Murder Made Legal: A Casey Alton Mystery

by Richard Wren

  Smitty, somewhat doubtfully said, “Maybe eighteen or twenty?”

  “And what’s their average age?”

  “Over sixty, at least.”

  “So a lot of these guys were around at about that time and, no disrespect, Smitty, most of them were on the fringes of being law abiding, right?”

  Smitty smiled. “You could say that, yes.”

  “Okay. I bet they’ll remember something or know someone that does. Possible?” he directed again at Smitty.

  Smitty didn’t hesitate. “It’s a beginning and sure as hell worth trying.” Then he added, “that reminds me. I need to go back to Shorty at the Trib. He’s got a memory like an elephant.

  The moment he stepped off the elevator Smitty heard Shorty bellowing. “Alright, who’s the wise guy?” He was clutching a naked and anatomically perfect blow up doll in his left hand.

  Some of the staff were having trouble restraining their laughter. Smitty laughingly shouted, “It wasn’t me, Shorty.”

  Shorty spied him making his way over to his corner and with his right hand behind his back, motioned him to duck behind the screens surrounding his desk, all the while cussing at the rest of the office.

  In a moment, he tossed the doll toward the group, then turned to face Smitty with a triumphant smile on his face. “Gotta uphold my reputation for being a curmudgeon.”

  “Should be pretty easy for you,” Smitty observed.

  “Pull up a hot rock and sit,” Shorty ordered.

  Used to his colloquialisms, Smitty plunged right into his needs. “Remember D.A. Mason’s grandfather?” As he asked the question, he realized he didn’t know the grandfathers first name.

  “Old Martin? Sure as hell do. He’s still alive!” he announced.

  “Yeah, ninety-three, I heard.”

  “And the old fart still thinks he owns the state.”

  “Really? He’s still powerful?”

  Shorty paused and reflected, then said, “In some quarters, yeah. He’s still got connections.”

  Not wanting to give away their suspicions, Smitty worded his next question carefully and casually.

  “What kind of a reputation did he have?”

  With no hesitation Smitty blurted, “Dirtier’n a cockroach.”

  Taken aback, all Smitty could think to say was, “Really?”

  “You bet. And completely amoral. He’d promise anything and give nothing. No reporter trusted him. We had a motto, ‘old Double M will double cross anyone.’ And like I said, he was connected.” He paused. “Still is, I reckon.”

  “Connected?” Smitty knew what he meant, but he wanted to hear what he said.

  “Oh absolutely. He owns part of a bunch of gambling places in the state. They’re legal, but you know damn well they’re all crooked. Word was you didn’t cross him if you wanted to stay healthy.”

  “Was he ever prosecuted or anything?”

  “With a D.A. son? You’re kidding, right? Besides, it was his dough that got his son elected.”

  “How about now? You think he’d still be dangerous to cross?”

  Shorty eyed him suspiciously. “Where you goin’ with this?”

  Smitty had been mulling over a plan. “Something that might be the headline story of your life, and it involves Mason’s grandfather. It has to do with the information you gave us before. You want in?”

  Shorty’s eyes lit up, and he cackled, “Holy shit, an exclusive?”

  “No one knows anything yet except Me, Josie, Casey, and a couple of the gang. But you gotta keep mum about my questions, okay?”

  “Count me in; what d’ya need?”

  “Nothing more right now, but maybe later.”

  “Aha! You gonna crucify the old bastard?”

  CHAPTER 45

  The more Smitty thought about it, the more it seemed likely that the grandfather somehow fit into the picture. He headed for their warehouse to find out how the collective memory of the gang was doing under Casey’s goading.

  Smitty counted seventeen motorcycles parked just inside the huge doors to the warehouse as he walked toward Casey. He reflected that a year ago, Casey wouldn’t even have been allowed to enter the warehouse let alone get seventeen guys to show up at the drop of a hat. A year ago, Casey had earned his bones by helping Smitty and the gang solve a murder case against him and Casey. Then he married Josie and was instantly a full member, although the gang still laughed when he tried to ride a cycle. He glanced at his watch and was surprised. It was almost noon.

