by Graham Marks
“Yup.” Mahey waved as he reached where Trey was standing, his mouth open, a puzzled expression on his face. “It’s okay, kid, my name’s Mahey, Detective Mahey.” The Detective gently turned Trey away from the scene and pressed the elevator button. The doors opened immediately. He walked Trey into the car. “What floor?”
“Floor?”
“Yeah, where d’you live?”
“Oh…right…the tenth. I live on the tenth – what happened back there?”
Mahey pressed for the tenth floor. “An accident, someone made a mistake.”
“Is he dead, the guy, the cop?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t personally check.”
“There was a lotta blood.”
“That there was.”
“Was he the one came to our apartment?”
“You had a uniform in your apartment?”
“Yeah…” Trey shrugged. “He shot the hallway carpet.”
“The carpet?” Mahey frowned, realizing he had heard gunfire but finding it hard to believe that anyone would shoot the floor. “Was this person by any chance with a plain-clothes guy as well?”
“You mean the burglar?”
The elevator arrived at its destination and Mahey stepped out onto the landing, and looked back at the boy. “Burglar? You sure about that?”
“He’s sure, and as sure as the sun rises every God-given morning, so am I, young man! Where have you been, Mr. Trey? Had me worrying!”
Mahey turned to see the door to the apartment filled with the imposing sight of Mrs. Cooke, arms folded and looking somewhat dishevelled.
“He’s a detective, Cook, and there was…”
“Well thank you for returning him, Detective,” Mrs. Cooke butted in, taking Trey by the arm and leading him back into the apartment. “This child has had more than enough excitement for one night, and it is well past his bedtime.”
The next thing Mahey knew, he was looking at the polished brass numbers “1” and “0” on the glossy black paintwork of the front door and listening to the key being turned in the lock.
Going back down to the lobby he wondered if Sergeant Lynott would have any more idea than he did about all this. Nothing made any kind of sense. Including someone dressed as a cop shooting up a carpet.
20 MOVES ARE MADE
Joe Cullen stood in the stairwell, holding onto the banister for support. He felt physically sick, partly because he was an out-of-shape 46-year-old and he’d just run down ten flights of stairs, but mostly because of what was in the lobby.
He’d been a couple of floors away when he’d heard the shots echoing up towards him, and he knew that could only mean bad things were happening. Things that had to involve Dewey, as Dewey’d been on the run and would, because he only ever thought in straight lines, be making for the front of the building where the car was parked.
By the time Joe got to ground level he could hear raised voices. He peered through the small window, set in the door to the foyer, and could just see, on the left-hand edge, a uniformed arm on the marble floor, a pistol clutched in the hand protruding from the sleeve. Joe recoiled in shock at the sight of the body. Had to be Dewey; he recognized the gun, the .22 he kept in the glove compartment of the car. The fool boy must’ve sneaked it out. But who had shot him? Going back to the door, Joe pressed his face against the glass and saw that Dewey – it had to be him – hadn’t moved; was he dead? Then a uniformed cop, pistol in hand, came into view and Joe moved out of sight.
As he did so he saw the lift doors open and a young boy come out, holding a baseball bat like he meant business. Joe saw the MacIntyre kid at around the same time the kid himself saw what was happening in the foyer, and Joe watched as a look of disbelief and surprise clouded his young face.
Joe stepped back, in case the boy glanced his way; things were plainly not looking good and Joe knew he had to get away, and quick. If he stayed where he was much longer he’d be caught in whatever dragnet the cops had set up around the building – something they were bound to do, as, by now, the doorman would’ve told them that Dewey had had an accomplice. Although what real cops were doing here at this time of night Joe had no idea.
A small part of him did feel responsible for getting Dewey into the mess he was in, but the kid – always an accident waiting to happen – had really done it this time. Right now, though, Joe needed to look after No. 1, which meant getting out of the building ASAP before anyone came looking for him. Joe had served his time in the US Army, and seen some action in Ypres, France, towards the end of the Great War. He knew you stuck by your comrades, and they stuck by you, but he also believed there was no point in being a dead hero. That way, nobody benefitted.
