Death Wore Gloves

by Ross H. Spencer

  The swarthy man’s Colt .45 automatic pistol appeared to have been plucked from thin air. He jammed the muzzle of the weapon deep into the ex-marine’s solar plexus. There was the ominous click of the hammer coming back. He said, “Hey, punk, how you like couple extra navels?”

  The white-faced ex-marine’s lips moved at high speed but no voice was forthcoming.

  The swarthy man said, “Now you run along, fry eggs.”

  “Yes, sir! Over easy, sir?”

  The swarthy man shook his head. “Straight up. Four strip bacon, crisp. Three toast, lots butter. You gots good jelly?”

  “The very best, sir!”

  “Well, shove very best jelly up ass, maybe tighten up loose mouth.”

  Willow threw money onto the table and took Gladys by the arm. On the sidewalk he said, “So now what?”

  Gladys shrugged. “Back to North Austin Boulevard and modeling skivvies, what else? I may be looking for a roomie.”

  “Keep me in mind.”

  “I’ll do that.” She extended her hand. “Tutto, you’ve been wonderful, as always! There’s never been anyone like you—not in my young life!”

  Willow shuffled around, kicking at leaves skittering in the cold October wind, saying nothing. Gladys said, “Oh, my God, he’s blushing!”

  Willow said, “I did the best I could with what I had—not a helluva lot with damned little. What about Sister Rosetta?”

  Gladys frowned. “I give up—what about her?”

  “We just let her run?”

  “How the hell do we stop her?” She slipped behind the wheel of her red Mercedes-Benz convertible and rolled her window down. She reached up, pulled him to her, and kissed him on the cheek. She said, “Thanks, Tut.”

  Willow said, “Is this vehicle in your name?”

  “Lock, stock, and barrel.”

  He swatted the fender. “Then it wasn’t a total loss, was it?”

  She puckered her lips at him and pulled away. He watched her wheel the expensive car into traffic to head south on North Austin Boulevard, a fast and efficient driver. He waited until the Mercedes was out of sight before crossing the street to his Buick. He started the engine, then sat musing for a few moments. Gladys Hornsby was a dandy to sleep with, but what would she be like to live with on a day-in, day-out basis? Willow grinned. It was the grin of a barracuda in a trout hatchery.

  38

  Wednesday

  Shortly before one o’clock on that chilly, sullen, grayskied October afternoon, Willow was at the bar of Raponi’s Old Naples Spaghetti House, smoking cigarettes and drinking Kennessy’s Light Lager. The luncheon rush was over and so was Lilac Paths, which had been interrupted by a local news flash announcing that Luigi “Big Sweets” Colangelo had been found dead in the underground parking area of his luxurious Mannheim Road hotel, shot once through the left temple. The bulletin had been brief—Colangelo, an underworld kingpin for more than four decades, had been under summons to appear before a Cook County Blue-Ribbon Jury the first week in November and there’d been rumors that Big Sweets just might be willing to trade information for a slap on the wrist. Chicago gang killings didn’t faze Willow, they were a dime a dozen. He was Raponi’s only customer, the place was lifeless, the jukebox droning “Sorrento,” Florence Gambrello half-dozing at her table, Nick Raponi studying the sports section of the Chicago Globe. Willow was immersed in thought. Gladys Hornsby’s quest for five hundred thousand dollars had come a cropper, screeching to a shuddering halt—Sam Brumshaw dead, Joe Orlando dead, her Aunt Rosie a double killer beyond doubt, Gladys learning that she’d been shacking with her own father and throwing in the towel to return to the starting gate. Well, she hadn’t done too badly—she had a Mercedes-Benz automobile to show for her trouble, and Brumshaw had mentioned a jade necklace. Raponi looked up from his sports sheet, shaking his head hopelessly. He said, “Did you ever stop to think that Chicago is the losers’ capital of the whole fucking civilized world?”

  Willow nodded. “I don’t believe it’s the athletes—it’s probably something about this town. If you moved the 1927 Yankees to Chicago, they’d finish in the second division.”

  Raponi said, “It’s a crime! Once every ten years we manage to squeak somebody into a roll-off and they get blown out before they’ve finished playing the National Anthem.”

