Chicago Noir

by Joe Meno

  Rod didn’t waste much time, taking out a small spiral scratch pad and handing it to him. He’d called earlier telling Bull he’d found something he wanted Bull to see.

  “It was Dad’s and it’s his handwriting.”

  The spiral notepad was folded open to one of the back pages. There were only three words on the page, scrawled in pencil, pharaohs, fix, wizzy.

  It was clear enough to Bull. The Pharaohs were the City-South College football team. They were conference champs and the favorites heading into a bowl game in two weeks. Bets are placed on football games not so much on who wins or loses, but how much they win or lose by. The point spread. The fix was in, somebody or bodies on the Pharaohs were being paid to control the spread. And Lucky had gotten or was getting his information from Wizzy Lee.

  “Well?” Rod looked a lot like his father then, the way his thin eyebrows wrinkled as he sat leaning slightly forward, his broad face at a tilt. Bull couldn’t guess the number of times Lucky had occupied the same chair, debating the merits of some upcoming sporting event.

  “Looks like Lucky got hold of something.” He tried his coffee, the Grand-Dad giving it an edge that mildly scratched his throat.

  Rod nodded. “It looked that way to me too, but I wasn’t sure if I was just making up something that wasn’t there. Know who or what Wizzy is?”

  “Nickel-and-dimer. Used to be in tight with the Phil Breeden crowd. They’ve been splits for a while now. But if a fix was in, Wizzy would stand a damn good chance of knowing about it.”

  “Breeden plays kind of rough, doesn’t he?”

  “The man has got a temper,” Bull said. “Probably the only reason Wizzy’s still walking around is he and Breeden are second or third cousins or something.”

  Rod straightened somewhat in the chair, several lines playing across his forehead. “Do you think maybe it wasn’t an accident, Bull? Was my dad murdered?”

  Bull had toyed with the idea long before Rod showed up with the scratch pad. He had no more to go on than the fact that Lucky was dead, a hit-and-run, but had it been intentional? Maybe a part of him wanted it to be that way, more than a simple accident. Maybe he wanted someone to hate for having killed Lucky and not pity some poor slob for having no business behind the wheel of a car.

  “I don’t know, Rod, it’s something for the police to handle.”

  “I know you, Bull, don’t hand me that. If my dad was murdered, you’d want the bastard as much as I do. Only difference is you know your way around these things. I don’t.”

  Bull didn’t argue. He had a rep, more true than false. Whether it was more good than bad depended on who was doing the judging. He’d gotten involved with murder before, helped point the cops in the right direction a few times. Some liked him for it, some wanted to push him in front of a bus. He took a good swig of his coffee, sweetened it with a splash of Grand-Dad, then put the bottle back in the bottom desk drawer.

  “Okay, so what do you want me to do?”

  “Find out which it is, Bull. Please.”

  Sam Devlin came into the office after Rod left. He’d been working the bar out front in the Bull Pen Lounge, which took up most of the first floor of the Benson Hotel. Bull had won the deed to the hotel in an all-night poker game some years back. Sam had installed himself as bartender from day one. He was old and bald, and he talked around the wooden match in the corner of his mouth.

  “Well, what’d the kid have to show ya that was so important?”

  Sam had been a part of Bull’s life for so long, there wasn’t much Bull could keep from him, or tried.

  “The fix is in on the Pharaohs’ game?” Sam said, after Bull explained.

  “I could be wrong, but it looks that way. Seems Lucky got caught up in it.”

  Sam worked on his matchstick. “I don’t much like the idea of someone gettin’ away with bumpin’ off Lucky, but you best be careful. Phil Breeden has always been a hard ass, and he ain’t had too much in the finesse department either. Piss him off and he’ll go for ya quick.”

  * * *

  Bull caught up with Sergeant Vern Wonler at the Moore Street Precinct.

  “Marge was expecting you for dinner last Saturday,” Vern said.

  “Yeah, she got on my case when I called to see if you were home. I tried to make it but something came up.”

  “Female or a deck of cards?”

  “A little of both.”

  Vern grinned, shaking his long dark face. “You’ll never change.”