Quickly taking stock of where he was, Joe spotted another door in the shadows at the back of the stairwell. With one last glance towards the lobby, and quickly crossing himself, Joe fished out his police badge and walked over to the door he thought had to take him towards the rear entrance. Anyone he met, he’d be a detective looking for “person or persons unknown” who might’ve run that way after the shooting.
It turned out the door led to the basement and, it being now well after half-past one in the morning, Joe met no one in the dark labyrinth under the building. Ten minutes later he was out on the streets, a block away from the Tavistock and walking fast – but not so fast he’d look like he was running from something – in the direction of the Royal.
The only person who had known he and Dewey were going to be at the Tavistock had been Bowyer Dunne. Ergo, as his high school Math teacher, Mr. Haskins, would have said, Dunne had talked. Why and to whom there was no way of telling. But something had gone very badly awry and from now on he was going to have to watch every step he took on the way to getting himself out of town real fast.
As he walked he dumped the police badge in a trash can and then, separately, his pistol. He was definitely not going to wait till he got back to Topeka to resign. He was doing it right there and then. No going back. A few more minutes and he made another decision: he wasn’t just going to stop working for Bowyer Dunne, he would stop being Joe Cullen as well.
Into the next trash can went any personal identification he was carrying. He thought west was the way to go. California. Some place on the coast. Another state, a new name, a new start. Shame about Mrs. Cullen. But if he stuck around, the unhealthy combination of trigger-happy cops and Bowyer Dunne’s Mob connections made it more than likely she’d pretty soon be a widow anyway. She’d be safer without him.
All this because some kid had taken a bunch of pictures…
It was 3.15 a.m. when Sergeant Lynott and Detective Mahey finally got back to the station house. You didn’t walk away from a shoot-out in the foyer of a ritzy place like the Tavistock in five minutes, like you would if the same thing happened at some south-side tenement. Added to which there was all the confusion about who it was got shot. A boy, hardly started shaving, in a kosher uniform – real badge, boots, belt and everything – who wasn’t a cop. Mahey had been right, but he hadn’t spotted the gun and the cap early enough, and now the kid was under guard at Northwestern Memorial and it looked like the only way he was coming out was feet first.
There had also been no sign of the partner, the guy in plain clothes Mahey had seen the doorman let into the building, claiming there’d been a call needed looking into. The two men then going up ten floors, breaking into an apartment and screwing the whole thing up when one of them fired a shot at the floor. What, Sergeant Lynott wondered, had these two clowns been up to? Maybe a cup of coffee and a stale donut might help his brain cells work something out.
“Sergeant?”
Lynott looked up from pouring sugar into his mug and saw his captain. “Yessir?”
“A moment.”
Sergeant Lynott followed the Captain into his office and shut the door behind him, wondering if the sky was about to fall on his head for what had happened. “I was just about to write it up. The incident.”
“Incident?” The Ca
ptain, now behind his desk, shook his head. “I heard it was like the Alamo over there.”
“Not hardly, Cap. One guy shot is all.”
“It’s enough. What happened?”
“We’re not sure, Cap.” Sergeant Lynott, who had been over the story a couple of times with Mahey, so they both got everything straight, pulled out a chair and sat down without asking. “But whoever asked for the place to be watched must’ve known something was up, right?”
“I hear an apartment got broken into…they get anything?”
Sergeant Lynott shook his head. “Not that we believe.”
“You believe?” The Captain sat forward. “You didn’t check yet?”
“I figured trying to find this second guy was top of the list, Cap.” Lynott shifted in his seat.
“I make the lists round here, Sergeant!”
“Yessir.”
