Work at Odds

by Shane Chastain

  She hadn’t stopped me, yet, and seemed to be listening, so I went on.

  “Let’s take this, thievery being punishable by death, angle. What if another one of the girls threw an earring into your jewelry box, and told him that you put it there?”

  “Why would they do that?”

  I lifted my shoulders and let them fall.

  “I don’t know. Let’s say business was down, and they wanted you out of the picture, to make themselves more popular. It could be any kind of reason. You think he’d just let you walk, or not?”

  She considered for a moment, while she twisted her glass around by the stem. It looked like the wheels were really turning, maybe for the first time, with regards to her own safety and stability, when a large older man slid into the booth next to her. Two of the stranger’s associates slid in on my right side. Up close they looked just like the kind of characters that I’d hoped not to interact directly with. The leader, who Jewels seemed to recognize, was around fifty, with graying hair combed straight back, a forcefully flattened nose, and next to no lips. The two men he came with looked half his age, and I rated them to be general purpose goons, complete with cheap suits. The one furthest from me did sport a heavy beard, which was distinctive.

  “Hey, Marty,” Jewels moaned. Marty picked up on it quick.

  “This chump got you down, girlie? Come here to ol’ Marty.” He pulled her to him, and she leaned her head onto his shoulder. A man down on my right, the one with the beard, piped up in a voice that had to have been damaged in some way.

  “You want us to take him away, boss?”

  I cut my eyes to Jewels, hoping she wouldn’t hang me out to dry, and she didn’t. She snuggled further into Marty’s chest, and spoke just above a whisper.

  “No, he’s alright.”

  Marty eyed me like he didn’t believe her, and asked,

  “Is Barbs treating you alright, girlie?”

  “He’s as good as ever. John, here, just got me thinking about some stuff, is all.”

  He rubbed her shoulder, and kept the daggers pointed my way.

  “Did he now?” he commented. “Dave, get some drinks.”

  The bearded man hopped to action, departing for the bar.

  Jewels was still looking at her martini stem, but finally spoke up.

  “I think I’m gonna do what you say, John.”

  I was surprised.

  “You’ll talk to Barbingola?”

  She cocked an eyebrow as if I’d said something crazy, and corrected me.

  “Nah. I’m gonna quit him.”

  “Quit him?” I repeated. “I didn’t ask you to quit him. Dave needs your help.”

  “Dave?” Marty echoed, Jewels ignored him. She went on.

  “Forget Dave. You want me to quit. Why else would you have asked me about it the other night, and then again here?”

  I stammered, but didn’t get anything useful out. She had me, after all. I figured she wouldn’t buy an excuse of, idle curiosity, because I didn’t either. At the end of the day, whether it be professionally cultivated feminine wiles, or something else, I felt like she was a sweet girl in a bad situation. Despite having to let Dave know I had failed, a part of me was glad to hear it. Too bad it turned out to be such a short lived feeling. She turned her head to bring her eyes up to Marty, and made a proposition.

  “I’m gonna quit Barbs, Marty. Let me work with your outfit.”

  Marty looked down at her and cracked a lipless smile that gave me the creeps. He answered her with what he probably called his sweet voice.

  “Jewels, you know you’re always welcome. Are you sure, though? Barbs isn’t known for letting people back in once they quit him.”

  She considered a moment, though not nearly long enough for a career change, and then nodded, finished her drink in a gulp, and said,

  “I’m sure. I’m a Canello girl, from now on.”

  Marty Canello smiled, his goon smiled, and despite my disgust, I smiled too. The prospect of having to keep that act up for the rest of the evening, and certainly for nothing, as far as my mission was concerned, did not appeal to me, but I was still boxed in, and the bearded goon would soon be back with drinks. I was glad to hear it when Jewels’ newfound confidence quickly wavered. She asked her new employer,

  “Can we go ahead and get out of here, Marty?”

