by Frank Kane
“Hurray for him. How about the Velie tie-up? What's he think?”
Muggsy shrugged. “I think he buys the inspector's idea. He doesn't believe it's tied in with the Merritt job.” She pulled her feet up under her. “How does Velie fit, Johnny?”
“How the hell does anything fit in this mess? First I've got a client, then I can't find her. She wants me to find out who killed a guy who killed himself. Then a couple of high-caliber hoods decide to carve their initials on my hide with a tommy gun. For what?”
“Would Velie be after you for something else?”
“Why? I never had anything to do with Pete. I had nothing to do with his going to jail. That was a Federal rap. Besides, why would he wait until now? He's been in the can a couple of years.” He pinched at his nostrils with thumb and forefinger. “As for Scoda and Ricci, I don't even know them. Now all of a sudden they can't be happy until they pin my hide to the wall.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
Liddell grinned bleakly. “Discourage them. First I'm going to find out what it's all about.”
“How?”
“I'm going to ask them what the hell's going on. Herlehy tipped me who the guy was that used the tommy gun in the car the other night. Another Velie torpedo, Frankie Capolla.”
“Capolla? You're not going to fool with him, Johnny. He's sudden death.”
“He knows the answers to the questions I want to ask. And I'm not going to fool with him.”
“Suppose he does know the answers. What makes you think he'll tell you?”
Liddell grinned. “You'd be surprised how persuasive I can be.”
“Suppose he does tell you? What good will it do you if you develop a hole in the head? You're not going to do it, Johnny. I won't let you go up against a killer like Capolla.”
“Stop worrying. If he was that good I'd be downtown in the morgue, keeping Scoda and Ricci company.” He got up from the couch, wandered out into the kitchen, examined the labels on a couple of new bottles. “What's this?”
“Chartreuse and creme de menthe. I've been dying to try a new cocktail I heard about. There's some Irish whisky and dry vermouth in the cabinet.”
“You're going to spoil good Irish whisky with this mess?” Liddell looked shocked.
“Don't be so conservative. It's supposed to be wonderful. You mix the Irish and the vermouth about one to one, then just a couple of dashes of the chartreuse and creme de menthe. They call it a Shamrock. Make me one, Johnny, will you?”
She stretched out on the couch, watched the broad shoulders of Liddell going through the motions of making the cocktail. She tried to wipe the concern from her eyes, failed.
Liddell brought the shaker and a glass out to the couch, swept two books and a magazine off the end table, set them down.
“Aren't you going to try one?” She indicated the lone glass.
“That stuff? It's not fit for human consumption. If I'm going to get cirrhosis of the liver, I'm going to get it from drinking whisky, not perfume.”
“How do you know you don't like it if you don't try it? Just take a sip,” Muggsy coaxed.
Liddell shrugged, poured a little of the green concoction into the glass, sipped it, made a wry face. “I'll take my Irish straight.” He filled the glass from the shaker, handed it to the girl. “The way my father and his father got their d.t.'s is good enough for me.”
He walked out into the kitchen, poured some liquor from the bottle over three ice cubes, brought the glass back with him. Muggsy folded her feet up under her to make room.
“Johnny, you're not really going up against Capolla, are you?”
Liddell nodded, clinked the ice against the side of his glass. “As soon as I can find out where he's holed in.”
“How lucky can you be, Johnny? They missed twice. The third time your number may be up.”
“There's not going to be a third time, Muggs,” he told her. “I'm going to beat them to the punch. This time, instead of them coming to look for me, I'm going looking for them.”
“Want to tell me how you plan to persuade Capolla to pour his innermost secrets into your shell-like ear?”
Liddell shrugged. “I figured to go up to him and ask him.”
“Oh, fine. And when is this touching confessional scheduled to take place?”
Liddell took a taste of the whisky, approved. “I don't know yet. I haven't been able to get a line on him. He's apparently holing up somewhere until the heat dies down.”
“But you expect to find him? Eighteen thousand cops in the City of New York can't smoke him out, but you will.”
