Work at Odds

by Shane Chastain

  Making my way through to my desk, I found Dave at his, in conference with a standing Sergeant Edwards. Young officer Stevens had come along too. He was in my chair, so I made him move. I swiveled around, taking in the room. My eyes landed on something rash-like, high on the exposed thigh of one of the girls, so I turned back toward Dave, and asked casually,

  “We changing our business model, Dave?”

  He ignored my quip, and explained.

  “Sergeant Edwards, and Officer Stevens, along with a few of Mr. Barbingola’s employees are going to assist us in drawing out our killer.”

  I considered with a finger to my lips, then realizing that I didn’t know who present had touched what, removed it, and commented,

  “I like it. You think we can get it done, without leading one of these lambs to the slaughter?”

  “That’s the part I’m worried about,” Edwards admitted gruffly. Dave reassured him.

  “Sergeant, it will be perfectly safe, for you. Your part in this is merely to monitor these gentlemen, as they monitor the young ladies. And also, to see that the Chicago Police allow our controlled installation to operate for a time, until we draw out our man.”

  Edwards rubbed his lower lip with no apprehensions, and said,

  “Tucker won’t let it happen on any books, but if nobody tips him off then he won’t raid us either. Me and Stevens can keep a lid on it for a few days, for sure.”

  “Excellent.” Dave was pleased. “We will begin tonight, at the location we discussed. I am impressed that you were able to orchestrate this on such notice, Sergeant.”

  Edwards made a face, and said to us, “Let’s not advertise it, too much, DeGrabber. I’ll see you tonight.”

  With that, he signaled to the heavies, and they, somewhat more discreetly than I expected, informed the girls that it was time to go. There was a little backtalk, here and there, but soon enough it was just Dave and I, again, in a funny smelling office. I went into our little restroom and prepared a rag, and started wiping the chairs and window sills down.

  Dave had his feet stuck out in front of him, and his arms folded, looking ponderous. I should also mention that he had found another blue jacket somewhere, possibly second hand by the look of the cuffs.

  “Dave, if we’re gonna let those girls operate, aren’t we gonna have to have more men to watch them?”

  I waited the entire cleaning of the door handle, before I shouted at him to get a response. He just said,

  “What?”

  I shrugged, and realigned the client chairs along the left wall, and retooled my question.

  “We’ll have girls getting into strange cars, or sneaking off into dark entryways, all up and down the block. That’ll need real manpower to monitor, won’t it?”

  He made a grim face at me, and said,

  “I find this streak of voyeurism to be in bad taste, John.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Dave?”

  He clarified, but made sure to sound as condescending as he could.

  “There is no need to monitor the girls, John, beyond what is regular. In the previous killings, the girls were entirely vulnerable, and yet none have been harmed. It is their handlers that our mark seeks to exterminate, for reasons unknown.”

  I admit, to you, that I felt a bit thick for not seeing that right away, but then this was the first time we’d ran a corner for a case, so that’s my excuse. I let Dave know I had it.

  “The men got the drop put on them, because they were busy watching for something to happen to the girls, but we’re gonna keep an eye on them.”

  “Correct, John. And they on each other. I’ve given instructions to the girls, as well, on what to look for. You see, for our purposes, we have more than a dozen sets of eyes to make sure the three or four handlers stay safe.”

  It was a good plan. Satisfied that the office was well enough disinfected, I pulled open my desk drawer and got out my .38, checked it was loaded, and put it in the pocket of my overcoat on the rack. Dave produced his pistol as well.

  “How’d you keep your pistol last night?” I wanted to know.

  “I left it here,” he answered plainly.

  I palmed my head and shook it in disgust, but saved my comments about how stupid it was to go around to all the dangerous people he could find with no defense.

