by Paul W Papa
The pounding continued. I would have yelled out, but thought better of it, before I knew who was on the other side. I peeped through the hole, but it didn’t help. All I could see was what looked like paper with some kind of writing on it.
“I know you’re in there, Rossi,” a voice called out. It was Queeney.
I slipped the lock and opened the door. Queeney was standing with the suit, two uniforms, and security.
“What do you want?” I asked.
Queeney pressed a piece of paper to my chest and marched in, followed by his entourage. It said search warrant at the top.
“You take the bathroom,” Queeney said to O’Malley. He did as he was told, followed by one of the uniforms. The other uniform and security stayed in the main room with Queeney and me. Security wasn’t the same guy from last night. There must have been a shift change. Queeney turned to me. “You look like hell,” he said. “Who put you through the meat grinder?”
“I did,” I said. “I was getting fresh and had to slap myself around a bit to get my point across.”
“Sure, play it that way,” Queeney said.
O’Malley called Queeney into the bathroom. I went to follow, but the uniform took me by the shoulder. He shook his head. Who was I to argue?
When Queeney emerged, he was cradling something in his handkerchief. “There’s a straight razor in your bathroom,” he said.
“Of course there’s a straight razor in the bathroom,” I countered. “Why wouldn’t there be? It’s where I do my best work.”
“This your razor?” Queeney asked. He positioned the handkerchief and my razer so I could get a good look at it.
“You gonna dust for prints?” I asked.
“Don’t get wise,” he said. “There’s blood on this razor. Hell, there’s blood all over the bathroom.” He pointed to my shirt. “And all over you.”
“I’m sure there is,” I confirmed. “Sometimes I slip.”
“So, it’s your blood?” Queeney asked.
“Why wouldn’t it be?” I asked.
And then it hit me. Joe “The Barber” Bilotti was done in by his own calling card. Someone was sending a message, but I didn’t like the address.
Queeney folded his handkerchief over the blade and slipped the instrument into his pocket. Security stepped closer and whispered something in his ear, motioning to me. Probably sweet nothings. Maybe not. Queeney looked at me and nodded.
“You get jumped last night?” he asked.
“I told you, I did it myself.”
Queeney flashed me the kind of look a father might give a child. “Cut the act,” he said. “I know there was an incident last night out in the hallway. Four guys giving the business to some louse. Security broke it up. Only when they returned, the guy was all smoke.”
Louse was a low blow, but I didn’t mind. Queeney was just trying to rile me. “Really,” I said. “I must have slept through it.”
“Sure, play it that way,” he said a second time. “You know as well as I do who sent those four goons. You think they’re gonna stop at one chance?”
I looked Queeney over. He looked bigger than usual. Maybe it was the hat. “No,” I admitted. “I suppose they won’t.”
“What I can’t figure out is why they put a beating to you,” he said. “Why didn’t they just kill you in the hall and get it over with.”
“Don’t you know?” I asked. “This isn’t their turf. There are rules to these things. I’m guessing their plan was to knock me out here, then do the deed somewhere else.”
“What happened?” he asked.
“I saw the sap coming from the corner of my eye. After that, it didn’t go so well for them.”
Queeney smiled. “Or you,” he added.
I couldn’t argue that point.
“I suppose I should take you into custody.”
“What good will that do?”
“Might keep you alive.”
He had a point, but I had an alibi to find and I wasn’t going to find her sitting in some jail cell. I needed to be mobile. “I’ll mind my P’s and Q’s,” I promised.
Queeney’s face went hard.
“You find Jeanie yet?” I asked.
“She hasn’t shown at her digs,” he said, “and her roommate claims she hasn’t seen her in two days.”
“And that would be Virginia James?” I asked.
“Well, aren’t you the bright one,” Queeney said. “If you’re so smart, why don’t you tell me where Jeannie is?”
“I wish I knew,” I admitted.
I stood there while O’Malley searched the rest of the hotel room. There wasn’t anything to find, still no one likes having their effects rummaged through like a common criminal, and there was nothing common about me.
“You find the place to your liking?” I finally said. “I’m sure I can get Bobby to get you one just like it.”
“Piss off,” O’Malley said.
A kind chap.
O’Malley pulled out the drawer I was using for shirts and dumped its contents on the bed. He threw the drawer on the bed after it, then flashed me one of those grins that needed to be slapped off his face. I took a step forward, but the uniform grabbed my shoulder again.
“Let’s wrap it up,” Queeney said.
Much to O’Malley’s chagrin, the last two drawers were empty, so he had nothing to accompany the shirts. But just for sport, he reopened the previous drawers and emptied their contents as well. They made a smart pile on the bed. I clenched my fist.
Satisfied, O’Malley walked past me, intentionally bumping me with his shoulder. “Nice shiner,” he said.
“Want one like it?” I asked. “I know where you can get one.”
O’Malley didn’t answer. He just walked to the door. I couldn’t see it, but I was sure the Cheshire cat was sitting on his face.
Queeney studied me. “You got a gat?” he asked.
