by Chris Laing
I puffed up the pillows and settled back in bed to read a new novel I’d picked up at the Hamilton Public Library: I, the Jury by Mickey Spillane. Maybe it was the picture of the sexy babe on its cover that attracted me. Or the blurb on the back that said Spillane was a Yank, a fighter pilot during the war, and he used to write comic books. Whatever the attraction, he seemed like my kind of guy.
I must’ve nodded off. My book had slid to the floor and the phone was jangling in the kitchen. I checked the wall clock when I got there – 2200.
“Max, it’s Frank. You in bed already? The damn phone rang nine times.”
“No, I was reading and I guess I dozed off. Where the hell are you? It sounds like a train station in the background.”
“I’m at the General again. They called me about Nick –”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“He’s dead.”
That snapped me awake. “Too bad, Frank, but you probably wouldn’t have gotten him to testify anyway. Guess he died from loss of blood, eh?”
A long pause on the line.
“Frank?”
“Someone got into his room. Suffocated him with his pillow.”
“Holy Hell. What happened to that guard on the door?”
“He’d disappeared.”
“Wait a minute – it’s hard to believe that anyone could’ve gotten past that Charge Nurse without her noticing.”
“It happened right after the shift change, so she wasn’t there. I talked with the night nurse who took over. She told me she’d spoken with a doctor she didn’t recognize who’d picked up Nick’s chart and gone in to see him. All quite normal, she said, and she thought no more about it. I asked about the cop on the door but she hadn’t seen him there. Then she was called to an urgent case at the other end of the hall. Later, while she was making her rounds, she found Nick – dead in his bed.”
“And where the hell was Hubbard?”
“We found him tied up and gagged in the closet. He didn’t kick up a fuss because that so-called doctor had given him a good dose of ether.”
“Jeez, this was well planned. Any idea who this ‘doctor’ was?”
“Well … he gave his name to the nurse …”
“C’mon, Frank. What’s his damn name?”
“Dr. Dexter.”
Shit in a mitt.
Why would the killer use my name? I suppose a watcher from the Mob could have been on duty and seen Frank and me earlier. Or maybe one of the orderlies was on their payroll. Whoever it was, we were seen going into Nick’s room and spending some time with him. It wasn’t Hubbard because he couldn’t have tied himself up and gassed himself.
“It’s gotta be Tedesco’s doing,” I said. “His guy at the jail muffed the job to get rid of Nick in the showers, so he had someone finish him off in the hospital. But why would he waste his time on Nick when the troops from Buffalo are breathing down his neck?”
“Beats the hell out of me, Max. Jeez, I’d be a nervous wreck if I was in his shoes. But maybe his brain is scrambled and he’s not thinking straight – he’s still got Max Dexter on his mind while his former pals are building the gallows.”
“So what do you think I should do?”
“If I were you, I’d lie low and wait for the storm to blow over – I figure it won’t be long now. But that ain’t your way, is it?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Back in bed, I had trouble getting to sleep again. Every time I started to snooze, one of Tedesco’s guys would invade my dream and startle me awake as he tried to strangle me; later, another thug was giving me the pillow-over-the-face treatment like Nick Fiore.
I got out of bed for a drink of water. Twice. It didn’t help. Just made me pee.
At 0200 I awoke in a sweat. My pajamas were soaked through so I had a bath and put on my other pair from the laundry basket. Then I fluffed my pillow and picked up my copy of I, the Jury, hoping it might put me back to sleep. But that didn’t work either. I found myself getting mad at Mike Hammer: he was a brutally violent man and contemptuous of the law. Not my kind of guy after all. And he had no manners. So I put Mike to bed and snapped off the light, hoping for a couple hours of rest.
No such luck – this time I’d been dreaming that Tedesco himself was standing at the foot of my bed and one of his thugs had screwed the short barrel of his .38 into my right ear. I tried swatting the guy’s hand away but he pressed even harder and I began shouting at him.