  He told her, “Sure thing,” and snapped his fingers to tell the bearded man that they were heading out. I figured that would cancel the drinks, but all they did was take them from the tray, and leave, stealing the glassware. Nobody in the joint said a word.

  “Sorry, John,” Jewels bade, as she left on the arm of her new master.

  I sat for a moment by myself, sipping the last of my drink, and thinking what an abject failure the whole errand had been. For a second I thought about ordering a whiskey to sip on, and then remembered where I was, and how I had no business hanging around. I left ten dollars on the table, and made my way out as fast as I thought wouldn’t look like I was running.

  16

  A quick couple of E-trains brought me within a short walk of my apartment building. I made sure to check for tails before entering, in case any of Canello’s men, or one of The Maker Room’s patrons, had decided to tag along. The coast was clear and I went up.

  My recent sleeping schedule had it so I didn’t spend much time stewing on my failure with Jewels, though I did try to worry about it. I was out for the evening, or at least I would have been, had a hard series of knocks on my door not roused me. It was still dark when I decided they were worth cracking an eyelid. I’ll blame my fatigue for the carelessness I displayed, pulling the door open at that hour, with nothing more to protect me than pajamas.

  I went cold all over at sight of the late night caller. It was the bearded man from The Maker Room. He breezed in through the open door like he owned the place, which I’ll set at the feet of surprise for allowing. He spoke, but this time without the tortured throat.

  “I’ve been sent to kill you, John, by Mr. Canello.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief that my end was not to be forthcoming, despite his assertion. I closed the door, and set the latch as David DeGrabber peeled the left corner of the beard from his jaw.

  “Well,” I began, rubbing my eyes. “I suppose you don’t need a report from me on how my night went.”

  “No. It is fortunate your attention was so poor.” He’d finished peeling, and stepped into the bathroom to wash the tack from his face. He went on over the sound of the tap. “I had not expected our paths to cross, but there’s nothing for it now.”

  I stepped around where I could see him, and leaned against the door jamb.

  “What were you doing in that getup anyhow?”

  “I am endeavoring to bring about a scenario that will tempt Barbingola to venture out. Something too lucrative to let others handle, and too tenuous to host within his fortress.”

  I could see what he was getting at, but said so, just to be sure.

  “A big deal. Maybe a merger of two enterprises?”

  “Precisely,” he said from behind one of my hand towels.

  I shifted to the other side of the door, and offered,

  “Dave, they’ll make sure you don’t float, if they find out your face is glued on.”

  He laid the towel over my shoulder, as if I were a bathroom attendant, and started for the door. He spoke back to me.

  “By the way, John. Marty Canello, and presumably all present tonight, believe you dead, or they will when I report my success. I’d advise you not to return to The Maker Room until this is settled.”

  “Damn, Dave.” I was sarcastic. “I had my birthday party booked there. What ever will I do now?”

  He ignored me, and started to let himself out. I stopped him.

  “Wait a minute, before you run back off to the criminal underworld.” He held, so I went on. “The police have Art’s mother, so there’s a chance they’ll nab him when he comes for her. Don’t you think we’re taki
ng all this risk a little early?”

  He didn’t, and said so.

  “John, all manner of imbecile escape the state’s custody by simply walking through a carelessly opened door. I have no doubt that Miss Mable’s stay on Michigan Avenue will be brief.”

  He turned the handle, but I jumped in once more.

  “One more thing, for my own curiosity.” He waited. “How did you get hooked up with that Canello gang so fast anyway?”

  He pulled the door opened, and answered as he stepped out.

  “I had excellent references.”

  I huffed, and dismissed him with a wave, but he was already leaving, closing the door behind him. Resetting the latch gave me an idea. I went to my jacket, and took my pistol from it, and spent the next thirty minutes cleaning Art’s sticky gunk out of the works. With personal security restored, I hit the hay.

  It would be a few days before I’d see Dave again, which I half expected, since he had embedded himself undercover. To skip to then would be getting ahead of myself however, as there was housecleaning to be done the next morning.

