by Kirk Dougal
At this close range, the eight-round clip of the .32 would have been just as effective as its big brother, the .45. The smaller gun also had the added benefit the bullets probably would not have made it all the way through the wall into the next room if she missed her target.
“Do you like the Hammerless?” I asked with a smile.
“It doesn’t snag my stockings when I take it out of its holster,” she replied. “Would you like to see where I keep it?”
“Come on, RJ,” Chance said with a laugh, “Let’s go inside where we can talk.”
He led me through the inner door and into his private office, gesturing toward a seat in front of the desk. “Still like your java heavy?” I nodded and he poured about three-quarters of a cup of coffee before finishing it off with some rye. “Sorry about the roscoe,” he said as he handed me the cup and took his to the other side of the desk.
“What’s the score?” I asked. “Have you got troubles?”
Chance rubbed a hand through his hair. “We always get our fair share of grifters coming through a place like this, you remember how it is. But about two weeks ago I spy a couple of guys I think are regular red hots. But when I look into it, I find out they’re not just thieves or safe men, they’re button men.”
“Do you know who they were working for?”
Chance sighed. “Big C.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, wait! Is that why you’re here? Do you know something?”
I shook my head. “Sorry. I came to ask your help with something else.”
He picked up a silver cigarette case and pulled out one for each of us. “Well, you deserve the help. I said so after the Wendersohm fiasco and I say it again today. What can I do for you, RJ?”
I lit my cigarette before answering. “I’m looking for a small-timer by the name of Eric Hull and I was told he used to run shop out of here. Young, five-foot-eight, thin.”
“That could describe a lot of guys.”
I nodded. “You’d remember this guy, though. He could do imitations, make sounds. His people called him Voice.”
“Sure, sure, I remember him,” Chance said. “I got wind of him and the rest of the gang after they ran a Badger Game and a Spanish Prisoner. Good money for them but small potatoes for the bigs around here. I didn’t go after them hard because the marks felt stupid after the take and wanted to keep it out of the papers. But then a few months ago I heard they were setting up a Big Store. I couldn’t let that happen so I ran them out.”
“Have you seen Hull since then?”
Chance shook his head. “No, not me. But I know someone who might know where he bedded down.” He reached over and pressed the intercom. “Miss Thistlewood, do you remember the canary I fired a few months ago because her boyfriend was a grifter?”
“Yes, sir. Jennie Wilson.”
“Bring me her file, please.”
We sat in silence, puffing on our cigarettes and drinking our rye coffee like we had all day.
“She has a roommate.”
I glanced across the desk at Chance. “What?”
He stubbed out the last of his cigarette. “Miss Thistlewood. She has a roommate, you know, if you have time for something more besides your business.” His smile had an odd way of curling up only on the sides of his mouth.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Miss Thistlewood walked into the office, trailing the smell of lilacs in her wake. She handed Chance a manila file and then turned for the door, giving me one sidelong glance on the way by. It felt like the temperature in the room jumped five degrees.
“Here it is. My notes from the time say her boyfriend lived down at the Jorgenson. She wasn’t dating this Hull but most of them hang out pretty close to each other.” He closed the file. “He pinch one of your clients?”
“No, but he pinched the wrong person.” I had a hunch the mob killers Chance noticed hanging around the hotel had probably been looking for Hull themselves but I didn’t want to tell him yet. The game had gone to a lot of trouble to put this man in my debt and I wanted to keep the chit in case I ever needed to call in another favor. Besides, he would still owe me if my finding Hull somehow helped him. “His family wants me to get him out of town.”
Chance stood up and offered his hand. “Well, that sounds easy enough.”
“Thanks, Chance.” I shook his hand and turned the doorknob before he spoke again.
“Oh, RJ, where do you stand on Wheeler?” he asked. “Did you ever find him?”
Now I knew why Chance needed to owe me a favor when I started the game. The missing partner was a pre-programmed case, tracking down Wheeler after his disappearance.
“No, still no word.”
“I never had a chance to tell you he was in here the night before he disappeared. Come back sometime and we’ll talk about it.”
I nodded. “Thanks again, Chance.”
Chapter 20
The city changed in the twenty-minute drive to the Jorgenson Apartments. Gone were the chauffeurs and valets. They were replaced by working class people trying to exist amongst the boozehounds and pipe fiends, the prostitutes and third-rate purse snatchers. In this neighborhood, disagreements were settled with knuckles, or sometimes a blade. This was the place where the people you had never heard of lived and where those who wanted to disappear went to get lost.
I sat in the Ford and let smoke from my last cigarette trail out the window while I watched the front door of the Jorgenson. A long shot, there was always a percentage to play that the lounge singer, Wilson, still lived here with her boyfriend. On that off-chance, I had asked Miss Thistlewood for her description on the way out of Chance’s office. I had also not minded the reason to spend another minute with the secretary as she showed me an old handbill of the girl.
But now, as I searched the faces of each of the men and women trudging down the trash-strewn sidewalk, I knew how small the chances were this play would work. Grifters—male and female—stayed within the profession for love and money. Sure, they could always hook up or marry outside the circle but it took someone from inside the life to live with the lies and the games. Wilson and her boyfriend had probably been on the outs for months.
