But Not For Me

by Jack Kline

  The lady showed with our drinks and she set down two for me, including the half-empty from the bar. I reached into my pocket for my roll, but Colleen waved her hand. “Put it on my tab, Penny.” The girl nodded and turned away.

  I gulped down the half-empty one. “Not often a dame asks me to dance and then buys me drinks. I’d say either you need a favor, or you’re trying to bed me.”

  “Or both.” She spoke with no inflection or changes in expression, as if she had given me directions to the Plaza.

  “Talk to me, doll. Why are we here?”

  “My father doesn’t know what Tommy’s been into this last year or so. Daddy thinks Tommy’s straightened his life up with all his clerking for Judge Boyd and dabbling at becoming an attorney. But there’s another Tommy, one he hides from Daddy.”

  The piano player crooned some sappy song that was made for dancing slow, and a part of me yearned to get her back on the dance floor. I ignored that part. “I think you give your father too little credit. I’m betting he knows a lot more than you think. Tell me about this other Tommy.”

  For years, the other Tommy had been partying with a bunch of young punks, she told me, sons of the Irish mob. Reckless, their group got into one scrape after another, mostly without consequences. One of them did get six months for assault. Their daddies bought them out of most of their punk shenanigans.

  Less than a year ago, Tommy met Tony Palmisano. Colleen didn’t know how or where. Tommy began splitting his time between his young friends and Palmisano. Colleen said that Tommy’s big spending began around the time he met Palmisano.

  I asked Colleen what kind of arrangement her brother had with the man.

  “At first he worked some nights, running numbers and taking bets in Johnnie Lazzeri’s off-track betting organization. That was small time stuff.” Colleen looked at her cherry red fingernails. “But four months ago Tommy began driving a Stutz Bearcat and throwing big money around. Stutzes don’t come cheap.”

  “What changed?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. He clammed up. And Tommy pleaded with me not to tell Daddy anything about Palmisano or the money he’s been spending.”

  “So what do his young Irish mob friends think about him hanging out with Tony Palmisano?”

  “Well, at first they teased him about it. They called him Tommy the Wop. But now they don’t see much of each other. Their poppas would bring out the leather straps if any of them had anything to do with Lazzeri’s mob. And now I’m afraid Tommy must be a part of that mob.”

  She said that Tommy grew up with those Irish gangster’s kids. And now that Lazzeri had put the squeeze on Mike Leary, tensions were high. I asked her where her father stood in this mob tussle. Colleen told me her father would fall on the side of whoever won.

  “Daddy is primarily a businessman, not a mobster.”

  “There’re a lot of people in this town who would disagree with that.”

  Her eyebrows scrunched low and her lips pursed. “In this town, Mr. Morris, if you want to do business, you must deal with the mob. Daddy does a lot of business.” She was back to Mr. Morris. The dame was pissed. I changed the subject.

  “Know anything about your father having gambling debts?”

  “I know he bets the ponies and often does very well. He won a quarter of a million on a long shot a few years ago.” She had cooled some, and in her voice, there was pride in her father’s horseflesh acumen. I can usually tell when someone feeds me a pile of horseshit and she seemed to be unaware of any big debt. I decided not to push it.

  The band took a break, and Penny brought another round. I insisted on paying for it, slipped the gal a couple of bills, and told her to keep the change and to keep the drinks coming. For a while, we let the Tommy business lie and made small talk. Colleen talked about her childhood with a mousy mother and bellicose father, about how she learned to wrap her daddy around her little finger.

  I told her about growing up in Emporia, Kansas, and how I moved to the big city to become a famous homicide detective. A private gumshoe in Kansas City was as close as I got. I didn’t tell her the whole story.

  She asked me if I was married. No. She asked why not.

  “Because I never found a girl who could take all of the bad with the good.

  “Besides, I like being the bumblebee,” I said.

  One eyebrow rose. “Bumblebee?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I like flying from flower to flower.”

  A she-devil grinned back at me. “So you pollinate a lot of flowers, do you, Mr. Morris?” This time the mister sounded playful.

