The James Michael Ullman Crime Novel

by James Michael Ullman

  * * * *

  Still thin and gaunt, with unkempt, sandy hair, Uncle Howard wore horn-rimmed glasses now. Reclining in a lawn chair, garbed in tan walking-shorts, knee-length socks, Italian loafers and an olive polo shirt, he twirled his highball and asked, “Twenty-two thousand dollars? What for?”

  “A business venture.” Hands in his pockets, Jon leaned against a tree in Howard’s tiny yard. Howard lived in a remodeled Near North coach house, only two blocks from the brownstone. “Actually, twenty thousand might never be used. The other two thousand is for expenses investigating the deal, and I might not need all that either. But you’ll have my note. And to protect you in case I get run over by a bus or something before I can repay, I’ll take out a twenty-five-thousand term insurance policy, naming you beneficiary. I know it’s unusual…”

  “For you, very unusual.”

  Howard sipped, and put the glass down. He’d become quite the middle-aged man-about-town, as well known in certain Rush Street spas as in the brokerage house where he spent his week-day mornings and early afternoons. He’d invested the money he’d salvaged from his divorce in a franchise for a hamburger stand. Soon he owned a string of drive-ins, which he paid a manager to supervise so he could devote full time to his first love, the stock market. He was a shrewd, cautious in-and-outer, buying a stock in the morning in hopes of selling it for a small gain a few hours later. It was a risky business, not for the fainthearted, but over the years his profits, while unspectacular, had grown steadily.

  “I don’t suppose,” Howard went on, “you’d want to give me any more details about this nebulous venture.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Jon said uncomfortably, “I wouldn’t.”

  “I thought not, since it involves that magnificent old rogue, Schatzmueller.”

  “How,” Jon wondered, “did you know that?”

  “He’s looking for you. Eric didn’t know where you were, so a few hours ago Schatz called me. He said if I heard from you, to tell you he’s very anxious to get your decision about investigating his dress factory, with an eye to buying a piece of it. And that if he doesn’t get your decision soon, he’ll leave town.”

  Jon didn’t reply.

  “No wonder,” Howard added, “you came to me instead of going to Bonella. He wouldn’t make this loan. But I will, if for no other reason than you’re entitled to it. You’ve already earned more than that for me at Levee Court. I’ll put the funds in my account first thing Monday morning.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He picked up his drink. “I won’t ask any more questions, but I don’t believe a word about that dress business. Your first year in the Army, Schatz came to Chicago and talked to me and Mike. He wanted to know if you’d ever mentioned seeing anything the night your father disappeared. Mike blew his stack, and there was quite a scene.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Mike didn’t want to worry you. He wouldn’t understand why I think you want this loan, either. Given a chance, he always plays it safe, but you and I—we know there are times when a guy’s gotta play a long shot, don’t we?”

  * * * *

  Jon was in his apartment only ten minutes when Schatz called.

  “The answer,” Jon said, “is yes. But I’ll warn you for the last time. I don’t think the third party will negotiate. I think…”

  “I’ll do the thinking. You’ve got the twenty thousand?”

  “It’s Saturday. The banks are closed, I’ll have it Monday.”

  “I’ll contact you then. As soon as you give me the money, I’ll give you a few names to start with, names of men who live around here. We might as well check them first, to save travel expenses.”

  “A few?”

  “Of course. You think you’ll get all at once?”

  Schatz hung up.

  CHAPTER 8

  The lights of a city winked from across a tropical bay. Palm trees, jutting into the night sky, lined the well-traveled highway down which Jon drove the car he’d rented in Miami. Again, his eyes strayed to the rearview mirror. The car he thought had been following him slowed at an ice-cream stand, turn signal flashing. Another false alarm. He hadn’t spotted a tail since the night he met Schatz, but as Train pointed out that didn’t mean a thing.

