by Larry Flewin
“Look, friend,” I sighed. “all I wanna know is where this church is, churchee ukraine, pope, padre?” I crossed myself for emphasis. He looked at me like English was not my first language. There were days when I wondered about that myself, especially after a long night of liquid solace.
“Man go church, where, pray, ask forgiveness, confess me of my sins, you have no idea what I’m saying, do you.” I fished the cross out of my pocket and waved it under his nose. “Where the hell do I find this, you idiot.” That unleashed a look of surprise followed by a five-minute lecture I didn’t understand a word of, and then him dragging me outside and pointing to another onion dome further up the street.
I looked at him, trying hard to comprehend but getting a headache instead. “Go there, that church, padre there?” He quit his yapping and shrugged his shoulders. I shrugged mine in return, lit up a smoke, and headed that way anyways, maybe the padre spoke English.
This part of town was a world all its own, just like you’d never left the old country. No money, no life, and no place to live, a lot of open space but no buildings to speak of. Hard times came with hard taxes, so to avoid paying them many owners tore theirs down. No address meant no mail, and no mail meant no tax bill from City Hall, which made for some interesting moments. Guys getting paid fifty cents a day to tear down some warehouse getting into fights with the fifty cent boys from City Hall trying to stop them. Beat seeing a movie any day.
This would be the one neck of the woods where Zane might have made some friends, maybe met a padre he could trust and confess to, some innocent someone with the next piece of the puzzle. The who of it remained to be seen but that was the whole point. I needed a where to find the who.
I trudged slowly up the street, careful to smoke like a chimney and take the odd pull from my mickey. I took a good look at things as I went along, careful to move eyes but not my head. I was a stranger in a strange land, and they weren’t the friendliest of natives. All around me were a whole lot of people just sitting around and yapping away in god knows what language, miles of laundry swinging in the breeze, and looks of dark distrust directed my way.
For all they knew I coulda been some goon from the government looking for something to do. They had habit of just showing up and demanding this and that, papers, cash, whatever. Seems we weren’t as welcoming as the elected ones would have us believe, especially if you weren’t from around here. The mickey showed I wasn’t on anybody’s clock but my own, so I wasn’t a government man.
It wasn’t exactly the nicest way to earn a living, kicking the neighbours out because they couldn’t pay or speak enough English to know what they had to pay. Most of the time the G-men had to retreat while under fire, objects like shoes, cabbages, and bricks, dropping all over them like artillery shells. Made for a very happy neighbourhood.
The closer I got to church the more I realised just how much I was kidding myself. This wasn’t going to be a quick one and done, I could see at least five more in the immediate area and I wasn’t more than a couple blocks in. Shoe leather was cheap and I could see I was going to burn up a lot of it. New brogans I could afford easily enough, thanks to my brown-haired banker, but the time I couldn’t. God wasn’t on my side this time around.
I’ve rousted all kinds when it comes to running someone down, or collecting on a debt, even the clerical types have weaknesses that can’t be forgiven. I tended to be a little less heavy handed when it came time to corner them for something. I got as many blessings as curses but in the end we all have to pay for our sins. I was piling up one hell of a bill, which made me wonder if my soul would ever be worth saving.
I'm not afraid of death, never have, but I've known enough of it in my time. Seen regular guys just wander off and never return, seen other guys run off screaming, and even some of those that pull the trigger instead. Me, I don't know how I'm going, or when, but it's not like I'm in a hurry. I was usually playing possum Saturday night somewhere I didn't want to be, and Sunday morning finding my way home.
PI work isn’t all guns and glamour, not like in the movies. It’s mostly a lot of hard slogging in the pouring rain or the dark of night, the occasional brush with the law, and more often than not using your fists to bring someone to heel. It doesn’t pay well, makes you no friends, certainly of the female persuasion, and yet there’s nothing I’d rather do.