  “Well, doll, I help Mother Nature out from time to time.”

  “Any little Philips running around town?”

  “None that I am aware of.”

  She asked me where I lived, and I told her about the second floor flat on the Paseo. She said that she’d like to see it sometime. I ignored the innuendo. I told her about my dog, Sammy. She offered what seemed like sincere condolences and told me that she had always wanted a dog but her father had nixed the idea. It was time to find out how she knew so quickly about Sammy’s demise.

  “Hannerty said that you told him about the rats that killed my dog. How’d you find out?” I zeroed in on her eyes. When you confront someone who’s lying, the first flicker in their eyes will give them away—all, that is, except the best of liars.

  “I was in my daddy’s study next to the library listening through the keyhole,” she said. She blushed like a thirteen-year-old caught on the couch with her boyfriend’s hand up her blouse. “Look, Tommy’s my brother and I want to find him too. And Daddy never tells me anything.”

  Her eyes looked near tears, though I had a hunch she was faking. But the moment I asked her the question, there had been no hitch in her eyes. Either her eavesdropping story was the straight dope, or Colleen was the grand champion liar of Jackson County. Still, the little voice in my gut squeaked about manipulation. I’d have to be careful with her.

  Colleen asked me about the dog, and I told her some stories. Sammy really was remarkable, almost human. He knew my moods and how to address them, and when we walked he always put on a show when we encountered a pretty girl. And I told her how he’d have his paws on the sill and nose against the window the moment my car pulled in—that he knew the sound of my Plymouth. At the same time, I bragged about my mutt, my eyes wandered, looking for anyone that might be watching us. I saw nothing suspicious.

  We smoked and drank and gabbed about ourselves. Her eyes kept changing colors. Finally, I asked her if they were blue or green. She told me that she got her eyes from her mother, and they were mostly blue, but there was green in them, and under certain lighting, the green took over.

  “My mother calls them our chameleon eyes.” She rolled the flip of her hair in her index finger and batted her eyes like Betty Boop. We both laughed.

  “What do you think happened to Tommy?” I asked. “Does he ever just run off without telling anyone?”

  “A few times for two or three days, he may go to the lake or out whoring with his pals.” She took a big slug of the gin. “But never this long.”

  I reached across the table and took her hand. “So you think somebody’s snatched him?”

  “Either that or he’s dead.” Her eyes turned red and a real tear rolled down her cheek. I collected it with my finger. But there were more tears on the way and she grabbed her purse and fled to the ladies room. I took another gander at the crowd. Everyone seemed to be having a ball, and nobody gave a flip about what went on in our booth.

  A few minutes later Colleen returned, eyes blue again and makeup fresh. She wore a weak smile as she slid into my side of the booth. I draped my arm around her, my hand resting on the bare skin of her collarbone. She rested her head on my shoulder and sighed. Her thigh pressed against mine and her heat burned through the thin fabric of the gown and the thick wool of my trousers.

  I slid her drink over to her. “Do you think all of this has something to
do with that Palmisano egg?”

  “I do. He’s a scary man. I’ve only met him once at a club with Tommy. But the way he stared at me gave me the shivers, like a cannibal looking at the menu.” She frowned and paused for a moment. “Tommy just laughed at me when I told him later. But everybody says that Tony Palmisano is the guy Mr. Lazzeri uses to hurt people, or to make them disappear.” Her voice grew shrill. “What if Tommy has been helping him? What if Tommy made a mistake, and he made Tommy disappear?”

  “That’s what I aim to find out.” I swallowed the last of the Beam. “Look, doll, I’ve got a big day tomorrow. I figure if your brother is a guest of some mobster, the quicker we find out, the better it is for him. You drive up here?”

  She told me she took a taxi, and I offered her a lift home, even though Ward Parkway was miles out of my way. I wasn’t just being nice; I wanted her company on the drive. I left two ones for Penny Pickford and slipped another to the coat check girl. Outside it had grown cold, even for October, and Colleen snuggled up to me as we walked south towards 20th street. At a haberdasher’s two doors down, I pulled her into the entryway. She looked up at me, ready to be kissed. I rested a finger on her lips and held up my other hand.

