“I’ll take care of it.” Mike answered.
“Fine. I’ll see you later.” Benny walked away.
“Maybe a lot later.” Mike called after him.
Mike watched his partner go until he vanished into the fog, then he snapped into action. He checked the surroundings for any witnesses, but none had gathered. So he went to the front seat of the cab and grabbed the steering wheel from outside the car and pushed downhill toward the gates of the ice rink. Once the car started rolling on it’s own, he hopped onto the sidewalk and obscured himself in the darkness up next to the buildings.
The taxi picked up speed as gravity took over. When it popped over the curb in front of the Polar Palace, it was going pretty fast. The fence stopped it with a terrific crash. The fence boards tumbled up under the car and lifted up the front end and then it stopped. As soon as it did, the kid working the front door headed over to give the scene a gawk. When he got there, the driver was curled up in the front seat. His jaw was on the seat next to him.
The kid got a good look and staggered away from the scene. He would never look at anything the same way again. Mike could tell that by the slump that came into the kid’s shoulders. That slouch would probably stick with the kid for the rest of his life. The kid gathered himself together enough to run inside. He didn’t look back.
Mike stayed in the shadows and watched, but no one came out right away. After a while, an older gentleman in suspenders, pince-nez, and a tie trotted out and took a look inside the car. His hand went to his mouth when he turned away, but he didn’t register much more than that. He had seen worse. The next person to come out of the rink was exactly who Mike was looking for, not that he knew this guy in particular, but he knew the type. A big guy in a cowboy hat and a leather fur-fringe duster that was too heavy for Los Angeles in January.
The Cowboy stood next to the old man with the pince-nez and scanned the street. There was minimal traffic and few pedestrians. The Cowboy ambled over to the car and looked inside, then turned to the old man and smiled. The old man didn’t think this was appropriate and walked away toward the approaching sound of sirens. The Cowboy headed in the other direction. Mike kept watching until the cop car caught up to its sirens and parked with two tires up on the curb in front of the Polar Palace. Two officers hopped out with enthusiasm. One darted over to the wrecked car with a flashlight and scanned the inside. The other spoke briefly with the old man, then took out his own light and began searching the surroundings.
Mike decided to move. He backed down the nearest alley and put the Polar Palace behind him. When he came out of the alley, he stopped in his tracks. There was a black ’36 Packard Twelve limousine idling under a dim lamp across the street halfway down the block. Mike recognized the car immediately. He had been there when the old man bought the lumbering behemoth. Mike didn’t recognize the Longhorns affixed to the limo’s grill. The judge must have bought those later. It was an extravagance Mike would have prevented, but he wasn’t the Judge’s bailiff anymore.
The Judge’s new man wore a Cowboy hat and stepped out of the gloom of a half-hearted streetlamp and approached the car. He leaned in the back window. Mike had been staring at the same window. He hadn’t seen anyone. Now he did. He glimpsed the old man’s Van-dyke first, then the top of his grey balding head. The craggy weathered face came last.
Mike fondled the revolver in his pocket and took measure of the situation. Three bullets wouldn’t be enough to make sure he got the old man. Maybe if he could get close enough and put down Cowboy Hat with one and save the last two for the Judge. As for the driver, Mike would have to take him as he found him. Before Mike could slide the revolver from his pocket and put his plan into action, he heard a noise in the alley behind him. He looked back and saw a roving flashlight making a scattered path toward him, probably the law being persistent.
Mike didn’t have enough bullets for the cop too, so he darted into the deep alcove of a nearby building and waited. He let go of the revolver and instead reached into his pocket for the Red 9. It was empty, but he could get a good grip on the long barrel and swing the heavy wood handle like a club.
The cop and his flash light got closer. He tossed the beam around in the doorway where Mike was hiding, but the cop didn’t see him and moved on. When he did, Mike stepped out of the doorway after him. The cop sensed something and stopped a few feet further on. Mike didn’t waver. He crept closer. Finally the cop started to turn, but it was too late. Mike swung the pistol hard and the cop fell to his knees. Mike hit him again. Blood and brain came away on the pistol. Mike tore the cop’s revolver from its holster and hurried back toward the Packard. He came around the corner fast with the pistol out and ready for action, but it was too late. The limo was gone. Mike had missed his chance.