That meant he didn’t find the one I had stowed behind the toilet. O’Malley was as dumb as he looked. “I can get one.”
“Good,” Queeney said. He turned before leaving the room. “Now try not to get yourself killed before I can arrest you.”
It was a fair request.
Fifteen
I WOULD HAVE asked Queeney for Virginia’s address, but I doubt he would’ve given it to me. He probably would have passed me a false one just to be cute. It didn’t matter, it didn’t look like Jeanie was there anyhow. I had a lot to straighten out, but my melon was in no condition to go through any of it. I felt like a Bozo punching clown in a room full of kindergarteners. Still, I knew what I needed to do, but first I needed a shower and, thanks to O’Malley, to tidy up a bit.
I took a long, very hot shower with enough steam for a Turkish bath. I was in there so long, I had to iron my skin when I got out. What was it about a hot shower that makes a person feel so good? I felt replenished, almost clear headed. At least enough to try and make a go of it, so long as no one looked too closely.
It was good to be clean again. It would have been nicer to have been clean shaven, but that would have to wait for a barber. I placed my soiled shirt, tie, and jacket into the dry-cleaning bag, then added the pants just for good measure. I tied the bag and laid it on the dresser. The maid would get it to where it needed to go.
I refolded the pile of clothes on the bed and put the drawers back where they belonged. It looked like a real hotel room now. Well almost, except for the mess in the bathroom. It was quite a mess at that. Not that I haven’t seem worse. Still, it was enough. I would have cleaned it myself, but I knew the maid had stronger chemicals.
I pulled up my slacks, slipped on a new shirt and tie, brushed off my jacket, placed a matching square in the pocket, then laid the jacket on the bed. I donned my shoulder holster then retrieved my .38 from behind the commode and slid it into place under my arm. It fit nice and snug and gave me a better feeling than it should have. Queeney was right about one thing, it was time to stay armed.
I was about to leave
when I remembered the chips in my suit pocket. I opened the bag, pulled out what was remaining, and set them on the counter for the maid. That seemed fair. I threw on my lid and stepped out into the hall, closing the door behind me.
The hallway looked much the same as it did the night before, only a little wider. Instead of four goons, it was now filled with maids, their carts piled high with sheets, towels, and toiletries. There was no sign of the struggle that had occurred the night before. Nothing to indicate that a man nearly lost his life. I made a mental note to get a new razor and headed down the hall toward the casino.
Something in my stomach enticed me to skip breakfast. It might have been all the blood I swallowed, or it might have been that I had little appetite for my current position. Either way, I had too much to do, so I decided to wait and see if lunchtime changed my mood. I made it through most of the casino, on the way to my car, when I was greeted by Bobby, who I suspected was some type of alien able to function without food or sleep.
“Mr. Rossi,” he started, then his eyes grew wide. “Oh my, what happened to you?”
“It’s a new look I’m trying out.”
Bobby stayed wide-eyed.
“It’s nothing, Bobby,” I assured him. “I’ll be okay.”
Bobby probably didn’t believe me, but to his credit, he didn’t let on. “There was a gentleman here looking for you,” he said.
“A big cop-looking chap?” I asked.
Bobby shook his head. “No, he was definitely not a police officer.”
“Did he leave his name?”
“He wouldn’t give it to me,” Bobby said. “He wanted to know if you had checked out yet.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I wanted to tell him I was not able to release such information, but he didn’t look like a man who would accept an answer such as that, so I told him I hadn’t seen you in a couple of days.”
Good ‘ol Bobby.
“He just told me to tell you he was looking for you. If you ask me, I’d say he was not a very nice man.”
“Rude?”
“Not so much rude, as forceful. Maybe determined would be the better word.”
“Sour?” I asked.
Bobby grinned. “Very much so,” he said.
“Was he alone?” I asked.
“He was accompanied by two rather large men.”
“Did it get dark when they showed? Possibly cold?”
Bobby’s eyebrows rushed to meet each other.
“His name is Manella,” I said. “And you’re right, he’s not a very nice man.”
“Is there anything I need to do?” Bobby asked?
“Just be you, Bobby,” I said and took hold of his shoulder. I thanked him and headed to valet.
“Mr. Rossi,” Bobby called out. “Please be careful.”
I turned. “From your lips to God’s ears, Bobby.”
After I got my car, I spent most of the morning putting utilities in my name—phone, electric, gas—just like a big boy. I went shopping. Bought the essentials, sheets, toiletries, etc. Then I drove to my digs on seventh Street and tried out my new phone.
“Number please,” the female voice said when I picked up the receiver.
“Madison six three five eleven”
“One moment, please.”
I waited while the wires in Las Vegas made the two thousand seven-hundred-and fifteen-mile journey to their destination. When the bells rang on the other end, another female voice—one I was much more familiar with—picked up.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Ma. It’s Max.”
“Oh Massimo, it is so good to hear from you. When are you coming home?”
“Probably not for a while, Ma. I’m doing well here in Las Vegas. I like it here.”
