I’d had my feet up, but took them down, and swiveled to reach my desk drawer. I pulled my .38 from it, and held it up, in answer to his silly question.
He placed the things down beneath the coat rack, and smiled. He said,
“Wonderful. Are you prepared to assist me? It may not be entirely necessary, and will certainly be hazardous, if you do.”
I tilted my head from side to side, as if I needed a moment’s consideration, but I hope you know I did not.
“I’m dying on the vine, here, Dave. The papers gave up on the at-large Miss Mable yesterday. What do I have to do?”
This time I’ll skip ahead, just a bit, for sake of theatrics. Better to show you what Dave had cooked up, than spoil it back in the office. Admittedly however, if a play by play of my couple Daveless days would have been dull, they wouldn’t have been much worse than the two and a half hours I sat, almost literally, on ice.
Dave’s plan required me to be the first to arrive at the location, and I had done just that. I set up shop behind a rooftop vent, farthest from the access door, atop a high rise on West Lake Street, not far from Barbingola’s. That first snow I’d been reading about that afternoon had decided to come early, and the flakes had started to show on the shoulders of my overcoat. Crouched down as I was, my ankles were getting some wind on them. To take my mind off the chill I tried counting the windows of the building to my left that was under construction. It would be an office building soon, and even taller than the one I was on, but for now it struck me as drafty in its unfinished state.
I was mapping out the two vents, pair of water tanks, utility shed, and six skylights, to myself, when a noise came at the roof access door. I twisted my neck to try to hear it the best I could. People were coming up, and though it was plenty dark, this was a crucial time to not be spotted, so I couldn’t risk a peek.
“Where the hell are they?” came a voice I recognized to be that of Marty Canello. “He’s supposed to be here already.”
It felt like four sets of footsteps, but then someone could have taken little strides, giving my ears a false reading. Anyhow, whatever muscle Canello had with him didn’t respond. Instead, a woman’s voice came.
“I don’t know, Marty.” It was Jewels. “It’s eight, and Dave said Barb’s would be here at 7:30, waiting for us. Didn’t he?”
Canello grumbled something that I didn’t catch, and then demanded,
“Where is Dave, anyhow? Have you two seen him?”
Two men said they hadn’t, so my count was good.
Now, I just had to hope Canello wouldn’t send his boys around to search the rooftop. As usual, Dave had been somewhat vague on certain aspects of the plan, but I’d come to expect them to work out. I looked at my watch in the moonlight, and saw that Canello was, in fact, fashionably late himself, and in ten minutes, right on time at 8:30, the door swung open again, and started the first row of the night.
“What is this, an ambush?” Barbingola shouted from the doorway.
I heard the sound of gun leather being disturbed, but no one retreated back into the building. Canello talked fast.
“Nah! You were supposed to have been here, Barbs. What gives?”
Barbs bristled.
“Nuts, Marty! I’m supposed to be waiting on you.” Barbs must have turned to another in his party, and shouted, “Where the hell is Jake, anyhow? Are you sure you got the times right?”
Another familiar voice answered that one. This time Fange spoke up, smooth as ever.
“I haven’t seen him boss, but if it’s a set up, Mr. Canello has missed his chance for it.”
Someone must have given a signal, because the sound of rustling overcoats and holsters reached me again, this time for the weapon’s return trips. I decided, since they were focused on each other and their missing informants, that I could venture a look around the side edge of the vent housing. I removed my hat so the brim wouldn’t protrude, and got an eye on the gathering.
Barbs was wearing a fur that Jewels might have left behind. The fuzzy collar made the stout gangster appear four feet wide at the shoulders. Canello was more traditional, in a regular overcoat. Barbingola had Fange, and two other heavies, for company. Canello was speaking, with his hands in his pockets.
“I’m just here for business, Barbs.”
“Yeah,” Barbs filled in. “My girls and your powder, I hear.”