  “Learn anything?” Smitty called.

  Casey shrugged his shoulders, “A bunch of gossip. Nothing concrete. You?”

  “Maybe.” He proceeded to unload what he’d heard from Shorty.

  Casey thought about it for a minute then replied, “still nothing concrete.”

  Smitty replied. “Yeah, but I was thinking about it on the way over and you know?” He paused for a second with a know-it-all expression on his face. “If it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, chances are it’s a duck. All we gotta do is prove it. Speakin’ of which, has Josie arranged for.” He hesitated as he strove to recall her name. “Jeannine,” he blurted, “to see the D.A. yet?”

  “They’re having problems finding a way to do it without a direct confrontation, particularly as neither Josie nor Marilyn is very popular over there right now.”

  “Jesus, we gotta get goin’ on this. Where does he eat lunch? Can’t we arrange for her to be his waitress or something? If it’s him, he’d never recognize her after all these years. Hell, big shot DA? Probably wouldn’t even look twice at her.”

  After initially laughing at the absurd idea, Casey paused and said, “Why not? I’ll call Josie.”

  Josie consulted with Marilyn, and Marilyn said she thought it could be done at a coffee shop in City Hall.

  “It’s run by a blind guy. Everybody goes there,” Josie offered.

  “I don’t see how that could work,” Casey said.

  Marilyn explained. “The place is staffed by trainees from a rehab center, but he operates the register. They have prepared sandwiches, coffee, and snacks, pretty good really. It’s kinda like a family place, everybody pitches in. That’s where this might work. Pretty much every day, when Dennis needs a break, somebody runs the register for him. I’ve done it myself a couple of times. All we need is for Jeannine to be manning the register when Mason comes in.”

  “What if he doesn’t come in?” Smitty asked disbelievingly.

  “Oh, he comes in. If he’s anything, he’s predictable,” She hesitated, “unless he’s in court.”

  Smitty looked at Casey and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

  Casey shrugged his shoulders and told Marilyn to go ahead and arrange it then spoke to Smitty. “If we know it’s him, it’ll make it easier for us to figure how we can tie this all together.”

  Smitty clapped his hands together, “Guy’s, gather around.” The guys were gathered in front of their makeshift bar, drinking beer and waiting to find out what the emergency was. Les was mixed in with them, but answering no questions.

  Smitty knew the temperament of the gang. He knew what turned them on and what turned them off.

  “How’d you like to give the D.A. a good swift kick in the ass?” he opened and was met with a roar of approval.

  “Okay, gang. Between us we’ve got a lot of secrets. Things we’ve done and never told an outsider about, right?”

  A chorus of “ou bets” or “damn rights” answered his questions.

  “Okay.” He spent the next fifteen minutes outlining what the situation was and answering questions from the irreverent gang.

  “Hey Smitty, the nun. She quit being a nun and her name’s Jeannine and she’s living at your house? Is she cute?”

  “C’mon guys, get serious. It’s Gus we’re talking about.”

  “We know. We went over to the hospital to see him, and they wouldn’t let us in.”

  “To see him?”

  “They sa
id it was immediate family only. Does Gus even have a family?”

  “That’s nuts, they let me and Josie in.” Smitty took a moment to digest what they said. Could something have gone wrong? He decided to give Josie a quick call.

  She answered on the first ring. “I just got off the phone from the hospital and Gus’s had to have more surgery. There’s still internal bleeding going on.”

  “Oh Christ, what’d the docs say?”

  “Nothing, he’s still in surgery.”

  “Are you going? I’m on my way.”

  From the warehouse to the hospital on his motorcycle took Smitty less than ten minutes. On the way he decided to go directly to the emergency entrance. “As far as I’m concerned it’s an emergency,” he rationalized as he wheeled into the hospital parking lot.

  Smitty parked his bike on the sidewalk outside the emergency entrance to the hospital, hurried through the doors and was immediately stopped by a uniformed policeman. He quickly explained who he was, who he was seeing, and the name of the surgeon. The policeman stopped him in mid-sentence.

