“So, where are you guys from?” she bubbled.
“They’re from an agency,” Barbingola told her.
She stood, saw my eyes pop at the open shawl, and wrapped herself up in it. That didn’t impede her approach to me, or alter its cheery demeanor.
“You have to give me one of your cards. I’ve always dreamed of being an actress, or maybe a model. I just haven’t found the right agency.”
I smiled at her, and patted her delicate hand that had found its way to my sleeve. I tried to explain.
“We’re not really that sort of agency, I’m afraid.”
She steamrolled me with optimism.
“Oh, nonsense. An agency’s an agency, I always say.”
The other girls were looking at her like she had lost her mind, but she was so hopeful that I figured, it’s just a card, and got one out and let her have it. She took it and returned to the stool.
Dave had had his thinker turned on, and asked,
“Mr. Barbingola, did Tony work exclusively with the girls, or was he involved in other aspects of your business as well?”
“Just with the girls. Tony didn’t have much stomach for rough stuff. He could usually get the girls their money just by standing close by, since he was so big. I can’t believe they were able to get him.”
“He was imposing, indeed,” Dave admitted.
Barbingola shook his head. You might even say mournfully. After a moment, Dave said,
“I don’t believe we have any further business, Mr. Barbingola. We will, of course, keep you apprised of our progress. Thank you for your time.”
Barbingola just waved. He seemed deep in thought. Fange opened the door, and ushered us out.
“Bye, Mr. Trait,” Jewels called to the back of me. It wasn’t much, but I was impressed that she had worked out which one of us was which, from the card and the conversation. I half turned and put a finger to my hat brim, and departed.
At the front door, Fange spoke.
“Here’s the number to the house.” He handed Dave a couple cards, and added, “You can call, anytime, day or night. Whoever answers the phone will do, it’s usually myself. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Dave had a few comments and concerns, but they weren’t anything to bother you all with. Certainly not when stood up beside my concern, which had just emerged in a state of dishevelment from one of the bedrooms across the house. I tilted my head back, upon making eye contact, to say that I saw him, and Sergeant Edwards raised a hand to me to acknowledge it, then retreated back into the room.
I wanted to tell Dave so bad I was sick, and he was taking his time with Fange, asking about staff at the house and times of meals. He took so long that Edwards’ companion got impatient, and exited the room. It was another girl like the ones with Barbingola, in that she carried herself with a professional air. In fact, air was all over her, as she made her way over to a fruit basket stark naked. I wanted to shake my head at the whole thing, but decided that it would be impolite. Dave was finally done anyway, and we left.
Our other things were down in the lobby, as we had been told, and were returned to us. Back on the street, I managed to hold my gossip in until we got in the car and pulled off.
“Did you see Edwards was there?” I blurted excitedly.
“I did.” Dave was acting less excited.
“Well, what does it mean?”
“Perhaps Sergeant Edwards is operating undercover,” he reasoned.
“The woman he was with looked like she needed covered.” I dismissed the idea. “No. The girls on the street last night know him as a cop now, if they didn’t already. He’s gotta be crooked.”
“A strong accusation, John.”
I crossed my arms, and dismissed that idea too, though I didn’t say so this time. Another thought had come to mind.
“You think Edwards might have cracked Big Tony in the head with that pipe?”
Dave signaled for a right turn as he guided the car toward our office. He admitted,
“It is not beyond the realm of possibility.”
“He had the pipe in his hand,” I put in.
Dave cut a narrowed eye to me, and said,
“He also had his sidearm in the other. You propose he drew it for our benefit?”
I waved it off.
“It’s all worth settling.”
That as much as did settle our discussion for the drive. We had arrived at the lot where the sedan goes, and got out and made our way around to our building.
“Coming in early today, huh, John?” It was Sid, our building’s front desk man.
Dave went on up in the elevator by himself, and I stayed down with Sid for a moment.
“Yeah, Dave picked me up from the apartment,” I explained.
Sid got a couple of loose smokes from his uniform pocket and offered one to me. I took it and a light, and puffed on it while we talked. I asked him,
“Sid, have you heard from Detective Scott?”
“Nah, John, but they’ve had a man out front since about an hour after I got here this morning.”
I hadn’t even thought to look, since the sight of Edwards at Barbingola’s had my attention.
“Good looking out, Sid.”
I patted the front desk counter, and nodded to depart. Sid piped up,
“You think I oughta put any money on Ivory Jewels?”
I mainly just heard, ‘Jewels’, since the girl on the stool was the second thing on my mind behind Edwards. I turned, and said,
“What?”
“Ivory Jewels. He’s seven to one at Hawthorne, this weekend.”
I waved him off, and pulled myself up the stair case banister, since the elevator hadn’t quite come down.
5
Entering the office, Dave was behind his desk with the Tribune under his eyes. I pulled my chair up to my station, uncovered my typewriter, and then thought to make an inquiry.
“So, do we type it all up as usual for Barbingola? I get that he’s a client like any other, but do you think he’d want an account of us trying to track down hookers that work for him?”