  “I hope not.”

  They had grown up together. Two black kids running the streets. Now one was a cop, married with twin boys. And Bull, thanks to Sam’s tutoring, had done his nine-to-five with a deck of cards, a pair of dice, and a scratch sheet in his back pocket.

  Vern sat down at his desk pushing papers and folders aside. “Murders, burglaries, muggings, another fun week at Moore Street. What can I do for you, Bull? Don’t tell me you’re selling tickets to the Gamblers’ Ball?”

  “It’s about Lucky.”

  Vern sobered, his wide grin straightening, then turning into a frown. “I see this crap every day, but it’s still hard to believe he’s gone. I keep picking up the Challenger expecting to see his column.”

  “Me too. Rod came by to see me today. He found this with some of Lucky’s things.”

  Vern studied the scratch pad for a long time. “Wizzy Lee?”

  “That’s my guess. If we can get hold of him, maybe we can find out for sure.”

  “I think we’re a little late,” Vern said, shifting through the papers on his desk.

  He handed Bull a police report. Hit-and-run. It had occurred at 2:13 a.m. that morning outside Wizzy’s apartment building on West 17th Street. Witnesses described the vehicle as a four- or five-year-old Ford sedan. No one was able to tell how many people were in the car or who was driving. The victim, Leonard “Wizzy” Lee, twenty-five, was dead at the scene when the ambulance arrived.

  Bull tossed the report back on the desk. “Looks like we’ve got an epidemic.”

  * * *

  Bull was six-six and working on two eighty-five. Most men he came in contact with were smaller in stature. Phil Breeden was a runt, five-one at the most, and maybe 120 pounds when he strapped on his shoulder holster. But he was as mean as he was short. Word was he’d never been in a fair fight, at least not from his end. He ran the biggest book on the West Side, and dealt in a little juice action as well.

  For extra muscle there was Guy Woodley or Pedro Barnes. One or the other was usually with him, and a good part of their job was holding Breeden off some jerk who was dumb enough to be late with a payment. Retribution was best handled without witnesses, but Breeden’s temper rarely took that precaution into consideration.

  “Tired of dealin’ with the folks on the South Side, Bull?” Phil asked. He was sitting in a booth at the back of the greasy spoon he used as a front, a pad and pen on the table before him. He was sporting a box cut these days, probably an attempt to make himself look taller. A dapper dresser, his tailored dark brown jacket was a shade or two lighter than his complexion. Pedro stood next to the booth, arms folded across his thick chest, watching.

  “Everything’s cool on my home turf, Phil. I was close by, so I stopped to see where the heavy money’s going these days,” Bull said, squeezing himself in the booth across from Breeden.

  “Three-to-five, Pharaohs by eight.”

  They were interesting odds. It would take three dollars to win two, if the Pharaohs won by nine or more points. But the Pharaohs had averaged twenty-four points a game their last four outings, while holding their opponents to thirteen or under. Going with the Pharaohs was still a pretty good bet.

  Bull dug out a cigar and fired it up. “I guess if the Pharaohs don’t make the point spread you’re going to clean up.”

  Breeden shrugged his small shoulders. “It’s the nature of the business. You can always bet against them.”

  “And you’ve got places around the country where you can
do the same.”

  “Yeah, so? What are you trying to say, Bull?”

  “I think you know, Phil. You got the fix in on the Pharaohs’ game.”

  “Talk like that can get somebody dead.”

  “Yeah, I know. Lucky Felton and your cousin Wizzy so far.”

  “Wizzy’s dead? Damn, it’s about time.”

  “I’m supposed to believe you didn’t know?”

  “I don’t care what you believe.”

  “Maybe I ought to stick with what I know.”

  “It’s usually advisable.”

  “I know you’ve got a lot of money riding on that game. I know with the fix in you’re going to clean up big time. I know that if you haven’t informed certain members of the betting community of the fix, and they get wind of it, your little ass better find a good place to hide.”

  Bull was fishing more than anything else but it got a reaction. Breeden began breathing heavier, a slight snarl to the set of his lips, and his eyes tightened into dark little beads.