“And top of mine is that you get back to the Tavistock first thing! People like that are apt to pick up the phone to the Mayor if they have a complaint – and the Mayor is apt to listen. Which is when I get my ear chewed off…”
21 A TRIP TO THE COUNTRY
Having fallen asleep, his head full of images of what it must’ve been like to be involved in the shoot-out downstairs – lead flying everywhere – Trey had then spent the night in the middle of tyre-squealing automobile chases and ferocious tommy-gun battles. The dreams were powerful and intense and he was right there, in the shadowy midnight streets of Chicago, collar turned up against the cold wind, fedora pulled down, a silent witness to the lawless mayhem being played out in front of him.
He’d woken early on Saturday morning, around seven-thirty, with the smell of cordite still in his nose, and lain in bed for some time thinking about everything that had happened the night before. Hunger, and a need to discuss these events with Mrs. Cooke, eventually got him up. It was on his way downstairs that he remembered he was supposed to call Velma and Mr. Pisbo and see if they had any news about Alex.
He ran back up to his room and spent a frustrating couple of minutes trying to find the piece of paper with the out-of-hours phone number on it. Eventually finding it in his pocket he hared back down to his pop’s study. Velma picked up after a few rings.
“The Pisbo residence, who’s calling?”
“It’s me, Trey.”
“Mr. MacIntyre! And how are you this morning!”
“I’m absolutely fine, Miss Pisbo,” Trey said, mimicking Velma’s “professional” tone, then dropping it. “You got any dope on Alex yet?”
“Not so far, but Dad was talking to someone earlier, and we’re leaving for the office in about half an hour. From what I gather, we’re going on a drive somewhere; I heard him say it was a recce, whatever that is.”
“A drive, a recce?” Trey sat bolt upright; they were going on a reconnaissance mission without him? “When?”
“Like I said, after we go down to the office… Look, my dad’s saying something to me from another room. I gotta go, but I’ll call you as soon as we get home, okay?”
The phone went dead and Trey’s head went into a spin. Mr. Pisbo must’ve found out something and was going off on an investigation – with Velma, but without him! Frozen by a combination of anger and indecision, Trey sat at the desk, the ticking of his father’s brass-cased carriage clock loud in the silence. He could not let this happen. Must not. But how?
Sitting staring at a wall of books was, he knew, not going to get him anywhere. Clearly, some action was called for so he stood up; as he did so he realized there was only one thing he could do.
Getting out of the house had taken some doing, even though his mother was still asleep; Mrs. Cooke was, in many ways, a much harder person to get past than either of his parents. It had been touch and go at one point, but she now believed he was off with his new best friend, Alex. And he had promised faithfully to be back in good time to get ready for an early supper; his father was due home from his business trip and would expect him to be there.
The whole way downtown on the train he’d fretted and agonized about what he’d do if Mr. Pisbo had already left by the time he arrived at the office. And then, as soon as he’d gotten off and was out on the street, he realized he had no idea what he was going to say to Mr. Pisbo to convince him he should be taken along.
Turning a corner he saw a car was parked up outside Mr. Pisbo’s office building, a red Chrysler 50. Mr. Pisbo was standing near to it, looking very much as if he was having an argument with a skinny little man in a shiny suit and a black snap-brim hat that had seen better days. Trey spotted Velma, sitting in the front passenger seat of the car, at about the same time she saw him.
“Mr. MacIntyre!” she said, getting out and coming round the car to join him on the sidewalk. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“Hi, Velma…” Trey, too anxious to play games, glanced past her at Mr. Pisbo. “Need to have a word with your dad.”
“He’s somewhat otherwise engaged,” Velma looked over her shoulder, “as you can see.”
“What’s the problem?”
“That there is Mr. Shady Jones, you might remember my dad mentioning him last night.” Trey nodded. “Well they are not seeing eye to eye right now.”
“How so?”
“Mr. Jones says as how he got himself down here on time and with the requested information – all at no small personal effort on his part.” Velma shrugged. “And he then states he needs a ride somewhere, to which my dad replies that he isn’t a ‘goshdarn taxicab service’, words to that general effect.”
“Oh…”
“Also, Mr. Jones seems to hold the strong opinion that my dad owes him this favour, and my dad really doesn’t agree. That’s about the size of it; although you’d never guess, the fuss they’re making.”