Dave didn’t say anything, or even look up. He turned over to a new page. I tacked on,
“I mean, what if the feds were to raid him?”
The paper came down, and he looked across to me with a touch of disdain. A knock at the door let me off the hook, for now.
“I’ll get it,” I told him, and made my way to it.
The daylight coming through our back window lessened the outline of our visitor in the glass door pane, so I straightened my tie and affixed a friendly face to greet whoever was on the other side, and opened up.
“Ah, geeze,” I complained, letting the friendly act drop. “Here to bring us in, Detective?”
Ben Scott was back at our door. He leaned around me, and spoke to Dave.
“What did you do now, DeGrabber?” Then to me. “What are you talking about, Trait? You letting me in, or what?”
I pulled the door wide and let him cross the threshold, and grabbed a chair for him off the wall and sat it behind him. I went back around to my desk, and we sat.
Dave had returned to his paper and seemed to Ben as if he’d stay there. Ben looked my way, and began,
“I came by, because yesterday I might have lost my head a little.” He took his hat off and sat it on his knee, revealing his bright red hair. He went on.
“I’ve decided it wouldn’t be right to just write the two of you off. I figure we can work together, and maybe collar a few of these gangsters. Share information. You know?”
I tilted my head to act like I was considering, even though the prospect of cooperating with the officials again was right up my alley. With any luck Dave and I might yet have another case in the city of Chicago, even after working this one.
Unfortunately, before I could come up with anything gracious to say, Dave butted in.
“Absolutely not, Detective.”
I palmed my face and mumbled a littl
e that’s not fit to type.
“Why the hell not, DeGrabber?” Scott demanded. His friendliness was gone now as well.
Dave folded the paper and tossed it onto his desk, then he slumped low in his chair, crossed his arms and feet, and leveled his eyes at our guest. He began,
“Yesterday, you berate us for our involvement in Barbingola’s affairs, going so far as to demand the entire force ostracize us. Now, you wish for us to betray our client, by becoming some sort of mole within the organization. Do you not presently have such men in place?”
Scott waved Dave off, put his hat back on, turned color, and seethed,
“Your client is a murderer, a racketeer, a pimp, and a money launderer. Just what sort of interests are you trying to protect? Who’s reputation?” He let out a sort of disgusted chuckle, and added, “You’re certainly not helping your own, DeGrabber.”
My mind raced for something to say that could salvage anything, but Dave went right on to new stuff.
“Tell me of Sergeant Edwards,” Dave commanded.
Scott’s head went back, and he looked to me. I gave him nothing.
“What about him?” he snapped, and admitted, “He’s on vice.”
“His character?”
“What?”
“I want to know his position. Is he in good standing with the force?”
Scott leaned forward with a hand on his knee. The other pointed right at Dave. He lowered his voice.
“DeGrabber, I swear, if you are trying to make trouble for one of my officers-”
“Nonsense. You hear inference, though there is none. My question is plain.”
Scott held position, and just let his eyes dart to me. Again, I didn’t give him anything to go on. We sat like that for a moment, until Scott hopped up from his chair. He tugged at the collar of his brown overcoat, that he wears nearly year round, and reasoned,
“I suppose you ran across Edwards at that hotel last night, and you’re just mad there was nothing there to find.”
For a second Dave didn’t say anything, so Scott turned to go.
“I suppose so, Detective,” Dave said to his back.
Scott muttered further unmentionables, and let himself out.
I swiveled a few degrees to take Dave straight on over the top of my typewriter, and nearly shouted,
“Why did you do that?”
His head must have gotten heavy, and it bobbled a few directions before turning my way.
“John, you cannot be so foolish as to take Detective Scott’s offer to inform on our client.”
I outstretched my arms, I guess to show how big my point was, and said,
“Don’t you understand that we have to be friends with the cops to keep doing this?”
Dave explained, with only a slightly intolerable amount of condescension.
“It is an untenable position, John. Our interactions with Barbingola, and his organization, are entirely confined to his prostitution ring. Many of the men in that branch have been recently killed. It would not take Mr. Barbingola, or Mr. Fange, very long to discover our betrayal, should the few remaining men be apprehended, or the brothels raided. That’s to say nothing of the possibility that Sergeant Edwards may be Barbingola’s agent inside the department.”
The truth is, he didn’t even have to tell me any of that. It was plain as day. I admitted it too, so as not to be small.
“We’d be dead men walking.” I exhaled, and asked, “Well, what do you want to try next?”
“A Mr. Edwards, to see you.”
That was Sid, over the intercom.
“Hold that thought,” I told Dave, and went to the button and told Sid to send him up.
“You think it’s the sergeant?” I wondered, but Dave gave no opinion. He just shushed me. I didn’t argue, because I knew what he was listening for. When we heard the elevator come to life, he said,
“Ask Sid to check if the police are still watching the front.”