  “Just want to watch the exit for a minute. Make sure nobody’s tailing us.” She pressed up against me and I watched the door over her shoulder. A couple walked out but turned north. The lady hung all over the fella. They weren’t tailing anybody. After another minute, I tilted Colleen’s head back and laid one on her. Our tongues got acquainted.

  She took my arm and we walked around the corner onto 20th street. She asked why I worried about a tail, and I told her about the two lugs that followed me to the courthouse and about the guy I plugged outside of Nick’s. Colleen squeezed my arm tight with both hands.

  “You think those tails and the men who killed your dog are about Tommy?”

  “I do.” My coupe was just ahead. I opened the passenger door and held her hand as she stepped up, high heel wobbling on the running board before she slid onto the seat. I walked around on the street side and got in behind the wheel.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?” I asked.

  Colleen scooted next to me. As she did her gown hiked up to mid-thigh. Damn, those legs looked good.

  “Why do you think it all has to do with Tommy?”

  “Somebody doesn’t want me looking for him—somebody with muscles.”

  “Tony Palmisano?”

  “Maybe. I aim to find out beginning early tomorrow. Let’s get you home.”

  Her left hand found a home on my thigh a few inches above the knee. She squeezed as she felt my muscles tighten, and then rubbed her hand up and down a time or two before resting again in nearly the same place.

  “You don’t have to take me home. We can go to your place.” Wearing a hungry smile, she batted her eyes again. I returned her smile with an innocent one.

  “Why, what would your folks say, doll?” I took her hand and placed it back in her lap.

  She folded her arms under her breasts, pushing them up, enhancing the endowment. She looked out towards Vine; her lower lip pouted.

  “Look, I’m 27 years old, and I live at home by choice. I do what I want, and my parents know it.” Her petulance ended and her eyes found mine. “And right now you are what I want.”

  Geez, how could a fella pass up that invitation? On the plus side, this girl was the kind a guy dreams about. The mid-thigh preview brought visions of sliding that gown up the rest of the way. And she was sharp, not some ditzy blonde. She had substance inside the million dollar figure, the kind a guy could sink his teeth into. But on the minus, Colleen was the client’s daughter, or more accurately the client, as she seemed to care more about Tommy than the old man did. The old man appeared more worried about what foxes may be rousting his hen house than about the boy. And I did have a big day tomorrow. Time was short if Tommy was still alive and in some kind of a bind. I had a hunch that shut-eye would be minimal if Colleen came home with me.

  Colleen’s lip recommenced its pout as I sat still and quiet, weighing pros and cons. I don’t know what decision I would have made if I had the time—I know which way I leaned—but it all become moot. A black sedan turned onto 20th from Woodland, a block and a half behind us. As it did, it turned off its lights and slowed to a crawl.

  “Get down.” I pushed Colleen down on her side of the seat. I lay on top of her. At the same time, I slid the .32 out of my belt.

  “Phil, what’s the—”

  “Shh,” I told her. The car crept by. After it passed I peeked above the dash—a black Packard, 1932 or 33. It turned north on Vine.

  I sat up and turned over the coupe’s engine. After some fiddling with the choke, it started. That was the problem with these old Plymouths; they were such damned cold-blooded beasts.

  “What was that all about?” She had righted herself and adjusted her hem from damn distracting to just short of decent.

  “Don’t know, doll. It might have been the boogie man.” I slammed the Plymouth into gear and made a sharp U-turn, throwing Colleen against the passenger door. We ran through the gears up 20th and turned south on Brooklyn so fast we seemed to ride on two wheels. That threw her back into my lap where she hung on and stayed. At 22nd and Brooklyn, I slowed down so we didn’t bang into any cars as we continued south.

  “You’re taking me home?” She had her hand on my chest and head on my shoulder.

  “Yeah, I am, Colleen. How about a raincheck on the tour of my place?”