I noticed Jewels was trying to be invisible, half ducking behind the shoulder of one of Canello’s men. Barbs noticed her, and exploded,
“It looks like you already got my girls!”
Canello showed a hand for calm, and said,
“She came on her own, Barbs. Listen, all I’m here to do is shake on that seventy-thirty deal you sent, and we can both be on our way.”
Barbs was steaming, but tried to put himself at ease. He rattled his head, like he’d taken a shot, and said,
“That’s swell. I was surprised to hear you only needed thirty, but I guess you got your reasons.”
Canello was visibly taken aback, but didn’t let the shock take his tongue.
“You better check your figures again, Barbs. You said I’d get seventy of whatever your girls bring in while they’re selling my product.”
Barbs blew his top. He cursed for a few moments, the gist being that Canello was an unscrupulous businessman. Things were heating up, though the snow had come to a steady flurry. The crime drama playing out before me was difficult to peel away from, for my other, primary, function. I was there to keep Barbs alive, after all, because Dave figured we’d have a hard time getting paid if Art bounded over the edge of the building and killed him in some exotic way. It occurred to me however, as I scanned all the roof I could see, that I didn’t have a great way to prevent the gangsters from killing each other, should the temperature of their negotiating continue to climb.
“Marty, I never gave you any deal!” Barbs shouted. “You came to me with the deal.”
Canello raised his shoulders and held his hands out to his sides.
“Why would I do that, Barbs? Huh? Why would I do that? You think I need your whores? That’s yesterday’s news. What I got is what’s hip.”
The goons, on both sides, were beginning to posture to one another, on behalf of their bosses, and I was beginning to run through what would happen if I raised a white flag, came out, and tried to cool them off. I was getting to the part where they’d turn me into Swiss cheese, when Barbs made a move at Canello. He formed one of his infamous cinder blocks with his right hand, and stepped forward to deliver a blow to his rival.
There are some things that, no matter how far removed you may be, remain instantly recognizable. I hadn’t heard a rifle at a distance, coming my way, in the better part of a decade, and then that had been half a world away, but I picked up my hat and pressed the top down tight, like I’d done my flack helmet so many times before. I realized, too, that I’d gone for my helmet hat even before the sound of the shot arrived. I had reacted to the splat the bullet made in the far roof ledge wall on impact.
The near miss on Barbingola sent everyone into a frenzy, with goons and leaders alike going for their weapons as they dashed for the nearest cover. I sank low, with my back against my vent, and tried to find the source of the shot. Before I could get an idea, a new danger presented itself.
“Trait?” It was Barbingola. He nearly shoved me out from my hiding place as he scrambled behind it. “You’re supposed to be dead! What is this?”
I stammered, trying to come up with an answer he’d like, that I could give quickly, but didn’t get it out before more shots came. This time from the other side of the roof, and much smaller caliber.
I glanced around my side of the barrier, just in time to see one of Barbingola’s men go down. His killer advanced toward my position, so I got my pistol out and fired some shots in his direction, without showing much of myself. To my right, Barbingola returned fire like a man whose trench was being charged. He sported a .45 automatic in each hand.
Another glance showed Canello and one of his goons heading our way, shooting all the while. I looked around, and figured I could leap from where I was to the side of the utility shed. I fired two quick shots, held my breath, and went. No sooner than my spot had been vacated, another rifle round smacked into the vent.
From my new position, standing behind the edge of the shed, I lined up a shot on Canello’s man. I figured he’d fired at me enough to deserve it, and winged him in the left shoulder. He turned and went down, still breathing.
Time to relocate again. I moved around the shed, through the narrow gap between it and the ledge wall. With no bad guys to watch for directly, I became aware of some sounds, besides the hail of small arms fire and Jewels’ hysterical screaming. I could hear police sirens down on the street, but not coming closer. If not for anticipating whatever might be around the next shed corner, I might have looked down to verify that it sounded like they had already arrived.