What other job gives you license to beat the crap out of people, shake down the rich and famous, shoot the bad guys and save the day. Well, there wasn’t much saving to be had but for an old soldier like me, this was a different kind of warfare, one I was good at, just like the last time.
I managed to hit three places of worship, hat in hand, a smile plastered to my lips so hard my teeth hurt. Three castles dedicated to prayer and solitude, each grander in scale and decoration that the last. They had more paint splashed on them than an art gallery, more angels per square foot, and a cross in every possible corner. No wonder people spent so much time on their knees, you couldn’t take a step without bowing or kneeling to this saint or that cross.
The black robes I talked to were unfailingly polite, offered a great deal of help for a wayward soul like mine, but no clues about my man. The bells began to ring late in the afternoon, first one, then another, then a whole symphony of sound and fury calling everyone out to pray for their souls and sins. I wanted to see but not be seen so I took my soul and its sins and called it day.
Surprised the hell out of Stella when I joined the dinner rush, hat in hand hoping to get a seat before they were all taken, and the only thing left would be the last week’s liver and onions. She threw me and a menu into a corner booth next to a couple making out than trying her meatloaf. She broke that up in a hurry and left me to smoke away the evening in my favourite corner with the late edition, and my usual congealing on a plate. That’s what you get for going church, a sense of contentment I hadn’t felt in months. I should go more often.
Come the dawn I was up and at ‘em, ready for round two and a shot at the title, king of the treasure hunters. There couldn’t be that many more holy rollers to run through, I mean even the big guy had his limits, just look at me. The streetcar rolled along quietly, sailing through traffic and scattering pigeons and pedestrians alike. And right past a very familiar set of wheels parked at the curb. He was stepping out with this cute little squeeze on his arm, no doubt intent on more murder and mayhem after mauling a couple of waiters. He was like that. But not today.
I was out of my seat in a flash and hotfooting it down the street just as they vanished from sight. The trouble with getting all those blessings was that it gave you a certain sense of bravado, that you can do anything short of murder. Like bearding the lion in his den, armed with nothing more than your good looks and being one step ahead of the lion’s jaws.
I couldn’t resist giving him a dose of his own medicine, and what better way than to get all in his face in a very public place and watch him get that twitch in his eye. That was his biggest tell, see his right eye go all funny and you ducked for cover. The two of them had waltzed into the lobby of the Montague Hotel and I waltzed in right behind them, just in time for breakfast.
She was of the grander hotels in town, with a top-notch dining room and a decent scotch behind the bar. I had never actually been inside it, but I'd passed by it enough times to know where it was parked and what was on the menu. I had a tie on and my suit was pretty clean, so I figured what the hell. About time I saw how the other half ate. The prospect of putting one over on Michael was just sauce to the goose.
I sauntered past the massive front doors into the lobby and into a whole other world, all brass and polished wood and deep leather chairs. A world where my newly acquired two G's was nothing more than pocket change to the suits inside. They had their own tables, a usual, and a girlfriend or two. Money didn’t make them any smarter or any more discreet, but they could more easily afford my silence.
These fancy diners always had a guy up fron
t who directed traffic with a snap of the fingers and a certain look. Even as I walked up to him, the aroma of a decent meal drifting out of the kitchen held me in a tighter grip than some goons I'd done the dance with. His certain look told me even before I asked that the aroma was all I was going to get today. He continued with that look and rubbed his lips with his right index finger while he tried to decide which corner of the kitchen I wouldn't offend.
I wasn't about to let some stiff upper lip with a cheesy moustache make me go away, so I gave him my best make me look in return and lit a smoke. He didn't seem to be too impressed, but before he could decide whether to call the cops, or a couple of muscle-bound dishwashers from the kitchen, someone else got his attention and he vanished. The line behind me growled a little. Guess they weren’t used to be ignored.
"Tony," said a flea in my ear. "What are you doing here?"