My eyes snapped open and I wished they’d hadn’t.
That dream from hell wasn’t a dream.
There was Tedesco, staring at me from the foot of my bed.
And one of his soldiers beside me; his revolver just inches from my head now and there was blood on the barrel. My right ear was pulsing with a fiery throb. When I touched it I got blood on my fingers.
Tedesco remained where he was and flicked a glance at his goon beside me. “Check the bedside table. See if his gun’s there.”
The guy pulled the drawer open and removed my .32 revolver from its holster, which he threw aside. He emptied the cartridges onto the floor and kicked them under the bed, then tossed the empty gun across the room near the closet.
Now he stood close beside me, his gun pointed at my head again.
Tedesco was giving me the evil eye as he cleared his throat. “I don’t know what motivates you, Dexter, but you’re like shit on a shoe – hard to scrape off and the stink lingers on.”
I glared back at him, wishing I had one of those shitty shoes to bounce off his noggin. What was it he wanted from me? And how could I avoid it?
He moved around my bed, nudging his henchman aside as he got closer. “Wait outside, Sammy. And close the door.”
When the guy had gone Tedesco bent over me, his breath as pungent as the garlic section in Nicastro’s Grocery. “I need to see your mother alone. Without those visitors from Buffalo in the way. And you are going to arrange that meeting.”
I stared up at him. He must be thinking he could sweet-talk Diane Black into some kind of arrangement that would leave him still in charge. Or at least alive so he could skip town and retire in peace. Fat bloody chance of that happening. And it was obvious he didn’t know that I had zero influence with my mother.
“Listen,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking, “until this week I hadn’t seen the woman for 25 years. And she has no inclination to do a damn thing for me.”
He leaned into me again, his black eyes flashing with menace. “Bullshit! You’d be a dead man now if it weren’t for her.”
My puzzled expression must have convinced him that I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Somebody told her about our little feud, you and me. And now the word’s gone out that she wants her son protected – so it’s hands off her precious little boy.”
I gaped at him. How could I believe this guy? A Mob boss. Therefore a liar and a manipulator.
“I don’t believe you. She wouldn’t lift her little finger to protect me.”
He leaned even closer; his face now inches from mine. “Listen up, Junior. You’re going to get me in to see Diane Black. And she’s going to arrange my safe passage out of Hamilton.”
“You’re dreaming. Why would she agree to that?”
His right hand shot forward and grabbed my throat, squeezing so hard I felt my eyes watering as I gasped for air.
“Because I’ve got your fancy girlfriend. I’m going to phone your office today at noon. If you haven’t arranged a meeting with your mother and me by then, I’ll kill Miss Isabel O’Brien.”
He pushed me backward, banging my head against the headboard as he called out, “Sammy, get in here!”
Tedesco cocked his thumb in my direction. “Give this wise-ass one of my calling cards.”
Whe
n I came to, I opened one eye – the other was stuck shut.
I saw the legs of my bed, dust balls on the floor. I reeked of vomit – my pajamas soaked through in a gooey mess. My head throbbed, my gut felt like a punching bag, and my bad knee was screaming.
Isabel.
I pushed myself to a sitting position and tried to get up but my leg crumpled and I crashed to the floor. I managed to crawl into the bathroom, pushing myself with the leg that still worked, cranked on the cold water, and stuck my head under the faucet, clenching my eyes shut as icy water streamed into my face and down the back of my neck. I turned off the tap and slumped beside the tub, catching my breath while I dripped all over the floor.
Isabel.
With Tedesco.
Goddammit.
I forced my eyes open when I heard the clinking of milk bottles. The early morning sun was streaming in my living room window; its rays piercing my eyes like red-hot needles. I didn’t remember coming in here; maybe I’d crawled. Shivering, I looked down and saw I was in my underwear.