I checked the weight of the .45 in my pocket before I left the Ford and walked inside the apartment building. Dim lights left much of the nearly deserted lobby in shadow. Only the dirty, unshaven remains of what had once been a man slept in a chair, lying more on the wall than sitting on the seat beside it. I could not tell which smelled worse, the breath escaping with each snore or the sour smell of sweat and urine on his clothes as I walked past.
The man behind the barred counter was cleaner, despite his greasy hair plastered to his scalp in a thinning layer. But he was no more helpful than the sot. He claimed he didn’t know anybody by Wilson’s or Hull’s descriptions and he would not take the offered fin to jog his memory.
I walked back out into the morning and squinted despite the sun still hiding behind the clouds. Sure, I hadn’t really expected it to be easy to find Hull, especially on the first try, but the whole case continued to nag at me. Something had been off with Black when he met with me about his brother and now I felt like I missed the mark on where to find the young man.
I turned right and walked away from my car. I kept my head and eyes searching the street but my attention remained on the tumbling ideas in my mind. That was the excuse I told myself later on why I almost missed her.
To be fair, Wilson had cut her hair short and the sensible skirt and blouse combo she wore belonged on a secretary, but her olive skin and the tiny mole near her left eye gave her away. You could camouflage her dark beauty but you couldn’t cover it up completely. Give her back the long flowing hair and the low cut evening gown from the publicity photograph in Thistlewood’s hands and Wilson could be back on stage, making men forget how many drinks they had ordered and leaving them wanting more.
She walked out of a neighborhood market carrying a bag and turned toward me, moving past without as much as a second glance. I nev
er hesitated. I darted across the street, dodging cars until I reached the other side and turned back to the east. I followed about a quarter of a block behind her and on the opposite side of the roadway, walking along with the flow of people. With my position, I would be a tough tail for a professional to pick out, unless I did something really stupid, so I thought the placement would work well enough on her.
The block before we reached the Jorgenson, she stopped to cross the street toward me, waiting at the corner for the light. I ducked inside the pharmacy beside me and went straight to the counter, asking for a pack of smokes and a hip-rider of rye. I watched Wilson walk by the window behind the counter as I picked up my change and some matches. A few seconds later I trailed behind her again on the sidewalk, this time walking down a narrower and less busy street.
The neighborhood appeared a little cleaner before my hand darted for the gun grip a few blocks later. The rundown, fading facades of empty businesses and flophouses had given way to mom-and-pop storefronts and office buildings when a man hopped out of the shadows of a doorway, nearly on top of the woman. But he never stopped, barely touched Wilson as he brushed by, and my hand relaxed. I had noticed his hand drop an envelope in her grocery bag but the exchange had been fast and performed with practiced ease. Seeing the drop had been luck. I had been positioned at exactly the right angle to catch the flash of white. A step to my right or left and I probably would have missed the exchange.
I stayed behind Wilson, blowing lazy smoke out the side of my mouth as we walked. Twice more men skittered by the woman; twice more small packages went into her bag. I realized she was the mule, picking up the day’s receipts. She was the best kind, too, hiding out in plain sight, a secretary walking home early with a few groceries. No cop would stop her and the only thief making her out as a mark would be looking for food, not money. Even so, a smart gang would keep an eye on her …
I heard the footsteps before I caught the movement out of the corner of my eye. I stepped right, just a half a stride, as my hand dove into my coat packet, finding the security of the gun grip.
“Hey, Mac, got a light?”
I spun toward the voice and caught the dull gleam of a dirty blade. My hand was already out of the pocket, the business end of the .45 pointed at the man’s belly. He stopped the knife short, eyebrows pinched together.
“How do you want to play this, bub?” I asked. The man stayed silent but he licked his lips. “I don’t care about the money she’s carrying. I just want information on a mutual friend.”
He licked his lips again. “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what you believe.” I smiled.
The man lunged forward, straight at my gun. I had to give him credit; he had guts. He also had a glass chin. I brought the gun butt down on the man’s wrist and the knife clattered on the sidewalk. A short hook to his jaw and he melted under the knuckles of my left hand, collapsing in sections until he lie beside the knife at my feet.
I put the blade in my coat pocket and leaned him against the nearest door frame. When I looked back at the street, Wilson was gone, her brown skirt out of sight. I high-stepped to the next intersection and caught a break. A flash of leg and material disappeared into the second building just as I rounded the corner. I trotted up to the locked door and saw the apartment building was too old for a call-button system.
I pushed the hat back on my forehead. I could get through the half-glass doors easy enough but everyone on the bottom three floors would know I had busted in if I bulled my way inside. I could stake out the joint but the Ford was several blocks away. That meant I needed to watch from the street and the foot traffic was too thin to avoid being noticed.
A gray-haired woman solved my dilemma for me. I noticed her approach the door from inside the building and I immediately pulled the key chain out of my pocket. She opened the door and gave me a look but I let the keys rattle in my hand as I held the door back for her. She ate what I was feeding her and smiled before walking away. I slipped inside.