It was my pal, Ray Toscano, all dressed to the nines in a waiter suit, complete with towel hanging from his left arm. Waiters didn't make a lotta scratch, even in a first-class joint like this, but the tips more than made up for the snotty attitudes. I liked Ray, even used him on occasion when my charm and good looks weren't enough to get me into somewhere. He was the other reason I was here. He was always bragging about how good the food was.
"Hey Ray, long time no see. So, what's a guy gotta do to get a bite to eat around here. I'm so hungry I could mug the cook."
"They're chefs, not cooks,” he whispered, looking around quickly, "and you're supposed to make a reservation. You can't just waltz in here and expect to sit down. It doesn't work like that here. Besides, are you out of your mind, Michael’s here.”
“You don’t say. Is he asking for me or should I go over and say hi?”
“Neither, just get the hell out of here before he sees you. Call me first next time and I'll see if I can get you in. Oh oh I gotta scram........ and you better go too.” And then he was off and running.
Then it only got better. The cheesy moustache returned, all smiles and sweat. He took me by the elbow and steered me away from the line. He said nothing but hustled me down the hall, past the kitchen where I ditched my smoke in a passing coffee cup, and right out into the middle of the action.
We stopped at a table in a far corner, where he pulled out a chair for me, yanked off my hat, and snapped it onto a brass hook on the wall beside me.
"So good of you to join us, again,” purred a familiar voice. "You left us so suddenly the last time. Perhaps you would care to join us for breakfast." Michael.
"Hello Michael, long time no see", making out like this was normal for me.
I shook loose another smoke and lit it. Blew a nice smoke ring across the table while trying to assess the situation.
"Come here often?” I asked, in between puffs. “Didn't think a classy joint like this was your style."
He smiled weakly at that comment. “Quite frankly I’m surprised the Maître d’ let you in, I shall have to speak about that. Can’t have just anyone walk in off the street. As for you, old friend, I would have thought that the Stella’s Café was your usual haunt. She is such a good … cook. But since you are here why not make the most of it and enjoy a good meal for once, as my guest.”
"Don't mind if I do. Who's your friend," I said, nodding to the pert little number parked beside him. As if I didn’t know. I gave her my best smile and a deliberate wink. Michael said nothing but she went wide-eyed and white faced, like a lamb at Easter. And with good reason. The last time we'd met she'd spoiled my breakfast. Now I seemed to be spoiling hers. But instead of being smooth and fancy, she was acting like she had a poker up her skirt. The moustache in the meantime, was assisting my keister to find the chair he had pulled out for it. A flash of white and a napkin graced my lap. I was ready for anything.
"Well now, how pleasant to see you again, and in such good health. You must tell me how you do it. My doctor is always telling me to slow down and take things easy. But that is not always possible, as I'm sure you are aware. And you?" he asked solicitously.
"Mine told me train travel was bad for my health. That's why I prefer walking."
"Indeed. That sounds like admirable advice, especially when ones rather expensive automobile is........under the weather, shall we say."
One of us, opening her mouth at this point to join the conversation, became very silent again, her eyes staring fixedly in my direction.
“Too bad about that,” I said. “It’s looks to be a nice day, walk would do you good, let you see things the way they really are, the way I do.”
“Oh, I don't know if I would agree with that so much. I like to think I can see things fairly clearly. It isn't always what you want to see, but one must learn to take the bad with the good. Isn't that right my dear. Oh, I am forgetting my manners. You haven't been properly introduced.”
He smiled that evil thin-lipped smile of his and with a wave of his hand made the introductions.
"Haven't we?” I asked in mock surprise, "I always thought train travel was so educational, not to mention dining out."
"Now now, let's not be rude. After all, you are my guest, for the moment."
"Longer than the last time, I hope. You owe me for that."