Mike wandered lost in thought for a long time. He wondered how the Judge had gotten himself sorted. Mike had left a mess behind. There had to be hard feelings all around and lots of bruises. The Judge could have shot him. He had the chance right before Mike ran out on him in Colorado, but the old man didn’t take it.
They had faced off in a hallway as Mike fled toward the exit. Mike didn’t have a weapon. He had left his last one, a fireplace poker, in the head of a tall gangly fellow from Wyoming. The man had been good at cards and expert at tying up loose ends, but Mike was better and the man from Wyoming had gone down much like the cop – his blood and brains on the end of something blunt.
The Judge had caught up to Mike in the hall as he fled that scene. The Judge had a gun in his hand, but he couldn’t hold it steady. He was drunk. Mike pushed past him and out the door. As he passed him, Mike thought he saw a tear in the old man’s eye. Tears or not, the Judge had come out to California seeking vengeance.
Mike snapped out of it when a car honked him back onto the sidewalk. He stopped and got his bearings, then headed back to his hotel. Mike had made up his mind on this walk. He was determined to kill first and he knew he would need something different. Something unexpected had to happen at the rink. A distraction to get people coming out en masse.
Mike waved down the first cab he saw. He half-expected to see the cabbie he just shot behind the wheel, but it wasn’t him. It was a different hack. Hopefully one who could keep his mouth shut. He could and the ride was uneventful.
Mike arrived back at the Richelieu Hotel in the small hours of the morning. He found Mitchell malingering in the lobby - eyeing all the pretty girls and stone-facing the toughs. Mitchell was a regular bracer in that lobby. He didn’t miss many nights and he was always there when it was crowded.
Mitchell slouched in a brown leather chair facing the door. He had his hat tilted down hiding his eyes. Mike knew the detective had seen him because the man’s breath changed. Mitchell sat up and his jacket opened and showed iron.
“You need that heater in this lobby?” Mike didn’t keep his voice down.
“Keep your voice down.” Mitchell hissed. Then he continued in a more normal voice. “You scared the hell out of Roger.”
“I bet that’s easy.” Mike spat back.
“Yep.” Mitchell half-smiled and stood up. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“Yeah, you can.” Mike led the way toward the bar.
Mitchell stayed behind for a second and took a long look around the lobby before he followed Mike.
The bar at the back of the hotel kept itself real dark. The bartender leaned against the bar back and polished a glass. When he saw Mitchell, he reached under the bar and got a bottle of rye that he held up for their approval. Both Mitchell and Mike nodded, so the bartender grabbed a bucket of ice out from under the counter and came out from behind the bar.
Mitchell and Mike slid into a booth into the darkest corner they could find. Mike sat in the middle of his side with his legs spread wide. Mitchell sat off-kilter with his back against the wall and his legs stretched out on the seat. He faced the door.
“It’s good to see you’re so vigilant. I feel protected.” Mike didn’t sound like he meant
it.
“From what I hear, you don’t need protecting.” Mitchell kept his eyes on the door.
“Who says?”
“Roger. Remember him?”
“Slack-jawed peanut vendor.” Mike cut himself short.
The bartender walked up and put down the bottle, some glasses, and an ice bucket. Mitchell appreciated the man with a little smile and a wave of his hand.
“Peanut vendor or not, he knows fighters. Bet you never figured that?” Mitchell sounded a little smug. Mike let him keep talking. “Anyway, Roger got word on one. One to replace the one you couldn’t protect.”
“How’s Roger know we need a fighter?” Mike spat back.
“Give me a break. He’s no square John. He’s connected.” Mitchell chuckled.
“Is he a real fighter?” Mike didn’t like Mitchell’s tone. Mike went cold.
“Take it easy.” Mitchell shifted on his seat like it itched, but kept talking. “According to Roger, not only is he a real fighter, he worked this before. Out in Racine and once in Portland.” Mitchell grinned. “Bet you never figured Roger for that?”
