by Graham Marks
Alex hadn’t meant to blurt out everything, but this man, being the person in Trey’s pictures and a friend of Uncle Mario’s, didn’t seem like a complete stranger.
“You don’t say…” The man pulled on his lower lip.
Alex couldn’t tell if he was being taken seriously or having his leg pulled. “It’s true, mister, they grabbed me first by mistake, which is how I know.”
“They did – when?”
“Today, this afternoon, on my way home from his apartment.”
“Your parents know?”
Alex shook his head. “My dad’s been here all day and I haven’t seen him yet, and my ma would’ve had a conniption fit and put me back on the first train to New York if I’d told her. It’s her worst nightmare.”
“Come on.” The man indicated Alex should come with him. “You and me better go and get this sorted out, Alex.”
The room was quite large, but felt cramped as it was full of over-stuffed leather furniture, a lot of gloomy portraits in heavy gilt frames on the dark wood-panelled walls, and people. Everyone seemed to have fired up a cigar, and consequently the ceiling looked three feet lower than it was because of the cloud of smoke that hung in the air.
Alex was sitting on a leather upholstered dining chair that had been brought in specially for him, and there were seven men in the room, three of whom he knew: his father, Tony Burrell and Uncle Mario. The others he’d never seen before, and so far hadn’t been introduced to.
Nervous at first, Alex soon got into the swing and laid out the whole story, from developing the film and seeing the pictures to the kidnap on the street and his eventual release.
“You did good, kid.” Mario Andrusa turned to Alex’s father. “He did good, Nate. I am impressed with the recall and his cool head. Especially not worrying Esther and waiting till he got up here; shows character.” Mario looked back at Alex. “You are a credit to your father, Alex, and let me tell you, the only bad thing he ever did was not to be born Sicilian.”
Everyone in the room laughed, no one more so than Mario himself.
“Now, about these pictures.” The smile disappeared from Mario’s face. “I was in them?”
“In one I saw.” Alex nodded. “With some guy dressed up as a cowboy, and a lady.”
“Right…” Mario’s eyes narrowed and his whole body visibly tensed, which anyone who knew him would realize was not a good sign.
“Mario…” Nate Klein stepped closer to his son and put a protective hand on his shoulder. “We can handle this.”
“We can?”
“Sure.” Nate looked down at Alex. “Remind me, what did you say were the names of these two meshugenah who did this terrible thing to you?”
“The one was Joe, he was the boss, and the other he called Dewey.” Alex’s eyes flicked between his father and an unnaturally still Uncle Mario. “It was the guy called Dewey’s idea, Dad; the other guy shouted at him that I was the wrong person, and that anyway it was the film they were after.”
“Joe Cullen?” Alex’s dad looked at Mario, who raised both eyebrows in silent assent. Nate Klein stood up and paced the floor, hands in his trouser pockets. “And this friend of yours from school, Alex…what’s his name again?”
“It’s T. Drummond MacIntyre III, but he goes by Trey.”
“MacIntyre…” Nate Klein frowned. “We know that name, Mario?”
Mario Andrusa nodded. “I think we do. Kid must be the grandson of the guy Dunne has mentioned.”
Nate turned back to Alex. “And you’re worried these two men are going to go after him?”
“I figured.” Alex nodded.
“That worthless, lying piece of – Dunne told me he had those pictures!” Mario stood up, rigid with anger. “He said he’d got rid of them!”
“And now we know he hasn’t,” Nate Klein went and stood in front of Mario, looking him straight in the eye, “we can do something about it, right?”
“What d’you suggest?” Mario, somewhat calmer, relit his cigar and sent a plume of smoke up to join the swirling cloud above him. “You think Dunne’s got some plan we don’t know about?”
“That’s a good question, Mario.”
“The fact I don’t know the answer to it makes me worry. And as you know, I do not like to worry.” Mario pointed his cigar at Tony Burrell. “Tony, get on the line, talk to someone back in the city. Say we need eyes on the kid’s building – what’s it called, Alex?”