“Okay, right…” Trey was getting the distinct impression that Mr. Pisbo was in no mood to answer positively to requests this morning, at which point Mr. Pisbo noticed Trey’s arrival on the scene.
“And what the heck are you doing here?” Mr. Pisbo stood, feet apart and arms akimbo, staring at Trey.
It was not the friendliest look he’d ever seen, but Trey knew that this was one of those now-or-never moments he’d read about so often in Black Ace stories. “I want to come with you…on the investigation. Please.”
“What is happening today? Is there a ‘For Hire’ sign on my car that I have somehow failed to notice?” Mr. Pisbo looked from Trey to Mr. Shady Jones and then at the Chrysler. “No, there isn’t. And no, you can’t come, either of you. Seeya later, Shady. Now come on, Velma, get yourself in the car, we gotta go.”
As Trey saw his chance to go on a real investigation – his investigation! – go up in smoke, he had a thought, and it was a good one. This was all to do with him and his friend…if he hadn’t come down to the office and asked Mr. Pisbo to find out what happened to Alex Little – not to mention telling him about Bowyer Dunne, Tony Burrell and Uncle Mario – then Mr. Pisbo wouldn’t be about to follow up whatever clues he’d found. Trey really needed to find out if Alex had been kidnapped or not – and if he had he wanted to help rescue him!
Then the cogs in Trey’s head clicked into place and he realized that, whatever way you looked at it, he was the client…especially as, now he thought about it some more, up on Mr. Pisbo’s desk where he’d left it last night was an envelope with $76 and 39 cents of his money in it. A payment in advance. And what was it Austin J. Randall had said about clients in Chapter 21, Running Your Business? If he remembered it right he’d said something like “Remember, the client is always right, even when he or she is wrong”.
“Excuse me, Mr. Pisbo! May I have a word?”
“Sure, but make it quick, son.” Mr. Pisbo, on his way round to the driver’s side of the car, stopped and snapped his fingers. “I have to make a move.”
The argument had been spirited on both sides (Mr. Shady Jones calling it a “righteous exchange of views”), but in the end Mr. Pisbo was forced to admit that Trey was
indeed a client. Which was how come Trey now sat in the back of Mr. Pisbo’s car, along with Shady Jones, who had congratulated him on his undoubted moxie for insisting that he, too, got his ride.
“You won’t believe what happened last night, Mr. Pisbo.” Trey sat forward on the seat.
“Shady told me.”
“What?”
“Shooting at your building, right?”
“How…?” Trey sat back in shock.
“Cuz I got both my ears to the ground. At the same time. That’s how good I am, right, Pisbo?” Mr. Shady Jones nodded at Trey, smiling broadly. “Way I heard it, there was a po-leece gets shot by a other po-leece…” Shady shook his head. “Like a Keystone Kops movie, you ask me.”
“Wasn’t funny at the time,” Trey said, not at all sure what to make of Mr. Shady Jones.
“You are going to have to run all that by me again, only this time a bit slower.” Mr. Pisbo stuck his hand out of the window, indicating he wanted to turn left. “Cops were shooting cops? That’s rich, even for Chicago.”
Trey, feeling like he’d had the wind properly taken out of his sails, decided against saying anything about the burglary, in case Shady knew about that as well, and changed the subject.
“So what’s this information you got, Mr. Pisbo? What have you found out about Alex?”
“Plenty!” said Velma, turning round and kneeling on her seat.
For the next mile or so, as they drove north-west out of Chicago on a fine Saturday morning, Velma filled Trey in on everything that had happened since they’d dropped him off the night before. In detail.
In the end, it all boiled down to the fact that – “through a variety of contacts and much personal string-pulling”, according to Shady – they now knew that various individuals had left the city to go up to a house in some place called Fox Lake. This was, it turned out, where they were now heading.
“So…” Trey frowned, trying to make sense of what did not appear to be very much, “…what about Alex? Did he get kidnapped? Is Fox Lake, wherever it is, where they’ve taken him?”