Only two people stood at the far end of the first floor but doors opened and closed above me, mixing in with the sounds of voices falling down the staircase. I crept up to the second floor, hesitating as I listened for anyone descending the steps.
The second floor landing spread out before me, revealing a long hallway that faded into the murk and worn carpet. Apartment doors lined each side but they were shut, closing off the inside worlds.
The front door slammed against the stop, glass rattling in the frame. Footsteps followed on the stairs, rushed, but not quite in rhythm as if the person climbed on the wrong beat. I looked down the hallway and realized I had no place to hide. Instead, I stepped up the stairs, taking two at a time on the balls of my feet, trying to keep down the pounding of my shoes and my heart.
I stopped at each landing, waiting to see if the person kept climbing beneath me. Third, fourth, fifth—finally on the sixth floor when I stopped, the footsteps quieted below. I crept back down, bending over at the waist to peek below the overhang.
The landing was empty.
I stepped the rest of the way down and risked one eye around the corner. About three-quarters of the length of the hall down, the man who had tried to knife me knocked on a door and spoke. A second later he disappeared inside the apartment.
A door opened a few feet away from me and a woman with cloth tied over frazzled hair stepped into the hallway, a clothes basket under one arm. She froze when she saw me, taking in my coat and face with one quick glance. We stood there for a few seconds, staring over the faded greens and browns of the threadbare carpet—me half-expecting her to scream and her sure I was going to do something she would not like. Finally, she reached out for her apartment door and opened it up, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared.
I walked to the apartment where the knife wielder had entered and leaned in close.
“I’m sorry,” a woman said. “Jesus, Eddie, it’s a long walk from McCluskie’s. How am I supposed to keep track of everyone around me?”
A man’s voice mumbled from too far away to make out the words and another man snorted in reply. All the noise stopped when I knocked on the door.
“I’m all paid up for this month,” answered an old woman.
I knocked on the door again, this time harder. I also stepped to one side of the door frame.
“I don’t want any,” said the old woman. “Just go away.”
I pounded on the door with my fist and the wood rattled against the frame.
The reply from inside the apartment was shuffling feet and the sound of a door closing. The old woman did not speak again, however.
This time my fist slammed the door against the bolt.
The lock snapped back and the door flew open. I saw a shadow flung across the carpeted hallway but I remained still beside the wall, out of sight of the person in the doorway. The barrel of a shotgun inched its way into view.
When enough of the gun was visible, I grabbed the barrel with both hands and pulled with everything I could muster, pushing my foot against the wall for more leverage. The man on the other end of the gun held on tight, right up until his body slammed into the door frame. The air left his lungs at the same time the strength left his grip. I stood over him, the shotgun in my hands like a club.
“Grifters,” I growled. “You shouldn’t play with toys you don’t know how to use. Get back inside.”
The man scooted backwards, staying just out of kicking range as I followed him inside and shut the door. Standing by a table in the middle of the room was the man who had threatened me with the knife. Along the far wall, by a double window, stood Wilson, her eyes wide and lips trembling.
“Hello, Jennie. I’ve got a couple of questions for you.”
“Leave her alone,” said the man on the floor. “She’s not a part of anything.”
“She’s running mule for you,” I said. “Not a lot of guts in making your moll take all the chances.” I waved the gun toward
the other man. “And putting Bedtime Betty on bird dog for her wasn’t a lot of help, either.” I looked down at Eddie. “But I don’t want any of you. I’m looking for Hull. He may think he’s in a bad spot but he’s got no idea how deep the hellhole really is.”
I noticed Jennie flinch and give a quick glance toward the closed door on the other side of the room. I kept my gun pointed toward the table as I walked over and listened. Whatever was on the other side kept very quiet.
“Come on out, Hull.” I turned the knob but the door was locked. From inside came the warning growl of a dog. I looked at Eddie still lying on the floor. “Open it.”
He shook his head. “I’m not letting that thing in here. Not without a gun of my own.”
I looked at the three of them, wondering what to make of the situation. Suddenly I realized what bothered me. “None of you are an old woman,” I said.
I raised my foot and lashed out at the door. The old wood cracked, the frame giving way near the doorknob, and it slammed back against the wall.
A thin young man with black hair stared at me from beside a bed. There was no dog in the room.
“Voice,” I said, “we need to talk.”
*****
“We may not have a lot of time,” I said once Hull walked into the main room with everyone else. Eddie now sat on a chair with his head in his hands and Jennie took turns staring at him and then me. The other man stood by the window, refusing to look in my direction. “First, I’ve got to know. Do you have a brother?”
Hull shook his head.
“I thought so.” I tapped my finger on the table. “A man came to me, claiming to be your brother. He wanted me to find you so he could get you out of the city.”
“Who do you think he was?” Eddie asked.
“I don’t know who he was, but I can tell you who I think he was working for. I think he was a gunman for the boss of the man you pinched, Big C.”
“Oh, Christ, Voice! What did you do?” Eddie’s face went pasty and sweat dotted his chin. “You said you had troubles but sweet Jesus.”