I tried to stand but collapsed back in my chair as though shoved by an invisible hand. Next time I got up by degrees, in slow motion. Much better. I felt my way into the bedroom to survey the carnage. That putrid odour still polluted the air; my dirty bed clothes reeked in a heap on the floor.
I got dressed in slow motion – it took 15 minutes for a two-minute job. Then I left all my mess where it lay and closed the bedroom door.
I made it to the kitchen but my stomach rebelled at the very thought of food. Feeling my way along the wall, I dragged my leg to the living room chair and collapsed.
Tedesco said he’d call at noon. When I bent my head to look at my watch a sharp pain shot up my spine and I gritted my teeth. It was 0930 and I ached all over. I was having a helluva time controlling the panicky thoughts galloping through my mind. Tedesco’s exact words were, “I’ve got your fancy girlfriend.” And those words kept bouncing around in my brain, repeating themselves like a broken record, taunting me.
Isabel.
At first I thought he might be bluffing. I believed he was in a panic because he was reading the writing on the wall, just as Frank and I had discussed. But I couldn’t take the chance that he hadn’t taken her. Nor could I depend upon Diane Black to finish her deadly business before something happened to Isabel.
Then my mind filled with an image of Iz, gagged and bound like Hubbard – that police guard in the hospital. Maybe she was hidden away in some filthy, abandoned warehouse in the city’s east end – a couple of heavyweight thugs keeping watch and getting evil thoughts. A chill ran through me, head to toe.
I had to find her.
Now.
I groped my way back to the kitchen to use the phone and dragged a chair over beside it. I dialed Isabel’s number and waited while my heart beat a tattoo in my chest. After 15 rings I hung up and tried again.
Same damn thing.
Then I called my office and Phyllis answered. “I’ve been worrying about you, Max. Here it is nearly 10 o’clock and both you and Isabel haven’t appeared for work. Is anything wrong?”
“She didn’t call to say she’d be late?”
“No, not a dickey bird. And I called her twice at home and got no answer. I sure hope she didn’t have an accident or something.”
Dammit. I wanted to believe that Tedesco was bluffing. But now …
“I’m going to her place, Phyl. I’ll call you later.”
I hung up and dialed Iz’s number again.
And again.
Then I called Frank at the cop shop only to learn it was his day off. I dialed his home number, gave him a quick report of Isabel’s kidnapping and asked him to pick me up at my place.
“Fifteen minutes,” he said. “And stay out of trouble until I get there.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
I retrieved my revolver from the bedroom where Tedesco’s guy had tossed it across the room. I used the broom handle to swish the cartridges from under the bed and reloaded them. Then I found my holster in the corner beside the book case and strapped it on. I grabbed a full box of ammo from the top shelf of the closet, wincing from a renewed wave of pain as I reached for it, then stuck it in the pocket of my overcoat in the front hall.
When Frank arrived I opened the door before he could knock. “What took you so long?”
He grabbed my arm and steered me toward the living room. “Slow down for God’s sake. Let’s take a minute to figure out what to do.”
Easing me onto the sofa he sat beside me. “My god, you look awful.” He hustled into the kitchen and brought me some ice in a dishcloth. “Here. Hold this over that eye, and tell me again what happened – nice and slow.”
I took a deep breath and repeated my story. “And if I don’t arrange a meeting with Tedesco and my mother by noon he says he’ll … kill Isabel.”
“You’re under your mother’s protection? No damn wonder Tedesco’s got his ass in a knot about Max Dexter. And it’s a clever move on his part to use Isabel as his ticket out of town.”
I couldn’t sit there a second longer. “C’mon. Let’s get going. We’ll start at her place.”
On our way to the door, Frank stuck his head into my bedroom and quickly slammed it closed. “Whew. Stinks to high heaven in there.”
We were driving fast along Hunter Street toward James South and Frank said, “Remember Sal Angotti? Nick said he knifed that City Controller at Paddy Greene’s?”
“Yeah.”