  That night became the first of five that we would spend with the girls, Barbingola’s men, and Officer Stevens. Dave set us up on the same piece of street where we’d come across Big Tony. I won’t name names of the people I saw, who drove or walked up to partake of our services over those five nights, and I hope they didn’t recognize me either. I kept my collar up high and my hat low, and stayed away from the curb as much as my surveillance of the handlers allowed. Stevens didn’t seem to have anything to wear besides a police uniform, which made the girls nervous, and hurt business when a customer would set eyes on him. Dave perched himself across the street, on the corner of a roof, with no overcoat despite the biting wind, and stayed there as sentry until we got shut down Wednesday night. At least two people never showed; our murderer, and Sergeant Edwards, whom we would never see alive again.

  9

  By eleven thirty, Wednesday night, we men were on a first name basis. I just about had the women straight as well. The difficulty being that the group that had been in our office had not all made it for the first shift, and then shuffled in and out with other girls on the subsequent evenings. Quinten, one of Barbingola’s chaperons, informed me that a quality rare amongst this particular variety of working female, was dependability. It made sense.

  I’ve mentioned Sergeant Edwards’ absence, and will get to that soon enough, but some other appearances, and lack thereof, of note, were that Sandy, the old bag that Jewels had told about, came and worked Tuesday night. Jewels had made her sound like a worn out grandmother, but she was only forty, or a little older, and had clearly taken care of herself. What I mean to say, without trying to be lewd, is that Sandy had no trouble attracting buyers for what she was selling. Jewels never did make an appearance. That little bit is everything of even the most minor importance that happened between the time we started and the time we were summarily stopped.

  What stopped us was blue lights, and plenty of them. The first sign of trouble was Officer Stevens tearing down the sidewalk toward Quinten and I.

  “Clear out! Clear out!” he shouted over the heavy slaps of his shoes on the concrete.

  Quinten didn’t need to be told twice, dashing off between some buildings before I’d even registered that something was amiss. My privilege of a law abiding life, I suppose.

  Stevens’ Paul Revere impression could have used a faster horse however, because not ten seconds after his warning, three squad cars turned the corner with their lights on. They hit the sirens as soon as they caught dyed hair in their headlights.

  The girls scattered every which way, and Dave shouted from his post on the rooftop for the men to be vigilant, but they didn’t seem to hear.

  “What are we gonna do, Mr. Trait?”

  Stevens had reached me, and had his hands on my shoulders, his eyes darting around frantically. I rolled mine at him, and started walking swiftly down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of the police cars. It was no good, though. In a few yards, another two black and whites turned onto the block from the other direction, and a voice on a car loudspeaker told us to stay put. With Dave stuck on the roof we were sunk anyhow, so I put my hands up and waited to be collected.

  Tucker, the head of vice squad, collected two of the chaperons, and seven of the ten women we had that night, with the manpower he had brought. Dave was taken down from the roof, and we were lined up along the curb to sit awhile. Presumably, just because it made for discomfort. After a few pat downs, each of which finding more and more benign an item to be right for confiscation, we were loaded into the backs of cars and taken to Michigan Avenue and Police Headquarters. There, we upgraded to the discomforts of a group holding cell till nearly
daylight.

  Right around the time I started to think about breakfast, Dave and I were told to stand by a warden who seemed imposed upon by our visit. We did as he said, and he let us out, and led us down a corridor familiar to me, to one of the interrogation rooms where we were put on ice for another forty five minutes.

  “They sure like to keep you waiting,” I commented to Dave, while I played with the links in my handcuff chain in front of me. “No customer service spirit,” I added.

  He didn’t respond, and just sat there low in the chair, with his legs stretched out in front of him under the table. He had his hands together, up by his chin, I guess since he couldn’t cross his arms with the handcuffs.

  I was about to ask him who he thought had tipped the fuzz off, so that he could refuse to speculate, when the door opened and Tucker entered with Stevens behind him.