  She nuzzled my neck. “Mmm,” her lips vibrated under my chin. “I’ll hold you to that, Mr. Morris.”

  Thursday, October 11, 1934

  (Day Three)

  I grabbed some hot cakes and bacon uptown, sloshed them down with about six cups of black coffee, and then drove over to police headquarters. On the way, I vowed to put Miss Holloway out of my mind. I was, after all, a professional. At the front desk, I told the uniform that Chief Myers expected me. And he told me to take a seat. As expected, Myers kept me waiting.

  After fifteen minutes or so, the wall clock clanged ten times. I stood and walked up to the desk where I told the flatfoot to go tell Detective Chief Myers that I had another appointment to get to and would catch up with him another time. He asked me to wait and then beat it down the hall. So I sat again, watched the Regulator’s pendulum mark time and figured I would give Myers another five minutes.

  The officer returned in two and said that Chief Myers would see me now. As I entered his office, Myers hunched over his desk pretending to be busy. He didn’t even look up.

  “Have a seat, Mr. Morris,” he said with his eyes still focused on the mess of paper around him. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  I took the chair across from him. Myers was fence-rail thin and in his fifties. His bulbous nose looked out of place on that gaunt face, and his schnoz was always red, as if he had a cold. Or maybe like he drank a lot. He used to be a good detective, so they bumped him upstairs to supervise all the dicks. Now he was just an asshole, kissing up and marking time. I lit a cigarette and smoked it half-way down, intentionally blowing the smoke his direction. I crushed the butt on the floor.

  “Say, pal, you look busy. I’ll come back another time.” I lifted my hat from my lap.

  “No, that’s okay, Mr. Morris. I’m just finishing up.” He scribbled something, then stacked some of the papers on the corner of his desk and looked up at me. I found it hard not to stare at his astonishing nose. That honker must pack a boat-load of snot. I smiled at the thought.

  “Is something funny, Mr. Morris?” He returned my smile, but there was no humor there.

  We played cat and mouse for a while, with him as the cat. He wanted to know why the Hardy hood mixed it up with me in the alley next to Nick’s. I told him I had no idea. He reminded me Hardy was a suspect in the break-in that killed my dog and informed me that Hardy did, indeed, have animal bite marks on his hand. I told him that I hadn’t held it against t
he guy until he pulled his gun.

  “Then I took it personally. Popping my dog is one thing, but I get a little cranky when someone tries to pop me.”

  Why did he break into my apartment? Myers asked. Same as anyone—robbery, I guessed. He wondered was I sleuthing for Holloway? I asked him what made him think I was. He told me that word gets around. Blah, blah, blah, on it went. We performed our little adversarial tap dance for ten minutes or so.

  I didn’t spill anything Myers wanted, and he gave me nothing in return. I didn’t ask him about Tommy because Myers was no fool; he’d figure what was up. I did ask him if the cops were all done with my .38. He scribbled something on a yellow form.

  He stood and held out the slip. “Take this to property and they will return your weapon, Mr. Morris. And be careful once you leave. I’m sure your man Hardy had some friends who may do more than mourn his passing.” He rubbed his prodigious nose. “We here would like to help you with whatever jam you’ve gotten yourself into. But without your cooperation—”

  I put on my hat and took the form. “Gee, Chief, I didn’t know you cared.” I walked out the door without looking back.

  After claiming my rod, I had an hour to kill before meeting Rusty. I ran up to the Kansas City Star building where I had a pal on the city desk.

  The gal at the front desk told me Dominic was downstairs. She had fiery-red hair and her pale green sweater accentuated what deserved accentuation. She stood, asked me to wait and went off after Dom. I watched her retreat and her caboose was as spectacular as her locomotive. And she wore no ring on her left hand. After she disappeared down the stairs, I sat at her desk and poked around. Her name was Virginia Mathers. With her name filed away in my noggin, I put things back the way I found them.

  In less than five minutes, she showed at the top of the stairs and sashayed my way. “Dominic says come on down. Do you know the way?”

  “Sure do, Virginia, I just walk down those stairs and then call out for Dom, I’m guessing.”