  Willow said, “Maybe it got something to do with Chicago’s water.”

  Raponi said, “Hey, could be! All them chemicals and stuff—maybe they dry up the adrenaline or something!”

  Florence Gambrello rose from her table, stretched magnificently, yawned, and headed for the kitchen. She brushed against Willow, winked at him, rolled her eyes, stuck out her tongue, wiggled it, and went on by, swinging her buttocks provocatively. When she was gone, Raponi said, “Y’know, I tried that woman one night, and it took a chiropractor over a year to straighten me out! My God, she fucking near killed me!”

  Willow stared into space. “How was that?”

  “Well, for one thing, we kept falling out of bed—soon as we’d crawl back in, whammo, out we’d go again, and I was on the bottom every goddamn time!”

  Willow said, “Sonofagun, how about that?”

  Raponi said, “Don’t never say I told you, but I kind of got the impression that Florence got the hots for you.”

  Willow shrugged. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  Raponi said, “Oh, I dunno—maybe it’s the way she always keeps grabbing you by the balls when she thinks there ain’t nobody looking.”

  The door opened and a swarthy man came in. Raponi grinned from ear to ear. He yelled, “Hey, compagno!” He climbed over the bar and ran toward the newcomer, arms outstretched. They embraced and Raponi turned toward Willow. He said, “Hey, Tut, I want you should meet Dom Palumbo! I may of mentioned him—Dom’s outta Detroit, in town on a business matter.”

  Willow shoved out his hand and Dom Palumbo shook it, his king-cobra eyes evidencing no hint of recognition.

  Raponi was pounding Palumbo on the back. “So how your business appointment go, amico?”

  Palumbo said, “So far I ain’t heard no complaints.”

  Raponi said, “Now you sit down in dining room, Nick gonna get you minestrone, salad, vinegar and oil, veal francaise, extra lemon, side order linguini, hot cannoli, black coffee with double hooker good brandy—then we talk, right, quacchero?”

  Palumbo said, “Right, but wait couple hours—had late breakfast.” He jerked his head southward. “Restaurant down street.”

  Willow drove homeward, wondering about trolls and goblins and leprechauns. He fell asleep on his couch to dream about Sir Galahad and Robin Hood and Dom Palumbo. In Willow’s dream, Dom Palumbo slew a dragon by shooting it with a Colt .45 automatic. Palumbo had charged to the attack astride a unicorn.

  39

  Thursday

  Willow opened one drowsy eye to a persistent tapping on his front door. He glanced at his watch—10:05 A.M., still the middle of the night by Willow’s schedule. It’d be Buck Curtin, sure as hell—he’d anticipated a visit from Curtin a helluva lot earlier than this. He rolled out of bed and hollered, “Just a minute!” He looked for his bathrobe, failed to locate it, and tottered into the bathroom, clad in his white satin pajamas with the Italian flag on the pocket—a gift from Florence Gambrello. He splashed cold water on his face, trying to collect his sleep-dulled wits. He’d have to be on his toes now—Buck Curtin was a rotten sonofabitch but he was a smart rotten sonofabitch. The tapping resumed, loud, demanding, and Willow padded barefoot to the door to swing it open. It wasn’t Buck Curtin. It was Martha Strotman. Willow drew back and Martha stepped into Willow’s living room. She wore a powder-blue chenille robe and dark blue scuffs with little white puffballs on the toes. There was a big pink ribbon in her gray hair and her perfume struck Willow in the face like seventeen tons of hot slag. She was sporting enough makeup to camouflage a naval task force. She gazed at him with glazed eyes. She dropped her robe to the floor and Willow was quick to
note that Martha Strotman was bare-ass naked. Her mottled breasts sagged nearly to her navel. Her belly was loose, layered, and splotched with little white marks. So was her derriere. Her legs, bulging at the thighs, tapered to stems the diameter of broomsticks. She said, “All right, you’ve done it!”

  Willow said, “I have?”

  Martha Strotman said, “This psychological struggle is at an end!”

  Willow said, “It is?”

  Martha said, “I can’t fight you anymore!”

  Willow said, “You can’t?”

  Martha said, “You’ve won—I’m yours!”

  Willow said, “You are?”