  In this case, the house was our office, which was still disarranged from Tucker’s men, the day before. I gathered everything up, put it in its place, and waved the broom around, until it all looked presentable. A discovery of note was that Tucker’s men had helped themselves to our stash of currency when they broke our safes. I sat and thought about that for a while, before lunch, then skipped lunch, because I’d exhausted my funds on cabs, drinks, and other miscellaneous expenses, since the Barbingola case began. Going to Tucker with the gripe would have been useless, and only an excuse for him to gloat at my misfortune. After a while, I gave up on wallowing, pulled my desk phone over, and made some calls.

  Since I was now reported dead to certain members of the Chicago underworld, I figured I’d have some fun with it, and called Marry Carter, my mom and pop, and my friend Clint, to break the sad news to them of my own passing. It worried mom more than I had planned, but otherwise the macabre diversion had been nice. It wasn’t like the phone was ringing for anything else.

  I stood for a stretch, and thought to turn the radio on, when the phone did ring. I picked it up, and gave the standard address.

  “David and Trait Detective Agency. Trait speaking.”

  A familiar voice came on. Detective Scott, of homicide. He sounded distressed.

  “Where’s DeGrabber?”

  “Can’t say.”

  He cursed. I’ll let you imagine, and said,

  “Can’t say, or won’t say?”

  I was weary of being at odds with him, but his attitude wasn’t quite garnering my sympathy.

  “Probably both. What do you want him for?”

  “I need both of you, here at headquarters. I’m sending a car.” He spoke loud and clear, adding, “Don’t skate.”

  I shook my head at the floor, and told him,

  “I’m all you’ll get. I don’t know where Dave is, and I’m sure you can’t find him, so I’ll have to do.”

  “I guess so.”

  He took a little frustration out on hanging up, or at least the sound on my end said as much. I sat down and put my feet up, and waited for my city taxi.

  Honestly, I couldn’t see why Ben had bothered to call ahead until the uniformed man ushered me into Michigan Avenue. The place was in an uproar, with men and women trotting in and out of offices, taking things to top brass who had come down from on high to supervise whatever was going on.

  Ben discovered me soon enough, and motioned for me to follow. I snagged a crusty donut from the coffee station as we passed it, and ate on the way downstairs to where I knew general holding was. I laughed out loud at the first thing I saw.

  “Trait,” Tucker seethed, “I swear, this is the very last straw.”

  I laid on a little extra, for my own catharsis, since Tucker couldn’t have hit me if he wanted to. He sat on a bench with his right arm in a sling, and a shiner the size of a coffee mug on the same side. I finished my show with a knee slap, and spoke through my last piece of donut.

  “She got out, huh?”

  Ben’s face looked like boiled lobster. He hissed some words, at me.

  “Goddammit, Trait, this isn’t funny. We could have lost men.”

  I pointed at Tucker, saying,

  “That’s pretty rich, right there. How’d he get you, anyhow?”

  Tucker spat on my shoe, which did sour my mood some.

  “Your man came in last night,” Ben explained. “just as the late shift was getting settled in. He checked in at the desk, gave a bogus name, and said he was here to see about bailing a drunk out, if he’d promise to act right.”

  I turned to Tucker, and commented.

  “So, you’re handling visitors these days?”

  Tucker told me to take a hike, in essence. Ben went on.

  “Tucker had planned to spend the night down here. Said he’d know him when he saw him.”

  I chuckled some more at that, and Ben continued.

  “Anyhow, he came down, knocked out the night warden for the key, and dealt with a guard and a rowdy fellow in the next cell, over there. By that time, Tucker was awake, and he messed up his shoulder and knocked him silly before he made it off the bench.”

  “You didn’t even get to stand up, Tucker?” I chided.

  “He got the drop on me, is all.” Tucker explained. “I never even heard him take the others down. It was when he shut that loud sonofabitch up from outside the bars that I started to notice something was wrong. It got too quiet.”