I distinctly heard my mother sigh. Without saying a word, she sent a message—one that came across loud and clear. There is something inherent to an Italian mother that fosters a need to gather her young, to bring them close like chicks to a hen, clip their wings, and never let them leave the nest. My mother would be just as happy if I never strayed from home. My father was a different story.
“Is Dad around?” I asked.
“What, you don’t have time for your mother?”
Trust me, Jewish mothers have nothing on their Italian counterparts. “Of course, I have time for you, Ma. I just need to speak with Dad first.”
My mother held the receiver to her breast as she yelled for my father. I knew this because I had seen her perform the same act many times in the past. My father would yell from the room in the back of the house, asking her what she wanted. She would yell back to him and he would return the yell. It would continue until my father dragged himself out of his chair and came to the phone. I waited for the play to unfold.
“Who is it?” I heard my father say.
“It’s your son, he wants to speak to you.” My mother told him, then came back to the phone. “Here’s your father,” she said to me. “I love you, Massimo, come home.”
I told her I loved her but left the second part alone.
My father took the phone but said nothing. I knew he was waiting for my mother to leave the room. “Hello, Max,” he finally said. “I heard you took a beating.”
“News travels fast,” I said.
“You okay?”
“I’ll survive.” I knew there was little my father could say over the phone, but I needed to know what he had heard, if anything. “You know the barber was forced out of business?” I asked.
“I heard that,” he said. “Can’t say I was disappointed. I never liked his cuts. I heard you went to see him before he closed shop.”
“We played a few games, had a couple of laughs, nothing to write home about,” I said. “He never mentioned closing for good. But people are getting confused. They think the whole thing was my idea.”
“Was it?”
“C’mon Pops, you know me better than that. I was trained by the best. If I’d have helped him close up shop, none would be the wiser.”
“So, what did you do?”
“I gave him some advice on how to handle himself around women. He didn’t take to it well. He had other ideas. We got into a row. I was last man standing.” I wasn’t quite sure, but I think I heard my father smiling proudly. “When I left him, he was among friends,” I said.
“And you never saw him after that?”
“Not even a peek,” I said. “But four of his friends came to see me, they were distraught.”
“You sure they were his friends?” my father asked.
“Well, I didn’t ask,” I admitted. “But who’s else would they be?”
My father took his time answering me. It’s what he did when he wanted me to use my noggin’, as he liked to say. “I’ve heard your name batted around,” he finally said. “But no appointment has been made to visit you…yet.”
“So, the wind didn’t blow a message my way?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” he said. “Maybe your mother’s right. Maybe you should come home. I could send someone out there to pick you up.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I have friends here.”
“No one’s a friend to a marked man,” my father said.
It was sage advice I intended to ignore. “There’s a package I’ve got to find,” I said. “One with a very important date stamp on it.”
“Any idea where the package is?”
“Not a clue.”
“Stay sharp,” my father said. “I’ll see what I can find out on my end. You got a number I can reach you at?”
“You can leave me a message at the Sands. I have a room there.” I was about to hang up, when another question popped into my head. “You ever run into a police officer named Connor McQueeney?” I asked.
“Queeney? Yeah, I know him. Big Irish family, all cops. He’s got five uncles on the force. They all played ball. But he and his father were a different story. His father met an untimely end. Lead poisoning. I hear Queeney m
oved out West.”
“Not far enough,” I said.
“I see. He’s looking into the barber?”
“He is at that.”
“You better walk the line,” my father said. “If Queeney’s anything like his father, he’ll chew down to the bone.”
“Like father, like son,” I said and hung up.
Sixteen
SO CHICAGO WASN’T after me quite yet, which made me wonder whose goons paid me a visit the night before. I sat down on the sofa and made my best effort to use my noggin’, but I didn’t like where it was leading me. There was, of course, a chance the beatdown wasn’t a hit. That is was just that, a beatdown. A signal meant to encourage me to change my evil ways. If that was the case, I knew just who I needed to speak to and just where to find him.
I climbed into the Roadmaster and headed over to Huey’s, a little burger joint on the outskirts of town. Not only did Huey’s have the best burger in town, it was known to host a certain clientele. It’s not that you needed a crooked nose to get in, but it didn’t hurt. This was likely because the restaurant was set up like an old shotgun house. The kitchen was on the left and the seating area on the right. The two separated by a bar. There was a door in the front, and another in the back. Two exits for the price of one. Huey’s was also out in the middle of nowhere, making it easy to see anyone who got an ich to visit the joint after dark.
I parked my car and walked over to the big red wooden door in the front. I’d have gone in the back, but it wasn’t that type of call. I stepped inside. There was just enough rose-tinted light in the place for a hungry man to find his mouth. I was forced to stand at the door, waiting for my eyes to work again. When I could finally get a view of the place, it was like walking into a Vegas night club. Padded red-leather booths, black laminate tables, and red-velvet wallpaper ran along one side. A large wood bar occupied most of the opposite wall; rows of multi-colored hooch bottles stood at attention, like soldiers in a row in front of the mirror behind the bar. It was early; the noon crowd had not yet arrived. That suited me just fine.