  “The one thing I don’t know is how many lives all this is worth to you.”

  “There’s always room for one more,” Breeden said, reaching inside of his jacket.

  Pedro grabbed him. “Boss, cool it.”

  “Get your hands off me, Pedro, this son of a bitch got it coming,” Breeden said, struggling against Pedro’s grip.

  “Bull,” Pedro said, motioning with his head for him to leave.

  Bull took a big drag on his cigar, blowing the smoke across the table as he rose. He felt more amused than threatened. It hadn’t taken much to get Breeden going but if it’d come down to it, he would’ve knocked the runt into next week. Pedro would’ve taken a little more effort, but he could be handled as well. A fight wouldn’t have proven anything, however, or helped him learn more than he already knew.

  * * *

  The City-South Pharaohs were having closed practice sessions. Bull parked at the curb by the team exit gate. He spent the better part of an hour listening to an old Motown tape of Gladys Knight and the Pips. Gladys had always been his favorite. There were a number of good women singers around, but in his estimation none of them came close. The only thing that spoiled the tape was the thought of Lucky’s murder. It stayed with him, dancing out of step with each song that played.

  The fix was in. Lucky and Wizzy were killed because of it. These were the obvious conclusions. Not so clear was Breeden’s involvement. He was the money man all right, the one who stood to make the most out of the setup. Lucky would’ve been murdered to keep him quiet, but why Wizzy? And Bull couldn’t say for sure Breeden had known about Wizzy’s death.

  A fire engine–red Dodge Neon pulled up to the curb a couple car lengths in front of Bull’s Caddy. The babe that got out wore a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a gold and green City-South school jacket. Winter had been taking over the city for the past two weeks, no real snow but a lot of wind and low temperatures. The weather didn’t seem to bother her as she went around to the passenger side and rested her plump rump on the Neon’s fender. She was the color of strong coffee, her hair a wealth of long, tight braids. Young, late teen, early twenties. She’d never been a wallflower; it was evident in her walk as she got out of the car and perched herself on the fender. He silently congratulated whoever she was waiting for.

  The second and third stringers started filing through the exit gate, some still wearing their numberless practice jerseys. There wasn’t one of them who passed by her that didn’t look back. She was definitely worth a second look.

  Bull started out of his car when he recognized Rye Kirkland, the Pharaohs’ quarterback. He was tall and rangy, and his throwing arm was one of the prime reasons the Pharaohs were heading for a bowl game. Ms. Tight Jeans got to Kirkland first, throwing her arms around his neck and smothering his lips with hers. Then they piled into the Neon, and she kicked the car to life. From the deep growl of the engine there was more under the hood than what the factory had put there. She sped off with tires screeching, exhaust vapors billowing from shiny twin chrome pipes.

  “Who’s the little lady?” Bull asked Mike Justin. He was offensive coach for the Pharaohs, and had been walking behind Kirkland.

  “That, Bull, is Miss Takisha James. Let’s see, this year’s homecoming queen, captain and choreographer of our cheerleading squad, she carries a B average and she’s on the student council. Word is she did the work on the Neon herself.”

  “I’m impressed. All that and a mechanic too.”

  “You must know her old man, Paul James? He owns Reliable Auto Wreckers.”

  Reliable was the largest black-owned auto-scavenging outfit in the state, but Bull couldn’t recall ever meeting its owner. “How long has she had Kirkland wrapped up?”

  Justin grinned and the gray previously hidden in his stubbled beard seemed to peek through. “Right after our second game, when we buried Nohambar Central thirty-seven to nothing. She latched on to him and hasn’t let go.”

  “Wouldn’t think he’d be able to keep his mind on the game.”

  A bigger grin this time. “She’s a hot little number all right. I had some concerns along those lines myself. But actually, Rye’s been working harder since they hooked up. My hat’s off to the kid. You know his story, he was in that street gang on the West Side. The gang was known for ripping off cars, keeping the chop shops supplied. Then his high school gym teacher noticed the raw talent, talked him into going out for the football team his sophomore year. Now, I’ve got me one of the top three quarterbacks in college ball.”