“I've got the Dummy and his beggars scouring the town. They'll contact me here when they get a line on him.”
Muggsy sipped at the green drink, wrinkled her nose. “I think maybe you're right. This calls for a real drink.” She walked out to the kitchen, emptied the glass in the sink. She found another glass, dropped three ice cubes into it, spilled a stiff slug of whisky over them. “I can't talk you out of it, Johnny?” she asked when she rejoined him on the couch.
“It's my only chance, Muggs.”
“But it's crazy, I tell you. You can't go up against a gang like that and walk away from it. You'll end up with a bunch of eels making a patchwork quilt out of your face in the bottom of the bay. Let Herlehy and his boys take care of Capolla.”
“On what charge?”
“What charge? Didn't he try to kill you? Didn't he shoot up that drugstore? Isn't that enough?”
“You want Herlehy to pick him up because I say I saw him in a moving car in a bad light at night. Any smart mouthpiece would laugh Deats out of court with that. And you know it. What's more, so does Deats.”
The girl leaned over, snagged a cigarette from a box on the end table. “Why not drop the whole thing, Johnny? You said if Doc Travin convinced you it was suicide, you'd—”
“But he didn't.”
The blonde stared at him mouth agape. “Didn't what? Didn't convince you or didn't commit suicide?”
“Both. Doc Travin didn't convince me because Matt Merritt didn't commit suicide. He was murdered.”
“You're bluffing,” Muggsy accused. “I was right there with you. You even told doc he made a good case for suicide.”
“He did. But not good enough. I'm sure Merritt was murdered, Muggs. But I can't prove it.”
The girl studied his face. “Was it something you found out at Doc Travin's office?”
Liddell nodded. “The fact that they never found the bullet.”
“So?”
Liddell shrugged. “So nothing, maybe. So murder most likely.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette. “The bullet should have been in the ceiling.”
“But doc explained that. He said the bullet was spent by the time it was through Merritt's skull, fell to the floor, was lost. That's reasonable.”
Liddell snorted. “Not unless Merritt's skull had a steel lining. The gun was a thirty-eight. Since when does a thirty-eight get spent traveling through at most four inches of tissue and a quarter of an inch of bone?”
“Then where is it?”
“That's the sixty-four-dollar question,” he admitted. He finished his drink, set the glass down on the floor at his feet. “He might have been killed some place else and brought there, or the bullet was deflected, or—”
Muggsy squirmed impatiently on the couch. “That's goofy and you know it. Just as goofy as it is to sit there and try to convince me or anybody else that the old guy sat there, let a killer shove a gun in his mouth, and didn't put up a struggle.”
Liddell sighed. “I know it. The whole damn case is goofy.”
“But you still think it's murder?”
Liddell crushed his cigarette in an ash tray, scowled at the last thin irregular line of smoke that curled ceilingward. “I told you I couldn't prove a thing. But until I find out what's behind all this shooting, why Jean Merritt disappeared, and what happened to that bullet, I think it's murder.”
The teleph
one jangled noisily in the foyer. Muggsy jumped up from the couch, walked out to answer it. “It's for you,” she called in.
Liddell walked out, took the receiver from her hand.
“This Liddell?” a metallic voice wanted to know.
“Yeah.”
“I got some information you wanted. About a certain party.”
“Good. Where is he?”
The receiver hesitated for a moment. “It ain't that easy. You better meet me. You couldn't swing it alone.”
“I don't get lonesome easy, bud. Just give me the dope and let me worry.”
He laughed in his ear, a high-pitched crackling laugh. “Don't get me wrong, Liddell. I ain't figuring on backing your play. You're the tough dick. I don't get paid to get holes in my head.”
“Then what do I have to meet you for?”
“I got to get it set to get you in. Make it about twothirty.”
Liddell consulted his watch, scowled. “It's only eleventhirty now. Can't you make it earlier?”
“Two-thirty,” he repeated. “In front of the Bright Lights Tavern on Forty-Seventh. Know the place?”