“The Tavistock, they have a duplex on the tenth floor, Uncle Mario.”
“Right, the Tavistock. Get a patrol car to keep tabs on the area, Tony, maybe an unmarked car outside, too. I don’t want Dunne’s people in that building.”
“You’re calling the cops!” Alex could hardly believe what he was hearing.
Mario tapped cigar ash into a polished brass tray. “Not the cops. Our cops. You want things done your way, you gotta pay for it in this life, ragazzo; most especially when it comes to law and order.”
“But what if those guys have already snatched Trey?” Alex looked from his father to Mario.
“That is why I have to make a call as well, Alex.” Mario snapped his fingers. “Someone get a phone over here, and find me that rube Bowyer Dunne’s number down in Topeka. I think we should invite him to get himself up here PDQ, so he can explain to me, himself, what is up.”
You want the licence plate of those guys who picked me up, Uncle Mario?” Alex dug out a piece of paper from his trouser pocket.
Mario held out his hand, smiling broadly. “You,” he said, taking the slip of paper, “are an operator!”
“Come on, son.” Nate Klein beckoned Alex over to him. “I should get you back to the party before your mother begins to wonder where you are.”
“You mad at me for walking home on my own? It was only a few blocks…and don’t get mad at Davis, either, I told him not to come get me.”
“I’m not going to get mad at anyone,” Nate patted his son’s shoulder, “except the damn fool whose fault this all is. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“Now go and get yourself something to eat,” Nate ushered Alex out of the room, “and I’ll be along in a couple of minutes.”
Closing the door, Nate went back over to where Mario was sitting.
“Apologies if I might’ve scared Alex.” Mario took a sip of his whiskey. “He okay?”
“He’s fine.”
“That motto: sticks and stones may break my bones? I can deny anything anyone says about me, Nate, but you know I can’t afford for there to be pictures. If the old man were to see those…” Mario started pacing up and down. “What d’you think Dunne’s up to?”
“We won’t know until he tells us, Mario.” Nate watched his friend and business associate, thinking how many times he’d told him to be careful, warned him that being married to the boss’s daughter meant there were rules he absolutely should not be caught breaking.
“This whole thing feels off…too many coincidences all the way down the line.”
“You mean, like the kid with the camera turning out to be some Democratic party bigwig’s grandson?”
“Exactly like that, Nate…I mean, what’re the odds?”
“Not the kind I’d like to bet on.”
“Me either.” Mario got out a small lacquered penknife and began cleaning his fingernails. “Although I’d put good money on Bowyer Dunne regretting he ever lied to me…”
17 MIDNIGHT OIL
Fred Pisbo pulled up outside the front entrance to the Tavistock and looked over into the back of the car. “Here you go, Trey: door-to-door service.”
“Thanks for the ride, Mr. Pisbo…and for the dinner and all.”
“My pleasure…”
“Actually, Dad, the pleasure was all mine. I had someone who made conversation and didn’t just grill me about my grades.” Velma, in the back along with Trey, leaned across him and peered out of the window. “Nice place. Doorman and everything – not all yours, is it?”
�
�No…” Trey shifted so he wasn’t quite so close to Velma. “You want my number, Mr. Pisbo, so’s you can call me tomorrow and let me know what you’ve found out?”
From nowhere Velma had a notepad and pencil to hand. “Give it to me, Trey, that way it won’t get lost.”
“Oh, right…okay.” Trey glanced at Mr. Pisbo, who gave a resigned nod. “It’s Clark 2-7400.”
“2-7-4-0-0.” Velma scribbled for a couple more seconds, then tore a page out of the notebook with a flourish. “And here’s our out-of-hours number, Mr. MacIntyre!”
“Velma…”
“Okay, Dad – goodnight, Trey, and remember…”
“I know, ‘look before you leap’.” Trey picked up his satchel and opened the door. “Goodnight, Velma, and thanks again for taking on the case, Mr. Pisbo.”
“Pleasure’s all mine – I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Trey.” Mr. Pisbo shifted the car into gear, waited until Trey had shut the door and accelerated away.