“I never figured Roger for nothing.” Mike liked the sound of this. Maybe Roger was all right. “This fighter know Benny?”
“He says he’s heard of him. Seen him at the track. He even worked the telegraph scheme for him once, but on the inside, so Benny wouldn’t have no reason to know him, or so he says.” Mitchell waved his hands as if dispelling his responsibility for the truth of this particular statement.
Mike didn’t begrudge him for it. “I want to meet him.”
“Roger says this fighter wants to meet you. Roger says the guy needs some fast money. I said to Roger, who doesn’t?” Mitchell laughed.
“That’s not always good.” Mike didn’t smile.
Mitchell shrugged and finished his drink. He slapped it down on the table hard. “You wanna meet him or not?”
“Yeah. Benny will wanna meet him too.” Mike slid out of the booth and stood tall at the end of the table. “I’m gonna need some ammo.”
“For what?” Mitchell asked.
“For this.” Mike showed Mitchell the Red 9.
Mitchell swallowed and nodded. Mike backed away and took his drink with him. Mitchell watched him go. He waited until the door closed behind Mike, then poured himself another drink.
Mike shuffled out of the bar and made his way back through the lobby to the front desk. When he got there, he leaned against it and lit a smoke and waited for the desk clerk to look up from the register.
“Can I help you sir? The desk clerk glanced up at Mike. His unkempt brown hair stuck out from under his battered red cap. He had a gone-old-and-jaded early look about him. Between his teeth, he clenched an unlit hand rolled cigarette. Mike offered the cinder of his smoke to the kid to use as for a light. The kid took him up on it.
“York6745.” Mike spoke through a broad toothy grin. His head was buzzing from the whiskey.
“Sure thing, mister.” The clerk picked up the phone. “York6745.” He repeated to the operator.
Mike didn’t hear what the operator said, but it must have gone well because the clerk handed him the phone right away. In exchange, Mike handed the clerk what was left of his whiskey. The kid took it and gulped it down. He put the glass down gently, backed away, and cracked a smile.
Mike leaned against the front desk facing away from the kid. The phone buzzed in his ear. It had a distinct reverberation that started to make him angry the longer it went on. The curve was exponential.
Finally Lo answered. “Bar.” He said.
Mike didn’t say anything at first. He listened to Lo breathing. Mike didn’t like him and the feeling was mutual.
“Bar.” Lo snarled.
“Lemme talk to Benny.”
“Benny not talking.” Lo delivered the line flat.
“Tell him to meet me here at the hotel as soon as he gets up.” Mike didn’t expect an answer.
Lo surprised him. “He doesn’t want to meet you. He wants to meet another fighter. You call back when you find another fighter.”
“Tell the little bastard I got him one.” Mike slammed down the phone.
He slid the phone across the desk back to the clerk and headed up to his room. Exhaustion descended on Mike as he climbed the stairs. It hit him so hard and fast that he didn’t have the energy eavesdrop in doorways like he normally would. Instead he moved deliberately to his room. Inside he didn’t do anything but shut the door and lock it. After that, he went straight to the bed and dropped face down on the mattress.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Mike woke to a hammering on his door. He could tell it was Benny because the knocking came from low on the door and Mike knew the little guy wouldn’t bother to reach over his head just to make some noise. Mike swung his legs over the side of the bed and got up. The pounding didn’t stop until Mike opened the door.
Benny stood there carrying a large cardboard box and a big smile. It was as if last night’s murder had never happened. That was typical Benny. He might have a few more feelings than Mike, but he could shake them off pretty quick.
Benny came in and Mike closed the door behind him. The little guy wandered to the window. He saw the chair positioned to voyeur the hotel next door and the empty ashtray on the windowsill. Benny pointed the out.
He said. “You musta slept well last night. This thing ain’t full of butts.”
“Yeah, detective, I slept like a baby. What’s in the box?” Mike didn’t move from the door. He had his back to it.
Benny ignored him and moved slowly around the room looking things over. “You got my gun?”