  “Mr. Smith, I think you’re needed on the fifth floor.”

  He ran to the elevator and waited impatiently as it slowly rose.

  He knew the fifth floor was the surgical center, and he knew exactly where the nurse’s station was. He charged toward it as the same nurse they had talked to the day before held up one hand to slow him down and talked into a phone at the same time.

  Mr. Smith, Doctor Williams wants to talk to you in the vestibule.” She pointed to, small, circular room at the end of the hall.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” demanded Smitty.

  “There’s Doctor Williams now,” she answered as Smitty looked up.The doctor appeared through the swinging doors.

  Smitty stared at the doctor, and the doctor stared back at him for a second. The doctor came to a conclusion. His shoulders slumped, and he raised both hands in a manner of supplication and resignation as he slowly swung his head back and forth. No words were necessary. Smitty realized his oldest friend, one of the last links he had to his beloved wife, was gone. His immediate reaction was anger. Anger at the unfairness of the death. Anger at whoever was responsible. Anger at the doctor for not saving him. Even anger at his God for letting Gus die. He walked to the vestibule and sat down. The doctor sat beside him. After a few minutes the doctor spoke.

  “He put up a great fight against almost impossible odds. I really thought we could save him at first, but the damage was just too extensive. I’m really sorry, we did everything possible.” He put his hand on Smitty’s knee and squeezed tightly.

  Smitty was bent forward, resting his head on one hand. All he could see was the hem of the doctor’s white coat, the bottom of his pants, and his shoes. The shoes were covered with what looked like a large sock. The sock was splattered with blood. He couldn’t stop himself from wondering if it was Gus’s blood.

  With a great effort he roused himself and thanked the doctor. “I’m sure Gus was in the best hands, Thank you.”

  The doctor solemnly shook his hand and left. Smitty thought he just had a few minutes to gather himself together before he would have to break the news to Josey.

  He sat in the vestibule watching the elevator doors and cringing each time they opened. He and Josey had never been close in the sense of a father daughter loving relationship. They had tolerated each other, even respected each other, but never played together. He had never attended any of her school activities. Recently, they had begun to work together, even socialize together. Would it be enough to help her through this?

  The bell ring again, announcing the arrival of the elevator. This time it was Josie. She stepped off, looked both ways, saw Smitty in the vestibule, and headed for him.

  Smitty stood up, took a step toward her and held his arms out to embrace her. Josie instantly knew the worst and burst into tears.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God,” she breathed.

  Smitty hugged her tighter and choked back his own tears.

  In a moment, he released her, took her hand, and led her to the chairs.

  “The doctor said he wasn’t in pain, he just didn’t survive the surgery, and he put up a great fight.”

  “Poor Uncle Gus, we didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.”

  “He knows, I’m sure of it.”

  They sat in silence for a long time, then stood and hand in hand, started for the elevator.

  “What do we do now?” Josie asked.

  Smitty’s anger was still just below the surface. “Do? What we do now is redouble our efforts to clear Gus’s name. That’s what we’ll do, so help me God,” he slowly and with conviction swore.

  He asked Josey where Casey was.

  “Still at the warehouse along with most of the guys, I think.”

  “Then I guess that’s where we better go. Most of the guys go back a long way with Gus. It’s gonna be hard on them, too.

  The entire group was depressed by Gus’s death. He had been a fixture in their lives as long as they could remember. No one had expected it. No one knew what to say. Smitty respected their silence as long as he could. He wanted revenge, his rage and frustration gnawed at him. He wanted to clear Gus’s reputation. He wanted action. To him that would be the best way to venerate Gus’s memory.

  He spoke to the group. He couldn’t let Gus’s death let the air out of their investigation.

  “Listen up guys. I know Gus dying is a tough nut to swallow. But it doesn’t change our plans. It intensifies them. What could be worse than not clearing his name now? We know Gus wasn’t guilty, now we gotta prove it in his memory. It’s time to get real serious about what we’re doing.

