gets his nuts off watching? Why, shit, they don’t even go that far in fucking Hollywood!”

  The chunky waitress steamed toward their table at full throttle, waving her pudgy arms in urgent protest. She said, “Please, sir, watch your language! We have other customers!”

  Willow was all wound up. He said, “Why, compared to this asshole, Caligula was a punk jacking off in the bathtub!”

  A big red-faced kid, perhaps twenty-five, barged into view, coming on the double. He wore a stained white apron and a chef’s cap. A U.S. Marine emblem was tattooed on his brawny left forearm: Semper fidelis. He tapped Willow on the shoulder and said, “Cool it, Mac, or I’ll scuttle your ass!”

  Willow glanced up. He said, “Watch your language, you got other customers.”

  A swarthy man seated directly behind Willow turned to the red-faced kid. He said, “Hey, this gentleman right! I’m hear what he’s discuss about!”

  The husky ex-marine leveled an authoritative forefinger at the swarthy man. He said, “Who jerked your chain, greaseball?”

  The swarthy man had the eyes of an aroused king cobra. He said, “Hey, how many times you watch ten guys screw your daughter?”

  The ex-marine flexed his muscles and his tattoo wiggled. He said, “Shut up or get out!”

  The swarthy man yawned. He said, “Hey, punk, why you no go jack-off in bathtub like gentleman say?”

  The ex-marine moved like a big cat. He reached into the booth and grabbed the swarthy man by the necktie, yanking him into the clear. He said, “Okay, blabbermouth, out you go!”