  Martha said, “Take me! Ravish me! Abuse me! Rip me asunder! Bite me, claw me, flay my naked body—”

  Willow threw up his hands. “Oh, Jesus Christ, Miss Strotman, hold it, for God’s sake, just hold it!”

  “Rape me! Force me to do indecent things! Spill your blazing seed into my virgin belly, destroy me at your leisure, I will submit without murmur to your every gross animal desire!” Her eyes were wild, dilated, sightless things.

  Willow was pale, confronted by two choices—plunge headfirst through the north window or plunge headfirst through the south window. Willow decided to plunge headfirst through the south window—it was smaller but it was closer. Martha Strotman advanced, reaching for him, her hands like the talons of an eagle. From the doorway Lieutenant Buck Curtin said, “Hello, young lovers, am I interrupting anything?”

  Martha Strotman whirled, looked at Curtin, blanched, shrieked, grabbed her robe from the floor, and fled naked onto the landing. There was a prolonged rumbling sound. Buck Curtin said, “What the hell was that?”

  Willow said, “That was my landlady falling down the stairs.”

  Curtin said, “Is she all right?”

  Willow said, “I can’t tell from here. Go see.”

  Curtin said, “She’s your landlady—you go see.”

  Martha Strotman’s door slammed and Willow closed and locked his own. He sighed a meaningful sigh. He said, “A very near thing!”

  Curtin said, “I could hear her clear down in the vestibule. I figured you were watching a rerun of Lilac Paths.” His stare was of the astounded variety. He said, “Willow, you just got to be some kind of satyr!”

  Willow spread his hands helplessly. He said, “Well, some got it and some don’t.”

  Curtin seated himself at an end of Willow’s couch. He said, “Put on some coffee, will you?”

  40

  Thursday

  Buck Curtin was smoking one of Willow’s cigarettes and peering quizzically at his cup of coffee. Willow said, “What’s your problem?”

  Curtin said, “That stuff tastes like fucking sheep-dip!”

  Willow said, “Okay, so dip a fucking sheep in it.” They didn’t like each other, the chemistry was sour. There was grudging mutual respect, something remotely akin to that existent between rattlesnakes and roadrunners, but that was as good as it was ever going to get. Curtin said, “It’s time to talk.”

  Willow said, “All right, you be a walrus and I’ll be a carpenter—how’s that for role casting?”

  Curtin said, “Not bad. You build a box you can’t get out of, and I’ll label it ‘accessory after the fact.’”

  Willow tasted his coffee and shuddered. Curtin was right—it was atrocious.

  Curtin raised a chairman-of-the-board forefinger. “Today’s subject will be nuns.”

  Willow said, “Great! You discuss nuns and I’ll listen.”

  Curtin leaned back on the couch, obviously jaded. His tone was patient but firm. “Look, Willow, yesterday my wife blew three thousand dollars on a new living-room set, this morning my German Shepherd nailed my next-door neighbor in the testicles, I blew a tire on my way to work, I got an ingrown toenail, and I ain’t been laid in six weeks, so I ain’t in the market for your Little-Bo-Peep routine—now you can talk to me here or you can talk to me downtown, but one way or the other you are sure as hell gonna talk to me! C’mon, Willow, make it easy on both of us—whaddaya say?”

  Willow shrugged. “Ask and ye shall receive.”

  Curtin gave him an affable swat on the shoulder. “That’s more like it! I’m interested in a nun named Sister Rosetta. You’ve been seen with her a couple times and you’ve gone up and down North Austin Boulevard looking for her. What’s the score?”

  “Be specific.”

  “Where is this Sister Rosetta?”

  “She used to live at 5031 North Austin Boulevard. To the best of my knowledge she hasn’t been there in something like a week.”

  “I didn’t ask you where she used to be, I asked you where she is.”

  “I don’t have the foggiest fucking notion.”

  “All right, who is she?”

  “She’s the aunt of a young lady I know.”

  “Uh-huh—you’re talking about the Hornsby quiff?”

  “Yeah, the Hornsby quiff.”

  “How did you meet her?”

  “The Hornsby quiff?”

  “No, the nun—what’s your connection with her?”

  “She hired me.”

  “To do what?”

  “To locate the Hornsby quiff.”

  “Why?”