  Jon had been checking men on Schatz’s list for a week now. All, Schatz told him, were fairly well-heeled, locally prominent men. Their pictures, especially if they lived in small towns or suburbs, might be in home-town newspaper files. Jon posed as a credit investigator and tried to get at those files, but if he failed, or the man’s picture wasn’t in them, he’d go to the man’s home or business to observe him sight unseen or get his description from neighbors. It was amazing what people would tell a credit investigator. So far, Jon had checked nearly two dozen men and was sure none could be Spook. Train checked the names too, but to date hadn’t found the common thread linking them.

  Jon’s biggest problem was Schatz. They’d met at another motel, where he gave the old man his twenty thousand dollars. Schatz showed Jon his own twenty thousand and then stuffed the whole sum into a money belt around his waist. Jon argued against keeping it there, but Schatz was adamant. The bribe money, he said, had to be where it could be produced instantly, in case their quarry found them before they found him, and negotiations began sooner than expected. Schatz preferred not to talk to the man yet, though. They’d be in a much stronger bargaining position if they knew his name and address.

  Jon told him then that he thought their last meeting had been spied on. It seemed only fair to warn him, but tactically it may have been a mistake. The news alarmed Schatz. It also confirmed an impression that his luggage had been searched, very cleverly, the week before in Peoria. Well, he announced, he’d fix that. He’d check out of this motel at five in the morning, when a tail would be conspicuous. First, he’d search his car for bugs and electronic homing devices. Then Pearl, an excellent driver, would execute a series of maneuvers, suggested to him by fellow convicts during his years in prison, certain to throw off pursuers. It might be, Schatz agreed, that the man who watched from under the tree was the man they sought. By now, he may have learned of Schatz’s efforts to obtain the list, and although he wouldn’t know what Schatz had, he might suspect Schatz had something. Still, Schatz added, the watcher may have been a policeman or a Venus spy, and until we learn more Pearl and I will vanish, even from you. From now on, we’ll communicate only by public telephones, never the same one twice.

  The words had a disturbingly familiar ring. Train had told Jon almost the same thing, and after that Schatz was a wraith, as cautious at one end of the communications network as Train was at the other. Jon was middleman, hurrying from phone to phone, relaying names to Train as fast as he got them from Schatz. Train didn’t like it at all, that Jon had been unable to get the whole list, or to learn the source of it, or the nature of the item the man allegedly disposed of, or even where Schatz lived. For Christ’s sake, he’d demand, can’t you even find that out? Jon didn’t like it either, but Schatz, recalling how he’d been trapped sixteen years earlier, took no chances. And as for the source of the list—he’d keep that to himself because it was a negotiating point. Without it, Jon would be hampered trying to deal with the man alone, since he’d insist on knowing how Jon found him, and who else might be able to do so.

  Schatz’s refusal to confide in Jon was frustrating enough, but there was more. The old man disclosed by phone one day that he’d gone to Little Lou Gardino, ostensibly to learn if the gangster had fresh news about Rudy, actually to tell him he and Jon were now seeking Rudy’s body together. When Jon heard this, he was outraged. Why, he asked, did you do such a crazy thing? Because, Schatz explained, if Gardino heard about it from someone else before he heard it from me, he’d think we were hiding something. This way, he’ll leave us alone, and from him word of our partnership will spread througho
ut the underworld, free advertising. Perhaps, Jon said, except that if Gardino learns I settled my insurance claim, you just lit the fuse to a time bomb…

  Ahead, the road curved, rolling past seemingly endless rows of pink, white and chartreuse motels. The dispute over the trip to Florida had been the only argument Jon had won from Schatz. So far the men he’d checked had all lived in the Midwest. After the last name, Schatz told him it was now time to go West, specifically to Las Vegas, Nevada, where, he said, the majority of the men on the list resided.

  But Jon insisted on the Florida trip first. He was going there anyhow, whether Schatz liked it or not, so reluctantly Schatz gave him two names, one a resident of Miami Beach, the other of Key West. Tomorrow, Jon would look at those men, but tonight he had other business.