Gunfights are short, even though the shortest of them lasts longer than you want to be in one. By the time I emerged on the other edge of the shed, the battlefield had rearranged. Barbingola had downed Canello in the middle of the roof, and was making his way toward the door, giving enough suppressive fire with his two pistols to hold the remaining combatants behind their cover. It looked like he’d been hit, as he hobbled, but he landed a shot square in the chest of Canello’s last goon, and made it to the door. He fired aimlessly with one hand, and fumbled with the knob with the other, but the door swung open, pulling it from him.
“Freeze!”
It was Ben Scott, with his nickel .357 at the ready. Barbingola spun around to face the new threat, turning his back to me and the rest of the rooftop. I couldn’t blame Ben, suddenly confronted with a violent man with a gun in each hand. I’d have pulled the trigger too. The .357 didn’t sound much smaller than the rifle had. Ben caught Barbingola in the vicinity of his nose, the blast, or his body’s reflex before it, caused the gangster to leave his feet as he fell back from the door. Don ‘Barbs’ Barbingola fell dead on the spot. There was no doubt.
The others ceased fire, dropping their weapons where they stood on the rooftop. Scott was followed by no less than a dozen officers who fanned out onto the roof, cuffing everyone, even before first aid was offered.
“I’m coming out!” I announced, showing my empty hands first before revealing myself.
“Trait,” Ben didn’t sound happy to see me. “You’re not with DeGrabber?”
Now, that had been another point of vagueness in Dave’s scheme. “Around,” was where he had said he would be. I had half expected him in costume with one of the mob bosses attache’s, but so far, there had been no sign of him.
Ben and his men made quick work of pat downs and shackling, and we were on our way down to the squad cars and ambulances in no time. As the procession was led onto the sidewalk, Dave greeted us warmly, leaning against a black and white with folded arms.
“Detective Scott,” he began. “I am very glad you and your force were so rapidly mobilized.”
Ben eyed Dave suspiciously as he shoved an uninjured Fange into the back of the squad car he leaned on. He stood over a man with bound hands and feet at Dave’s knee, and demanded,
“Who’s this?”
Dave gestured to the man, and said,
“This is Art, son of the escaped Miss Mable. His surname, I am sure, he will reveal during litigation. Right now, he basks in the moment of the fulfillment of his quest.”
With no low hat, and nothing covering his face, the clean shaven intense looking man, seemed like any other. Not the wrecking machine that had killed so many of Chicago’s criminals, and bested Dave and I hand to hand. His eyes, so steady before, seemed full of sorrow, but then me and my pops get along, so the clouds in his might have been the beginnings of joy for all I could tell.
Ben was unmoved.
“You killed Officer Edwards?” he plainly asked.
“I did.”
18
There on the sidewalk, with our killer in hand, it was hard to feel much other than relief at a job done. It turned out that Dave had spliced in a phone line at the unfinished building, figuring it to be the most likely place for Art to stage his attack. He’d called for enough backup to stop an army, and confronted Art with his .32 at his back, forcing a surrender. It had run pretty smooth, up until Scott found Barbingola so very armed and so very close.
In the subsequent days however, until some new work did come, the demise of Barbingola, and absence of his payment, made for a somber air around the office. I typed out my part of the bill, just the same.
As for Art Tillerson, he had his day in court, that then dragged out to a week and a half. He had confessed to everything brought before him, and so it was just a matter of whether or not to cook him. Dave and I were made to appear and give our accounts of things. Dave’s testimony wore on both attorneys, with the way he’d tell either one when to object to the manner of the other’s questioning. I just answered what they asked me.
Art had plenty of explaining to do. The line about the Japanese taking her boy, that Miss Mable Tillerson had told us, seemed to have some truth to it. Art had been lost, and presumed dead, in the Pacific. One of the rare live captives taken, he escaped during a hard interrogation, stole a boat, and eventually made it to the mainland. Damaged, and having no desire to return to the foster homes of his youth, he made his way to Asia, and wandered the orient until he came across some mystics in the high mountains there. That was where he picked up the skills he used on his return. Art said he had always known about Barbingola and his mistreatment of his mother, but now had the ability to do something about it.