  Casey said all he got was a bunch of gossip from you guys about the D.A.’s grandpop. What we need is to substantiate some of that gossip. Is he connected? Are the gambling places he owns partly owned by crooks, or are they fronts for anything else? Is there any proof that he’s hired mercenaries or anything? In other words, anything that we can use to prove that he’s behind what’s happening to us. But you gotta be careful. We don’t want any hint of what we’re doing to leak, so just use your tightest contacts and keep what we know to yourselves. Got it?”

  Smitty had some hope for this operation. A lot of these guys had been in and out of jails for decades. Mostly for possession and other minor digressions. They knew their way around the system. They had lots of contacts. It occurred to him that some of them might even have run into Lanner in the past. He asked, one guy raised his hand.

  “Art, you knew him?” Smitty asked.

  “Earl Lanner? Maybe in his late sixties now? Maybe even seventy?"

  “That’s the guy. You know him?”

  “I used to, years ago. Even worked with him a couple’a times until I found out how crazy he was.”

  “What d’ya mean crazy?”

  “The guy’s nuts. He’d take a contract to rough some guy up to get him to pay a loan shark back, and he’d end up killing the guy ‘cause he didn’t like his attitude or some other crazy thing.”

  “He killed the guy just ‘cause he didn’t like his attitude?”

  “Not only that; he killed the golden goose. Think about it. How’s a dead guy gonna pay back any money? The guy was nuts.”

  Smitty turned to Casey. “Get Art here to sit down with you and see if you can dredge up anything useful. I gotta go see Gus.” He turned to the crew. “Turn over every rock you can think of, guys.

  He turned to leave, then thought of one last important reminder. “For Christ’s sake, guys, keep this under your hats, right?”

  CHAPTER 46

  Casey looked around at the guys pacing around and realized they were really stoked. At first, they had seemed quieted and depressed by the news of Gus dying. Some of them more than others. He overheard remarks like, “a living legend” and “never be another one like him.”

  Gradually, after Smitty’s remarks, the mood had changed to one of anger and retaliation. The guys milled
around, talking with each other, comparing ideas and plans. Gradually they broke up into groups of two, three, or four. Casey listened in and discovered they were grouping mostly by age. The real old timers in their seventies had grouped together and were enthusiastic about the project.

  Art asked him to wait a minute, “I need a beer, be right back.”

  One old timer told Casey, “Hell, we’ve known for decades that the guy was a crook. We’re gonna crucify the guy,” he slapped Casey on the back.

  Casey was more than curious. “What’s your plan?”

  Raised eyebrows and a wink accompanied the answer. “We know lots of guys. We’re gonna talk to guys who know guys who know guys and tell ‘em we got a personal beef with the D.A.’s granddad and wanna know what they know against him. It’ll work!”

  Casey was reflecting that it might as Art returned with two beers, handing one to Casey.

  Casey waded right in. He was thinking that maybe Art had something they could use on Lanner that might loosen his tongue.

  “So what do you know about Lanner that we could use?”

  “Does that mean you can contact Lanner?”

  Casey stood up and paced back and forth, deep in thought for a moment before he spoke. “Art, this is just between you and me, the rest of the guys don’t need to know, okay?”

  “Whatever you say,” Art replied.

  “Well the fact is we got him stashed away someplace safe. We don’t quite know what to do with him. He won’t talk about what we want him to talk about, and we don’t want to turn over to the D.A.’s office until we find out about the granddad. So, you got any ideas? Anything we could prove?”

  “That’s one son of a bitch I wouldn’t want as an enemy. You sure you got him locked up tight?” That impressed Casey. He thought of Art as a long piece of gristle. Tall, thin, strong, and afraid of no one.

  “How do you feel about him being in the ice house in Richmond?”

  “Really? In the icehouse? Not bad!” He stood up, faced Casey and stuck out his hand for a handshake. “In Gus’s memory? Why not? There’s several guys like me who got pissed off at Lanner after a job or two. They gotta have some pretty damning stuff between them. I’ll see what I can come up with but I don’t know anything about the D.A.’s grand dad.”