I pushed the button and told Sid to do it, and fast. Now we had a little race, which is never ideal when Sid’s the horse your money’s on, but he only had go five good strides to the front door glass and peek out. The elevator had to make it to the third floor, and it’s by no means one of the express models. Even still, a knock came at our door, and Sid still hadn’t reported back. I put my hand over the speaker, so it wouldn't be so loud if it came on. A second set of knocks, and I was just about to tell Sid to forget it and hope he’d hear, when the speaker piped up, and Sid announced,
“No audience.”
I told him thanks and hurried to the door handle, just as our next guest started to become visibly impatient through the glass. I pulled it open, and Sergeant Edwards stepped in.
“You alone, Trait?” he asked. His eyes darted around, and fell on Dave who had his paper back up. “Oh, well. I suppose he saw me too.”
“I told him anyhow. You might as well sit down,” I said, directing him to the chair that Scott had left. He took it, and sat for a moment, nervously adjusting his hair and sideburns. Dave broke the ice from behind the newspaper.
“Why are you here, Sergeant?”
“I needed to give you the dope on my operation, before you blabbed it to Scott, or somebody.”
“You only just missed the detective,” Dave informed him, turning the paper to a new section.
“What did you tell him?”
Dave lowered the paper an inch, and frowned.
“Why don’t you explain this, operation, to us.”
“Sure.” Edwards leaned in, and nearly whispered, “I’m undercover, see-”
“False,” Dave interjected.
“How would you know, DeGrabber?” he demanded.
It was a bad play, and he should have known better. I went ahead and took it, with enough delicacy to not embarrass him further.
“Edwards, you can’t be undercover, because even if you were, your cover got blown last night with us. You couldn’t have gone to Barbingola’s after that.”
“That is to say nothing of the malfeasance of a vice officer partaking of the primary vice he is meant to curtail,” Dave piled on.
Edwards’ lip twisted while he thought of a better story. He gave us a different one.
“Alright. The truth is I’m having an affair. We started having problems a couple years ago, and it turns out that I’m in the right line of work to blow off steam.”
“You’re a fraud,” said Dave.
“Suck an egg, DeGrabber. I do plenty of good work. With Barbingola, I look the other way, and he sets me up with whatever girl I feel like. That’s what I was doing there. Alright?”
“Did you look the other way on Big Tony, as well?” Dave inquired cooly.
After such an admission as he’d just made, I was shocked that Edwards was able to muster the energy to be haughty, but he did. He sat up, and responded,
“About that. Where did you go last night? You both knew you were supposed to stick around for questioning.”
Dave raised his paper up again, and spoke from behind it.
“A wonder that you, or Detective Scott, has not served us warrants.”
That jab took some wind out of his sails, and Edwards challenged, saying,
“Why should Scott have anything to do with it?”
Another bad one. I was beginning to wonder if it was strictly the girls he was partaking of.
“He’s head of homicide, for one,” I reminded.
He shook his head and put on a superior grin.
“We don’t involve all departments for everything that comes up. Besides, he was just a gang heavy.”
Dave drew a heavy breath from behind his blind, and asked,
“Will you have our statements here, or on Michigan Avenue, Sergeant?”
Edwards stood, and said,
“I’ll take them later. I’ll be in touch.”
He turned and headed for the door. I got up to get it for him, but he was through it and gone, taking the stairs rather than wait on the elevat
or. I made sure the door was shut, replaced the extra chair, and got myself back behind my desk. After a moment’s consideration, I let Dave in on it.
“Does he think we don’t know how the CPD operates?”
Dave didn’t answer, but I like to think would have, had the phone not rang just then. I picked it up on my desk and gave my standard office greeting.
“David and Trait Detective Agency. Trait speaking.”
The voice on the line was a happy change of timbre from the mobsters and perturbed police I’d been listening to.
“You’re just the man I'm looking for. This is Jewels.”
“Jewels,” I repeated, mostly for Dave’s benefit. He had been looking my way, but now stuck his nose into the deepest recesses of his reading. “The future movie star.”
“That’s me,” she bubbled. “I want to talk to you about it. Can you see me tonight?”
Jewels had made a good impression on me at Barbingola’s, and not just with her fair skin or blonde hair, but a part of me was still untrusting. She could just be a true pro, after all. I hesitated, and she jumped on it.
“Listen, I don’t mean I want you to be another john, either. I was thinking something more along the lines of The Stiletto.”
Well, that settled that, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I was, in fact, a John. I had my confidence back just the same, since it was now only regular date making.
“Nah, that night club will be too loud and too busy to talk. The best I can do is Williams’.”
“Williams’ is fine with me, but are you sure?”
That struck me as a silly question, so I gave a friendly chuckle, and told her,
“Of course I’m sure. They’ve got the best steaks in the city. Eight o'clock?”
She said it needed to be nine, so I prepared myself for a nine-thirty dinner, and we hung up.
I put my hands behind my head and leaned back in my chair. Even though I keep Mary Carter around as my steady girl, it still feels good to keep my logistics practiced.
“I’m going to dinner with that girl from Barbingola’s, at nine, tonight,” I informed Dave.
He turned another page, which brought him to the back of that issue of The Tribune, and said,
Work at Odds Page 4