The account of his hard time garnered him some sympathy with the court, and it was looking like he’d get to keep his hide, since he had mainly killed people that many thought deserved it.
Then came Sergeant Edwards. The prosecution talked as if Edwards had never swatted a fly, and would have never littered. Officer Stevens shed a tear on the stand for his fallen partner, and widow Edwards, who sat next to Stevens when she wasn’t on the stand, spun a tale of a godly man and gentle husband. I wondered if they didn’t fear Art’s retribution themselves.
Anyhow, no one wanted to be the one to besmirch a fallen member of the force for Art Tillerson, and with more than a dozen bodies in his wake, he probably deserved to get sunk, and he was.
The evening after Art’s sentencing to the chair, Dave and I sat back in the office, listening to the evening programs on the radio atop the file cabinet. A noise from the front of the room caught my ear, and I swiveled to see what it was.
There in the hall, through our frosted glass door and window panes, was the shape of an overcoated man in a low hat.
“No way Art escaped already?” I wondered.
Dave cocked an eye to the hall, and responded.
“Not unless he’s also amassed a small brigade.”
There were five shapes now, and one knocked and tried the knob. I had left it unlocked, so it turned, and the group entered.
Four heavyset men preceded a slimmer one in a good suit. They fanned out in front of our desks, and Fange held out a yellow folder, and spoke to us like a television personality.
“Mr. DeGrabber. Mr. Trait. I’ve come to thank you for your work on that Tillerson business.” I took the envelope, and looked inside while he went on. “There’s ten thousand dollars in there. You see, I have assumed control of all of Mr. Barbingola’s various departments. I wanted to be sure we were all square, should I have need for your quality services in the future.”
He smiled, you might say sweetly. A part of me wanted to toss the packet of bills at his feet, but then I figured that was what the muscle had been brought for, so I let Dave handle it.
“John and I,” Dave explained. “are prepared to produce itemized invoices for our labors. I don’t believe the figure reaches any near part of ten thousand. Does it, John?”
I puffed some air out, t
hinking of what to say, but Fange wouldn’t hear it.
“Boys, boys.” He held his hands up. “It was worth ten thousand to me.”
With that, he snapped his fingers and his men about faced. Three of them went to the door and out in front of him, with the fourth bringing up the rear, and they were gone.
I flopped the payment down on the corner of my desk, leaving it in the envelope, and got up and locked the door. I stuck my hands in my pockets, strolled lazily back to my desk, and stood looking down on the package of money. After a moment I spoke to Dave.
“I don’t know about working for Fange too, Dave.”
Dave stretched his long legs out in front of him, folded his arms, and said,
“It does seem lucrative.”
I tilted my head and admitted,
“It does seem to be.”
“Mr. Fange seems a reasonable man. I don’t expect him to ever hold our feet to the fire for work. If we stay busy, then we simply won’t have time to take a case from him.”
I nodded, saying,
“That’s true.”
“What time is it, John?”
I glared at the clock on the back wall, and said,
“Still no watch, huh? Eight o’clock.”
He stood and adjusted his jacket collar, then announced,
“I don’t believe it’s too late to work on our latest case, now.”
He was making his way to the coat rack. I took a fresh pencil from my desk and trotted up behind him. We did have a fresh case, and not for any gangsters this time. I shut off the light, locked the door, and we went out into the cold night to solve another one.
This has been entirely a work of fiction, and all things referenced, either existing or otherwise, are used in a fantastical manner.
Be sure to check out the other David and Trait Mysteries. You can find them at www.DavidandTrait.com
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A Kill at Jaguar House
The Second Shoot
Work at Odds Page 13