  Train had told him Bess was here.

  * * * *

  The place was called Pierre’s. It was housed in a frame building near the business district, and its gaudy signs promised dancing, fun, discotheque and the go-go gals.

  Jon parked in the street. Oddly melancholy, he walked into a vestibule cut off from the interior by swinging doors. A red-faced, heavy-set greeter lounged there. When he saw Jon, he straightened.

  “Alone tonight?” His manner was that of a friendly uncle confiding in an unworldly nephew. “You’re lucky. It’s early, I can put you right up front. The action will pick up a lot in an hour.”

  Inside, Jon’s professional eye viewed desolation. Two men tended a big, circular bar. A half-dozen customers, youths in slacks and sports shirts, sat around it, and beyond that a vast hall was filled with tables and chairs, most of them empty. A deafening din emanated from the stage, currently occupied by four rock-and-roll singers with more energy than talent.

  “If you don’t mind,” Jon said politely, “I’ll sit at the bar.”

  He ordered a beer, swiveled on his stool and saw Bess. She and two other waitresses were at a table, heads together, talking and ignoring the floor show.

  The song ended. The applause was hardly noticeable. An M.C. bounded out and introduced the Go-Go Gals, three kids in belted leotards who climbed into cages and began to wiggle and shake to music from a hidden recorder. The frenetic blonde on the right, Jon observed, seemed remarkably young to be working in a dump like this.

  Bess was taking an order now. One of her customers, a middle-aged man in a business suit, tried to pinch her, but she pushed his hand away. From a distance, she was still the voluptuous, dark-haired beauty Jon had known as a boy. She’d kept her figure, and wore an abbreviated peasant girl’s dress. It was only as she neared that Jon noted the tired lines fanning from her eyes, and the bulge that hadn’t been under her chin before.

  “One martini,” she said woodenly to a bartender. “One whisky sour. One Zombie, and one Presbyterian. Although God knows how four drummers on a toot could invent a crazy order like that.”

  Three stools from where she stood, Jon said, “Hi.”

  Disinterested, she looked at him. “Yeah. Hi-you, too.” She looked away.

  “You don’t know me?”

  “Sorry, kid. You must have me confused with your kindergarten teacher.”

  “It wasn’t kindergarten. But you’re right. I was about that age at the time.”

  Bess was reaching for a tray. She stopped and looked again.

  “Good jumping jehosephat,” she said slowly. “You do look like someone I used to know. But that can’t be…”

  “It is, though.” He winked. “I’m Jon.”

  * * * *

  They moved to a booth, where Bess leaned forward, arms over her bosom, eyes wide and moist.

  “Jon, it’s im-possible. How good you look. The face—yes, it’s Rudy’s, but so much more handsome. And the hair, the lock over the brow. What threw me was how big you are. Rudy would have been so proud, he was always so sensitive about his own height. I bet you even played football somewhere, like you dreamed of doing when you were a boy.”

  “All-city half, in high school. College was rougher, but I made the team.”

  “Well, see…” Bess dabbed at her eyes. “That’s what I get for not reading sports pages. Even when Rudy had a piece of the Wolves, I never read the sports pages. But how in the world did you know I was here?”

  “Someone saw you,” Jon said vaguely. “An old Venus employee.”

  “Your aunt and uncle? How are they?”

  “Howard’s fine. You wouldn’t know him, but I haven’t seen Elvira for fifteen years. They’re divorced.”

  “I didn’t know. I wrote you once. She sent the letter back unopened, with a note telling me not to write again or she’d make trouble. I thought maybe that was best after all.”

  “I understand. This job at Pierre’s. You like it?”