  I rolled my eyes at him, just to rub it in. Having faced Art, I knew there wouldn’t have been anything he could have done, short of standing in wait with a firing squad at the ready. I looked to Ben.

  “I suppose he just walked the old lady out and down the street, before anybody was the wiser?”

  Nods all around.

  I pursed my lips and took in the scene. There wasn’t anything special. Nothing out of place, since he used the key. Tucker was the real centerpiece. Deciding they’d had enough ribbing for one day, I asked,

  “What am I here for, Ben?”

  “We need the name and probable location of your man. I know you want Barbs to pay you, but you and DeGrabber are out of rope on this one.”

  I showed him my hands, and explained.

  “Ben, I understand what you’re going through.” I cut my eyes to Tucker for a moment. “We’ve had somebody come and take something of ours too. But we don’t have what you want. On name, we’ve got as far as Art. He’s the son of that bat he took out of here, and as for a location, we’re as stumped as you. Now, all that said, and knowing how you officials like your, ‘allegedly’s’, there’s an outside chance those first two points are wrong. Between us, unofficially, I wouldn’t bet against that information.”

  Ben twisted his lip, which moved his mustache around. He was a normal color again, as well. After a moment’s consideration, he spoke.

  “That’s not very much to go on.” I shook my head that it wasn’t. “How does this Art, the old woman, and Barbingola, work together? We need it all, not like how DeGrabber holds stuff.”

  They were desperate, and wounded in various ways. Had they not looked so pitiful, I might have let them think I had something, but with Dave off working a tenuous plan, and Art findable only on his terms, I didn’t see much reason to torture them. I shook my head, and solemnly swore,

  “It’s all how Dave gave it to you. The old working girl used to work for Barbs.”

  Ben looked grim, and wondered,

  “You think it’s his boy?”

  “Could be. I wouldn’t chance any dough on that, what with the sort of work she did.”

  Ben drew a deep breath, then exhaled. He stared at my shoes for a half minute, and as much as insisted,

  “We’ll need to talk to DeGrabber, and see if we can’t expedite whatever it is he’s up to.”

  I shook my head from side to side. I was beginning to feel like Dave; cont
rary.

  “Trust me. You don’t want to help, and wouldn’t be able to if you did.”

  The old Tucker fireworks show had not been entirely wetted, and he fired up on that, like before. I spent the rest of the day, and into the evening, telling the same thing to everybody in the police station that took a ticket to hear it. It wasn’t so much a captive audience, as I a captive performer, since I was moved from the holding area, to the nice interrogation room, and later on, to the not so nice one. The more illustriously titled, especially, couldn’t understand that their position did not somehow impart in me Dave’s location, or the particulars of his task. At some point, around 8:30, with no dinner plans laid out, I thought about telling them that I had been killed, just last night, by a goon, and that’s why I was so useless, but figured they wouldn’t get the joke.

  17

  Now, in this case, you’ll surely appreciate my skipping ahead. The next three days, ending on Wednesday, there was neither sight, nor sound, of Dave. All I could do was hope he was still keeping up appearances in whichever gang he needed to. I tried to put the other alternative out of my mind, and operated the office like I would if I had always been partnerless. It was not exciting stuff.

  Possibly word had gotten out to the public of our serving undesirables, or it just happened to be a slow week, what with the weather taking a turn toward winter. Either way, the phone hardly rang, and Sid announced no visitors.

  I sat at my desk that evening, working on the late Tribune, reading their predictions on the first snow of the season, when someone did call at the office. I lowered the weather pages to watch as Dave, complete with faux beard, entered. His usual wardrobe had been replaced by a handyman’s ensemble that made him look very much like a phone company man. He had a satchel of tools in one hand, and an industrial roll of telephone cord under the other arm.

  “Moonlighting, huh?” I assessed.

  He glowered at me from beneath a low cap. His face was dirty, as were his hands, making him look beat, but he spoke in the same flat but energetic clip as always.

  “I have been involved in many things this week, John, but tonight I expect them to pay off. Do you have access to arms?”