  Bull had heard the story a number of times from Lucky. Kirkland never admitted stealing any cars and the police never collected any hard evidence to charge against him. Football had been the turning point for Kirkland, and he had never had to look back.

  There were only a few stragglers leaving the practice field now. The chill in the air was becoming more persistent, urged on by an increasing wind. Bull gathered his coat about his neck. “Mike?” He tried to pick his words carefully. “Think it’s possible someone on the team might shave a few points?”

  “Hell no. Not on my team.”

  “Think about it. It could be the reason Lucky Felton is dead.”

  “No way, Bull. That would mean it would have to be one of my key people. Rye, my running back Shaw, or Peters or Dubrow, my receivers.”

  “I don’t like the idea myself, but it’s the only way it adds up.”

  “Get a new adding machine, Bull. Somebody’s lying to you.”

  “That’s what you’re going to tell the cops? They’ll be coming around. Better start giving it some thought. Any of your key people acting different lately?”

  “My guys are innocent, Bull. I’ll tell you and I’ll tell the cops. Now”—his eyes narrowed—“we got nothing else to say to each other.”

  With that Mike walked off mumbling something Bull couldn’t make out, but he was sure it wasn’t pleasant.

  Smitty’s was the local hangout of the City-South students. It wasn’t much more than a hamburger and hot dog joint, but it was near campus so the students had made it their own. Bull swung by there, deciding to stop only when he spotted the Neon in the side lot.

  The noise level in the place was definitely for younger ears. It was a combination of R. Kelly blasting through the speakers which hung from the ceiling in each corner and the occupants themselves, who had to shout to be heard across the small tables. The counter and grill took up the back wall, flanked by worn-looking booths. Kirkland and Takisha were hugged up in one of the booths on his right.

  He made his way through the maze of tables and students that filled the floor. “That was some exit you made from the practice field.” They both looked up at him, puzzlement registering in their knotted brows. “You parked in front of my Caddy. I was waiting to have a word with Rye but you were too fast.”

  “Sorry, mister, you should’ve shouted or something.”

  “That’s all right, it gave me a chance to talk to Justin.”


  “You know the coach?”

  “Yeah, we’ve run into each other off and on for a couple of years now,” he said, sitting across from them. “I’m Bull Benson, Rye. I was a good friend of Lucky Fenton’s.”

  Kirkland smiled. It was the same wide, dimple-cheeked melter that got plastered over the sport pages. “Lucky was my main man, ya know? He was the first one ta put me in the papers, back when I was in high school.”

  Lucky had often boasted the same.

  “What can I do for ya, Mr. Benson? Ya taking over Lucky’s place at the Challenger?“

  “Naw, I’m just trying to clear up a couple of things for the family.” It was as close to the truth as he wanted to get just now.

  “Hey, man, I’m here for ya if I can help.”

  “Do you know a guy named Wizzy Lee?”

  “Wizzy?” Takisha laughed. “Sounds like a cold. I’d remember if I’d ever met someone like that.” Close up she was even cuter, her skin clear and smooth, her eyeliner faintly accenting her big brown eyes.

  Kirkland grinned along with her, his arm slung over her shoulders. “Sorry, I’ve never met him. Was he a friend of Lucky’s too?”

  “They knew each other. Maybe you saw him around here.” It had been a year or so since Bull had last seen Wizzy and he knew it didn’t take that much for a person’s appearance to change, but he gave them what he remembered. “Skinny, about your height, few years older, dark, used to clear his throat a lot when he talked.”

  He waited as they looked at each other, shrugged. “Oh, yeah,” he added, as something else came to mind. “The bottom tip of his left ear was missing.” Hell, it had been Wizzy’s most noticeable feature, funny how it had slipped his mind.

  “God, I hope I don’t see him,” Takisha said. “Anybody that ugly would probably mark any baby I’ll ever think about having.”

  They both got a good laugh out of that one, and when they settled down, Kirkland said, “I still can’t help ya, man. We don’t know him.”

  He spoke to several other people in the place, asking them straight out if they knew a Wizzy Lee. No one admitted recognizing the name or the description.