Liddell nodded. “I know the place. How'll I know you?”
“You won't have to. I'll know you,” the receiver cackled. There was a click, and the line went dead.
Liddell tossed the receiver back on the hook, scraped his palm over the faint stubble on his chin. It could be the tip he was expecting, but by the same token, he realized, it could be another stakeout.
He walked into the living-room for Muggsy, found that she had gone into the bedroom, closed the door behind her. He wandered out on the little terrace that was pasted onto the side of the building, overlooking Central Park. He had almost finished a cigarette when Muggsy slipped up behind him, slid her arms around him, laid her cheek against his.
“Miss me?” she whispered.
He flipped the butt into a glowing arc toward the street below, turned around. Muggsy had changed into a flowing royal-blue dressing-gown, her blond hair was fluffed out softly, her make-up fresh.
“I guess I'm beginning to sound like an old woman.” She grinned. “I ought to know by now that you can take care of yourself.” She stood on her tiptoes, placed her lips against his. After a moment, she pushed him away. “Well, that's a relief. I was beginning to think that reihead in your office had something I haven't got.”
Liddell grinned. “We ought to be able to settle that easily enough.” He tried to pull her to him again, she eluded his grasp.
“Was that the call you were expecting?”
“Yeah. But he can't meet me until two-thirty. That's almost three hours from now.”
“That soon?” Muggsy pouted. She led him into the living-room, pushed him down onto the couch. She made a face at him, walked to the kitchen, returned with a bottle, some glasses, and a bowl of ice.
He patted the cushion at his side, waited while she poured a drink into each of the glasses, sat down beside him. As she reached across him to place the bottle on the end table, he could feel her body against his, the scent of her hair in his nostrils. He slid his arm around her, turned her face up to his.
Her lips were moist, soft-looking, slightly parted. Her eyes were heavy-lidded. When he covered her mouth with his, he could feel her teeth sink into her lower lip.
After a moment, she put her hand against his shoulder, pushed him away. She snuggled comfortably on his lap, reached up, loosened his tie, opened his collar. “You can kiss me again now,” she said. “It won't kill you.”
It didn't.
Chapter Seven
The room was half dark when Johnny Liddell awoke. The alarm clock was ringing. There was a dark-brown, fuzzy taste in his mouth that refused to be washed away by the tap water. He ran another glass of water, held it to his head. The clock on the kitchen wall said two o'clock.
Muggsy Kiely stirred uneasily on the couch, moaned softly in her sleep. Liddell splashed water in his face, swabbed it dry with a towel, ran a comb through his hair. He turned out all the lights, found his hat on the end table, kissed Muggsy softly, and left.
The Bright Lights Tavern was a garishly lighted honky-tonk on 47th Street, east of Broadway. The normal flow of traffic along the street had dribbled to an occasional vague-eyed pedestrian, the type that had given the block the nickname of Dream Alley, a group of heavily painted hustlers with three fresh-faced, eager, but drunken sailors in tow. A mounted cop rode by, his horse's hoofs striking hollow clanks in the emptiness of the street.
Liddell took up his position outside the tavern, waited.
It was almost twenty-five minutes before he heard the trade-mark of the blind beggar—a discordant guitar and a strident, nasally off-key voice doing unmentionable things to a mountain chant. After a moment, he came into Liddell's line of vision, a little man, a silver glint of bristles on his chin, a tin cup wired to the neck of his guitar, his eyes covered with a pair of opaque black glasses. He finished the song a few paces before he reached Liddell, continued to shuffle along, coaxing a terrifying assortment of discords from the guitar as he went.
When he was abreast of Liddell, he lowered his face, as though to get protection from the wind. “Give me a few minutes inside, then come in after me, shamus,” he muttered with no apparent movement of his lips.
Liddell gave no sign of having heard, sucked deeply on the butt he held cupped in his hand, consulted his watch as though impatient over a stand-up. The beggar shuffled by, entered the tavern. A mixture of conversation and juke-box music spilled out into the street as he opened the door. Liddell continued to smoke, finished his cigarette, flipped it toward the gutter. The mounted cop rode by again, stared at him incuriously, continued east toward Fifth. Liddell consulted his watch again, then turned and entered the tavern.