In the back window Trey could see Velma waving at him and he couldn’t stop himself from waving back. He turned, saw the night doorman, Nestor, was watching him from the foyer, and stopped. Nestor, who only opened doors for people who were likely to tip him, stayed where he was and let Trey find his own way in.
“Cute,” he said, as Trey walked past.
“We’re just friends,” Trey replied, making for the elevators.
As the elevator doors closed in front of Trey an unmarked Detective Squad Nash LaFayette sedan pulled up and tucked itself into a parking space diagonally opposite the Tavistock. The driver, a newly appointed officer called Mahey, killed the lights, put the brake on and switched the engine off.
“We here all night?” he asked his companion, an older man.
“Think of the untaxed overtime, kid.” The other detective, Sergeant Lynott, pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and leaned his head against the window. “I know I am.”
“What’re we supposed to be looking for?”
“You are supposed to be keeping an eye on the place. I am getting some shut-eye. Only wake me if anything untoward happens.”
“Unto-what?”
Sergeant Lynott rolled his eyes, which Detective Mahey couldn’t see because of the hat. “You see any trouble, you wake me, okay?”
“Sure, but—”
“Listen, Mahey,” Sergeant Lynott pushed his hat back and sat up. “Learn this lesson and learn it well: jobs like being asked nicely to watch this building, ones we do ‘under the counter’, if you get my drift, you never ask questions about. You do them, you take the money and you keep your lip buttoned. I can’t trust you to do that, I’ll have you reassigned in a heartbeat.”
Detective Mahey watched his partner settle back down, thinking it would probably be best if he left the conversation at that; in the short time he’d been with the Department he’d realized that curiosity about the wrong things was not appreciated. He might be new to the job, but he wasn’t wet behind the ears, and he knew that an “under the counter” job meant one that wasn’t real police business. Someone was paying to have it done, and more than likely paying with Mob dollars. When gang bosses like Al Capone virtually ran the city, what else did people expect? And anyway, all they were doing tonight was keeping an eye on an apartment building, which was hardly a crime.
Sitting back and cracking open the window slightly, Detective Mahey looked at his watch: just after ten o’clock. It was, he thought, going to be a long, dull night. This part of town, nothing much happened, so what made this place they’d been sent to watch so special he had no idea. Then he saw a Ford Model A police patrol car come up the street; watching it slow right down as it drove by the front of the building he realized they must’ve been sent to do a check as well. As the Ford drove away he made a mental note of the number on its door – 135 – and wondered who the heck could be worth this much attention.
The apartment was very quiet when Trey got back. Nella the maid was in her room; she hadn’t left a note saying his friend Alex Little had called because she’d never been taught to write, and had forgotten to tell Cook. Trey’s mother was already asleep, having come home earlier with “something of a headache”, according to Cook, and taken herself to bed. When he got upstairs Trey himself did not feel remotely tired, in fact his head was a-buzz with everything that had happened since he had come back from school with Alex.
Sitting down at his desk he got a pencil and a notepad and decided to write it all down in as much detail as possible, then copy it out again neatly, in pen, and file the end result. That had to be, he was sure, what Austin J. Randall would do.
When he’d finished, having had to redo a couple of pages because his pen had leaked blots all over the place, Trey decided that the next thing he definitely needed to get was a typewriter – a thought that reminded him of Velma, her green eyes and very straight fringe. And her smile. Trey hurriedly checked the time and was amazed to find that it was 11.30 and he still wasn’t at all sleepy.
Feeling that he should do something constructive, Trey dismissed the idea of clearing up his room and instead decided that printing the rest of the film – plus making new prints of the pictures he’d left with Mr. Pisbo – was the thing to do. Rolling up his sleeves, Trey went to work and, an hour later, he had an impressive array of 5x4-inch black-and-white prints clipped up to dry on the line that hung over his bath.