  “It’s all right,” she lied. “My mother and I went to California from Buffalo. I wanted to get away from people who knew about me. But she died, and my money ran out. I’d been in show business when I met Rudy. A chorus line, in New York. It’s the only business I ever knew. I went back to it, and when I got a little rusty for the line, I wound up doing this…”

  “Hey, you.” Not smiling any more, the greeter leaned over the booth. “Those swingers at your table up front are gettin’ mighty dry.” He looked at Jon. “And you, boy. You buy a beer and don’t touch it. Then you start jawin’ with one of my girls. What’d you come in here for, anyhow?”

  Bess said, “Luke, this is special, he’s an old friend. He…”

  “See your friends on your time, not mine. I did you a favor givin’ you this job, an old cow like you. Now get your tail out there and hustle.”

  Her face reddening, Bess started to slide from the booth. Jon reached out and took her hand. Gently he pulled her back.

  “I’m sorry,” he announced, “but she just quit. As of now. So you can please get someone else to serve those four slobs.”

  Luke didn’t like that. Behind his back, he motioned. The two bartenders, who’d been watching, came around and ranged beside him.

  Conversation at the bar fell away.

  “She can’t quit,” Luke said. “She owes for the costume. Rental, alterations, cleanin’. The girls pay for that.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred bucks.”

  Bess was outraged. “A hundred! Why…”

  “I’ll pay.”

  Jon released Bess’s hand. He peeled five twenties from his wallet, dropping them to the table. Luke scooped them up quickly and jammed them into his pants pocket. He seemed pleased. He should be. He’d just swindled Jon out of a hundred dollars.

  “Okay,” the greeter told Bess. “Climb outa that rig and scram.”

  Luke and the bartenders strolled off.

  Bess said, “Jon, I…”

  “Do as he says. Get into your street clothes.”

  “I guess I got no choice.”

  She returned in a few minutes, wearing an inexpensive blue dress. Silently, Jon escorted her out. Luke, lounging in the vestibule again, gazed at them and sneered.

  Jon helped Bess into the car, closed the door on her side and said, “I forgot something. I’ll be right back. And by the way—the Go-Go Girl, the blonde on the right. She looked awfully young. How old is she?”

  “Supposedly,” Bess said, “eighteen. But she told me last night she’s fifteen. You know how it is…”

  Luke frowned when he saw Jon again. Behind him, through tiny windows in the swinging doors, Jon noted that all eyes were on the Go-Go Gals.

  “Now look,” Luke said. “If you…”

  A left jackknifed the man. Jon hauled him from the windows and propped him against a wall, a hand knotted in Luke’s lapel.

  “You,” Jon said, “should be more polite to ladies. When they find you, say some underage punks did this because you wouldn’t let them in. If you don’t, I’ll make
a federal case out of the hundred you stole. I’ll tip the cops about your under-aged dancer, and I’ll tell your creditors how near bankruptcy you are.”

  He hit Luke in the face once. Just once. That was enough. Luke’s face would never be the same again. Moaning, the greeter slumped to the floor. Jon didn’t think he’d complain. He’d been paid to take the beating, and he needed the money.

  Back in the car, Jon asked, “Where you staying?”

  “A hotel,” Bess said. “Six blocks to the right. But…”

  “We’ll go there.” They pulled away from the curb. “You pack and check out. I have business to finish, but I’ll drive you to Miami and put you on the next flight to Chicago. I own a piece of a place on North Wells. We need a new Den Mother, you’ll do fine.”

  “Den Mother?”

  “Cashier, actually. You handle the register and chaperone the girls. It’ll be a cinch.”

  “That’s nice. But I’m not sure I want to go to Chicago.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s a lot there I want to forget. I…”

  “Don’t be silly. One day we’ll walk to the old brown-stone together, just to look at it. A European consulate rents it now. And we’ll drive to the Retreat. You remember, my favorite place? It’s still as wild as ever. There’s a new toll road, and we can reach it in little more than an hour, instead of the three hours it used to take…”

  The hotel was old and cheap, catering to transients who worked in this resort city, not to vacationers from the North. Her room was small and shabby, and here and there the wallpaper peeled.