The Bright Lights Tavern got a good late-hour play by service men. Bar girls of all sizes and vintage were working the sailors and marines that lined the bar twodeep. On the way in, Liddell was almost bumped by a buxom redhead, leading a sailor. She was back in ten minutes—without the sailor.
As Liddell walked in, a heavily bleached woman sitting in a booth near the door studied him speculatively, passed an unseen signal. Almost immediately, the girls drifted away from their prospects and headed for the ladies' room or found seats together in a booth.
Liddell walked through the blue-white haze of cigarette smoke, found a place at the bar, ordered bourbon. The bartender grabbed a bottle from the backbar, slid a shot glass in front of him, filled it to the brim, all in one motion.
“Want to see anybody particular, mister?” He studied Liddell with piglike eyes that were almost obscured by the scar tissue of hundreds of ring battles.
“Such as?” Liddell asked.
The bartender shrugged bulky shoulders. “Lil, maybe. Big Lil. She handles the local boys on this spot.” He indicated the bleached blonde with a toss of his head.
Lidcell swung around, saw the woman studying him, walked over to where she sat. “The bartender thought I wanted to see you. Should I?”
From close, the woman was old, her make-up a stiff mask covering with indifferent success the sag and wrinkle of age. Her eyes were bright and hard, her hair thinned by constant exposure to chemicals. Her lipstick was glaring, smeared, her teeth nicotine-stained. “What's the beef? We're paid up to date.”
“You got me wrong. I have no beef. I just got cold waiting out there for a babe that never showed.” He held up his drink. “I came in to get thawed out.”
The bright eyes rolled in the dead white of the old woman's face. “You're not the Law?”
Liddell grinned. “I was wondering why you called time out.” He shook his head. “I'm no copper.”
The woman studied his face, looked past him to the bartender, nodded. The bartender reached up on the backbar, turned a beer ad face to the wall. Almost immediately the girls resumed their stations at the bar, pushing drinks and mixing with the servicemen.
“Sorry, mister,” the old woman croak
ed. “You can't be too careful around now with all these bluenoses yelling for action. You never know when they're going to by-pass the local station house and send in a fly-cop.” She folded blue-veined, faded hands in front of her on the table. “Can't be too careful.”
Liddell nodded, started back toward the bar, spotted the blind man sitting in a booth at the rear of the room. He ambled down, slid in beside him. “Mind if I join you, pop?”
The blind man bared his gums in a cackle. “Threw a scare into the girls, eh, Liddell?” He peered nearsightedly at the glass in Liddell's hand, signaled for the bartender. “You're buying, ain't you?”
Liddell grinned, nodded. “I thought you were blind.”
“Just during business hours.” He grinned up into the bartender's battered face as he came toward the table. “Man wants to buy, kid. Let's get it on the table before he changes his mind. A couple of brew.”
“I'm drinking bourbon,” Liddell told him.
“Okay, so you talked me into it. I'll drink both the brews.”
The bartender twisted his thickened lips in a grin. “You coulda fooled me, buster. I thought you was a new flattie on the beat, too.” He was back in a few seconds with two beers, picked up the dollar bill Liddell laid on the table, dropped two quarters, a dime, and two nickels, shuffled back to the bar.
The blind man tilted his glass to his lips, approved the brew audibly, drained the glass, set it down. “Thirsty work, pounding that beat all night.” He looked inquiringly at the other glass, drew a nod from Liddell, pulled it over with a toothless grin. “Work up quite a thirst, that you do.”
“Dummy's a tough boss, eh?”
The beggar took a swallow from the second glass, wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Take a beat away from you soon's he look at you. And the way he's got this town organized, if you lose a beat you might's well go to work. You couldn't make a dime panhandling. He's got it sewed up that tight.”
Liddell nodded, tossed off his bourbon, set the glass down. “How about my merchandise?”