Standing back to admire his handiwork, Trey had to admit that now he did feel like going to bed, though he was also a tad hungry. What he definitely needed, in the form of a nightcap, was a glass of warm malted milk and a cookie. He switched the light off in the bathroom and made his way downstairs. There was always a ready supply of Cook’s melt-in-the-mouth shortbreads and her amazing cinnamon-and-raisin cookies in the larder.
As he turned the corner to go down the passage that led to the kitchen, Trey noticed there was light coming from underneath the door and figured Mrs. Cooke must’ve left it on by mistake; so, when he pushed the swing door open, it was something of a surprise to find Cook at the pine table, in her voluminous nightgown, a lacy cap covering her grey hair. The table was littered with ingredients – butter, various packets and tins, jars of dried fruit – and the air had a faint mist of flour in it.
“Mister Trey…” Cook wiped her hands on her striped apron. “What you doing up this late?”
“What’re you doing cooking so late?”
“I have insomnia, Trey, always have. Well, ever since Mr. Cooke died, which now seems like forever ago to me. I find baking helps settle me. What you looking for?”
“A glass of malted milk and a cookie. I’ve had quite a day today, and I think that would settle me.”
“Got a better idea…” Cook went to the sink and rinsed her hands under the faucet, looking over her shoulder at him. “How does a mug of hot chocolate and a cookie sound?”
“Like a much better idea!”
Detective Mahey checked his watch again. It was just after half past midnight; only five minutes since he’d last checked the time. He’d been absolutely on the button about the evening so far: duller than a roomful of maiden aunts. About the only thing that had happened, apart from someone taking a couple of small dogs out for a walk round the block, was Car 135 coming by two more times. He glanced at Sergeant Lynott, slumped fast asleep to his right; nothing at all there to bother him with…
18 TICK-TOCK . . .
“Tony, fold…I need you for a moment or two.” Mario Andrusa had walked into one of the smaller, less extravagant rooms in his mansion. Most of the space inside was taken up with a circular, baize-covered table around which five men sat nursing hands of cards and small shot glasses of whiskey.
“Sure, boss.” Tony grinned and spread his cards in a fan on the dark green material, then stood up. “Two pair – queens over nines. My hand, I think; cash me out, fellas.”
To the sound of general disgruntlement, Tony having won three out of the five previous hands, he followed Mario out of the room
. “What’s up?”
“Finally got a hold of Dunne.” Mario, standing by an oak dresser, held up a cut-glass decanter, half full of a pale caramel-coloured liquid. “Want one?”
Tony nodded. “Over ice.”
Mario shook his head and tutted. “This is a single malt, Tony, not some back-room bourbon. A little water, if you must.”
“I’ll take it straight.” Tony accepted the tumbler Mario handed him. “You go hard on Bowyer?”
“I may have yelled.” Mario shrugged.
“He on his way?”
“If he could already be here, he would be. That’s what he said. He also told me the registration of the car his people drove up in, which was the same as the one Alex already gave us.” Mario sipped his whiskey, savouring its taste. “Nate guessed right, it is Joe Cullen, and some kid he took with him.”
“Right.” Tony put his glass down. “I’ll make another call…”
Dewey, in his own room, smaller than Joe’s, checked himself out in the mirror above the chest of drawers. Apart from the cap being a tad on the big side, everything fitted, even the knee-length leather boots, and he thought he looked the bee’s knees. Just like a real cop. He particularly liked the five-point star badge pinned above the left breast pocket and wished he had a camera so he could take a picture to show his mom. Dewey turned around and tried to see what he looked like from behind, thinking maybe he should seriously consider joining the police. Get a career. He might talk to Joe, see what he thought.
The only fly in the ointment, to his way of thinking, had been that while he might have a nightstick hanging from his belt, the leather holster was empty. But he’d solved that problem by borrowing the spare pistol, a .22 that Joe kept in a cigar box in the glove compartment of the Chrysler. He hadn’t asked, as he knew Joe would most probably say no. He’d just sneak it back as soon as the job was over; but with the gun on one side and the stick on the other, he felt he was the genuine article.
As he was adjusting his cap to see if he couldn’t make it sit better there was a sharp rap on his door, and Joe walked in.