He ignored that last remark, took his companion’s hand in his and kissed it gently, never taking his eyes off of me. It wasn't like I was going to try and steal her when he wasn't looking or anything. It was just his way. Always trying to rub in the culture angle. It seemed to amuse him that I was this shmuck trying to grind it out, and earn an honest living, while he simply had to snap his fingers and his living came to him. Gambling, prostitution, dope, the usual rackets, all very well paying and all very illegal, and yet as much a part of the city as the sidewalks and the trees.
And under the table immigration, the new game in town. Well, for me anyways. Most of my cases were the usual find out without being found out variety. This buy your way into the country was something I hadn’t dealt with much, people paying cash money to get into this country on the QT. Some were educated, some were loaded, and some of them were as poor as the dirt they farmed. But no matter who or what they were, they were all the same in one respect. They were all on the run from something or someone and ran into the same problems once they got here. Michael saw to that.
New people weren't too fussy about who they dealt with, so long as they got what they wanted, which was in. With Michael’s kind assistance, more and more were showing up every day, looking for a hideout or a hand up. Didn’t matter a whole bunch to me as long as they weren’t shooting at me.
A gentle tap on the table announced the arrival of a steaming hot plateful of more food than some of those people would see in a week. I got down to business, head down and mouth open. I ignored him and watched her in between bites. He made with the small talk while she remained stiff as cement. I knew her, she knew me, and yet she was acting as if the kiss was poisoned or something.
"This, my dear, is Tony Ford. Drunk, thief, cracksman, and sometime private eye. That he is still walks this earth is a miracle in itself. But then, miracles do happen." He smiled at me in that favourite way of his. The way that said watch your back when you leave.
"Yeah, and dead men do tell tales," I said, looking any flicker of recognition in that evilly cherubic, grey-haired face. There was none. "Saw it in a movie once."
He released his companion’s hand, and sat back in his chair, linking his fingers across his waistcoat. He could have me killed in a heartbeat, and he was probably thinking that right then. I was too well known by the rest of the world to just disappear like that. And besides, I was still of use to him, at least as far as he was concerned. You don't shoot the pointer until the grouse rises for the kill. So as long as I didn't do any obvious pointing, he seemed willing to wait me out.
His breakfast arrived and he settled down to it ignoring both of us. Hers followed but the strain of the moment seemed to be too much. Even as the two of us put down our swords an
d armed ourselves with knife and fork, she spoke. Nervously, tentatively, and in a bare whisper of a voice, but she actually got up the guts to put her lips to work.
"I don’t know what you’re talking about", she said. "We've only met that one time on the train, you must have mistaken me for someone else." Although she was staring at her breakfast, there was that look she gave me, out of the corner of her eye. The please don't say anything stupid look. She was more afraid of being killed than I was. Why I wondered.
Michael froze, just for a second.
"Are you sure my dear, " he purred. "He has such a common face. Surely you must have seen it somewhere before." I couldn't be sure, but I think he kneed her under the table.
My forkful of sausage stopped briefly on its way to my mouth. It wanted to ask the same question that I wanted to but first things first. The trip ended with some toast and coffee.
"Really," I said. "I see a lot of faces in my line of work. Most of them you forget. Housewives, doctors, lawyers, secretaries, dime a dozen mugs with more luck than smarts. But you, you've got those, uh.... classic type features. You know, like in the movies, high cheekbones, little round ears, button nose. The kind of face you'd definitely remember bumping into. On the stairs, on a train, on the street.... almost anywhere. "
My little lamb froze in her seat. She sat there like some little girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Maybe that was it. She’d been caught.
You had to figure Michael knew what was going on, that’s what he was probably paying her for. Cuddle up to yours truly and blow in my ear until I couldn’t say no. I hadn’t said yes to anything yet, especially her. So maybe that was it, he didn’t know it all. But if she was holding out on him, why.
In between bites I flicked an eye over each one, but there was no more between them, knees or anything else. I was ordering seconds while my brain worked overtime trying to figure it out. Was she worth the effort? My little lamb suddenly had no stomach at all. She threw down her napkin and was up and, on the move, even as my second plate arrived.