“They fished him out of the canal this morning – a couple of holes in his skull. So the gang war’s officially underway. They’re cleaning house and I’m wondering why Tedesco is still pissing around, trying to make a deal. If I were in his shoes, I’d be on one of those big new airliners to South America.”
I glanced over at him as he wheeled through a left turn onto James Street. His jaw was clenched, a dark scowl distorting his features. “Not a helluva lot we can do when these shoot-outs get underway,” he said. “Makes you feel like an undertaker – following the Mob around and hauling the bodies away. Dammit, I should be getting a commission from Dermody’s Funeral Home.”
Frank turned right onto Aberdeen. Iz’s home was on Ravenscliffe, a couple blocks down on the left. After he made the turn, he slowed the car and ducked his head to gawk at the big homes here. I pointed to her driveway and he pulled in and parked. He stood beside the car and stared up at the house. “What did you call this, a carriage house? Shee-it, Max. You told me Isabel’s family was well off, but this is rolling in dough. I had no idea. She doesn’t go around with her nose in the air so … jeez, I just didn’t know.”
“C’mon, Frank. Let’s go, we’re wasting time.”
I brushed away the light snow from the small windows in the garage door with my glove and looked in. Her car was still there. I’d advised Iz and Phyllis to take cabs for a couple of days which might explain why she didn’t drive herself today. Frank called over from the front door. “It’s locked and doesn’t look tampered with.”
The driveway and sidewalks were cleared and it hadn’t snowed overnight, so they were no fresh footprints to follow out here. We walked to the rear of the house; no shoe prints anywhere in the thin layer of snow on the patio or the backyard. I tried the doors, also locked, no sign of forced entry. No broken windows.
“Tighter than a drum. I don’t like it, Frank, she usually drives to the office but her car’s still in the garage. She might’ve taken a cab but she didn’t get there and she didn’t call in.”
I didn’t have a key to her house and I didn’t want to break in. I could call her father but I’d have to listen to another tiresome rant about how I was ruining his daughter’s life and to hell with that. “You used to have a little set of tools, Frank. Still got them?”
He shot me a black look. “I don’t
use them much. Only in a dire emergency.”
“Well?”
“I’ll get them from the car.”
We were on the patio again, Frank down on one knee, jiggling the little brass picks in the door lock. He had it open in less than a minute.
We stepped inside, took off our shoes and set them by the door.
I pointed to the staircase. “You check upstairs. I’ll do this floor.”
The dining room was undisturbed and I followed the scent of Christmas into the living room where a tall decorated tree occupied the corner near the picture window. Against the opposite wall was an immense fireplace, almost big enough to stand in. A row of Christmas cards marched along the stone mantle. No sign of a disturbance in here.
The kitchen showed signs that she’d been interrupted at breakfast. A cereal bowl, a small plate and some cutlery were on the table beside her half-full coffee cup. The bastards had been bluffing. They hadn’t taken Iz until after they’d worked me over.
Iz’s bedroom was on the main floor at the rear of the house, overlooking the garden. I drew back the drapes – a large window that didn’t open was flanked by two smaller ones, both of which were locked. The only similarity between this bedroom and mine was the name. An acre of bed faced the windows onto the rear garden where the flowerbeds were outlined in snow and tall maples waved their leafless branches.
Two chests of drawers and an antique wardrobe occupied the wall nearest me. On another wall she’d hung a gallery of pictures; some were photos of people and places I didn’t know, others were landscape paintings – one of which was by our friend, Roger Bruce, from a recent exhibition at the Art Gallery of Hamilton.
I saw an open jewellery box on her dressing table and leaned down to have a look. Bracelets and necklaces along one side of the large box, rings and jewelled pins on the other. In the centre was a selection of earrings and I sat on the bench for a closer look. Most of them sparkled with diamonds and other stones. I picked up the single pair of pearl earrings to examine them – they were much larger than the pair I’d bought at Eaton’s and twice as brilliant.