  Vice Head Gerald Tucker was a fossil from a bygone age. If our friend Ben Scott was a beacon of progress and cooperation, kicking liberally but righteously against his forefathers’ corruption, unfairness, and general institutional pigheadedness, then Tucker was those old timers’ forefather. He was either near retirement age, or just kept putting it off out of the love of hemming people up, but either way he was older. Thin as a whip, too, with skin stretched tightly over his bony frame and face. His chin jutted out, and it seemed like his lips never quite closed all the way, giving him a permanent scowl. I’d not had reason to deal with Tucker up until now, but his reputation was known to most, and so he was given a wide berth. He was said to routinely plant narcotics on suspects, to make whoever his gut told him to good for a crime.

  He sat down, and looked from me to Dave and back again, a few times. Getting the picture, he spoke,

  “Thought you were honest kids.”

  I tilted my head to begin to speak, possibly on the idea that what is a kid, to a man, gets older and older in line with himself, but he cut me off.

  “Guess not. We’re going to charge you two with operating a prostitution ring.” He got up to leave. Stevens looked around scared. Dave held him, saying,

  “We were operating in concert with Sergeant Edwards, in the cause of Don Barbingola, in an effort to draw out a violent murderer. Officer Stevens was assisting us as well.”

  Tucker wheeled to Stevens and leveled a withering gaze at him.

  “That better be a bad lie, Stevens,” he warned.

  Dave spoke for the young man.

  “It is not, I assure you. Sergeant Edwards will confirm as much.”

  “Out,” Tucker said to Stevens, pointing at the door. The young man got up and went, looking none too steady on his feet. Tucker sat back down, and told Dave to spill it.

  Dave did so, giving a similar outline of our work for the mobster as Detective Scott had recieved. Tucker was obviously not a patient man, so Dave hurried through it, making sure to only tell what was essential.

  When Dave got done, Tucker made a demand.

  “I want every Barbingola contact. All the numbers and addresses of his brothels, and I want you to set him up, so I can take him down.”

  “Impossible,” Dave said plainly.

  “Then you’ll sit it out for ten to twenty. Either prove all this about a case by giving me Barbingola, or I’ll have you in Stateville by supper time.”

  Dave twisted his lip impatiently, and rebutted,

  “Mr. Tucker, you bluff, or at least you bloviate. You have no earnest doubt of the validity of our engagement, and if you do, then you may satisfy it by speaking to Sergeant Edwards. I say again, he will confirm our position.”

  Tucker slapped both palms down on the table and stood. He went to the door and turned the knob to leave. Before he pulled, he looked back and said,

  “I’ll have Edwards in Stateville, right next to you.”

  With that he pulled the door opened, and just about had his forehead knocked on by Detective Scott, who was there with a case folder in hand, looking as grim behind his red mustache as I’d ever seen him.

  “What’s that about Edwards?” he asked his elder colleague.

  “Nothing,” Tucker said. “What do you want?”

  Scott leaned in and whispered into Tucker’s ear.

  “Edwards, dead?” Tucker exclaimed.

  “Where?” Dave demanded, jumping to his feet.

  “You sit down!” commanded Tucker. Dave spoke quickly.

  “Detective Scott, perhaps we may assist you. Sergeant Edwards had been assisting John and I.”

  Scott’s face turned red. He brushed by Tucker, and made Dave clarify.

  “He was helping you with Barbingola? Did you get him killed, DeGrabber?”

  I knew Dave had not, at least not in any direct way, and I could see he hadn’t appreciated the accusation. I jumped in, before he could dig us a hole with his mouth that we couldn’t climb out of.

  “Easy, fellas. We’re all pros here. Let’s sit down and hash it out like it.”

  The look on Tucker’s face when Ben pulled out a chair and sat was what you might call disgusted, but he shook it off and did likewise.

  “Go ahead, DeGrabber,” Scott prompted.

  “With what, Detective? I have no information.”

  “All right then,” Tucker nearly shouted. “Off to the pen.”

  I shrugged and helped.