  “Sister Rosetta had lost track of her and she was concerned.”

  “And you found her?”

  “Obviously.”

  “How?”

  “I went to Sam Brumshaw’s modeling agency—she’d worked for Brumshaw earlier.”

  “How come Sister Rosetta didn’t think of going to Brumshaw?”

  “I think she did, eventually.”

  Curtin nodded. “So do I. What parish is Sister Rosetta out of?”

  “She’s out of all of ’em. She’s been disbarred or court-martialed or defrocked or whatever it is they do to nuns.”

  “What was the rap?”

  “Drinking on the job, drinking off the job, threatening to shoot a bishop—never a dull moment.”

  “But she still wears a nun’s habit.”

  “That’s because she thinks she’s still a nun.”

  “She’s wacko?”

  “What’s ‘wacko’? You think you’re Ellery Queen, I think I’m Philo Vance.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Couple Tuesdays ago, about noon.”

  “Where?”

  “Raponi’s Old Naples Spaghetti House. You’ve been there.”

  “What was the occasion? Why was she at Raponi’s?”

  “No particular occasion. She just dropped in to tell me that she’d hired a new private detective.”

  “One of you bastards wasn’t enough?”

  “The new one replaced me. I’d resigned from the case.”

  “What was this shamus supposed to do? You’d already located the girl.”

  “Yes, but Sister Rosetta didn’t know that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Probably because I didn’t tell her.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her?”

  “Because the girl asked me not to.”

  “But you took Sister Rosetta’s money.”

  “I took it but I returned it.”

  “How much money?”

  “What’s the difference? Four hundred dollars.”

  “The Hornsby chick sure chewed you up in a hurry.”

  “She chewed me up in a hurry eight years ago.”

  “You’ve been humping that cream puff for eight years?”

  “Until I found her I hadn’t seen her in eight years.”

  “Anything unusual happen the last time you saw Sister Rosetta?”

  “Nothing except she blew Raponi’s dining-room chandelier off the ceiling.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “Accident.”

  “She was armed?”

  “To the teeth.”

  “With what?”

  “A gun, as I recall.”

  “Let’s have it, Willow! What kind of gun?”

  “A
Heffernan-Reese .38.”

  Curtin slammed the top of Willow’s coffee table with the palm of a beefy hand. “Well, all right!”

  “What’s all right about it? She may have killed two men with that sonofabitch!”

  Curtin’s smile was sly. “Well, of course, she did! You saw her drop Raponi’s chandelier?”

  “She smoked my eyebrows.”

  Curtin drove a fist into the palm of his hand. “God damn! I’m gonna throw a team into Raponi’s joint! If I can come up with that slug, ballistics can nail this thing down.” He took a belt of his coffee and made a face. “A lawyer named Leon Mattfeld spotted a nun on the second floor of the Walton Building on the morning Brumshaw was scragged! A neighborhood woman saw a nun leave Millie and Jake’s parking lot about the time Orlando was shot. Sister Rosetta has the right caliber weapon and she had opportunities in both cases.”

  “If it was Sister Rosetta.”

  “Don’t blow smoke up my ass, Willow! Who else would it be?”

  “Saint Catherine of Ricci?”

  Curtin was grinning like a baboon in a banana tree. “I ain’t much on coincidences! A ninety-year-old virgin, there’s a coincidence!”

  “Or a very homely virgin.”

  “It’s Sister Rosetta, you can take that to the bank—she fits!”

  “Sure, she fits, but can you ice her?”

  “Not yet—I’ll need that slug and Sister Rosetta’s gun.”

  “Also Sister Rosetta and a pair of motives.”

  “Crap! One motive! Two murders but one motive—there’s a link here, Willow, and it’s your playmate! Ten gets you twenty if this whole damn business don’t revolve around Gladys Hornsby!”

  “How?”

  “Well, maybe the Hornsby kid was raped by these characters or maybe they were blackmailing her or maybe any goddamn number of things. Maybe Sister Rosetta just don’t approve of the company her niece keeps—it that’s the case, you should watch your ass on account of you ain’t exactly a knight in shining armor.”

  Willow shrugged. “Okay, Curtin, you find Sister Rosetta and you ask her all about it, if she doesn’t blow your head off before you get to the question mark.”