“In the drawer.” Mike stepped forward. “What’s in the box?”
“I don’t know. It was sitting outside the room.” Benny bent down and opened the bottom drawer of the three drawer dresser by the bed. His revolver stared up at him. He grabbed it.
“It’s probably the ammo.” Mike answered.
“Really?” Benny put his pistol on the dresser, then opened the cardboard box. There were boxes of ammo inside. Benny took one out and handed it to Mike. Mike took it, then got the Red 9 out of his pocket, popped out the magazine and started loading it. Benny took his revolver off the dresser and did the same.
“You know where we’re going?” Benny asked.
“No, this is Mitchell’s deal. He got the name from Roger at the ice rink.” Mike finished loading his gun, stuck it in his waistband and headed for the door.
“The concessionaire?” Benny smirked.
Mike didn’t see him. He was half out the door and had his back turned. Still he knew Benny’s mouth had moved, he felt it.
Mitchell waited for them in the lobby. Mike caught him sharing a look with Benny in the lobby mirror. Clearly they had spoken when the little slicker had come in. Mike’s temples started to throb the way they sometimes did when he was about to get angry.
“Let’s go.” Mike snarled and walked outside.
A grey ’36 De Soto Airstream idled at the curb. A youngster in grey overalls that were several sizes too big sat behind the wheel looking nervous. He had a blue cap on his head that was pulled down low and tight. When they got close, he hopped out and held the door open for Mitchell. Mitchell took the kid’s place and Benny slid in next to him. Mike got in back through the suicide door. By the time he got it shut, Mitchell was already sliding the Coupe into traffic.
Mitchell drove due south. He and Benny never looked over their shoulders at Mike. No one spoke. Mike sat back and watched the world go by – the cars and trucks and overhead wires and rumbling bumps and dust. He smoked one cigarette after another. Benny kept pace with him. Mitchell didn’t smoke at all.
After a while, the De Soto turned right on West Adams and headed west toward the ocean. The sun hid behind dense clouds and the air was heavy and smelled thick. The sky turned black. It was an empty threat. It never rained in Los Angeles. Mike fell sleep thinking about the weather.
He woke with a start wh
en the sedan jerked to a stop. Mitchell parked in front of a brick building built into the side of the hill. A grocery store and a tailor shop occupied the first floor. There was a crude hand painted sign on the wall that advertised them. It also announced that there was key making on the premises, but it did not specify where.
Mitchell got out and Benny followed him. They moved quickly. Mike got out slower and lingered behind them with his head on a swivel. Mitchell led them to the corner of the building. He stopped at the base of a wide stairway that led up to a door with a sign on a thin metal placard above it with the word GYM stenciled on it. Mitchell started upstairs and they followed. Halfway up, a loud voice stopped them.
“Hey!” It boomed from the bottom of the stairs.
The three of them swung around. Mitchell’s hand went to the gun in his pocket, but he didn’t pull it. Mike noticed the move. Mitchell startled easy.
“You boys looking for me?” The voice came from an average sized young man in a hooded sweatshirt and black cotton pants. He wore boxing shoes and his hands were white-taped and his hood was pulled low over his face. He continued. “Let’s not go in there. It’s crowded. Come down around the corner with me.” He backed up from the stairs and pointed the way. Benny, Mike, and Mitchell complied, but not quickly. They took their time.
“You taking us some place we can talk?” Mitchell kept his hand in his pocket. If the kid noticed, he didn’t show it.
“Yeah, I gotta place we can talk.” The kid went around the corner away from the traffic that clattered down West Adams. Halfway down the side of the building, the kid stopped at a black metal door. He stepped inside without waiting for them and let the door close behind him.
The three con men stood on the sidewalk and stared at the door. Mike and Benny looked to Mitchell. The hotel detective shrugged and opened the door. He kept his hand in his pocket when he stepped inside. Benny followed right behind him. Mike stood on the curb a little longer. He scanned up and down the street. It was quiet. They were the only thing out of the ordinary.
Fixed Fight (Mike Chance series Book 2) Page 10