  “What happened to Edwards, Ben?” I asked gently.

  “Well, Trait,” Ben began, opening the folder before him. “He was found this morning, before dawn, dangling from the corner of a building on the north side, by the river. Best we can figure is he was looking into a cat house there. One was across the street, but it had cleared out by the time we went looking.”

  “Is that one of Barbingola’s, DeGrabber?” Tucker wanted to know.

  “It may be. What was the cause of death?”

  Scott ran his finger down the page he had opened, tapped the line, and said,

  “Manual strangulation. Looks like he put up a fight with whoever did him in.”

  “So he is a capable combatant, as well an infiltrator,” Dave muttered.

  “Who?” both the flatfoots blurted.

  “Who knows,” Dave answered. “We must get back to work, at once.”

  Tucker pointed a finger, and said,

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  Dave huffed, and challenged,

  “Really, Mr. Tucker, is it not exhausting to so willfully cut one’s own nose? Sergeant Edwards has likely been the latest victim of the killer that John and I are already on the trail of. There are a number of points that you would find difficult to resolve in a timely manner, that we may readily.” He turned to Ben, and went on.

  “Detective, I understand your disapproval of our employer, but our access to him and his outfit will be invaluable to our now joint investigation.”

  Ben raised a hand for Dave to slow, and questioned,

  “How do we know Barbingola didn’t kill Edwards?”

  “I can virtually assure you, here and now, that he did not, but that is a point that you would find difficult to satisfy on your own. My first action will be to resolve it summarily, for us all.”

  Scott bowed his head, or maybe he just reread something at the bottom of his case notes. After a moment, he turned to Tucker, and said,

  “Listen, Tucker. I’ve got enough here to make it a homicide case and take them off your hands. We can go fight over it with the chief, if you have to, but I’ll get them, and they’ll help us too.”

  Tucker’s chin jutted out another quarter inch, and the grinding of his teeth made my skin crawl. He relented after a minutes’ consideration.

  “I’ll take the easy way.” He stood, and said to us, “I can always collar these two some other time,” and went out the door.

  The three of us sat in silence for a few moments, and then Scott dug into his pants pocket and tossed a handcuff key onto the table. While we unshackled ourselves, he spoke.

  “How do we know Barbingola’s not killing these men himself, o
r having it done?”

  Dave was in no mood to stick around. He answered shortly.

  “To what end?”

  “All sorts of reasons. Maybe some of them were on the women, or stealing, or maybe they were even informing.”

  “His own investigators too? No. He wouldn’t hire us to look into his own housecleaning.”

  Scott scoffed, and said,

  “You’re so sure. He might have killed those men just to draw Edwards out. A man like that is capable of anything.”

  I gave Scott a sympathetic eye, and told him,

  “Ben, Barbingola didn’t have any problem with Edwards. Believe me.”

  Scott raised his eyebrows at me knowingly, and nodded.

  “No,” Dave muttered, possibly to himself. “But what of the rest of the house?”

  “Ehh?” grunted Scott.

  Dave twisted his head, emerging from his thoughts, and asked,

  “Are we free to go, Detective?”

  Ben looked to me with apprehension, but I could only raise my shoulders and let them drop, because his guess was as good as mine as to what Dave had cooking. Ben relented, and said we could go. He led us out, and around to evidence, where he returned our things to us. His fellow officers looked on the three of us like some sort of curiosity. Maybe nobody had ever escaped Tucker’s interrogation room with both their freedom and their teeth.

  Soon enough we were back on the street. Dave hailed a cab, and we got in. I expected him to give the address to the office, but instead to told the driver to take us to a spot on Roscoe.

  “Where are we headed, Dave?”

  “To Sergeant Edward’s residence, to speak to his wife.”

  My eyes popped. Had she even been informed of his passing? Did she have any inkling as to her husband’s late night affairs? I got the feeling she would be up on things by the time Dave got done with her, and there was no stopping him.